“She was a murderess, she was.” Mary placed a spray of spring roses into Julia’s hair. “Nothing to admire about that.”

“Yes, but . . .” Julia met her maid’s eyes in the gilt-framed trifold looking glass that stood atop the dressing table. “Can you imagine what it must be like to be so attractive? So fascinating to everyone you meet?”

“Trouble is what it would be, miss, and no two ways about it. A woman has enough to contend with without having magic powers of fascination.” Mary smoothed a stray hair back from Julia’s temple. “And I don’t see what you’ve got to worry over. There’s no one who sees you who wouldn’t admit to your beauty.”

“Even beautiful women can be thought unattractive. If there’s something in their character people take a dislike to—an unbecoming shyness or awkwardness—it doesn’t matter how fine their appearance. But to be like Lady Audley . . .”

“You read too many of them sensation novels. It ain’t real life, you know.”

Julia’s mouth quirked. She wasn’t offended by the impertinent observation. Unlike the other servants in the house, Mary had the privilege of tenure. A plain woman in her middle forties, she’d been hired as a lady’s maid three years ago when Julia embarked on her first season. Since then, Mary had seen her at her best—and at her worst. She knew all Julia’s little foibles.

“Gentlemen don’t like girls what read books,” Mary continued, sinking the final bit of greenery into Julia’s coiffure. “And you want to find yourself a husband this season, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’d be surprised if one of them society gents don’t propose, now you’ve come into your bloom.” Mary stepped back with an encouraging smile. “Just look at yourself.”

Julia gave her reflection a dutiful glance. Her black hair was drawn back from her face, lending focus to the contours of her cheeks and jaw, and to her wide mouth and similarly wide-set gaze. Her eyes were very blue in the candlelight, and her skin seemed translucently pale. Luminous, one might even call it.

And there was so much of it exposed.

The low neckline of her mazarine shot silk evening dress left little to the imagination, baring her throat, shoulders, and the rounded swell of her bosom.

Mama wouldn’t approve of it.

But Mama wasn’t here. She was still recuperating in Bath. And Papa may as well have been with her for all he emerged from his rooms.

“Well?” Mary prompted.

“It’s lovely.” Julia rose from her seat. Her flounced silk skirts rustled over her crinoline. “I shall need a shawl.”

While Mary darted off to find one, Julia collected her gloves and her silk-fringed reticule. Opening the drawstring closure, she dropped her novel inside. A society musicale was no place for reading. But it never hurt to be prepared.

Jasper descended the stairs after Ridgeway, both of them dressed in evening black accented by light-colored silk waistcoats and cravats. The gasolier in the hall was turned up, casting a diffuse ring of light over the checkered tiles.