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Under the bonnet, her pale face was a perfect oval. Her pink lips were uncommonly plump, her large eyes a silvery-blue. The whole was framed by hair so fair it was almost white. Clare Ivory had the face of a seductive angel, they said; no wonder she was a successful courtesan.
“Are you following me, Miss Larke? I wonder that a lady of your station would even acknowledge me.”
Arabella closed her parasol with a snap. She must not be seen anywhere near Miss Ivory, but the trees sheltered them, and for now they were alone but for some boys playing dice and a pie seller taking a break.
“Yet we have much in common,” Arabella said. “We were both once thought to be engaged to Guy Roth, and Lord Sculthorpe was the first man to bed you, as he will be for me.”
Miss Ivory’s eyes widened. “You show a surprising lack of delicacy, not to mention care for your reputation. What would the world say if you were seen with me?”
“For one, they could make a marvelous portrait of us. The title suggests itself.”
“‘The virgin and the whore.’” For a woman with an angel’s face, Miss Ivory could employ a tone as dry and sharp as Arabella’s. “Do you think yourself daring?”
“Curious, rather.”
Fear, anger, and desperation combined to create a certain daring, Arabella supposed. Her only recourse was to learn about what frightened her.
“You could have become Guy’s marchioness,” she said.
“But I did not want to.” Miss Ivory raised her chin in a challenge. “Did you follow me here to speak of Guy?”
Arabella absently untangled the fringe on her parasol. “Guy is of no interest. It is Lord Sculthorpe I wish to inquire about.”
“Oh dear, Miss Larke. The things I can tell you about Lord Sculthorpe are not things a lady should know about her husband.”
“I beg to differ. A lady should know as much as possible about everything that affects her. I wish to understand his preferences. His…tastes.” The other woman averted her face, but not before Arabella caught her mocking smile. “This amuses you, Miss Ivory?” she said sharply.
“I suspect this is not a typical conversation for you, Miss Larke. Are you finding it enjoyable?”
“I am finding it excruciating. And you?”
“Equally.”
“Then let this be finished quickly.”
“Every harlot’s prayer,” Miss Ivory said dryly.
“And every wife’s?”
That riposte earned her a laugh; their eyes met with an unexpected sense of alliance.
“Is Lord Sculthorpe feared?” Arabella asked.
“He is not known for cruelty, no.”
Arabella hazarded a guess. “But is he known for visiting harlots in search of virgins?”
“You do know more than you ought. Such knowledge is dangerous for a fine lady like yourself.”
Arabella ignored her. It remained a mystery why people insisted it was dangerous for ladies to know things; surely ignorance was much more dangerous. If only information were not so difficult to obtain!
“They must be a rare delicacy, virgins,” she speculated. “Are they difficult to procure? Or are they simply very…young?”
“His lordship prefers his women to be mature—and willing, to his credit. They are not cheap but he is happy to pay the premium. He takes particular pleasure in winning an auction. They are, as you say, a rare delicacy, and he is willing to indulge only when they become available.”
“Because the anticipation is the pleasure.” Arabella caught the other woman’s expression and looked away, through the trees. The risk to her reputation increased the longer she spent here, but she had to know. “What does a man seek, with this preference for virgins?”
“Possession, I believe. Planting his flag, as it were, and conquering the territory. The belief that a part of the woman will always belong to him. The more virgins he beds, the more women he owns.”
