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    “No, really,” Bippy beamed, coloring in obvious pleasure, and beginning to suspect Miss Fairmont of more discernment than he had formerly supposed. He danced with Lady Sara, and it took no more than a hint for her to repeat her compliments and let him know Miss Fairmont thought him a wonderful fellow.
    With this misinformation lodged in his brain, it was only natural that he should seek Miss Fairmont out for another dance. As it happened, she had no dances free, and as refusing a gentleman was a new experience for her, she apologized in some confusion and at length. It was enough to confirm what Lady Sara had said. The girl was sweet on him.
    He did not love Ella. Indeed, before this evening he had only the haziest idea who she was, though he had spoken to her before and danced with her once. But there is some sweet seduction in feeling another admires us—a notion so flattering that some return of esteem takes place without our quite being aware. Ella liked him, and that conjured up a mental image of Ella. His satisfaction with himself spread to her, and before long the imagined esteem was mutual. Before Bippy left Almack's that night, he had decided Miss Fairmont was quite an unusual girl. Not a dasher, not an Incognita. Not a great wit or anything of the sort, but a very nice girl. He liked her.
    Lady Sara observed with satisfaction that Tredwell's glance was in Ella's direction more than mere chance would warrant, but Tredwell was only the tail-end of her scheme. The major part of it had to await Clare's arrival. This happened just before the door closed at 11:00. The Prince Regent himself might arrive at one minute after, and he would not be admitted, but Clare arrived at 10:59, and the room breathed a sigh of relief. It was only an indifferent evening when the Duke of Clare did not attend.
    He bowed to Lady Cowper, quizzing her on a stunning new gown, exchanged compliments with Mrs. Drummond Burrell, a joke with the Countess de Lieven, a five-minute flirtation with Lady Jersey, who exacted this honorarium from all the fashionable gentlemen and pouted at them for a week if they didn't pay up. His duty done, Clare lifted his quizzing glass to survey the room that was now surveying him. He bowed here, nodded there, and within three seconds no less than three chaperones were racing to nail him for their charges. The Marchioness of Strayward, though she had legs barely two feet long, got there first. She had a handicap of five yards on her closest running mate. Her daughter, the Lady Honor, was in her wake, not even panting, for she was taller than her mama.
    “Ah, Clare, so you've got here at last,” the Marchioness said happily. “We'd about given you up and were thinking of taking a look-in at Fenton's. That's where you've been till now I suppose."
    “No."
    “Well, you're in luck. I've had Honor save you a dance."
    “You are too kind, ma'am."
    Clare bowed stiffly to Honor and offered his arm, which she accepted as though it were the arm of just anyone, and not the most sought after arm in England. Lady Honor held herself very high, for she was the daughter of the fifth Marquis of Strayward. She may have been a tall, gaunt girl, with pale blue eyes and a skinny face, no conversation or liveliness and no visible intellect, but she was Lady Honor, and that she did know. She knew as well, what brains she possessed being used on matters of family, estates and titles, that the Duke of Clare was made in heaven for her. His lineage, title, fortune—all were unexceptionable. She was not aware that he was handsome, popular, a Corinthian, a charmer when he wanted to be. But she knew better than he knew himself what blood flowed in his veins, and she meant it to be transfused into her progeny when the time came. It was a settled thing in her mind. She made no effort to attract him, but still she meant to marry him, and she was supported by the full weight of her large, influential family.
    Lady Sara tapped her