First of all, let me state that as far as I was concerned, before I saw what I did, Venetia was still a virgin. Mama told both of us that one has to stay a virgin until one gets married, and I must say it has never crossed my mind to question this instruction. I’ve seen plenty of copulation before, so don’t think I’m na?ve—bulls mounting cows in the fields, that time Mr. Dawkins brought his mare over for Amadeus to get her pregnant, and the dogs in the stables are at it all the time. And I know what it leads to—babies. So why was Venetia doing it? She’s not married and, as far as I know, she doesn’t want a baby. It was disgusting.

Then I wondered if she’d done it with anyone else, and a cloud of memories flew into my head like a photograph album of every boy she’s ever toyed with. Now that I came to think about it, she could have done it with any of them: Cecil Worthing, David Tilling, even Victor Lovell or, Heaven forbid, Henry. They’d known each other since they were children, grew up as friends, spent many evenings together at parties, perhaps sneaking out into the night for a quiet kiss that may have led to more. Maybe this was her awful hold over them.

Could Venetia be a harlot?

Angela Quail is most definitely a harlot. I’m sure she did it with Edmund, as they were always touching each other in a most embarrassing way. I think she wanted to be with Henry, too, because she always seemed odd around him, all fluttery. I wonder if he rejected her and chose me instead because he likes proper girls and Angela wears her depravity like a badge of honor. I suppose being the Vicar’s daughter has made her more unruly.

But with Venetia, Daddy would hit the roof.

It all started after my singing lesson with Prim this afternoon, which had gone particularly well as she told me that I had perfect pitch. I couldn’t wait to tell Silvie, and since she wasn’t at home, I trotted off to the stables to see if she was there. It was such a delicious day, all buttery and golden, and I felt as if the world made complete sense. The cherry blossom was just past its best, and pink and white petals cascaded over me as I crossed through the orchard—it was wondrous, like it was snowing tiny soft cushions.

As I passed through the whiffy stable yard, I thought I heard voices by Amadeus’s door. For a brief moment, I wondered if Venetia had taken a funny turn and decided to pay her old horse a bit of attention—she’s completely neglected him since she stopped dressage.

No such luck.

It was Venetia’s voice all right, but she wasn’t talking to Amadeus. I stood on tiptoe to look through a gap in the wooden door and had the perfect view of Mr. Slater, immaculate in gray suit and tie. He looked incredibly out of place in the stable setting, which smelled of sweaty horses and saddle leather. I would have been surprised to see him there, had it not been for Venetia’s little bet with Angela.

But this didn’t seem like a little bet at all.

She was standing close to him looking up at him in the most ridiculous way, her blond hair swept to the side and over one shoulder. Even from where I stood, the gusto of her peachy perfume overpowered the sinewy whiff of manure. She was wearing a dress I’ve never seen before. It was sunflower yellow and shone like silk, with a flowing skirt and low in the front, exposing her cleavage with startling fullness. A white cardigan was draped around her smooth shoulders, making her look young—playful kitten one minute, conniving minx the next.

“What do you have for me?” she said, standing before him, inches away.

“Do you deserve anything?” he asked with a strange half smile on his handsome lips, one eyebrow raised.

“Maybe,” she giggled, twirling her hips so that the gleaming skirt slunk around his legs for a moment, and then cascaded back around hers.

He slid his hand into his inside pocket and slipped out a package. She took it and stood away laughing, opening it. I wanted her to get on and rip it open, but she wavered and hesitated, opening and then closing, running her forefinger over and under the brown paper packaging in a ludicrous way.

Eventually she pulled out a pair of stockings, holding them up in the dim light. Two sheens of slender brown gauze moving gently in the still air, transparent in the dappled light of the dusty window.

With careful deliberation, she took one shoe off, standing as she was in the middle of the small stable and, casting one of the stockings at him, she slipped the other onto her foot and up over her ankle. I felt instantly uncomfortable, as did Mr. Slater, who turned away, busying himself with folding the stocking he held in his hand.

“What do you think of that?” She prompted him to look as she drew the top over her knee and rucked up her dress to pull it up.

He glanced down, and I saw his eyes engage with her long, smooth thigh, now half-covered with the stocking, beige brown below and pearly white skin above.

“They’ll do well enough,” he said, looking away. But his eyes strayed back to her as she kicked off her other shoe.

“Give me the other one,” she breathed, and he handed her the other stocking.

She unfurled it, letting it cascade down in front of her, and then she raised her foot and slipped it over, shimmying the beige haze up her other leg. Again she rucked up her dress, this time to show a white lace garter, to which she carefully attached the top of the stocking. You could even see a glimpse of her undergarments as she brazenly displayed herself in front of him.

“I don’t think you should be doing that,” he said. He hadn’t turned away this time. He was just standing there watching, immersed.