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life.
    By degrees, pain gave way to anger, and anger to an implacable hatred. The name "Deveryn," though she spoke of it to no one, became a torment to her, and to design a fitting torment for her tormenter afforded her more comfort than all the conventional expressions of condolence which were pressed upon her.

Chapter Two
     
    The Viscount Deveryn checked his team with a negligible movement of one wrist and drove his high steppers through the Stanhope Gate and into Hyde Park at a fair clip.
    "Deveryn! You drive to an inch." The hackneyed flattery was uttered by a feminine voice at his elbow.
    Deveryn inclined his head gravely. Only an intimate would have been able to tell his companion that the ghost of a smile on the viscount's frankly sensual cast of countenance was the one he habitually assumed to mask his boredom with present company.
    The lady, a certain Dolores Ramides, an opera dancer with Covent Garden, was blissfully in ignorance of this fact. She tossed her dark ringlets in an attractive though selfconscious gesture, and adjusted the fox capet on her shoulders, a parting gift from a former admirer, wrapping it more securely round her swan-like throat.
    To be taken up by the viscount in his curricle was something of an honour. Apart from his four sisters, who were nothing out of the ordinary, only the beauties of both the beau and demi-mondes were ever granted that privilege. Miss Ramides was highly gratified. Even the weather seemed to conspire with her. The chill in the air on that late January afternoon was just what was required to bring out the new fox capet with matching muff and high poke bonnet which graced her charming person.
    "Oh Deveryn, look. There's Teddy Banks and Gerry Cooke. I do believe they're going skating on the Serpentine. What fun! Do say we may return another day and try it."
    Miss Ramides tensed imperceptibly as she waited for the viscount to respond. She knew herself to have made a bold suggestion. Deveryn had yet to intimate that she would play any part in his future, immediate or otherwise. But she had hopes, not without some foundation. It made her bolder. She laid one elegantly gloved hand against his sleeve. "Do say we may, Deveryn, please?"
    "It's possible," he replied non-committally, though there was no lack of civility in his tone.
    At her escort's short answer, Miss Ramides, wisely, smiled to hide her resentment. The viscount was known to give short shrift to encroaching females who made demands upon him. And really, when she thought about it, she was sure she was making progress. It was she who had been invited to drive in his open carriage when other ladies of her acquaintance would have given their eye teeth to come within arm's reach of him.
    She thought of Mollie Drake, and she smothered a giggle. Poor Mollie had spoiled her chances of snaring the viscount by committing an appalling blunder. Mollie, unfortunately, was clever. Though she had been well-educated, and could quite easily have found a position as a school mistress, the excitement of treading the boards and the luxury of life on the fringes of the ton as some well-breeched lordling's paramour held greater appeal for her. Deveryn had been attracted to Mollie's flaming beauty. What a pity that, thinking to impress his lordship, Mollie had opened her lovely mouth and capped one of the viscount's quotations from Shakespeare. She had thought to captivate him with her superior intelligence. Poor Mollie had not known what was generally acknowledged—that the viscount abhorred clever women! No wonder! His mother and four sisters were reputed to be unashamed bluestockings! The gentleman was obviously suffering from a surfeit of clever conversation. His tastes ran to something quite different. Miss Ramides thanked her lucky stars that no one could accuse her of being a clever woman.
    As Deveryn embarked on a flow of easy conversation, she relaxed against the leather squabs and let the liquid sound of his voice, low and