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logical at the time to have Lucinda companion
Emily for the Season. She has been under my roof for the eternity
of time that makes up the span since Jerry’s funeral. I should have
realized a simple loss of fortune wouldn’t be enough to make my
cousin cash it all in. Living with that widgeon, I’m surprised he
lasted so long, but in the end I’m positive it was the enforced
rustication with the woman that drove him to sticking his spoon in
the wall. You see, she has this, let’s see, how can I put this? You
see, Aunt Lucinda harbors a predilection to, er, that is, she,
um—”
    Whatever the uncomfortable Duke was about to
say was forestalled by unmistakable sounds of arrival in the foyer,
and both pairs of eyes went at once to the doorway. Out of the
corner of her mouth Tansy suggested teasingly, “Drinks a bit, Aunt
Lucinda, does she?”
    The corner of Avanoll’s mouth lifted as he
returned ruefully, “Would that she did. I’d keep her so well
supplied she’d have no time left to pest me into following Jerry to
my heavenly reward posthaste.”
    Tansy’s visions of her cousin did not include
a halo, but the image of him with horns, tail, and pitchfork caused
her russet-brown eyes to dance in her head and a wicked grin to
light her fine face with mischief.
    So it was that the first sight Aunt Lucinda
had of the young hoyden (or so was her first impression) she would
later learn was to usurp her position as guardian to the innocent
little lamb—just now regrettably misplaced—did not show the girl to
advantage.
    For the moment, however, the lady was not to
be deterred from informing her honored relative and head of the
family of her success at Lady Jersey’s soiree—strange females in
the house or nay.
    Watery blue eyes disengaged contact with
startled brown ones, and not by even so much as a nod did the
former recognize the necessity of being presented to the
disgustingly high female who was in the act of leaning down a bit
to get a better sight of the tiny woman in voluminous crepe
draperies.
    The eyes slid to regard Avanoll, and when she
was sure she had his attention she raised one pudgy beringed hand
(half-covered by dripping lace) to her blonde, ringlet-festooned
brow, sighed deeply, and tottered—weary from fighting the good
fight—to the chair nearest the hearth (there were several closer to
the near-swooning female, but these were not nearly so well
padded).
    Once comfortably seated, her three-tiered,
ruffled skirts arranged decorously about her ankles, she announced
in the tones of one badly used: “‘It is easy to tell a lie, hard to
tell but a lie.’ Thomas Fuller.”
    Tansy sidled nearer the Duke and whispered,
“I cannot doubt Emily and your aunt are not bosom beaus. Two
tragedy queens in the same household? Insupportable! But tell me,
who is this Fuller person?”
    “A divine, from the seventeenth century, I
believe,” Avanoll informed her absently, then added, “kindly hold
your tongue while I endeavor to sort this out.”
    With the air of one about to begin an
oft-performed but never looked-for office, he approached his aunt,
who was now fanning herself with a wisp of lace hankie.
    “I take it, Aunt, that you did set it about
tonight that Emily is unwell.” Although Avanoll was only bound to
Lucinda as a cousin, he called her “Aunt” as a form of
courtesy.
    “‘A liar is a bravo towards God and a coward
towards men.’ Lord Bacon,” his aunt answered, nodding.
    The Duke was heard to sigh. “You have my
bravos, too, for what they are worth, Aunt. I take it, I dearly
hope, that you have succeeded in convincing the harpies that Emily
is the victim of a temporary indisposition. I would hate to think a
plague notice will be nailed to our door in the morning in answer
to your fervor.”
    Aunt Lucinda raised her eyes to the ceiling
and bobbed her head, as if confirming with her Maker her belief
that any blame to come out of this entire sordid affair would be
placed firmly at her