Free In the Flesh by Portia Da Costa

they are, almost black, a bit like India ink, Miss.”
    Beatrice ripped open the envelope, tearing the single sheet inside in the process, and when the faint but distinctive scent of a most particular cologne rose up from the paper, her body quivered as if its wearer was reading over her shoulder.
    * * *
    THE OFFER WAS utterly ridiculous.
    You’re buying my body for a month, Mr. Ritchie, not my immortal soul in perpetuity!
    Not that Ritchie’s largesse wasn’t tempting. Although she tried not to be a greedy and acquisitive woman, Beatrice was honest enough to admit she enjoyed life’s comforts: books and journals; a pleasantly appointed home and tasty food; the occasional new gown or pair of shoes, and outings or at-homes at which to wear them. Yes, she liked all those very much. But the blinding, almost obscene luxury of the high aristocracy wasn’t her particular aspiration. She just wanted to live a middling life without any debts, and the fear of bailiffs and moneylenders’ toughs she would gladly say goodbye to.
    But this many thousands? On top of their outstanding debt paid and an annuity apiece for life for her and Charlie? That was absurd. A woman would have to be a combination of Cleopatra, Delilah, Madame de Pompadour and the famous Mrs. Langtry in order to merit such bounty, and Beatrice hadn’t got time to learn but a thousandth of their tricks. She’d need access to all the under-the-counter books in Holywell Street and more for an education to match Ritchie’s extravagance.
    I wonder if Sofia can provide me with a few tips?
    It would be rather embarrassing quizzing her friend on such intimate topics, and even more so, revealing why she needed the knowledge, but after seeing Sofia’s performance last night in the conservatory, it was clear that the older woman was well versed in the sexual arts.
    And then there was always Polly, who seemed to know everything about everything.
    Despite these potential wells of wisdom, it was still going to be hard providing Ritchie with value for money. Especially when she was still technically a virgin—despite what had happened with Eustace—and her cavortings with Ritchie last night were the furthest extent of her amatory experience.
    No, she’d have to insist on a lesser sum. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was a lecherous manipulative rogue, but she still couldn’t bring herself to cheat him. She’d take only enough to pay off the debts that she and Charlie had incurred, and a modest sum to cover their needs while her brother found some kind of sensible paying employment that didn’t offend his gentlemanly sensibilities and where he couldn’t effect any further financial chaos. After that, a little extra to set herself up in a typewriting and secretarial concern for persons of quality.
    Good. That’s a decision smartly made. How coolheaded I am in a crisis.
    Beatrice narrowed her eyes. There was no doubt who the taller man was, but why on earth would he choose to resort to such subterfuge? Was he trying to discover secrets about her from the servants? Some further skeleton in her closet with which to exert additional leverage over her? That seemed very much his modus operandi.
    But even if there was a skeleton, Polly wouldn’t reveal it. And neither would Cook nor Enid, she hoped, at least not deliberately. Unlike some ladies of her acquaintance, Beatrice always endeavored to treat the servants as well as she would like to have been treated herself in their situation. She even helped out with domestic chores as best she could now that the household was much reduced, and she hoped that her efforts to lighten the load offset Charlie’s occasional airs and graces.
    So, Mr. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, you’ll be disappointed if you’re hoping to find any scandalous morsels about me around the kitchen hearth. I’ve done nothing more wicked than I did with you last night! All my scandalous morsels are already fairly common knowledge.
    * * *
    “ AND THEN SHOW the