That night, alone in her sparsely furnished bedroom, Emma tossed and turned, alternately reliving the sensual excitement of Chambers’s attentions and the shock of his indecent propositions. How could her simple plan to escape her uncle have dissolved into such disaster?

She was right to flee Chambers’s studio, she reassured herself, any proper lady would have done the same. The spinsters hadn’t lied; that man would sully everything he touched.

Still the thought of those very talented fingers called forth the memory of eyes that sparked with humor and a secret knowledge, lips that beckoned with improper suggestions, and a manner that infuriated, yet beguiled. Beneath all the masculine allure beckoned the greatest seduction of all: he wanted her for his model, not her cousin Penelope, or some other properly born lady. He wanted her. Emma clenched the sides of the narrow mattress while longing burned through her chest.

Stop that! She ordered herself. Who better than she understood the dangers that lie along that path? Hadn’t her uncle and cousin reminded her on a daily basis that she’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket? Hadn’t she seen with her own eyes the injustices dealt her mother, and felt the stinging insults and alienation of a child born outside of marriage? She bit her lip and turned on her side. Hers was a lesson well-learned. Attraction to a man of Chamber’s standing could lead to no good.

Thoughts of her heritage stirred a niggling suspicion. Was her lack of ancestry somehow visible to a man like Chambers? Why else would he have offered his devil’s barter? Her fingers curled into fists. Panic roiled in her stomach. He knew her secret. If he suspected she wasn’t worthy of a promise kept, he could reveal her charade to the spinsters.

No, she thought, fighting the tears burning her eyes. Chambers was different from other men. She wasn’t sure why, but she trusted him in this. Her secret was safe, but she wasn’t as convinced of her reputation.

Emma punched at her pillow, hoping to force the thin stuffing of feathers into some semblance of a mound. She was wrong to go to his residence, wrong to step into his lair, his studio. She would simply not make that mistake again. A sob caught in her throat. Memories would fade and she could continue a quiet respectable life in the country with her poems and students. A part of her heart cried in protest, but she closed her mind to arguments. The plan was set. Starting tomorrow she would ban thoughts of Chambers, but tonight . . . his face loomed in her thoughts . . . tonight there could be no harm in dreams.

The next morning, still tired from lack of sleep, Emma faced an equally daunting prospect: her first class. She walked into the library filled with apprehension. Two of the five young faces waiting for her seemed eager and delighted with her appearance. Two others appeared a bit shy and embarrassed, and one, a girl with pointed features and reddish-brown hair, looked downright defiant. Behind them all, a dour-faced Cecilia stood as imperious and regal as the gilt-framed image of the Queen hanging above her left shoulder.

“I’m pleased to see that you’ve recovered from your headache, Mrs. Brimley,” Cecilia said. “We missed you yesterday evening.”

A modicum of panic jolted her already frayed nerves. The driver had been careful not to deliver her to the front door of the school. Instead she had walked the final short distance intending to explain that she needed a bit of fresh air if anyone inquired about her entrance.

“I had hoped not to impose, but I’m afraid the long trip from London was more demanding than I had anticipated.” Emma paused, the long trip was but a minor inconvenience compared to the demands that awaited her here. “The fresh air and extra rest have done wonders. Now, however, I believe we should leave yesterday behind and concentrate on the matter at hand.”

Turning the conversation from her mysterious disappearance to an equally uncomfortable subject was a bit risky, but she was better prepared to discuss the latter, at least for this one class.

“Yes.” Cecilia looked unconvinced. “Perhaps we should.” She clapped her hands.

“Ladies.” All faces turned to Cecilia. “It is our goal at Pettibone to prepare proper young ladies to assume their place in society, and to secure by virtue of their refined manners and appearance, an excellent prospect for matrimony.”

The word “matrimony” inspired tittering and fidgeting among the girls, but Cecilia regained control with another swift clap of her hands.

“Although you are properly trained to assume a household and accompany a husband as society dictates, we feel additional instruction is necessary to prepare you for your wifely obligations. We have specifically obtained the expertise of Mrs. Brimley to discuss those issues with you. I trust you will treat her with the grace and propriety with which you have been prepared.”

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” gushed the oldest of her students, a tall blonde named Elizabeth. “My mother says I should be engaged by the end of next season. I have so many questions.”

“Did you ask your mother for answers?” Emma silently prayed the answer would be yes. Then perhaps Elizabeth could instruct them all.

“Oh, no, no.” Elizabeth shook her head so violently her blonde curls swung with the motion. “That would never do. The subject would be too awkward for dear Mama.”

Emma surely understood that. Her own mother never saw fit to discuss such topics. Perhaps because her mother realized Emma’s prospects would be limited without a large dowry to compensate for obvious deficiencies. “I see. What sort of questions do you have?”

“I have a question,” Alice, a younger girl with expressive brown eyes, interrupted. “I’ve lived here as long as I can remember so I haven’t little brothers like Charlotte.” She squeezed the hand of the girl sitting next to her. “My question is . . . what do they look like? The boys, I mean.”

The other girls, except the loyal friend Charlotte, dissolved in hearty laughter.

Emma clapped her hands to quiet them down. “Ladies, ladies, that will be quite enough. Miss Higgins could substitute another course of study if this one proves too disruptive.”

The girls hid their laughter under smug smiles. Cecilia smiled approval from the back wall.

“I think that is a very good question.” Emma patted the hand of a furiously blushing Alice. “I haven’t any brothers either. Perhaps if I had, I would have been less surprised on my wedding night.”

After viewing Lord Nicholas Chambers’s drawing, she could well imagine how shocked and unprepared she would have been had she actually experienced a wedding night. Perhaps the spinster sisters had the right idea. Unfortunately, they had entrusted the wrong person.

“That was courageous, Alice. Thank you.” Emma was rewarded with a timid smile. “As the rest of you believe yourselves to be quite knowledgeable, perhaps someone can answer Alice’s question?”

“They have a snake in front like a dancing cobra.” The defiant one said. Emma instantly recognized the voice as belonging to the girl the others in the hallway had called Fanny. She committed the face to memory.

Fanny continued her discourse by holding a curved arm close to her chest. “If you don’t keep the snake caged, the snake will strike.”

Her hand lunged at poor Alice. Both Alice and the one next to her shrieked. Fanny laughed at their reactions.

“That’s quite enough, young lady,” Emma scolded, before turning her attention to Alice. “Young gentlemen do not have snakes, but they do have an appendage where we do not.”

Emma straightened, assuming her teacher stance. “The great poet, John Donne, once said—“

Several girls moaned in unison beneath their breath. Emma continued, undaunted by their lack of appreciation for poetry.

“ ‘Love’s mysteries in souls do grow, but yet the body is his book.’ Perhaps we shall let the body be our book and begin with a description of the masculine form.” Especially as this was the only information she had to impart. Despite her resolve not to think of him, she issued a silent thank you to Lord Nicholas Chambers. The mere thought of his name initiated a flutter low beneath her stays. She shifted uncomfortably and forced her focus back to her students.

She glanced at Cecilia, who stood behind the girls. “May I draw an illustration?”

The older woman cautiously nodded, before taking a step closer. Emma selected a seat in the midst of the girls and did her best to reproduce the intimate components of Mr. Rodin’s statue. The girls crowded around her shoulder, even Cecilia ventured a peek.

Fanny screwed up her face. “How can they prod you when it’s curled up like that?”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened, “What do you mean, ‘prod you’?” She glanced at Emma in alarm. “Can they do that?”

“Why would they want to?” another asked.

“Does it hurt to be prodded?”

The cage door opened and all manner of questions burst forth, flapping about Emma’s ears like gulls diving for fish. An incessant clapping of hands silenced the girls. Cecilia towered above them all.

“We will have order in this room,” she demanded.

The girls quickly dispersed back to their seats.

“I believe Mrs. Brimley has covered quite enough new territory for one day. If these sessions are to continue, I shall expect to see more structure and discipline.”

The girls lowered their heads, avoiding eye contact. Although grateful that Cecilia had saved her from proving her own ignorance, Emma nevertheless felt the sting of her reference to class discipline.

“I suggest each of you write down your questions, so Mrs. Brimley can present the answers in an organized, civilized fashion. And Miss Barnesworth” -- Fanny looked up--“you will resolve to keep your vulgarities to yourself.”

Charlotte hid a giggle behind her hand. Fanny cast a sideways glare at Emma. However, all heads peaceably bent to the task of writing questions. Questions, Emma worried, for which she couldn’t provide answers.

Cecilia signaled for Emma to join her in the hall. Emma rose, her stomach churning at her anticipated chastisement.

“We owe our patron gratitude for suggesting education in these intimate matters,” Cecilia said once they were safely out of earshot of the young pupils. “The girls’ enthusiasm and desire prove the necessity for such information.”

“Yes, madam,” Emma said, surprised not only by the lack of reproach but also that Cecilia’s attitude closely mirrored her own. “I appreciate your suggestion of the lists,” she said, regarding the older sister with new appreciation. “I will definitely use them to advantage.”

Cecilia nodded. “So you shall. I will give you my list of questions in the morning.”

“Your list?” Emma stepped back. “Does that mean you will be attending the rest of the classes?”

Cecilia smiled, turned on her heel then continued down the hall.

As the girls silently filed out of the library, Emma collected their papers, pages and pages of carefully penned lines. After the last student handed over her assignment, Emma slumped into a chair and scanned the collection of questions. Most of the inquiries echoed her own, and she hadn’t even seen Cecilia’s list.

Despair overwhelmed her. Only one person could provide sufficient information to answer these questions and he--she shuddered--he demanded an exorbitant price. She shuffled through the papers. Even if she were so desperate as to accept Lord Nicholas Chambers’s outlandish offer, she didn’t have enough items of clothing to garner all the needed answers. She ticked off on her fingers the layers of petticoats, her drawers, chemise, and corset. Remembering how he allowed her to ask a question for each shoe, she added four fingers to accommodate her stockings and gloves. She ran out of digits and started a quick count on paper. Her propriety would unravel long before the questions expired.

She retrieved her mother’s handkerchief from her cuff, squeezing it briefly before she proceeded to clean her lenses. A faint essence of rose petals, her mother’s fragrance, drifted to her nose. “I wish you were here, Mama. Oh, the questions I would ask.”

She gazed at the crumpled linen, hoping for spiritual guidance, but thoughts of a practical nature intervened. Would the handkerchief count as an item of clothing? Her spectacles? She replaced the glasses on her nose. She wore both on her person, did she not?

And if the handkerchief counted, what else could she layer to barter for answers? A victorious grin bubbled from deep inside. In retrospect, perhaps she possessed enough clothing after all.

She would pay another visit to Lord Nicholas Chambers, only this time she’d be prepared for his devil’s bargain.