Chapter ElevenThe Marchioness was dressing for dinner and Martha was arranging a spray of jewelled flowers in the curls of her hair.
Yvette was putting a few finishing touches to a gown of silver gauze which had been completed only that afternoon and the black boy stood beside the dressing table holding in his hands a salver on which reposed a crystal decanter filled with wine and a glass engraved with a monogram.
“A trifle more to the right, woman,” the Marchioness said to Martha and then with an exclamation of annoyance, “pish, how clumsy your fingers are. You pulled my hair, I felt the pain of it shoot right through my head.”
“I am exceedin’ sorry, my Lady, but if you will move about it is difficult to avoid hurtin’ you.”
“Don’t argue with me,” the Marchioness snapped. “Arguments ar
