She’d been seventeen, not yet convinced that a happy life was out of the question, despite the Harriman Nose. She was young, strong, and hopeful. To be sure, their fortunes had begun to decline. They were living in a ramshackle house on the edge of the city, and Lady Caroline had been without a steady male companion for months.

Elinor preferred it that way. The men who came and stayed tended to treat her mother with a familiarity that made her uncomfortable, and that familiarity reached her daughters as well. When Lady Caroline was uninvolved she still went out most nights, gaming, drinking, but there were days when she was home. Sometimes she was morose, with a vicious tongue that could flay her daughter with its caustic truth. Those words never touched Lydia, thank God. Like Elinor herself, Lady Caroline doted on Lydia. She reserved her complaints and criticisms for Elinor.

But there were other times, times her mother was bright and gay and laughing, lighting up any room she entered, and that was one of those times. She’d come in from an afternoon visit, taken young Lydia’s arms and danced her around the drawing room, the two of them laughing, Elinor standing to one side, enchanted. Her mother could charm anyone, and six years ago, when she’d been seventeen and Lydia eleven and Lady Caroline hadn’t begun to show the signs of her illness, back then her charm had been at its brightest.

“I’ve met the most wonderful man, my darlings,” she’d said, and Elinor had preened under the random endearment. “He’s older, so he’s more settled, and he’s fabulously wealthy. Solange told me he’d been asking about me, and she arranged for him to be at her house this afternoon, and oh, my dears, sparks flew! I’m going to his house tonight, and if our luck holds, we’ll all move in there, away from this wretched, bourgeois place.”

The wretched, bourgeois place was a palace compared to their current house, but for Lady Caroline it had been a shameful comedown.

“Is he very handsome, Mama?” Lydia had asked.

“Handsome doesn’t matter,” she’d said lightly. “It’s inner beauty that matters.” And Elinor had preened once more. For all her mother’s harshness, she really did love her. She really must strive to do better, to make her mother proud of her plain child as much as her pretty one.

“Who is he, Mama?” she’d asked.

“He’s titled, and fabulously wealthy. Did I mention that? Sir Christopher Spatts. Isn’t that a lovely name? So very English. He lives there, of course, and I’m thinking that enough time has passed that I might return. We wouldn’t be accepted by some of the worst high-sticklers, but I would think more people would have forgotten. There’s always a new scandal. And wouldn’t it be glorious to see England again? You could ride once more, Elinor. Christopher doesn’t keep a stable when he’s visiting Paris, but perhaps when we move in he might consider hiring a mount for you.” She did a little dance around the room, her silk skirts swinging over her hoops, her beautiful face alight with joy. “I wonder if marriage is too much to hope for? He’s only a knight, not even a baronet or a viscount, so it might be possible. I wouldn’t mind being a bride.”

“You’re putting the cart before the horse,” Nanny Maude had said darkly, the one person who ever dared tell Lady Caroline the truth.

“Oh, pooh!” she’d said with her light, silvery laugh. “It’s all going to be glorious.”

She’d been wrong, as she so often was. Looking back on that day, it seemed to Elinor that that was the last time she’d ever seen her mother truly happy. It was one of her wild fantasies, with little connection to real life, but it had filled the house with light anyway.

Caroline had gone out that night, wearing the Harriman emeralds that she’d taken with her, the ones that were to be Elinor’s, and hadn’t returned for more than a fortnight. It was Elinor’s first taste of real responsibility, and she managed relatively well. There’d been money, and credit, and the hope of a splendid future. Until Lady Caroline returned home.

Her skin was sallow. She wore new clothes, made of rich, expensive fabrics, and a dashing new hat, but her jewelry was missing, and she waltzed in and collapsed on a chair, declaring herself exhausted.

“Where are the emeralds, Mama?” she’d blurted out. Not only were they supposed to end up with her, they were the most valuable thing their little family owned, their something against dark times.

“What a little miser you are, Elinor,” she’d said with what seemed like profound dislike. “If you must know, they’re temporarily in other hands.”

Relief flooded her. “They’re being cleaned? Repaired?”

“I lost them in a wager. I fully expect to win them back in a new few days, so there’s nothing to worry about. You’re such a greedy creature, Elinor. Even if you can’t be pretty like your sister you should try to acquire at least a few social graces.” Her gaze was withering. “And where did you get that hideous dress?”

It was one of the two dresses she’d been wearing for the last year. It was true, she’d grown too tall and curvy for it, but there hadn’t been much money for new clothes, and it was much more important that Lady Caroline look prosperous, since she was their public face to the world.

Before she could think of something to say, Lady Caroline turned her attention to Lydia. “There you are, sweetness. How I’ve missed you! Give your mama a kiss.”

Lydia had thrown herself into her arms. “Are we going to move, Mama?”

“I don’t think so, dearest,” she said in a distracted voice. “I’ve decided Sir Christopher is not the man for me. For one thing, he’s too old. For another…” She shrugged, an affectation she’d picked up since coming to Paris, one she did very well. “He’ll be coming to tea this afternoon. I want both of you on your best behavior. And, Elinor, do try to look a little prettier. Don’t we have anything better for her to wear?”

“No,” Nanny Maude said in her uncompromising voice.

“I know what we’ll do. Our neighbors have that absolute horse of a daughter. You know the one I mean—she’s Lydia’s age but absolutely enormous. I’m certain I can convince them to lend me one of her dresses for Elinor.”

“Clothilde de Bonneau is thirteen years old, Mama,” Elinor had protested. “And she’s much wider than I am.”

“We can fix that. Nanny Maude is a genius with a needle. Now, someone bring me my notepaper—we haven’t time to waste. Vite, vite!” Her eyes were bright, feverishly so, and she had two dark patches on her already rouged cheeks.

No one was immune to Lady Caroline’s charm, and the dress had been produced almost immediately. It had been an insipid shade of pink, with nowhere for her chest to go in the fortunately high bodice. To this day she couldn’t abide the color pink.

But her mother had fussed over her, directing her maid on how to arrange Elinor’s hair to her satisfaction. Never in her life had Elinor received so much of her mother’s attention. It was dizzying.

When she was done she looked in the mirror. The dress was expensive, better than anything she’d worn in years, and the maid’s ministrations had been expert. She’d almost looked pretty.

Her mother had clucked her tongue. “Too bad you’re such a plain child, but we’ve done the best we can. We’ll simply have to hope it works.”

“What works, Mama?”

But Lady Caroline hadn’t answered, moving away to focus on Lydia.

For the first time Lydia wasn’t the favored one. She was instructed to wear her oldest dress, her lovely golden ringlets were plaited into such tight braids that they pulled at her skin, and Lady Caroline ordered her to sit quietly in the corner and say nothing. There was no disguising Lydia’s gorgeous blue eyes, pretty mouth and perfect little nose, but she’d done as her mother asked, keeping her head downturned when Sir Christopher Spatts graced them with his presence.

He creaked when he walked. He was old, much older than their mother, and quite fat. His wig was long and elaborately styled, his complexion florid, his lips the color of liver. He had fingers like fat sausages, covered with rings, and a beauty patch rested on one sagging cheek.

She knew better than to call attention to herself in public, but in this case she had no choice, with Sir Christopher barking questions at her, all the time he was sneaking glances at Lydia as she tried to disappear into the furniture.

It seemed to go on forever. He sprinkled biscuit crumbs all over his expansive front, and he drank his tea noisily, like a bourgeois. The thought of her mama in his bed was horrifying. She was not so naive that she didn’t realize exactly what her mother did with her gentlemen friends, even though the details were mercifully unclear at that point.

Finally he rose. “She’ll do,” he said with a brisk nod. “I’ll meet your price.” His rheumy gaze swept the room. “I’d still rather have the younger one. I’d pay double.”

“No, Sir Christopher,” her mother said with what Elinor considered to be great dignity. “You’ve had my response to your offer.”

He’d nodded, and his wig had shifted slightly. No decent valet would have allowed his gentleman to go out with his periwig improperly applied, and Sir Christopher struck her as a vain man. She hid her grin.

“I expect you to hold to the terms of our agreement,” he’d said, clearly unwilling to have the last word.

“But of course, Sir Christopher. I am a woman of my word. Have your man of business call on me at his convenience.”

He took a last, hard look at Elinor, harrumphed and departed in a wave of overpowering scent.

“Go into the other room, Lydia darling,” her mother had said once their guest was gone. “I need to talk to your sister. You, too, old woman,” she added to Nanny Maude.

A rare occurrence, but Elinor was no fool. She understood what was going on but hadn’t been said. Her mother had arranged a marriage for her.

She’d known it would have to happen, sooner or later. She’d already known that the chance of finding someone young and handsome was unlikely. Lydia’s young music tutor had never looked her way, while Elinor died of longing every time he was in the room. He was poor enough that it might have been a possibility, but he’d only had eyes for Lydia.

She should be grateful. She had never thought she’d end up with a title, and it was clear Sir Christopher possessed great wealth. With luck he’d be unfaithful, and she wouldn’t have to put up with his affections very often.

Once they were alone, her mother turned to look at her, and for the first time she looked uncertain, almost guilty, and Elinor took pity on her.

“Don’t worry, Mama,” she said. “I understand what’s going on.”

“You do?”

“Of course. You’ve arranged a marriage for me with Sir Christopher. I understand that it’s my duty. I probably won’t have many choices, and I should be very grateful.”

“Not exactly,” her mother had said, moving away and refusing to meet her eye.

Elinor tried not to show the rush of relief that ran through her body. In truth, she would much rather die an old maid than be married to someone like Sir Christopher, but she would have done it, for Lydia. “Then what was he talking about?”

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.