Jem laughed. “There goes my reputation.”
“All you have to do is act in a normal fashion,” Harriet said, twisting around to look at him.
“How much you have to learn, love.”
“I shall enjoy watching it,” Isidore said, with a honey-like satisfaction in her voice. “I have a feeling that Lord Strange’s reputation is about to dive to a new level of disreputableness, and I shall be here to see it!”
“Nonsense,” Harriet said briskly. “I shall stay away from Jem when in public, and all he has to do is keep to his normal impolite habit of ignoring his guests. I see nothing in that situation that should threaten his reputation.”
Lucille obviously didn’t approve. Harriet saw all sorts of questions trembling on her lips, some stopped by Jem’s presence, others by the barriers between maids and duchesses.
“Be off,” she said to Jem, giving him a little push toward the door.
“Look at Harriet’s lashes,” Jem said, draping himself in the door.
Isidore and Lucille looked in the general direction of her face.
“Lushly feminine,” he said, his voice deepening. “I knew she was a woman the moment I saw her.”
“You certainly did not!” Harriet exclaimed.
“No man’s lip has such an erotic curve.”
“When did you discover Harriet’s sex?” Isidore asked curiously. “Did you really know from the beginning?”
“Villiers told me,” Jem said. “Though I guessed before he confirmed it.”
“I’ll thank you to take yourself out the door before you ruin Isidore’s reputation,” Harriet said. “You might find yourself in a duel. Remember, Isidore has a husband to protect her.”
“In a matter of speaking,” Isidore murmured. “I feel as if I’m learning so much about men and women just from watching the two of you. I may shock my husband if he ever arrives.”
“His arrival is a given,” Harriet pointed out. “Still, I would prefer that the household doesn’t find Lord Strange standing in your doorway, and you in bed. Your husband will arrive only to divorce you.”
Isidore’s eyes widened. “Out!” she said, pointing to the door.
And this time, Jem obeyed, only sticking his head back in to say, “Fencing at eleven.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Sources of Inspiration
February 10, 1784
“I t’s very frustrating,” Isidore said, the next morning. “I would have thought to receive at least an answer from my husband’s solicitor by now. I first wrote everyone with my plans months ago. My mother-in-law should have been able to work her magic by now.”
“Your husband is a dunce,” Harriet said. “Are you coming to breakfast?”
Isidore was lying on her bed, deliciously gowned in a French negligée, reading a book. “Absolutely not. I’ve just started Tacitus’s war manuals.”
“Who is Tacitus?”
“Was,” Isidore corrected her. “A Greek tactician. If I ever need to lead an army into battle, I am entirely prepared.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Harriet promised, and left Isidore happily sipping hot chocolate and wiggling her toes.
Nell was waiting for her outside the breakfast room. Harriet slowed when she saw her, but Nell took her arm and pulled her to the side. “I just want you to know,” she said, “that I don’t blame you for it.”
“For what?” Harriet asked, confused.
“For taking him away from me,” she said. “It was as if my eyes opened up night before last, because after you left the table, he went all drab and silent. And I knew that he had been witty for you, but he couldn’t be bothered for me.” Harriet felt a terrible pang of guilt.