It was the most scandalous dress she’d ever owned. She’d never worn it in public—the color and style hardly befitted an unmarried woman—but when she’d seen the rolls of teal silk being unloaded from one of her ships, she’d been unable to resist. She was sick of wearing demure, unflattering pastels. She’d ordered Madame Cerise to make her something extraordinary, and Madame Cerise, a true Frenchwoman, had risen admirably to the challenge. This was the dress of a bold, confident woman, a daring gown to go with a daring adventure.

Wylde looked like he wanted to shove her straight back into the carriage.

Or strangle her.

Or devour her.

Excellent.

His eyes seemed to be fixed on her chest. Or perhaps on the diamond and emerald necklace she’d chosen to match the outfit. The jewels had belonged to a minor European royal until the turbulent years of the revolution had forced them to sell. Georgie always felt like a princess when she wore them, despite the covetous looks she received from the other girls in the ton.

“Holy hell, woman!” he growled. “Do you want to be robbed?”

Fine words from a man dressed as a highwayman. He looked quite capable of stealing her jewels and her virtue. She wouldn’t miss either.

She waved him away. “Nobody will think they’re real, not on a courtesan. They’ll assume they’re paste. Stop worrying.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she congratulated herself on having discomposed him. There was something decidedly satisfying about shaking his usual air of cool confidence.

“Well for God’s sake, keep your mask on,” he grumbled, ushering her up the stairs.

The rooms were crowded with both men and women, all instantly recognizable as belonging to a lower social stratum than Georgie usually encountered. Their laughter was louder, the ladies’ dresses too gaudy. Many of them wore rouge and lip paint.

And yet everyone seemed to be having far more fun than at a society party. The laughter was genuine. The buzz of conversation ebbed and flowed naturally; there was no whispering of malicious gossip or cruel tittering behind fans. The rhythmic slap of cards emanated from one room, along with the general hum of jovial conversation and the chink of glasses.

Wylde caught her wrist and steered her in that direction, weaving in and out of the throng. He stopped at a baize-topped gaming table just as another man rose to vacate his seat.

“Mind if I join you for a hand, gents?”

None of them objected, probably glad to have fresh money in the game. He sat and Georgie positioned herself behind him, hovering unobtrusively at his elbow. As the game got underway, she studied the other players at the table and with a horrified start recognized the player on Wylde’s left as one of her former suitors.

Thank goodness she was wearing a mask.