Obviously whatever happened between the bedsheets in the Godwin bedchamber was beyond repair at this point, so Esme reverted to practicality. "When do you think to wear your new gown?"

"If Madame Rocque can have one made up so quickly, I might wear it to Lady Hamilton's ball," Helene said.

"That's not for two weeks! Believe me, Madame Rocque will make you a gown with two days' notice at most, given what just occurred in her own establishment."

"But I'm working on a new waltz and it's going well. I don't want to lose my direction with this sort of foolishness." Helene rose and stood before the mirror again. "Do you truly think that I must discard my corset?"

"Absolutely."

"What will I do with my hair?"

"Why don't you wear it down?"

"It's dreadfully unfashionable," Helene said dubiously. She pulled a number of pins from her hair and undid her braids. When she was finished, she was surrounded by a shimmering curtain of hair falling, waterfall-like, to the top of her legs.

"Goodness," Esme said faintly. "It certainly is long, isn't it?"

"Braids make it a manageable length."

"It's exquisite."

"Rees loved it," Helene said, narrowing her eyes. "I do believe it was the only thing he liked about me. He-" She stopped. "I'll cut it off."

"Cut it off?" Esme was astounded. Helene's great woven mound of braids was an integral part of her regal, calm character.

Helene nodded. "All of it." She drew her hands through sleek masses that fell like cornsilk. "Now''

"What?"

"Madame Rocque must have a pair of scissors," Helene said. She flung the door open. Madame had left a girl in the hallway. "Fetch a pair of scissors!" she commanded, and the girl fled.

"No!" Esme gasped. "You cannot do such a thing without forethought. We'll send a footman to request that Monsieur Olivier attend you this afternoon. Helene!"

Helene grabbed the shears from the girl.

"You!" Esme said, waving at the maid, who was standing, mouth agape, staring at the beautiful woman about to chop off her hair. "Send about to Monsieur Olivier, Number Twelve, Bond Street. Beg him to come here immediately, with kindest compliments of Lady Bonnington. Tell him we have a challenge for him. Did you get that?"

The young girl fled.

Even as Esme turned back to Helene, the first great sheaf of hair fell to the ground. And Helene was already hacking off another chunk.

"Oh lord," Esme moaned. "You never do anything by half measures, do you?"

"Why should I?" Helene said. She didn't look like a Danish queen now, remote and icy cold, but more like a belligerent English dairymaid. "Why should I keep all this hair? Do you know, it just occurred to me that I haven't cut it in the past because of some misguided sentiment leading back to Rees's fondness for my hair? Rees, who dragged his inamorata home so that he could have his way with her in the middle of the day? Rees? The hell with Rees!"

"Helene!" Esme gasped. She was quite certain that she had just heard the very first profanity ever to leave Helene's mouth.

"And the same to all of them!" Helene said gleefully, wielding her shears. "I don't care what men think of my hair, do I? All I want is their participation. Their cooperation!" She sliced off the last hank of hair and threw it to the ground. "There! What do you think?"

Helene's hair stuck out around her shoulders like the stubble from cornstalks left on a harvest field. She was shaking her head and grinning like a fool. "Oh, Esme, it's wonderful not to feel all that weight on my head. I had no idea! I would have done this years ago." A moment later she pulled Madame Rocque's gown over her head and began unlacing her corset. The corset hit the floor, followed by her chemise, and the gown went back over her head.

A mere ten minutes later, a sharp knock sounded on the door and Monsieur Olivier trotted into the room. He was small and round and very French.

His own hair was pomaded and brushed in such a fashion that it rose straight from his forehead like the curl of a wave.

"Where is zee challenge?" he said, but his voice died as he caught sight of Helene.

To Esme's mind, if anyone could repair what Helene had just done to her hair, it would be Maurice Olivier.

He moved toward Helene, delicately kicking a sheaf of hair away with the toe of his boot. "I gather you committed this outrage yourself, my lady?"

Helene tossed her head and the chopped ends of her hair flew about her shoulders. "If you're going to be impudent about my hair, Monsieur Olivier, I shall summon another stylist."

"That would be your downfall," Olivier remarked, prowling about her for all the world like a stout tiger, who has cornered a pullet. "I am the only man in London who may-may-be able to recapture your natural beauty, my lady."

"What do you think of your gown now, Madame?" Helene demanded.

Everyone looked. Madame Rocque's creation was made of rose-colored silk, so delicate that it fell to the ground like a stream of water. It was formed of two layers, drawn tight under the breasts with silver ribbons.

Halfway to Helene's knee the upper layer of silk was caught back by small clusters of embroidered roses. It had a fairly high neck, trim around the neck of a slightly darker color and short sleeves. In all...

unexceptionable. Appropriate for a debutante, really. Except... except...

Except it was almost transparent.

Where two layers clung together, one could see nothing other than the outline of Helene's body, which was revealed to be slender but not angular. She had curves: her waist curved in, and her breasts curved out.

The thin silk of Madame Rocque's gown hugged each of those curves in a way that revealed them to be deliciously rounded.

And then where only the underskirt was revealed, below her knees, one could see everything: Helene's delicate ankles, the garter holding up her stockings, the delicate shape of her knees.

Esme blinked. She suddenly felt fleshy and over-plump.

"I gather zat we are considering something of a major reconstruction, are we, Madame?" Olivier asked.

Helene laughed. "Something along those lines."

"Never fear," he said, clashing his scissors. "I am the only man in London who is up to zis challenge! Now, if you would have a seat."

Helene sat down. She was feeling a little bit daunted. She had spent so many hours-nay, years!-of her life tending to her hair: washing it, combing it, drying it endlessly before the fire. And in two seconds, it was gone. Truly, Rees was right when he said that she had a monstrous temper. More and more hair was flying to the floor. Helene tried not to look. She concentrated on the gloriously weightless feeling of her head.

"What are you thinking of doing, Monsieur Olivier?" Esme asked.

"We must be daring," he announced. "It is zee only way. Courage!"

"How daring?" Helene asked, feeling a qualm.

"Very daring! It is zee only way to recover your beauty. More audacious than Lady Caroline Lamb ever dared to be."

Esme giggled. "Really, Monsieur Olivier! Didn't that young woman chop off hair from... another place and send it to Byron?"

Helene looked at her, scandalized, but Monsieur Olivier just chuckled. "An indiscreet young woman, but she did have acceptable hair. It's been all of five years since I gave her that short hair, and now I'm tired of making frizzled ringlets, day in and day out. With luck you will start a rage, Lady Godwin, and I can shear off hundreds of tired curls in the next few weeks."

Helene tried not to look at the mirror. More and more of her hair flew from the scissors. An hour later, Helene didn't know whether to faint or applaud. Her hair was short now. Truly short. It clung sleekly to her head until her jawbone, where little wispy curls softened the angles of her cheekbones and emphasized her eyes.

"Oh, Helene," Esme said in an awed voice.

"Zhee looks spectacular!" Monsieur Olivier said in a smug voice. "Only I could have done this for you, Madame! You see, I have given you zee appeal."

"Appeal?" Helene said, still staring at herself.

"You look utterly delicious," Esme put in. "You are going to turn heads with a vengeance!"

"As long as I can turn one head, that's enough," Helene said, staring at herself. In truth, she looked like another woman: a bold, impudent, sensual sprite of a person.

"He will be yours!" Monsieur Olivier kissed the tips of his fingers. "Believe me, Madame, zere is no man in London who will not be at your knees!"

"Good," Helene whispered. "I hope they all are."

"Rees as well?" Esme said with an eyebrow raised.

"Only so that I can spurn him," Helene said firmly. "But yes, Rees as well!"

Chapter Six.

With the Wave of a Wand.

Hyde Park.

And then she said what?" Rees's friend Darby was utterly fascinated by the debacle of the dressing room.

"Lina announced, loudly, that I must wish to return home because I was overcome with desire at the sight of her in that gown, and had to have my way with her," Rees said gloomily. "Which is rubbish. I haven't been to her room in weeks. Months perhaps." Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time.

"Why on earth not?" Darby asked, startled.

They were walking in the woody part of Hyde Park, where one never saw the fashionable sort of gentlemen. Rees kicked a trailing strand of faded wild roses to the side but didn't answer.