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“I dunno how to do that.”

“Oh, there’s no need—” Reina hesitated as she looked into Belinda’s face. “Would you like to learn?”

“Yeah.” As the other two women began to correct her, Belinda said hastily, “Yes, ma’am.”

Reina gestured for the girl to come to her side. “I’ll show you how to do the feet first.”

John watched blankly as Reina pulled up her skirts in great handfuls, holding masses of red velvet high enough to display her legs from the knee down.

Legs that were covered not in plain cotton or woolen stockings but . . . black lace.

His mouth fell open like the door of a cast-iron oven.

Unable to help himself, he stared at the sleek shapes of her calves and ankles covered in a sheer pattern of flowers and bows and netting. It was the most provocative thing he’d ever seen, even more so because she had worn the black lace stockings to please herself, just as she’d advised Belinda to wear the blue ribbon.

The force of his response to her shocked him. He could only stand there, all frozen fire, knowing that to move at all would destroy a lifetime’s worth of self-control.

His gaze lowered to the carpet and fixed blindly on a blue vine scroll. He waited, listening to Reina’s animated voice.

“My mother taught me to start with my feet in a vee, like this . . . yes, just so. Now, slide the right foot behind you, along the line it’s already started . . .”

He heard the rustle of velvet skirts dropping back into place: propriety restored. But it was too late; the damage had been done. The sight of her legs in black lace would live in his fantasies forever.

“. . . no need to make a show of holding your skirt out wide,” Reina was saying. “Just lightly pinch a fold of fabric, or rest your fingertips on the skirt, and sink down with your back straight. It’s not a bend, you see, it’s vertical. Like a plunger going down-and-up in a butter churn. Lovely! A bit slower, perhaps, and when you’re at the lowest point, tuck your chin.”

Belinda practiced a few curtseys while Alan watched with his head cocked to the side.

In a moment, Reina approached Alan in a dignified manner. “Lord Ratslayer,” she said grandly, “I have the great honor of introducing Miss Claw.”

“My lord,” Belinda murmured, and sank into a graceful curtsey. Alan panted happily and trotted up to her with his tail wagging.

“Perfect,” Reina told Belinda. John, Tuppence, and Enid all added their praise, and Belinda stood there with a shy grin, basking in their approval.

Tuppence helped Reina with her evening cloak and fastened the three hook-and-eye closures at the front. “I hope you have a delightful evening, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Tuppence.” Reina took John’s arm, and he led her to the main staircase. As they descended, they heard Belinda call out after them.

“Have a jolly time at the tortilla!”

***

To Reina’s vexation, Pembroke wouldn’t ride inside the carriage during the ten-minute journey to Soho. He sat outside on the back of the vehicle, occupying the perch meant for a footman. There would be no breach of decorum tonight, if he could help it. She understood, even respected, his determination to do everything by the book. But something in her chafed, as always, at rules intended to keep people apart. Especially since in the eyes of society, her origins were no better than his.

How artificial it was, how pointless, to separate people by class, blood, or fortune. Surely one could reach across the divide now and then, one human spirit to another.

She would be interested to find out what Pembroke would make of this evening, after spending time among Spanish expatriates. Whereas the social hierarchy in Spain was even more rigid than England, the Spanish community here was like a lifeboat in which such distinctions had lost their importance. At events such as this one, the high and low would talk, laugh, eat, dance, and reminisce together. They would revel in what they had in common: being Spanish.

Even Reina, a child of no one, was accepted by people who wouldn’t have dared to meet openly with her in Spain.

Of course, she reflected with private amusement, it didn’t hurt that she’d made generous donations to the Sociedad’s funds, which had helped them overlook her background.

The carriage stopped in front of the wine shop on Dean Street, its multipaned windows decorated with red and yellow swags. The upstairs meeting hall was brilliantly lit with music spilling out into the cold spring night. Piano, violins, and the thrumming and strumming of multiple guitars, twining melody as intricately as bobbin lace.

Pembroke opened the carriage door, reaching in to assist her. She took his hand, the bare tips of her fingers gliding over the silky kid leather of his gloves.

After emerging from the vehicle, Reina turned to glance up at the coachman. “Thank you, Maddock. You’ll return here at midnight?”

“I will, ma’am. Enjoy your evening.” The coachman touched the brim of his hat.