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beforegiving his friend a cordial greeting. Sitting beside Henry, he imparted his news.
    ‘Some devilish intelligence has come to my ears, Henry.’
    ‘Of what nature?’
    ‘It seems that we may have a competitor.’
    ‘What do you mean, Sir Willard?’
    ‘Araminta – I simply refuse to call her Lady Culthorpe – our own, dear, matchless Araminta is having her portrait painted.’
    ‘Really?’ said Henry, concealing the fact that he already knew. ‘What artist has been given the privilege of gazing upon her until he swoons with her beauty?’
    ‘That confounded Frenchman – Jean-Paul Villemot.’
    ‘This news is worrying.’
    ‘So it should be,’ said Sir Willard. ‘He has the advantage over us. While we can only approach her by letter or by sending her gifts, he is left alone with her in his studio. It’s monstrously unfair. In such a situation, Villemot may achieve what the four of us seek.’
    ‘Surely not,’ said Henry, confidently. ‘Culthorpe would not entrust his young wife to the man if he had the slightest doubt about him and Villemot has to beware of scandal. He would not dare to lay a finger upon Araminta.’
    ‘Yet women account him irresistibly handsome.’
    ‘Frenchwomen, perhaps – the English have more taste.’
    ‘That is not the case, Henry. More than one English rose has praised Villemot in my presence – Lady Hester Lingoe, for instance. She said that sitting for him was one of the most exhilarating experiences of her life.’
    ‘Everything is a most exhilarating experience to Lady Hester,’ said Henry, tartly. ‘Her emotions have the consistency of gunpowder. Apply the smallest amount of heat and she explodes into exaggeration. I remember her telling me once that reading Catullus in the original Latin had uplifted her soul to a new eminence. What nonsense! Besides, he went on, ‘we are not comparing like with like here, Sir Willard. The gorgeousAraminta is a species of saint. No woman with Lady Hester’s history could ever aspire to canonisation.’
    ‘I still have qualms about Villemot.’
    ‘Set them aside.’
    ‘I’ll not be bested by a foreigner.’
    ‘No,’ said Henry, boldly, ‘you’ll be bested by me, Sir Willard.’
    Before the other man could reply, the waiter came up to their table and they ordered a bottle of wine. No sooner had the waiter gone than Elkannah Prout took his place, exchanging greetings with his friends before taking the empty chair at the table. The newcomer’s eyes were darting. His wig was so full and luxuriant that he looked like a ferret peering through a bush.
    ‘I bear tidings,’ he announced.
    ‘We have already heard them, Elkannah,’ said Sir Willard.
    ‘I think not.’
    ‘Henry has just been apprised of the information. Araminta’s portrait is being painted by that creeping Frenchmen, Villemot.’
    ‘Is that the sum of your intelligence?’ asked Prout.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then you know only half the news.’
    ‘There’s more to add?’
    ‘Much more – though I suspect that Henry already knows it.’
    ‘Not I,’ said Henry, feigning ignorance.
    ‘Your brother must surely have told you.’
    ‘Christopher and I rarely speak, Elkannah.’
    ‘That’s not true,’ said Prout. ‘You are always trying to borrow money off him to settle your gambling debts. Something as important as this would hardly go unmentioned.’
    ‘Something as important as what?’ asked Sir Willard. ‘I am still in the dark here. Pray, shed some light, one of you.’
    ‘Jean-Paul Villemot is having a house built in London.’
    ‘He’s rich enough to afford it.’
    ‘He’s also astute enough to choose a talented architect. The fellow goes by the name of Christopher Redmayne.’
    Sir Willard goggled. ‘Henry’s brother?’ he said, understanding the situation at once. ‘But that means he will have an excuse to call on Villemot at any time. He could devise a way to meet Araminta.’
    ‘It would never cross his mind,’ said Henry.
    ‘It would