“I’d much rather come with you,” she said. “You know I’ve loathed that corset contraption that Madame Badeau fashioned for you. Yes, the corset forced you into gowns that were approximately the same measurements as Imogen. But neither one of us, darling, has Imogen’s body. And frankly, although I have never said so quite so openly, I believe that the two of us are blessed.”“How can you say that?” Josie asked, more amused than anything else. This morning she seemed to have a new acceptance of her figure. It wasn’t perfect, but it no longer felt repulsive.

Griselda was wearing a fetching morning gown of light lawn scattered with posies. It came a little short, in the French style, and showed an enticing pair of slippers. She looked beautiful.

But of course, Josie reminded herself, Griselda’s figure wasn’t as plumpy as her own. There was nothing stout about Griselda. She was—

“You and I have precisely the same figure,” Griselda was saying. “And Josie, as I have told you from the moment you entered this house, our figure is one adored by men.”

“So much so that they’ve called me everything from a piglet to a sausage,” Josie pointed out.

“Crogan was an unpleasant fool, forced into courting you by his brother. And I do believe that Darlington was responding more to your corset than to your figure. You had no figure with that corset.”

Josie was starting to think the same herself. “Do you think it’s too late?” she said, her voice growing rather thin as she said it.

“Absolutely not.”

“Wait a moment!” Josie said. “What happened with you and Darlington? Last night?”

A smug little smile danced on Griselda’s lips.

“You did it,” Josie breathed. “You seduced him!”

“Well, not in the strictest meaning of the word,” Griselda said, a frown creasing her brow. “I certainly hope that you didn’t form the opinion that I am in any way easy, Josie. That was a most improper conversation. I’m afraid that Sylvie is French, you know.”

“I know that.”

“The French like nothing better than to talk of naughty subjects,” and that was obviously all Griselda was going to say of it, because she was gathering her reticule and her shawl. “We must go now. Madame Rocque grows more sought after every season. We shall have to pay her at least double to give you a gown on the spot. But I ordered an evening gown from her three weeks ago. If she has it ready, she can simply adjust it for you.”

“I’ll never fit into your gown,” Josie protested.

“Of course you will. Oh, you’re a little slimmer in the waist,” Griselda said, “though who could tell when you were all sewed up in that corset?”

“I’m not—” Josie said, but found herself talking to the wind.

Madame Rocque’s establishment was at number 112, Bond Street. Josie had never seen anything quite like it. The antechamber was made up with all the intimacy of a lady’s boudoir. Everything, from the silk-covered walls to the delicate chairs, was buttercup yellow. A dressing table hung with yellow silk stood to one side, and laid reverently over a chair was an exquisite gown, the kind Josie would never dare to wear. It had no seams, and Madame Badeau had said that seams were essential for someone like her.

She wandered over to gaze at the gown. It was just a swath of ruby-colored net, sewn with the smallest glittering beads that Josie had ever seen. It looked outrageously expensive, and supremely comfortable. Why shouldn’t it be? The bodice was nothing more than a wide vee that appeared to plunge to the waist.

“You would be splendid in that gown,” Griselda said, appearing at her shoulder. “Isn’t it wonderful the way Madame has a few gowns made up so that one can actually see them? I personally find looking at a costume far more inspiring than choosing one from an illustration.”

“Do you mean that she had the gown made up solely so that we could see it?” Josie asked.

“Likely she has a regular customer to whom she offers a lower price if they allow their garment to be viewed for a time before delivery,” Griselda said. “I do believe that I shall try on that costume. Unfortunately, it is not appropriate for a debutante.”

“You will?” Josie asked, fascinated. Griselda wore gowns that enhanced her lush figure. But in the years she’d known her, Josie had never seen Griselda put on a gown that was transparently seductive.

Madame Rocque swept into the room like an admiral’s ship leading a small flotilla of clucking attendants. “Ah, my dearest Lady Griselda,” she cried, dropping into a deep curtsy.

“Madame Rocque,” Griselda said, returning the courtesy.

Seeing that, Josie sank into a curtsy worthy of a queen. Madame Rocque’s sharp black eyes darted around her body. “Ah!” she said with a sharp intake of breath.

Josie braced herself. Now Madame Rocque would start talking of seams and corsets.

“Finally, I have a young lady whom I can make look more like a woman and less like an insipid fairy,” Madame Rocque crooned. “Although, she is a very young lady.”

“Her first season,” Griselda said. “And I’m afraid it has not started on a salutary note, Madame. Thus, we turn to you.”

“You should have come to me immediately,” Madame said severely. She clapped her hands and sent several of her attendants running off in all directions.

Then she led Griselda and Josie into a smaller room that had the same sense of being a gentlewoman’s private boudoir. “May I bring you a glass of champagne?” she asked. “Sometimes, to make a change of this nature, some Dutch courage is helpful.”

Josie was wearing one of her gowns from last year, since none of Madame Badeau’s seamed constructions fit without the corset. And she had left the corset in Mayne’s turret. Suddenly she realized that both women were looking inquiringly at her, and Madame Rocque was holding out a glass of something that looked like champagne. “Oh no,” she said hastily. “I couldn’t possibly. I would be most grateful for a cup of tea, Madame, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Madame nodded to one of the girls who trotted away. Then she began prowling around Josie, around and around, running a line down the center of her back, touching her shoulders, her neck. “Miss Essex,” she said after a moment, “I must see you in your chemise, if you please. No gown.”

Josie was resigned. Madame Badeau had also examined her figure in a chemise only. Whatever Madame Rocquet said, it couldn’t be worse than the clucks and cries of the distressed Madame Badeau on seeing her uncorseted. A moment later she stood before Madame Rocquet, clothed only in a chemise of the finest lawn. Every line of her body was visible, Josie knew, although with practiced ease she avoided glancing into the three-way glass to one side of the room.

Madame Rocquet prowled around and around, not saying a word. Then suddenly she started speaking to Griselda. “Deep colors would be best, of course, but in the first year…no.”

“I thought the same thing,” Griselda said, sipping a glass of champagne while she sat in one of the comfortable chairs to the side. “That crimson gown in the antechamber would be lovely.”

“Too bold, too sophisticated,” Madame Rocquet muttered, touching Josie again on both shoulders. She seemed to be measuring her without a tape, rattling numbers to a girl who stood ready to jot them down. “Now for you, Lady Griselda, that dress would be exquisite. But I have made no fortune selling you sophisticated clothing either. For you, the costume of a chaperone, albeit, since I make them, one of the most exquisitely gowned chaperones in London.”