Free Queen of Diamonds by Bárbara Metzger

their outfits for the coming revelry. All such women cared about was clothes—and money.
    His money. Lud, they would be lining up to put their hands in his pockets—or elsewhere. The high flyers could be worse than the matchmaking mamas because they were more desperate—and more obvious in their intentions. They had fewer years to assure their futures, for time did not sit gently on a whore’s shoulders. Gently bred females at least still had their pedigrees and their dowries when the next year’s debutantes made their curtsies. The barques of frailty had nothing but their beauty.
    While young ladies gave the appearance of ignoring the purpose of their Seasons, the light skirts flaunted their ambitions. That was what a Cyprian’s Ball was about. Harry guessed he would be too busy fending off prospective Paphians to even locate Martin in the smoke and the crowds and the hidden corners. He would be fleeing instead of hunting, unless, of course, he had protection from the ravening pack. With a gun—No, with a woman on his arm, he ought to be safe…
    â€œWe cannot go without an escort,” Queenie was saying. “It is simply too dangerous for two inexperienced women. You know that when men overindulge manners lapse. And not all who attend these affairs are gentlemen anyway, or ones who will listen to a woman’s wishes when in their cups. I shall not go without a gentlemen’s protection unless I can take my dog. It would not be safe.”
    â€œYou cannot take Parfait!”
    Parfait heard his name and looked at Hellen. Hellen looked at Lord Harking. Harry looked at Queenie. Queenie looked at the floor. Mr. Browne looked at all of them and decided he might bend his own rules a bit. “What say we all go?”

Chapter Five
    Browne made the introductions. “Madame Denise Lescartes is a dress designer,” he concluded.
    And Harry was a Hottentot. But the female would serve his purposes more than adequately. Who would suppose he’d look at another female with such a beauty on his arm? In fact, Harry was savoring the notion of his bastard of a brother-in-law seeing him with the false French
femme
. Let Martin call Harry a prig and a prude. Let him turn green with envy—before Harry turned his flesh black and blue.
    While Harry was pondering mayhem and making an impression, Queenie was also considering her choices. Yes, she considered, this gentleman was sturdy enough and somber enough to take his duties as escort seriously. Heaven knew he was large enough, with well-formed muscles and the occasional unmannered look to his brown eyes, like now, to discourage any other man’s unwanted attentions. Moreover, he had none of those broken veins in his nose that betokened a tippler, nor pouches under his eyes from late nights. His complexion was healthy, his step assured.
    Harking would do, Queenie decided, if she had to do this dreadful thing. There was something solid and trustworthy about him. Perhaps it was the humble knitted muffler, or the boyish blush to his cheeks as he bowed over her hand.
    â€œWill you and Miss, ah, Pettigrew, do me the honor of accompanying me and Browne, madam? I am looking for my brother-in law and the more eyes, the better.”
    The brother-in-law was a likely excuse, Queenie thought, somehow charmed that Harking would not want to admit seeking a mistress. But he had included Hellen and Mr. Browne in his invitation, taking charge in a masterful way that pleased her, despite herself. Now she would not have to be afraid of being in his company in private, or letting Hellen go off on her own.
    â€œWe would be honored,” she answered for both of them. “I am hoping to advertize my new dress designs. The more people who see them, the better,” she echoed.
    The gowns were a likely excuse, Harry thought, a shade offended that Madame Denise Lescartes felt she needed a flimsy reason to act as his companion for the night. A female in