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tempted to leave her here. It would not be long before she was found out, I think, and then she would be well served. But I am not of such a mean nature . I will allow even the viper-tongued Delphine to benefit from my cleverness.”
    Whatever cleverness Minette possessed did not exhibit itself in domestic matters, reflected Orphanstrange as he finished off the soup. He inquired what maggot his companion had taken into her brain.
    Minette did not allow this lack of faith to cast a blight upon her optimism. Marmaduke would have made provision for his little family, she knew, if only he had not met his maker prematurely via a misstep on the stair. Therefore it was for Marmaduke’s little family to see that his unstated wishes were carried out. “Me, I am above all practical! First, we must find a screever. You know, one who writes letters for those who cannot write themselves.”
    “A screever.” Carefully, Orphanstrange set aside his empty dish. “What manner of letter, miss?”
    With a lazy finger, Minette rearranged bread crumbs on the tabletop. “A letter from Marmaduke to his heiress, naturellement!”
     
     

CHAPTER THREE
     
    While Vashti Beaufils exchanged pleasantries with her cousin’s solicitor and Minette exchanged hostilities with Delphine, yet another pertinent encounter was taking place, this latter between Yves Santander and his godfather. The setting for this meeting was the most select of gentlemen’s clubs, White’s.
    Yves Santander, Lord Stirling, was generally accorded a very handsome man. His physique was trim and muscular, his stature tall; his hair was golden; his features were unexceptionable, most notable among them cerulean blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and a—or so the ladies claimed—very well-formed mouth.
    Just now, as Lord Stirling gazed upon his godfather, the set of his mouth was wry. “A trifle scorched, are you? Again?” he fondly inquired.
    “No more than usual,” cheerfully replied Lord Stirling’s companion, a corpulent, untidy gentleman with rosy cheeks and bristling brows. “Even if I were, I wouldn’t put you to the touch, Yves.”
    To this generous profession, Lord Stirling offered no rejoinder. The corpulent gentleman raised one bristling brow. “Ah. I conclude that I already have put you to the touch. What an old reprobate I am, to be sure. You should not concern yourself with my pecuniary embarrassments, Yves; I am always badly dipped. But I didn’t ask you to meet me here so that we might speak of that. I seek your opinion of a different matter altogether—and not a pretty one.” He frowned.
    They made a striking couple, Lord Stirling very elegant in his single-breasted morning coat, striped waistcoat, pristine neckcloth, tight pantaloons and Hessian boots; and his companion looking like a country bumpkin in a long dark-gray coat and unpressed trousers and bursting waistcoat. In both instances, appearances were deceptive. Lord Stirling was no dilettante; and his godfather was a great statesman who, in between delivering brilliant speeches in the House of Commons, had dissipated several fortunes and kept a series of lively young mistresses, and was now referred to alternately as an Awful Warning and a Noble Ruin.
    Lord Stirling’s thoughts dwelt upon those lively young mistresses and the tendency of his godpapa to squander fortunes not his own. “Open your budget!” he invited cautiously.
    With singular sweetness, the corpulent gentleman smiled. “Set your apprehensions at rest; I don’t mean to involve you in any of my imbroglios, Yves.” The smile faded. “Although I suspect you would rather this imbroglio was mine, once you hear the whole. It is an awkward business.”
    “So I conclude.” It was odd for his godfather— equally loquacious in the House of Commons and in the pursuit of vice—to be so indirect. Yves’s tone was ironic. “I wish you would get on with it.”
    The corpulent gentleman did not immediately comply, instead fussed with his