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“How absurd! The man has never been higher in Prinny’s favor. George has become a virtual power unto himself,” Adam laughed. “Yet, by the end of Mrs. Hoggsmyth’s affair, even Brummel seemed impressed with Miss Wilton’s dignity. He even deigned to ask her if she intended to be at Pertwee’s tonight.”

“If she succeeded in soothing an angry Brummel, then she may well be a witch,” Lawrence said.

“Oh no,” Adam said with a chortle, “she emphatically denies any skill in that sphere.”

“Perhaps that is why . . .” Lawrence began, then stopped short, his expression growing thunderous as he stared into the window of number 24 St. James.

Adam let loose an astonished oath. The usual assortments of prints and travesties adorned the front window of Mrs. Humphrey’s print shop.

Prinny and various prominent personages were portrayed in their various frailties and foibles.

In the center prominently displayed upon its own easel was a wicked caricature by Gillray.

Lady Wodesby had been made into a fleshy crone and a wart adorned a voluptuous Miranda’s pert nose as the two of them, naked as Eve in Eden, stirred a cauldron labeled “Society.” But that was just the half of it.

A bewigged magistrate wearing Adam’s face leered at them from the bench as Brummel raised his quizzing glass and uttered “Thou shalt not suffer a witch.” Apparently, Brummel’s feud with Miss Wilton’s family was known to the caricaturist.

Lawrence stared aghast. “How dare they!” he said, pulling his purse from his pocket.

“What are you going to do, Uncle Lawrie,” Adam asked, catching him by the arm.

“Buy every one of those prints and then give that Gillray fellow a piece of my mind!” Lawrence sputtered.

“They will only print more,” Adam warned him. “And then put out word of your actions which will only cause more prints to be sold.”

“I’ll pay them not to print anymore,” Lawrence declared.

“Even if you could buy off Gillray, which I doubt, what of Thomas Rowlandson or George Cruikshank or any of the others who dine on ridicule?” Adam asked softly, dropping his restraining hand as understanding dawned on his uncle’s face. “You cannot still all of their pens.”

“Poor Adrienne,” Lawrence said.

“Lady Wodesby brought this upon herself,” Adam said harshly. “‘Tis not her, so much as her daughter who will truly suffer once this gets abroad.” He turned away and walked quickly onward. His uncle followed reluctantly.

“I would not be so quick to place blame on anyone other than Gillray. This is tragic,” Lawrence said, shaking his head as he drew abreast with his nephew. “If Adrienne hoped to see her daughter married, this could well ruin her chances.”

“I thought that the Wodesbys only married within their own weird sphere?” Adam asked.

“You will doubtless sneer if I present my speculations,” Lawrence said, his lips pursing.

Adam raised a hand solemnly. “No sneers, my pledge upon it.”

“You mentioned that she denies any magical gifts,” Lawrence began with a frown.

“And we have just witnessed why her chances on the marriage mart are none to nil. What if no one among the usual families wishes to wed her, Adam, precisely because she is not a witch? And what if Society disdains her because they believe that she is?”

“That is ludicrous,” Adam declared, the smell of oaken casks, wine and spirits assaulting them as they strolled past the shop of Berry Brothers and Rudd. “She is lovely, charming, witty and from what Lady Enderby is declaring to all and sundry, well-dowered to boot.”

“But not a witch,” Lawrence said emphatically. “Adrienne made me no answer when I asked if her daughter shared her talent. She seemed rather sad, so I guided the conversation elsewhere.”

I am not a witch . All at once Adam recalled Miss Wilton’s assertion, whispered as if in shame.

She had turned away. Could she truly be lambasting herself for not having powers that existed only in the imagination?

“That is absolutely ridiculous,” Adam said.

The hairs on his neck began to niggle at him.

“Uncle Lawrie, a quick about face, now.”

Obediently, the older man whirled on his heels. “Not a soul behind us,” he said. “Only a cat.”

“What color cat?” Adam asked.

“What does it matter?” Lawrence asked in puzzlement. “Black, I think.”

“Twice yesterday, I saw a marmalade cat, much the color of Lady Wodesby’s tom,” Adam said.

“And you bandy about the words ‘ridiculous’ and ‘absurd.”’ Lawrence gave a derisive snort. “The animal seemed to be fond of you, but do you honestly think that Adrienne’s cat is trailing you about Mayfair?”

“All this talk about witches, familiars and spells, I suppose,” Adam said with a sheepish shrug of his shoulders. “Will I see you at Pertwee’s tonight?” he asked, as they stopped at the entrance to Lawrence’s dwelling.

“I am dining with a friend this evening,” Lawrence replied.

“Ah, I envy you,” Adam said, choosing to ignore the slight flush above his uncle’s necklinen. “I’d much rather enjoy a tete a tete with intelligent company than endure the crush at Pertwee’s tonight.”

“Then why attend at all?” Lawrence asked, as he rapped the knocker.

“It may seem somewhat quixotic, but I think that Miss Wilton may need me. She may have endured the slings and arrows of her Mama’s outrageous fortune-telling tendencies thus far, but yesterday will be a mere skirmish in comparison to the onslaught that she will meet in Lady Pertwee’s ballroom.”

“Those drawings.” Lawrence agreed with a sigh. “They will be all over town by tonight.”

. . .

The Pertwee Ball was usually among the earliest entertainments of the Season.

Nonetheless, despite its premature place upon the ton’s calendar, the huge ballroom in the house on Grosvenor Square was as tightly packed as John Bull’s Sunday shoes.

Many a match had been made between the dance floor and the supper room and the fate of the nation was oft decided over cigars and port in Lord Pertwee’s library.

Therefore, it was not surprising that the annual crush attracted everyone with a claim of breeding or anyone who aspired to scale social heights.

From their roost among the matrons, the Princess de Lieven and Lady Drummond-Burrel surveyed the newest crop of debutantes, sentencing them to exile from the sacred halls of Almack’s by dint of a curtsy too shallow or a smile too forward.

In the corner opposite the entry, George Brummel had set up a figurative bow window.

The usual crowd of acolytes surrounded the master of mode, waiting avidly for the Beau’s comments upon the crowd as observed through the warped glass of his acid wit.

To their delight, this evening promised to be more entertaining than most. Due to Gillray’s wicked caricature, Brummel was at his most biting and the Marquess of Brand had been unlucky enough to wander into the Beau’s orbit.

“It was weird beyond words,” Brummel commented smoothly, pausing for a sip of wine. “Alvanley and I had just paused in front of Mrs. Humphrey’s shop to inspect Gillray’s newest print. Have you seen it?”

Adam kept his face expressionless, knowing well enough that George was out to ruffle his feathers.

“I have. Unfortunately, the man has passed the boundaries of satire. One can well believe the rumors that Gillray is going insane. No one who pretends to taste could abide so nasty a portrayal of two helpless women who have done no harm.”

“Actually I was referring to his latest tasteless lampoon of Prinny and myself. As for his jape at the Wodesby women, I find myself surprised at your defense of their honor.” Brummel jibed. “Have you not told me numerous times that all fortune tellers are a blot upon society?”

“Miss Wilton makes no pretense of such powers,” Adam said stiffly, refusing to be baited. “As a gentleman, George, you know that one must be fair.”

“True enough,” agreed Brummel, softening slightly at the appeal to good breeding. “The child will have a rough go of it.”

“Hesitate to characterize the Wodesbys as helpless, I would” Lord Alvanley chimed in. “Not after what happened to poor Gillray.”

“A bolt of lightning from on high?” Adam asked.

“I think that the artist might have found a strike from heavens to be a kinder punishment,” Brummel said.

“Precisely what did occur?” Adam asked, trying to feign nonchalance as he sipped at his glass.

“As I said, the two of us were looking at the print, when Gillray himself walked out of the shop. I was about to tell him what I thought of his sophomoric scratchings, when all of a sudden, he was set upon by this spitting, screeching fury of a feline,” Brummel began.

“Lucky man, Gillray,” Adam commented, lifting his drink in an implied salute. “Far better to be attacked by a cat than an angry Brummel.”

“Never seen the like of it,” Alvanley asserted.

“The creature must have been mad, for it sprang upon Gillray and set him to staggering. Luckily, he did not fall, else I shudder to think what might have happened to his face. As it was, the beast proceeded to claw the man’s legs to shreds.

‘pon my soul, I was so stunned I did not act immediately, but when I attempted to help Gillray, I got this for my pains.” He held up a bandaged hand.

“Scratched me, it did, the filthy animal.”

“Every inch of that feline was full of soot.” Brummel sniffed. “As if it had rolled itself in a coal bin. Luckily, I stepped back immediately so not a spot of soot touched me. Alvanley and Gillray looked like a pair of chimney sweeps by the time the melee was over.”

“Odd, because cats are usually the most fastidious of creatures,” Alvanley observed.

“Think that this one was a marmalade tom beneath the dust. But, in any case, by the time I managed to pull the cat away, Gillray's legs had been pretty well mangled, not a square inch of his trousers was left whole.”