“Much like what you hinted at before. Guy Granville’s interested in you and makes no secret of it. He’s so accustomed to women falling all over themselves for his attention, I imagine he’d be somewhat piqued by one who appeared to treat him with a degree of indifference. Not hostility,” she said, “just a casual, take-him-or-leave-him attitude. Perfectly friendly but make him realize that when you spend time with him it’s only because it suits you.”

“I use him as he used me,” Petra said with a little nod of satisfaction.

“And then we find you another suitor,” Diana said, her eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. “You start slowly, a little playful flirtation, and then you increase your evident interest in the new man and . . .” She smiled. “I’m willing to bet that his lordship will not like playing second fiddle.”

“No,” Petra agreed, taking a smaller sip of her sherry. “No, I’m sure he won’t.”

“Don’t forget Madame La Vicomtesse,” Diana put in, moving to the dressing table, taking up Petra’s silver comb to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ears, where diamond studs glistened in the sunlight from the open window.

“No, and if she’s his mistress, why would he be interested in me?” Petra asked.

“The vicomtesse spends quite a lot of the time away from London,” Fenella said, her fingers readjusting the elegant rose silk scarf at her throat. The unusual sapphires on the bracelet at her wrist seemed to change color as her hands changed position in the light. “I’m guessing Granville would think pursuing a flirtation with you while the Frenchwoman is unavailable is perfectly acceptable.”

“Variety is the spice of life, after all,” Diana added with a cynical twist of her lips. “Are we ready?”

“In a moment, if I could borrow my comb back.” Petra moved to the dressing table, holding her comb as she examined her reflection critically. “Can I get away with leaving my hair like this?” She hadn’t troubled with her coiffure that morning as she hadn’t intended to leave the house, and had simply pulled her thick luxuriant locks into a fat knot on the nape of her neck. Unruly strands that had escaped the pins wisped around her face.

“It gives you a rather delightfully careless air,” Diana said. “It suits you. You’ve never wanted to look perfect, there’s always something a little outré about you. It’s your style.”

“Outré,” Petra said, grimacing. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Take it as such, dearest. It’s merely a statement of fact. It’s you, anything else would be artificial.” Diana drank the last of her sherry. “If we’re ready, let the games begin.”

Petra adjusted several hairpins, took a light copper–colored bolero jacket from her wardrobe and followed her friends back downstairs.