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for the picnic.”
    “I’ll take care of Anita while you are out.”
    “Why don’t we all...” Seeing his dismay, she shook her head and mocked, “No, the heir to the Earl of Westwood carrying a basket of groceries is an image altogether too mortifying to contemplate.”
    Flushing, he snapped, “I don’t expect you to understand...”
    “I beg your pardon,” she said, contrite. He had every reason to be vexed. No wonder he preferred Lady Sophia’s indifference to her sharp tongue. “I have no right to cavil when you are so generous with your time looking after Anita. Thank you for your offer. I shall be as quick as I can.”
    “One does not always appreciate hearing a home truth.” He smiled wryly. “Come, Anita, shall we play at soldiers or horses?”
    “Horses,” she decided.
    “So much for my dignity!” he groaned, and Fanny, still upset, was forced to smile.
    He had so many good, endearing qualities, it was none of her business to point out his faults. Indeed, those who moved in his world--Lady Sophia, for instance--would see nothing objectionable in his high notion of himself, counting it, rather, a virtue. She had spoken out of hurt, she realized, hurt that he considered her daily duties so much beneath him. His easy friendship was making her forget the gulf between them. Beware, she told herself. Beware!
    * * * *
    The next day dawned perfect for picnics, whether on the banks of the Dendre or in the shady aisles of the beech woods. A shower during the night had settled the dust and cooled the air, and a breeze was chasing the last clouds from the sky.
    The artillery officers had hired a farm wagon to take women and children to Ninove. Felix had not yet left when it arrived to pick up Fanny and Anita. Anita clapped her hands at the fat horses, their harnesses bedecked with tassels, fringes, and gleaming brass. The Flemish driver, in his embroidered blue smock, red cap, striped stockings, and wooden sabots, grinned gap-toothed at her excitement.
    Felix saw them seated on bales of straw and waved goodbye, then went to fetch his hired hack. For once he had obtained a decent-looking mount, a showy chestnut, though he’d not have counted on the beast’s pace over any distance.
    He rode to the Rue de Belle Vue, where he was disappointed but unsurprised to find that the outing was as much the Comte de St Gérard’s party as the Daventrys’. Indeed, Lord Daventry had made himself scarce.
    The marchioness, Lady Sophia, an unknown, plump brunette, and the count’s hatchet-faced, overdressed, spinster sister had already taken their places in St Gérard’s barouche. The Misses Ord, youthfully pretty girls often considered indistinguishable, were each driven in a gig by equally youthful and indistinguishable young officers.
    Tempted though he was to go straight to the Goddess, Felix refused to push in among the colorful crowd about her. St Gérard, mounted on a superb bay, was holding his own at her side against Viscount Garforth, Major Bissell, Lord Albert Faversham and his fellow Guardsman, and a dashing Hussar. Gold braid and silver laces glittered in the sunshine.
    Felix attacked from the flank. He drew up his chestnut on the other side of the barouche and greeted Mademoiselle de Saint Gérard. She introduced him to the plump damsel, who giggled and blushed. Lady Daventry, seated next to Mademoiselle, turned to welcome him.
    “Sophie, here is Lord Roworth,” she said, and common politeness obliged her daughter to divert her attention from his massed rivals to exchange a few words with him.
    Whether more than common politeness animated her, he could not guess. Perhaps he had imagined that last night she had made a particular effort to please him after her refusal to act in Fanny’s behalf. Still, he was gratified with the success of his tactics in outmaneuvering the military, however briefly.
    The cavalcade set off, leaving the city by the Namur gate then trotting through the suburbs. The ladies furled