Clea twitched the train of her court gown, and hoped that her feathers would continue upright for the length of this interminable evening.

Queen Charlotte's insistence on hoops and trains was ridiculous in this day and age. Could she not realize that no one wished to wear a hoop anymore? Did she not see how bizarre hoops looked with the elevated waistlines of modern gowns? She had only to look about her own Drawing Room to see quantities of ladies looking utterly ludicrous with their silly hoops up under their arms, treading on each other's trains. The young girls did not look quite so preposterous in these silly gowns; they looked rather charming in fact, like plump bees, or floating islands.

Clea had never thought it would come to this, that she would one day present her own daughter at Court. Oh, she had known that Fanny was getting older; she had supposed the day would arrive, but not so soon.  She had not realized that Fanny's comeout was due until last Christmas at home at Caston when the dowager had brought up the matter, again and again.

Finally she had had to give in. The girl was seventeen after all. A pretty girl, thank heaven, there would be no difficulty in firing her off. She had Clea's own fair colouring, and her trim figure, with a good bit of her father's quickness, and a tongue growing as sharp as her grandmother's. Not that she had had opportunity to display her wit or her insight this evening. Clea had warned her--biddable, gentle, kind and obedient--those were the only character traits to display at one of the Queen's presentations.

Clea could not wait for the affair to be over. She looked about for her daughter--ah, she was in her father's company. For that at least she had to be thankful; that Hastings had accompanied them. His presence had calmed them both. Her own presentation had been easier than this despite the agonies of nervousness she had suffered. At least she had had a task to perform, and the gowns had not been so hideous. Now society was second nature to her; it did not occupy her attention. All of the people in attendance except for those infants crowding the chamber were well known to her. She paused in her ruminations, staring across the chamber--some of those present were altogether too well known to her.

Why had Rupert attended? What did he mean by it? She had told him they were finished, immediately after Hastings had suggested she end the affair. She had told Hastings in reply--in no uncertain terms--that if he finished with his weasel faced mistress, she would cut Rupert loose. That had caused him a moment's hesitation, she remembered with satisfaction. She caught sight of herself in a nearby pier glass. Good heavens, how calculating and…hard…she looked. Hastily she smoothed her expression. Tranquility and serenity: she had worked to display those qualities her entire adult life. Ethereal calm was a garment she assumed as easily as any of those in her extensive wardrobe.

Hastings had said Rupert was a threat to Fanny's future, and he wanted nothing--nothing--to distress the girl. Well, neither did she, she loved the chit, after all. But why he thought Rupert was a threat to Fanny she had no idea.

Clea was discreet. She had learned discretion at her mother's knee, at her grandmother's knee. Her children would never suffer for their parents' lack of judgment, as she had suffered for her father's. Of course, Rupert had threatened lately to become possessive, jealous even. Yes Hastings was right. Rupert had become a liability. Good God, he was coming toward her now. What on earth could he mean by it?

"Good evening, Lady Caston."

He was such a handsome fellow; quite Byronic really. But he knew it, and he knew she knew that he knew it. Pull yourself together, she told herself. "Good evening, Mr. Birdall."

"Will you present me to your daughter, my lady? I should like to make her acquaintance."

The fellow was laughing at her, positively laughing at her, knowing she could not refuse his request, knowing she could do nothing. But suddenly the grin, the triumphant silly grin was fading from his classical features.

Hastings had come up quietly beside her.

"I don't think that is a good idea, my dear," he said ever so softly. "Do you?"

"No I don't," she agreed without hesitation. "It is a very bad idea." She didn't like this side of Rupert, not at all. And she did like the side that Hastings was presenting--caring father, careful husband, ideal patriarch.

"I think, Mr. Birdall, my wife and my daughter would be better without your acquaintance. This is scarcely the place for this conversation, but I could arrange to repeat my words at a more suitable location, and in appropriate company."

The threat was unmistakable. Very quiet, very subtle but clearly identifiable. Rupert had lost a little colour, but he said, "That won't be necessary my lord. I understand you perfectly." He bowed, a little stiffly, but without other expression. The crowd about them had noticed nothing, Clea was convinced of it.

Hastings was offering his arm, and she placed her gloved hand on it without hesitation. She looked up at him, seeing him clearly for the first time in a very long time.

"I have given the weasel her congee," he smiled down at her with more warmth than he had shown her for years. He really was a fine figure of a man, she thought. No longer boyish, no longer lithe and strapping but a well-built, attractive man nonetheless.

"I am glad of it," she said more honestly than she had spoken to him for many a month, and she realized she meant her words.

"We have a daughter to be proud of," he said gazing across at Fanny where she now stood talking quietly with the Duke and Duchess of Loutermilk.

"And a son as well," she said.

"Bright lad, our Matthew--the dons at Eton speak well of him these days."

"Very bright," she agreed.

"You look ridiculous in that gown, my dear," he said.

She heard the gentle note in his voice, wondered how long it had been since she had heard it, realized she had missed it.

"I look forward to removing it," she said. "I shall never wear it again, or anything like it."

"I always liked you best in simple gowns." His tone was reflective.

"Or none at all," she said, sure now of her ground.

"Or none at all," he agreed.

They smiled into each other's eyes.