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certain that Lord Carlin had been struck by Cupid’s dart. It was unthinkable that he should not have been—for what other reason than as way of subtle compliment could he have dubbed her Fair Fatality? Too, one could not expect a starched-up gentleman like Carlin to wear his heart upon his sleeve. Still, even the most proper of gentlemen should by this time have made some overture, at the very least have gratified his beloved with a morning-call. Instead, Carlin remained studiously aloof. A less-assured lady might have wondered if she was the object of deliberate avoidance.
    Lady Easterling, who was not accustomed to doubting her mortal effect upon every gentleman privileged to receive her dimpled, roguish grin, wondered no such thing. Handsomely, she conceded that Sara might have been partially correct in asserting that Carlin had been put off by Jaisy’s outspokenness—not that Jaisy believed for an instant that her conversation might have caused the viscount to take her in dislike. Long obeisance to the dowager duchess had adversely affected Sara’s judgment. Or perhaps she was merely jealous.
    At all events, Jaisy was willing to concede that Lord Carlin might be shy. Perhaps he considered her above his touch, in which case she might find opportunity to intimate to him the opposite. Frowning, Lady Easterling entered her bedchamber, flopped down on the carved four-poster bedstead— an elegant piece of furniture swathed in silk and damask and lavishly embellished with carved Roman urns—and pondered alternate means by which to grant Cupid further occasion to loose his fatal dart.
    At that same moment, in Lady Blackwood’s morning room, Sir Phineas Fairfax experienced a sinking sensation in his midriff. No dart from an invisible arrow inspired this malaise, but the brooding attitude of the dowager duchess. Lady Easterling was not alone in noting Georgiana’s resemblance to the savage eagles carved on her chair. Sir Phineas, Georgiana’s man of business, knew that contemplative expression, which indicated that he would soon be called upon to make certain efforts in Lady Blackwood’s behalf. As always, anticipation of those efforts turned him liverish. With regret for its loss, Sir Phineas recalled his ebullient mood of a scant few hours past, when he had intended perambulating from his lodgings to his club, there to play a rubber or two of piquet, after which he might indulge in a light repast of pickled salmon and iced champagne. Then fate, in the guise of a summons from the dowager duchess, had intervened. How Georgiana invariably knew his whereabouts, Sir Phineas no longer wondered. The devious Lady Blackwood always knew those things which one would have preferred she did not.
    What task would she assign him? Did she mean to once more threaten to disinherit the charmingly scapegrace Jevon Rutherford, currently rumored to be dangling after a pretty little opera dancer? Or, as seemed more likely, would Sir Phineas be obliged to exert himself in regard to Jevon’s sister, who from all appearances was equally a rogue? He had no enthusiasm for either prospect.
    Perhaps the dowager might be distracted from whatever nasty schemes she hatched. Sir Phineas held out bait, in the form of the most recent on-dits concerning the Prince Regent, whom Georgiana professed to detest. There was talk that the Prince would engage upon his most extravagant architectural project to date, restructuring the west end of his capital to include a fashionable new park and a sweeping avenue designed by Nash—this even though remodeling of the Marine Pavilion at Brighton had not yet progressed beyond the enlargement of the Chinese corridor. In addition, rumor claimed the Regent had been advised by his doctors, as a result of his recent illness, that he should leave off his stays and let his massive belly drop.
    Looking increasingly rancorous, the dowager heard out this account, all the while drumming her fingers on her knee. “Oh, do cease