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calling her Coquette, so she became Coquette.

      Coquette was brave. Coquette could tease men and put them in their place. Coquette could laugh at their silly jokes and admire their braggadocio. Coquette could sing bawdy songs and dance seductively. Coquette spoke only French.

      Soon men were begging for her favours and Vincent devised another plan.

      ‘I have a way you might become the rage of Paris! Paris’s most selective courtesan!’ he’d said to her one night.

      She’d been scraping by on her tips. ‘I told you, Vincent, I do not wish to be a courtesan. Bedding strange men is abhorrent to me.’

      He’d sighed. ‘Abhorrent to you, but my greatest pleasure.’ He’d placed his hand to his heart for a moment. ‘But, never mind. You will not have to bed anyone.’

      ‘How can one be a courtesan without the bedding?’ she’d asked.

      He’d explained it to her.

      And so Coquette became Madame Coquette, Paris’s most selective courtesan, selling her favours a mere two nights a week—without selling her favours at all.

      Tonight Vincent greeted her in the back room wearing a purple coat, a deep blue waistcoat and a bright yellow neckcloth—his work costume. His blond hair curled around his boyish face and his lips and cheeks were tinted a pale pink.

      ‘Madame Coquette, chérie!’ He kissed both cheeks in his flamboyant manner. ‘You look ravishing.’

      ‘As do you, mon cher.’ She kissed him in kind.

      ‘Who do you entertain tonight?’ he asked.

      ‘Monsieur Legrand.’

      Legrand was a wealthy merchant who had made it a point to ingratiate himself with those in power during the restoration of the monarchy. It was said he courted favour with the Duke of Wellington, but now, with the Occupation near to its end, he’d turned to Frenchmen who were likely to come to power. Procuring a night with Madame Coquette was, no doubt, part of how he intended to impress.

      ‘Legrand,’ Vincent repeated. ‘He is no challenge at all. You will wrap him around your little finger in no time.’

      Her brow furrowed. ‘But Hercule will remain nearby, will he not?’

      Hercule, large, strong and intimidating, was employed as a flash man to make certain none of the working girls suffered mistreatment. He stayed within shouting distance in case things did not go as planned.

      ‘But of course.’ Vincent threaded her arm through his. ‘Time to turn yourself into Madame Coquette.’

      They walked up the servants’ stairs to a room on the first floor where the dresser arranged Cecilia’s hair and applied just a light dusting of rouge on her cheeks and lips.

      ‘What dress today, Coquette?’ the dresser asked.

      ‘The red, I suppose.’

      The red gown was made of fine silk, its neckline, sleeves and hem trimmed in gold embroidery. The neckline dipped lower than what Cecilia would wish, but it was perfect for Madame Coquette. Her gowns were fine enough for a high-priced courtesan, but they were not hers. The manager of the club paid for them.

      Once in her gown and slippers, Ceclia said au revoir to the dresser. In the hallway with Vincent, there was nothing left to do but meet her customer.

      Vincent held her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. ‘Deep breath!’ he commanded. ‘Breathe in, Madame Coquette!’

      She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let herself become her alter ego.

      Lifting her chin, she opened her eyes again and nodded to Vincent who turned her towards the door that led to the drawing room and gave her a little push.

      With a slight sway to her hips that had not been there before, she entered the drawing room and made straight for Monsieur Legrand as if she were eager to be in his company.

      He gaped at her as she approached him, almost spilling his glass of wine and only remembering to stand when she drew near.

      ‘Legrand,’ she said in a voice deeper than she usually spoke, emphasising the grand. ‘It is my pleasure to entertain you tonight.’

      Legrand was a man in his fifties, who obviously enjoyed the fruits of his labour. His round stomach strained at the buttons of his waistcoat, which was well tailored and made of the finest cloth. His nose had the red hue of someone who enjoyed too much wine and his neck disappeared behind his jowls. Yet he displayed himself to her as if she would find him irresistible. No wonder so many courtesans had their beginnings in the theatre. It took a great deal of acting to convince a man such as this that his company was desired.

      He’d paid a great deal for this night with her, although the manager of Maison D’Eros took the lion’s share. Her goal was to save enough for a modest living somewhere, ideally back in England, for which she was always homesick—even more so since spending the day with Oliver. It would take her a long time to amass such a sum. Years, perhaps. She’d been building Madame Coquette’s reputation over the last year and a half and she had little more than what travel expenses to England would cost her.

      ‘Shall we retire to my room?’ she asked, taking his arm.

      ‘Yes. Yes,’ he stammered.

      She led him up to the second floor to a room that was not exclusively hers. Others, including Vincent, used it on other nights of the week.

      She gestured for Legrand to open the door and she swept by him to enter the room, decorated in red-silk drapery on the walls and white and gold damask upholstering the chaise and sofa. The tables were mahogany embellished with gold and Egyptian motifs made popular by Napoleon’s invasion of Egypt. On the tables were crystal decanters of wine and brandy, bottles of champagne, and plates of grapes and cheeses. Prominent in the room was a large bed, its covers and canopy in a white fabric similar to the upholstered chaise and chair, trimmed in gold fringe.

      Cecilia’s silk red gown was perfect for the room. She looked as if she were part of the room’s decoration.

      Legrand closed the door and lunged for her, throwing himself at her and slamming his lips against hers.

      She pushed him away. ‘Monsieur Legrand!’ She spoke with great indignation. ‘How dare you attack me like—like you are a hound in heat. I will not stand for such disrespect!’

      ‘Forgive me, madame.’ He grovelled. ‘I could not help myself. The mere sight of you lights a fire in me that can never be extinguished!’

      She straightened her clothes. ‘Well, I suggest you compose yourself immediately. Remember the bargain, monsieur. You have paid for my time, but that is all. You must win me over if you want any more of me.’

      This was the brilliant ruse Vincent had thought up for her. Her customers were required to make her want to bed them. And if she wanted it, she promised them rapturous satisfaction.

      Of course, she never wanted any of them.

      ‘What might I do to please you?’ Legrand asked.

      She lowered herself onto one of the sofas. ‘First you may pour me some champagne and amuse me with your repartee.’

      ‘Yes. Yes.’ Legrand nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach the champagne bottle and open it.

      The champagne always made being Madame Coquette a bit easier.

      Legrand babbled of once meeting and advising Talleyrand, the French politician who’d managed to operate at the highest levels of government through Louis XVI, the Revolution, Napoleon and now the Restoration.

      As if Talleyrand would accept advice from such a ridiculous man.

      ‘Talleyrand.’ She made a sound of derision. ‘He is the one no one trusts completely, is that not so? He is a traitor to France. Am I to admire you for associating with

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