After returning to the ballroom with Margaret, Felix found his temper unconducive to remaining at the ball. In short, he had a headache. His wards seemed to be behaving themselves, despite his premonitions, so there was little reason to remain at Penhurst House. But the night was young and his interlude with Margaret had made it unlikely that sleep would come easily, so he excused himself to his eldest ward and his aunt, and left to seek entertainment of a different sort.

He had never got around to replacing Lolita. There hardly seemed much point now. He doubted he would have much use for such women in future. He grinned to himself, then winced. Just at that moment, he regretted not having a replacement available. He would try his clubs—perhaps a little hazard might distract him.

The carriage had almost reached Delmere House when, on the spur of the moment, he redirected his coachman to a discreet house on Bolsover Street. Sending the carriage back to Penhurst House, he entered the newest gaming hell in London. Naturally, the door was opened to His Grace of Twyford with an alacrity that brought a sardonic grin to His Grace's face. But the play was entertaining enough and the beverages varied and of a quality he could not fault. The hell claimed to be at the forefront of fashion and consequently there were a number of women present, playing the green baize table or, in some instances, merely accompanying their lovers. To his amusement, Felix found a number of pairs of feminine eyes turned his way, but was too wise to evince an interest he did not, in truth, feel. Among the patrons he found more tan after refugees from the Penhurst ball, among them Daniel Hammington.

Daniel was leaning against the wall, watching the play at the hazard table. He glowered as Felix approached. "I noticed both you and your eldest ward were absent from the festivities for an inordinately long time this evening. Examining etchings upstairs, I suppose?"

Felix grinned. "We were upstairs, as it happens. But it wasn't etchings I was examining."

Daniel nearly choked on his laughter. "Damn you, Felix," he said when he could speak. "So you've won through, have you?"

A shrug answered him. "Virtually. But I decided the ball was not the right venue." He comment stunned Daniel but before he could phrase his next question Felix continued. "Her sisters seem to be hatching some plot, though I'm dashed if I can see what it is. But when I left all seemed peaceful enough." Felix's blue eyes went to his friend's face. "What are you doing here?"

"Trying to avoid thinking," said Daniel succinctly.

Felix grinned. "Oh. In that case, come and play a hand of piquet."

The two were old adversaries who only occasionally found the time to play against each other. Their skills were well-matched and before long their game had resolved into an exciting tussle which drew an increasing crowd of spectators. The owners of the hell, finding their patrons leaving the tables to view the contest, from their point an unprofitable exercise, held an urgent conference. They concluded that the cachet associated with having hosted a contest between two such well-known players was worth the expense. Consequently, the two combatants found their glasses continually refilled with the finest brandy and bee decks of card made readily available.

Both Felix and Daniel enjoyed the battle, and as both were able to stand the nonsense, whatever the outcome, they were perfectly willing to continue the play for however long their interest lasted. In truth, both found the exercise a welcome outlet for their frustrations of the past weeks.

The brandy they both consumed made absolutely no impression on their play or their demeanour. Egged on by a throng of spectators, all considerably more drunk than the principals, the game was still underway at the small table in the first parlour when Lord McDougal, an ageing but rich Scottish peer, entered with Clara Portland on his arm.

Drawn to investigate the cause of the excitement, Clara's bright eyes fell on the elegant figure of the Duke of Twyford. An unpleasant smile crossed her sharp features. She hung on Lord McDougal's arm, pressing close to whisper to him.

"Eh? What? Oh, yes," said his lordship, somewhat incoherently. He turned to address the occupants of the table in the middle of the crowd. "Twyford! There you are! Think you've lost rather more than money tonight, what?"

Felix, his hand poised to select his discard, let his eyes rise to Lord McDougal's face. He frowned, an unwelcome premonition filling him as his lordship's words sank in. "What, exactly, do you mean by that, my lord?" The words were even and precise and distinctly deadly.

But Lord McDougal seemed not to notice. "Why, dear boy, you've lost one of your wards. Saw her, clear as daylight. The flighty one in the damned pink domino. Getting into a carriage with that chap Finley outside the Penhurst place. Well, if you don't know, it's probably too late anyway, don't you know?"

Felix's eyes had gone to Clara Portland's face and seen the malicious triumph there. But he had no time to waste on her. He turned back to Lord McDougal. "Which way did they go?"

The silence in the room had finally penetrated his lordship's foggy brain. "Er—didn't see. I went back to the ballroom."