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seldom lost; he drank, but seldom became disguised; he dallied with fair Cyprians, but never lost his heart. Even more unusual, he spent little time in society, seemingly preferring to remain at the castle on the pretext of looking after his estates. His grandmother suspected, and rightly, that his infrequent trips to London were for pleasure, rather than business.
    Averil held a heavily perfumed letter distastefully between two fingers. “When did this arrive? Why wasn’t it brought to my attention immediately it came?”
    Huffington glanced up quickly from the buff-colored waistcoat that received his expert ministrations.
    “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said stiffly. “You left strict orders not to be disturbed, so I just put it aside. Miss Whittington’s lad brought it around last night.”
    “Ah, yes,” Averil murmured as he glanced at the spidery handwriting. “The fair Felicity.”
    It seemed to Huffington that he might have gained a reprieve, for Felicity Whittington, an opera dancer of widespread repute and enviable proportions, was the latest object of Averil’s rather erratic attentions. The valet fervently hoped that the enchanting lightskirt required Averil’s presence in London.  Such a request would surely delay their departure for a few days.
    “I suppose I must see her,” Averil remarked with bored unenthusiasm. Huffington knew that tone, and saw his frail hopes shattered. No woman held Averil’s attention for long; he was merely amused by the many lures that were cast in his way. Matchmaking mamas kept careful watch on their susceptible daughters when the disreputable Lord Vere came to town, and heaved mighty sighs of relief upon his departures, for many a lovely young miss had worn the willow for him. Averil was adept at the art of flirtation, and even ladies who should have known better found, to their chagrin, that his clever words and easy attentions signified absolutely nothing. Felicity, however, had held his interest longer than most.
    Averil absently touched his scar. The fair Felicity was fast losing her appeal.  Her extraordinary beauty was overshadowed by her rapacious greed. Still, it amused him to keep up the charade, for in addition to the obvious benefits of the liaison, he had the added satisfaction of knowing Felicity’s tendresse for him infuriated his oldest enemy, Theophilus Tierney. All things considered, Averil thought it best to humor Felicity a while longer.
    Huffington stole a look at his master, who had begun to whistle a bawdy time slightly off-key. Having undergone a rather painful apprenticeship, the valet found this present mood little to his liking. The last time Averil had soundly trounced the little valet had been during such a dangerous state of mind, and Huffington was not eager to repeat the experience. He moved quietly and efficiently as he helped his master dress, and was rewarded for his efforts by only an occasional glare.
    * * * *
    Averil derived a certain perverse enjoyment from Felicity’s opulent townhouse. The unremarkable gray brick building was enlivened by crimson arches and decorative dressing, and boasted a parapet roof and sash windows, but it was with the furnishings that Felicity had truly come into her own. Velvets and gilt abounded; ornate mirrors were displayed in every available space; furniture of various incompatible periods cluttered the small rooms.
    Felicity’s bedchamber was notorious and was so well-publicized that even schoolroom maidens were pleasantly scandalized by the details of the infamous lady’s furnishings, though this was not a subject they discussed with their elders. Interspersed with the massive gilded mirrors that adorned the walls were no less than three paintings of Felicity herself, in various stages of undress. The focal point of the room was an oaken four-poster bed, which was lavishly ornamented with naked ladies and satyrs engaged in every imaginable debauchery.
    Averil thought fondly of that unusual piece