Moonlit

London, 1813 "They call her Mrs. Nolan." Trevor Robard, Viscount St. Wulfstan, gave the object of his inquiry a long, appraising look. She was seated in a small alcove across the room, half-concealed by a filmy drape the same dull white as her dress, a colorless figure at the edge of a peacock-bright crowd. "Is she any more attractive when viewed up close?" he asked. "I could not say." At the viscount's side, Edgar Rickham swung his quizzing glass in a lazy arc. It was, Trevor noted, suspended on a long ribbon made of braided titian hair. According to rumor, the man cut thick strands himself from the lovely head of whichever woman he had in his keeping. His jewelry box boasted raven, red, and countless shades of blond, the ribbons changed at his whim. "I believe," Rickham continued, his nasal drawl nearly as annoying as the back-and-forth, back-and-forth swing of his glass, "I will have La Belle Balashova introduce me. Apparently Clonegal scarce left his bed during the several years Mrs. Nolan was under his protection." "Clonegal died in his bed," Trevor said drily. "Precisely," was the tart response. "Just my point. With a smile on his face, no doubt." From what little Trevor knew of the late duke's death, it had been prolonged and not at all a smiling matter. But that was neither here nor there. He didn't care how the man had died. He was, however, intrigued by his peers' unsuppressed interest in Clonegal's mistress. Demireps were common as fleas in London, hopping from expensive bed to bed on lithe legs. They were invariably greedy, usually shrewd, and more often than not rather beautiful. This Mrs. Nolan, as best he could tell from this distance, was not even pretty. Yet a steady stream of men begged introductions from their hostess, the glorious Anastasia Balashova who, in her heyday some twenty-five years earlier, had been the most famous and sought-after cyprian in England. Certainly approaching fifty now, La Belle Balashova was still lovely, still fiery of wit and temper, and still reliable for a lively party. She had outdone herself tonight. The grand salon of her elegant Bruton Street house was crowded with London's elite: Society's men and the Demimonde's women. The room pulsed and glittered under the lights of countless candles. Wellington had been known to tip a glass in this room, as had Palmerston, Rievaulx, and several of the king's lusty sons. The lovely Dubochet sisters, Harriette Wilson among them, had held court within these walls. Anastasia Balashova was responsible, albeit indirectly, for the depletion of countless fortunes, two marriagesfor not every gentleman insisted on marrying respectabilityand one very scandalous divorce. Entree into her soirees was coveted more than invitations to Almack's. There was no question that the lady took devilish delight in entertaining on the very same night as Almack's weekly Assembly. The multitude of black knee breeches and white waistcoats attested to the fact that a good half of the men present had left those hallowed, deadly dull hallsprobably at a sprintto revel at La Belle Balashova's. Trevor thought he might have seen Brummell and his circle lounging in one corner. A trio of French opera dancers fresh from Paris had arrived on Kildare's arm and were as colorful and loud as an entire flock of parrots. There was a country dance going at one end of the room, a lively game of five-card loo at the other. The Earl of Haddley's recently discarded mistress appeared to be emptying the pockets of that man's young heir. And in the midst of it all,Jensen, Emma is the author of 'Moonlit' with ISBN 9780804119566 and ISBN 0804119562.