“He’s a wart,” Jemma said bluntly. “If you want to turn red, Isidore, you go right ahead.”
“One of these days,” Isidore said, with only a little slur in her voice, “I’m going to do something wild.”
“No doubt,” Louise said briskly. “When that times comes, we’ll sober you up. It’s best never to be wild while inebriated.”
Poppy took a huge gulp of her toddy. In her view, it was likely easier to be wild with a little inebriation. “I want to do something wild too,” she said.
“What?” Isidore said, peering at her. “Is your husband going to India as well?”
Louise reached over and took Isidore’s cup away. “You’ve had enough, darling. At this rate, you’ll sleep straight through Christmas Eve and miss all the festivities.”
“I’m not sure how celebratory we can be,” Jemma said, looking worried. “My butler tells me that Villiers isn’t doing very well at all. I stopped up to see him, but he was asleep again. I think he slept most of the day.”
“Oh dear,” Isidore said, her mouth drooping instantly. “I thought perhaps I would marry him instead of my duke, but I can only do that if he survives.”
“I didn’t know you liked Villiers,” Jemma said, looking surprised.
“I hardly know him. But he’s a duke. I could just scratch out my husband’s name on the wedding certificate. It seems like a fair trade for the duke I don’t really have. A duke in En gland is worth two off in India.”
“Which reminds me,” Jemma said. “So how can we help, Poppy?”
Poppy had finished her toddy and was enjoying an agreeable warmth in the pit of her stomach. “Fletch says that men are never interested in women after a few years of bedding them,” she said. “So he’s not interested in me anymore.”
“Bastardo!” Isidore hissed, taking Jemma’s cup out of her hand and drinking some of it.
“I want to—to lure him back to my bed,” she said.
“You’re looking as red as I am,” Isidore observed.
Jemma was grinning. “A femme fatale,” she said. “Louise, Isidore, let’s go!” She grabbed Poppy’s hand. “Upstairs!”
Fletch had just decided that Jemma’s odd-looking butler was the person to tell him where his wife was sleeping when Beaumont gave an odd cough. They were playing cards. Fletch looked up to meet Beaumont’s eyes, alive with laughter. He put down his cards.
“Yes?” Fletch asked.
“I think,” Beaumont said, rising, “that this performance is likely directed at you, not me.”
Fletch rose and turned around.
She was walking in the door.
At supper, her hair had been up above her head, in one of those hair styles that women liked, albeit without the powder. She’d looked sweetly pretty. Now it was all different.
Walking in the door was the courtesan to a prince. She had curls atop her head, caught up with sparkling jewels, though a few fell to her shoulders. Her eyes were lavishly lined with black and they looked twice as big and four times as powerfully blue. Her lips were crimson and curled in a small mocking smile.
Her gown was dark crimson, a color near to black. And the bodice plunged below her breasts. There was nothing but the frailest scrap of lace covering her nipples. Around her neck she wore a dramatic, exquisite necklace, with a pendant that fell just between the curves of her breasts.
The entire drawing room went silent as a stone.
Fletch walked forward, feeling as if he should fall on his knees.
Poppy stopped and her scarlet mouth curled appreciatively.