Harriet was so startled that her mouth fell open.

“You’re such an innocent,” Nell said, shaking her head. “It’s a fair question, Harry. You have a look about you that is very attractive to certain men.”

Harriet gulped. “I do?”

“I suppose that means you do like women?”

“Oh, definitely!” Harriet babbled. “Definitely. Of course. All the time.”

Nell laughed, but it was a nice laugh. “I’ll do something for you too, Harry. You get my letter to Strange—and make sure he reads it—and I’ll introduce you to one of the Graces. A friendly Grace, if you take my meaning.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Harriet said hastily. “I’d be happy to bring the letter. What sort of thing do you plan to write?”

“I’ll tell him to visit my room,” Nell said, brightening up. “Men like women to be very straightforward about these things.”

Harriet shot a look at Strange. He was dancing with a young woman who was smiling at him lavishly. She was exquisitely dressed in a cream gown embroidered with flowers, worn with an overskirt of puckered gauze in a ruby color. The flowers shimmered under the gauze. Harriet felt a stab of pure feminine longing.

“I can see what you’re thinking,” Nell said, giggling. “You can’t possibly afford her. That’s Sophia Grafton. She’s monstrously extravagant. I heard that she sometimes visits the mercer and pays thirty or forty guineas for a coat of winter silk, and then purchases two or three more. And she doesn’t even wear the extras, just gives them to her maids. She has four maids, just for herself. Can you imagine?”

“But you said there weren’t ladybirds at Fonthill?” Harriet asked dubiously.

“Well, if you want to be strict about the label,” Nell said. “But you’d never win Sophia Grafton with a simple offer of money, if that’s what you’re thinking. At the moment she is accompanied by Lord Childe. See, he’s over there on the side of the room, talking to one of the Graces.”

The Grace in question had a blowsy, huge hair style with six or seven jeweled combs stuck in at various angles.

“I expect Sophia Grafton would drop Childe like a scorched potato if Strange showed any interest.”

“Well, that’s my point,” Harriet said. “I’m not sure that a simple letter inviting him to your bed will be sufficient. Surely Miss Grafton has also issued such an invitation, in writing or otherwise.”

Nell looked offended. “I hardly compare myself to Sophia Grafton! Why, she has to be twenty-six if she’s a day. I’m sure she has wrinkles around her eyes. Just look at her. She’s the sort who lies around on a couch all day long and sighs. Not very much fun in the bedchamber, if you’ll excuse the familiarity, Harry.”

Harriet saw exactly what she meant. “But I still think that Lord Strange has received many an invitation. You need to intrigue him somehow. Make yourself stand out.”

Nell was silent for a moment. “I know! I could paint myself all over with gold and stick pearls on my body. Lord Strange’s new secretary is a Frenchwoman, and she was telling me that Frenchwomen sometimes do that.”

“But…” Harry said dubiously.

“I could have myself brought to his room in the guise of a statue,” Nell said. “And then the statue could come to life! And do such things as he would never forget!” She was grinning. “It would be positively Shakespearean. Shakespeare wrote a play where a statue comes to life, you know.”

Harriet was starting to feel very affectionate toward Nell. She’d never met anyone like her. “Just what sort of things do you have in mind?” she asked curiously.

But she’d forgotten that she was dressed as a man, and Nell burst out laughing. “You’ll have to discover those from some other woman, Harry my dear.”

“I think gold paint sounds sticky and uncomfortable,” Harriet said. “And while you may be thinking that I have little experience, Nell, that is not the case.”

Nell hooted. “You’re a regular rakehell, Harry! I can tell it just by looking at you.”

“My point is that it doesn’t sound very comfortable to be made love to if you have pearls glued to your body. Nor yet to kiss gold paint.”

“No kisses?” Nell said, horrified.

“I suppose your lips won’t be painted,” Harriet said, “but I doubt that Strange would kiss you anywhere else.”

Nell pouted. “I may be planning to make it a night Strange won’t forget, but I certainly didn’t plan on skipping my own pleasure.”

“Write a letter that will intrigue him,” Harriet suggested. “Keep him guessing about who you are. Perhaps with a riddle, or something of that nature.”

“A riddle?” Nell asked. “The only riddle I know has to do with a chicken and an egg and I forget what all.”

“Then perhaps not a riddle, but how about a poem, some sort of verse that he can’t understand immediately?”

“I’m not very good at poetry,” Nell said dubiously. “I can read and write, you know. But poetry might be a little…” She looked at Harriet. “You could write a poem.”

“This is your seduction, Nell.”

“He would never know. And I think you’re right. Look at him now.”

Strange was still dancing with Sophia Grafton.

“He looks bored,” Nell said. “Even if Sophia pasted herself all over with pearls, he’d still be bored.”

Harriet had to agree. Strange looked like a man who had bedded many a woman and lost interest in it, pearls or no. She had thought she had no interest in bed too, ever since Benjamin died. But now she couldn’t help looking at Strange’s muscles and wondering…

“I hope you’re looking at Sophia with that look in your eyes,” Nell said. “Because otherwise you are truly unlucky. I never heard a peep about Strange being a molly, if you don’t mind my bluntness.”

“So you really don’t think I can afford her?” Harriet asked, making herself sound wistful.

“Never,” Nell said. “Not unless your father owns forty flour mills, or something of that nature.”

Harriet shook her head.

“Then don’t even look at her again,” Nell advised. “Think about her wrinkles. Meanwhile you can plan the letter we’re writing Strange.”

“We?” Harriet asked.

“We, or rather you,” Nell said. “The more I think about it, the better your suggestion is, Harry. Of course you should write the letter, because you can make it intriguing and intelligent and mysterious. Whereas I would just ask him to pay me a visit. Which,” she added, “works for most men, I assure you.”

“I’m sure it does,” Harriet said. “But I can’t write your letter, Nell.”

“Yes, you can. If you do, I’ll introduce you to my favorite Grace. Her name is Kitty and she’s lovely. If she were an actress I would be hideously jealous of her.”

“So the Graces are not actresses?”

“Oh, no. I don’t enquire too much about what they do in their performances.” Nell grinned. “They pose for gentlemen’s paintings. If you have enough money, you can have all of them pose for you at once.”