"I am out of candles, Lacey. Borrow some?"

She was reaching toward the pile of candles on my shelf even as she spoke, never noticing Brandon or our expressions of suppressed fury.

She had obviously been out enticing gentlemen. Her cheeks were rouged, her lips artificially reddened, her golden hair pinned into childlike curls. Her gown was white muslin, very plain, a costume a bit out of date, but the thin fabric clung to her limbs, and her breasts, unfettered by stays, moved easily beneath it.

Colonel Brandon's color rose. "Who is that, Gabriel? What does she mean by bursting in here?"

Marianne turned, her hand still closing on a fistful of candles. She looked Brandon up and down. His suit betrayed that he certainly had a good income-with an inheritance of over ten thousand a year, the colonel could afford to frequent some of the best Bond Street tailors. But for all his wealth of dress, I saw Marianne sense that here was a gentleman who would not give an actress tuppence to buy her supper. This put him in a different category from Lucius Grenville, who had once handed Marianne twenty guineas in exchange for nothing.

I had wondered over the last months what had become of that twenty guineas. Marianne had purchased several new gowns and a bonnet, but the garments would never have cost her that much. She continued to gnaw bread from downstairs for her meals and to filch my candles and coal.

I cleared my throat. "This is Marianne Simmons. My upstairs neighbor."

Brandon's gaze flicked involuntarily to Marianne's bosom, where her dusky tips pressed the gown's fabric. "Good God. What kind of a house is this?"

Marianne snatched up the candles. "Well, I like that. I don't think much of your friends, Lacey. Good night."

She swung away, bathing us in a waft of French perfume. She left the door open behind her as she, in high dudgeon, mounted the stairs to the next floor. Her door banged.