Her mother paused in front of the window, fully aware of the lovely picture she made. “Sit down, Elinor.”

Elinor sat, dutifully.

“We’re in a bit of a pickle, dearest,” she said, finally turning around to take the chair opposite her. She still wouldn’t meet her eyes. “And we’re going to need your help. You’d do anything for your little sister, wouldn’t you?”

“Absolutely,” she replied. “Without question.”

Her mother’s smile was small and contained. “I was hoping you’d say that. You’re a very loyal girl, Elinor. I knew I could count on you.”

Elinor drew a deep breath. She’d already learned her mother was far from the most trustworthy presence in their lives—Nanny Maude had that honor. And the way her conversation was circling around was making her feel extremely odd.

“Of course, Mama,” she said. “What is it you want me to do?”

Her mother hesitated. “Sir Christopher has a peculiar…interest, shall we say. You understand about men and their appetites, don’t you?”

Elinor had nodded, understanding no such thing.

“Well, Sir Christopher is very much afraid of contracting the Spanish disease. His father died of it, and he’s always been most particular in his choice of partners.” She was staring down at her new puce underskirt, her thin fingers pleating it nervously.

Elinor really didn’t want to hear about Sir Christopher’s habits, particularly when it came to that most intimate of acts. But her mother clearly expected her to keep up. “I don’t understand, Mama.”

Lady Caroline looked annoyed. “He only beds virgins. He says that’s the only way he can be sure they’re clean.”

Elinor laughed. “Isn’t he going to run out of them sooner or later?”

Lady Caroline’s gaze narrowed. “I believe he is willing to accept girls who are quite young. And if someone pleases him he’ll keep her for a while, ensuring a safe outlet for his…er…masculine energy.”

It had taken her a moment, but a dreadful suspicion was entering Elinor’s mind, too dreadful to possibly be true. “And what does this have to do with me, Mama?” she said in a small voice.

“He heard I have two young daughters. He wants one of you in return for my IOUs, and I told him I would arrange it. He’s destroying my debts, and on top of that he’ll give us a thousand pounds, perhaps more if he’s pleased. He heard about Lydia, but I flatly refused him, and he’s willing to accept you in her place.” She stopped abruptly, having run out of breath in her hurry to get the bad news out.

Elinor had grown very cold, as the last of her childhood slipped away without a sound. She stared at her mother, the mother who had just sold her for a thousand pounds and her gaming debts. “You want me to sleep in his bed?”

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not as if you’re likely to contract a decent marriage. We needn’t worry about your virginity, and if by any chance you do find someone who’s a stickler there are ways to get around it. In the meantime, we’ve been offered a great opportunity, a way to get out of debt and ahead a bit, and we should be grateful…”

“We, Mama?” she’d echoed. “I won’t do it.”

Her mother looked at her with deep dislike. “I should have known you’d be a selfish child. Then it will have to be Lydia.”

“She’s only eleven!”

“I told you, Sir Christopher is…odd. He’d much prefer her, but I was hoping to spare her at such a tender age. However, he did say he’d double his offer, so if you’re unwilling, she’ll simply have to take your place.” Her mother’s voice was flat, implacable. Knowing Elinor’s only possible response.

“You’re whoring your daughters to pay off your gaming debts?” Elinor said in an uncompromising voice. “And if I don’t present myself to that disgusting old man, you’re willing to let him touch Lydia? Am I clear on this?”

Her mother didn’t flinch. “Very clear, Elinor. You’ve been given a chance to save your family, to protect your younger sister, to aid your mother in a time of great need. You can do the selfish thing, and refuse, or you can accept, gracefully. It’s your choice.”

And it was no choice at all. That night she lay in bed beside Lydia, her last night as a maiden, and listened as her mother and Nanny Maude argued, but in the end even Nanny had given in. The pink dress had been returned to the neighbors, replaced with one that was hers alone, made with alarming swiftness by Lady Caroline’s own modiste. Her hair had been primped and fashioned, and the wardrobe of thin, diaphanous undergarments and nightclothes should have made her blush.

But she’d lost that ability. The next evening a coach came to collect her, and the hatchet-faced woman who accompanied her said nothing, viewing her with the contempt Elinor knew she deserved.

Sir Christopher’s house was alight with noise and laughter when she stepped inside, and she automatically turned toward it, when the woman caught her arm. “You’re not welcome in there,” she’d said in French, the words somehow sounding crueler in that language. “You’re to wait for him in your room. One of the maids will assist you.”

“But I thought—”

“You have one purpose and one alone, mademoiselle. Do not forget it, and do not presume to ask me for anything. Once I show you your quarters you’re to keep silent and do what you’re paid to do.”

She would have turned around and walked out, but the memory of Lydia, her confused expression when Elinor had tried to explain she would be visiting her friend in Italy for a while, stopped her. She had no idea whether her mother would make good her bluff. It didn’t really matter—she couldn’t take that chance, and Lady Caroline knew it.

So she’d nodded, and Hatchet-Lady, whose name, oddly enough, was found out to be Madame Hachette, had led the way upstairs to a spacious corner room with a distressingly large bed up on a dais.

“This is his bedroom?” she’d asked.

“Don’t be absurd. He’ll come to you here when he feels the urge. Otherwise you’re to keep to this room and your food will be brought up to you.”

“But what will I do the rest of the time?”

“How should I know? Or care? Do what other whores do,” she’d said rudely. “Marie will see to your needs. She’s hopeless as a housemaid, but your needs will be minimal and shouldn’t be beyond her limited comprehension.” A young girl was standing off to one side, face downcast.

Madame had looked at them both, made a noise of disgust and walked away, and as Marie raised her head Elinor expected another look of withering contempt. Instead, Marie’s plain young face was filled with such sympathy that Elinor’s strong resolve nearly shattered.

“I can help,” Marie had said calmly. “If you want me to.”

She’d stood still beneath Marie’s strong young hands as the maid had divested her of the new, frilly clothes her mother had bought her and dressed her in the sheer undergarments. “He won’t ask much of you,” she’d said in an even, practical voice. “You’ll simply have to lie still and let him do what he wants. For anything special he can use his society women—he knows he can’t get the Spanish disease from a whore’s mouth. If you take opium it won’t be so bad.”

She’d looked into Marie’s sad, dark eyes and didn’t ask how she knew. It was more than obvious.

So she took the powders and climbed up into the big bed, and when Sir Christopher came and pushed his hard, ugly thing between her legs and made her bleed she didn’t move, didn’t cry out. She simply closed her eyes and dreamed.

For three months she saw no one but Marie during the day, with the occasional nighttime visits from Sir Christopher. Marie would sneak her books from the library to keep her entertained, brew her teas to make certain she didn’t conceive, help her dream at night when he would cover her body with his huge weight, grunting and sweating and hurting her.

And then it was over as abruptly as it had begun. She rose one morning and washed him away from her body and Madame Hachette appeared in her doorway to whisk her back home, her harsh face set in the same cold disapproval. She didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to Marie.

When she walked into the house on the edge of the city she expected everything to have changed. She stood in the hallway and looked around her. There were signs of prosperity—a new rug in the entrance, a Chinese vase on an occasional table by the stairs. But the rest was the same as always.

She found her mother in her bedroom, with Nanny sitting in a chair near the bed. There were sores on her face, on her arms, and her eyes were cloudy when she saw her daughter. “He got tired of you, did he?” she’d said in a cracked voice. “I should have known our fortunes wouldn’t last, not when they relied on you.” She turned her head away.

But Nanny Maude leaped up, putting her arms around Elinor. For a moment she fought—no one had touched her with gentleness or affection in so long, and she felt dirty, ugly.

But Nanny would have none of that, and it was all Elinor could do to keep from sobbing. She let Nanny hold her tightly, as if to squeeze the ugliness away. But it was too late.

Her mother’s voice had whispered from the bed. “And now I’ve got an ugly daughter who’s a whore,” she’d said. “Why is my life so wretched?”

Elinor had broken free of Nanny’s gentle embrace and looked down at her mother, trying to think of something to say. But Lady Caroline’s eyes had drifted closed, and there were no words harsh enough.

It had taken months for her to accept Lydia’s embraces and joy in having her home again. Not until she’d had word that Sir Christopher had returned to England with his new bride, a girl of fourteen, the gossips had said, horrified.

And the last trace of regret had vanished, and Elinor had put her arms around Lydia and for the first time in a year, she wept.