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son’s location; he threatened them with dismissal if they divulged his hideouts. Ross came in after she was abed and left before she was awake. Peace reigned. If the fifth earl walked the halls at night, the sixth one never met him in the darkened corridors.
    The system worked fairly well until the night of Diccon Inwood’s birthday celebration. Lord Gardiner found himself having a late supper at Hazlett’s with his closest comrades and half the Royal Theatre’s corps de ballet, the most comely half. Esprit was running high after the sweets course and after numerous bottles of champagne, when the guest of honor turned to his dinner partner and declared, “You’re as pretty as a picture, chérie .” Which wasn’t terribly original for a gentleman hoping to entice a female to his rooms for another bit of dessert. Considering how castaway Lord Inwood was at the time, however, his friends were impressed with his finesse as he continued: “Not even Bottle…Botti…Michelangelo could capture your incredible beauty.”
    To which Lord Gardiner’s best friend Cholly, otherwise known as the Honorable Charlton Fansoll, replied, “Gard could do her justice.”
    Some of the other revelers remembered Lord Gardiner’s clever renderings from their Oxford days and quickly followed Inwood’s plea that Gard do a portrait of his belle amie with clamors of their own. No one wanted to be behind times with the girls, who seemed entranced with the idea. Zeus, it was cheaper to buy old Gard another round than to spring for a pair of diamond earbobs. But old Gard couldn’t do all the fair charmers’ pictures, especially when they seemed to multiply in front of his eyes, so he offered an alternative. He’d give the fellows a few pointers, lend a more practiced if no steadier hand so they could each draw their own lady. The suggestion was received with applause and laughter, and quickly evolved into a bet, as was wont to occur among these bucks and sporting bloods of the Corinthian set. The best portrait would win ten pounds from each of the wagerers, half to the artist, half to the model. Gard could judge, since he was too good to compete. The only problem was that they needed more room than Hazlett’s private dining parlor could provide, and a few props and drawing materials, all of which were in ample supply at Gardiner House in Grosvenor Square.
    The earl was very considerate of his staff, most of whom had been at Gardiner House longer than he had. He always sent his valet, Ingraham, to bed when he left for the evening, scandalizing the old man with tales of how many times he’d be in and out of his clothes that night without his valet’s assistance. Lord Gardiner also refused to permit Foggarty to stay on duty all night just to open the door, when Gard had a very fine key in his pocket, so no one met his lordship’s party in the marbled hall.
    They tiptoed past a gape-jawed night footman on their way to the grand ballroom, miles away from the family wing of the huge pile. The footman’s only prior function, as far as Lord Gardiner could tell, was to report back to the countess what time her erring son returned and whether his neckcloth was tied correctly. Tonight the clunch could earn his keep lighting candles, laying fires, and fetching the earl’s pads and charcoals. Gard and Cholly made forays to the wine cellar and the conservatory while the other gentlemen shifted a plant stand or two and helped the dancers remove Holland covers from the gilt chairs and satin-covered love seats.
    “Gentlemen,” Gard finally announced, “in the interest of fairness, I have established some criteria for the judging. Artistic composition and depth of expression shall be counted as well as execution.”
    “What the deuce are you talking about, Gard?” Cholly asked for the rest, who were shaking their heads and looking more confused than foxed.
    “That it doesn’t have to look like your ladybird, you gudgeon, it just has to be a good