The thought struck me, as I went about my daily ablutions, that Elliot had awfully nice hair for a man who’d take someone else’s ticket. It wasn’t long, but had a small curl to it that made you think about running your fingers through it. “Not that I have any intention of doing so ,” I told my reflection in the steam mirror. “Even if I was looking for a man, and I’m certainly not that stupid, he would be off the table. He’s friend to a rat bastard.” It was just a shame, too. How many bona fide lords does a girl meet? And how many of them have BBC voices, and nice faces, and curly hair that looks soft and silky and utterly gropeworthy?