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or so it is said," Rosalind explained wryly. "Just ask anyone. My mother knew the family and frequently held Catherine up to me as an example. I met her once or twice when I was younger and I must confess I found her a prig. Quite beautiful, however. She looked like a Madonna in one of those Italian paintings."
    "It is said a virtuous woman is worth more than rubies," Sally murmured. "But I believe many men discover the hard way that virtue, like beauty, is often in the eye of the beholder. It is quite possible that Graystone does not seek another paragon."
    "Oh, he definitely wants a paragon," Augusta assured her. "And in my more rational moments, I realize he would make a perfectly obnoxious, quite intolerable husband for a woman of my spontaneous and uninhibited temperament."
    "And in your more irrational moments?" Sally pressed gently.
    Augusta grimaced. "In my darkest hours I have actually considered taking up the serious study of Herodotus and Tacitus, throwing away all my tracts on the rights of women, and ordering up a whole new wardrobe of unfashionable gowns with very high necklines. But I have found that if I have a cup of tea and rest for a few minutes such madness passes quickly. I soon return to my normal self."
    "Good heavens, one would certainly hope so. I cannot see you in the role of a paragon of female behavior." Sally broke out in uproarious laughter and the sound caused everyone in the room to turned toward the threesome seated near the fire. The ladies of Pompeia's smiled knowingly at each other. It was good to see their patronness enjoying herself.
    Scruggs, who had opened the drawing room door at that moment, apparently heard the laughter, too. Augusta happened to glance up and saw him watching his mistress from beneath his thick, beetled brows. She thought there was something oddly wistful in his expression.
    Then his startling blue eyes met Augusta's and he bobbed his head once before turning away. She realized with a start of surprise that he was thanking her silently for giving Sally the gift of laughter.
    A few minutes later on her way out of the club, Augusta paused to glance at the latest entries in the betting book that was enshrined on an Ionic pedestal near the window.
    She saw that a certain Miss L.C. had wagered a Miss D.P. the sum often pounds that Lord Graystone would ask for the hand of "the Angel" before the month was out.
    Augusta felt quite irritable for the next two hours.
    "I swear, Harry, there is a wager on it in Pompeia's betting book. Most amusing." Peter Sheldrake lounged with languid ease in the leather chair and eyed Graystone over his glass of port.
    "I am glad you find it amusing. I do not." Harry put down his quill pen and picked up his own glass.
    "Well, you wouldn't, would you?" Peter grinned. "After all, there is very little you seem to find amusing about this business of getting yourself a wife. There are wagers in the betting books of every club in town. Hardly surprising there's one in Pompeia's. Sally's collection of dashing female friends work frightfully hard to ape the men's clubs, you know. Is it true?"
    "Is what true?" Harry scowled at the younger man. Peter Sheldrake was suffering from a serious case of ennui. It was not an uncommon problem among the men of the
ton
, especially those who, like Peter, had spent the past few years on the continent playing Napoleon's dangerous war games.
    "Don't fence with me, Graystone. Are you going to ask Sir Thomas's permission to pay court to his daughter?" Peter repeated patiently. "Come, now, Harry. Give me a hint so that I can take advantage of the situation. You know me, I like a good wager as well as the next man." He paused to grin briefly again. "Or lady, for that matter."
    Harry considered the matter. "Do you think Claudia Ballinger would make a suitable countess?"
    "Good God, no, man. We're talking about the Angel. She is a model of propriety. A paragon. To be perfectly blunt, she is too much like you. The pair of