The Disdainful Marquis by Edith Layton Page B

thought, seeking the refuge of her own room, the women of London thought no more of nudity before other females than they did of nudity before a cake of soap. She wondered if she should write of the phenomenon to Jane in her letter next week.
    But when she wrote her next letter to Jane, she mentioned not a word of it. For Arthur, she remembered, would most likely be reading Jane’s letter over her shoulder. She wrote instead of the quiet Christmas she had spent, and the expectations she had of her journey. She closed by inquiring after their health and wished them all the joys of a new year. She sealed the letter and blew out her light. Then she went to her window to gaze at the moonlit streets of London, for a while. She watched some stray merrymakers reel past her observation post at the window seat and then she crept into her bed. She fell asleep as the bells rang out, and so celebrated the first moments of the new year of 1815 with quiet blameless sleep.

Chapter V
    The deck of the packet to France was thronged with the fashionable of England and the Continent. Catherine tried not to goggle. There were gentlemen in the first and last cry of fashion, their capes billowing out in the wind, their hats defying every gust. The ladies wore rich garments and trailed retinues of more plainly dressed servants. Everyone boarding seemed to know each other, and the duchess nodded and smiled her tight little smile at gentlemen who bowed and ladies who stared. Gracie, like so many of the other servants who scuttled mutely and inconspicuously after their employers, only kept her attention on her mistress. But Violet, Catherine noted, behaved exactly as the duchess did, nodding and acknowledging old acquaintances. Evidently, Catherine thought, the companions of great ladies were treated exactly as their mistresses were, even though they were, in effect, no more than servants just like Gracie.
    The duchess’s retinue made their way to their berths. The duchess paused at the door of her cabin and looked at Violet.
    “I shall rest. You know I cannot abide the sea. The mere sight of it makes me ill. But Gracie here knows what to do for me. I suppose you don’t want to just languish in your cabin, eh? You’ll want to see how the land lies. Well, get on with it. Let me know who’s here and who’s going where. But mind your manners. And take her with you,” she added, pointing to Catherine. “Let them get a look at her before we sail. That’ll tickle them right enough.”
    Violet looked as though she would balk at the suggestion, making Catherine feel like an ill-bred little sister who has insisted upon coming along with the grown-ups and so is hardly tolerated. But then Violet sniffed, “She’s free to walk the decks, I’m sure.”
    Violet was dressed, Catherine thought, as they turned from Her Grace’s room, as though she were going to a high tea rather than sailing across the channel. She wore a bright burnt orange ensemble, and from the way she held her head as her fellow passengers turned to stare at her in the corridor, she acted as though she were the hostess of a large seagoing fete. Catherine felt mousy in her own rich, warm blue velvet cloak beside the glowing Violet.
    As they were going out into the fresh cold sea air of the deck, Catherine noticed a small altercation taking place between the captain and a stunning attractive blond female. Although she too was dressed in the height of fashion, and was almost as theatrically brilliant as Violet, she wore an expression of consternation and seemed to be arguing with the captain. As they approached, Catherine heard Violet give out a low startled exclamation.
    “Coo, now here’s a turn. Look who’s landed on us.”
    “There,” the blonde cried, noticing Violet as she drew closer, “just ask her. That’s the duchess’s companion. She will tell you.”
    “Excuse me, miss,” the captain said, wiping his brow, “but this lady says that the Duchess of Crewe is expecting