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mother to my humble establishment. How may I serve you? Have you come to choose a fan on her behalf?"
    Hoping that the odious man in the phaeton was watching, Adrienne let the fanmaker fawn over her. "I have business of my own, Mr. Ralna. In passing, I could not help admiring this exquisite creation in your window."
    "Ah! You have flawless taste, just like your mother!" He smiled broadly. "That fan is made with the rarest ivory, fifteenth-century embroidered silk, and priceless Arles lace. Rumor has it that Marie Antoinette herself commissioned it after receiving the silk as a gift." Ralna paused, allowing his words to sink in, then murmured, "Shall we step inside for a closer look?"
    "Why, the fan is part of history !" Wide-eyed, Adrienne had turned to follow the elderly man, when she was distracted by a tap on her shoulder. A backward glance revealed the phaeton driver's face, and she found that the sight of him made her furious. "Leave me alone," she hissed.
    "Don't tell me that you made all that fuss, disrupted traffic, and endangered my horses over a bloody fan ?" came his acid reply.
    Adrienne refused to look back. "A brute like you would not understand. Do not speak to me again."
    She had progressed several steps and was about to precede Eugene Ralna into the shop when the voice she despised called out, "Did you intend to make a gift to me of your parasol?"
    Whirling, Adrienne met his mocking eyes and watched as he held out her parasol. The frilly thing looked ridiculous in his male hand. Did he mean for her to walk over and retrieve it? An instant later the parasol came sailing through the air toward her, and somehow she reached out and caught it. Her tormentor laughed, then bowed low.
    "Don't let me keep you from your urgently important fan inspection," he taunted, and returned to his high-perch phaeton.
    Adrienne hurried past Eugene Ralna, into the safety of his shop. Meanwhile, outside on sunlit Oxford Street, two young women were tittering as they stood, with a lady's maid, in front of the haberdasher's shop and discussed the impertinent rake who had caused Adrienne Beauvisage to blush to the roots of her chestnut hair.
    "Isn't that Nathan Raveneau?" the first girl whispered.
    "Definitely," her friend agreed. "I have heard the most outrageous stories about him from my sister and her friends. Since he returned from the West Indies, he's been setting London society on its ear!"
    Not to be outdone, the first girl pronounced, "My cousin told me that everyone has taken to calling him the 'Scapegrace'!" Just then Nathan Raveneau seemed to sense their scrutiny and turned his head to stare at the two gossiping girls. They went pale, then pink, and scampered away like frightened bunnies.

 
     
     
    Chapter 2

     
    "I don't know why I bother to come here any more," Nicholai Beauvisage muttered under his breath as he looked around White's Club. "Nothing's the same as it was, and even if it were, I'm too old for this nonsense."
    Raggett, the proprietor of the legendary gentlemen's establishment, brought him a brandy. "I was not aware that the club had changed since your last sojourn in London."
    "You know perfectly well what I mean. Brummell and Byron have exiled themselves in Europe, and even the Regent is perpetually under a cloud of gloom since the death of his daughter in childbirth. For years the bucks of St. James have been allowed to behave like a lot of spoiled children, but the pleasure's gone out of it now, don't you think?"
    "Not for everyone, sir," Raggett replied, inclining his head toward the green baize tables where an assortment of fops, young and old, continued their endless party. As the host, it was his task to help each guest relax and join in the fun. Noting the approach of Nathan Raveneau, Raggett seized the opportunity. "Don't sink into the doldrums yet, sir! Here's our young sea captain, Raveneau, back from the West Indies, and perfectly unspoiled as far as I can see."
    Nicholai perked up.