The new Duke of Lansdale entered his mother's drawing room with a smile of such smug complacence that she immediately realizes that her plans were in danger. It had been a year almost to the day since his father died; a year during which she had worked and connived and battled without quarter to establish the same dominance over her only child as she had successfully exerted over his father, the late Duke. So far, all she had proved was that Daral was of a different metal from his papa. George Lansdale had been a morose, sullen man who had never forgiven his own father for saddling him with Lady Letitia Mall as a wife. Rather than engage in the endless bickering which she enjoyed, George retreated physically to his country estates or his hunting box wherever he could, and when he was unable to get away, he went into a kind of mental retreat which discouraged instruction. Since Lady Letitia refused to leave London they were happily separated for most of the year. However, George held the pursestrings, and steadfastly refused to make repairs on the marriage and in which she insisted upon living. Thus it grew shabbier and more dismal year by year. The Duchess had more than enough in her own right to finance any changes she cared to make, but she was by nature unwilling to spend a farthing which was not essential to her own health, and she had determined that all the upkeep of her home should be the responsibility of her husband.

When George died the previous year, Letitia had at first no suspicion that in her son she would find a very different customer. True, the new Duke refused to quarrel with her, even as had his father, but he had a sharp tongue and a life-long sense of distaste for this domineering female who had made his father's life a misery. When she informed Daral that he would have to give her the funds to have the townhouse refurbished, he smiled and informed her that he was building his own house in a much more elegant neighborhood. When she instructed him to propose marriage to his cousin, Lady Bridget Mall, he told his mama he would rather marry the griffin on the family coat of arms. From the day of his accession to the title, Daral had not spent a night in his mother's house, and the duchess was at her wit's end for a method of bringing him to heel.

On this day he had come at her urgent summons to pick up a letter from the King of France. At first, receiving a personal visit from his mother's butler with the message, the Duke had been sure that this was some new ploy to inveigle him into her house. What could the King of France want with the new Duke of Lansdale? Scanning his mama's frantic demand for his presence, it occurred to him that it was to his father that the note had been sent. Yet surely King Louis had too much to worry him in France to bother keeping track of an acquaintance made years before with an English nobleman! A hoax, then? Still, Fallow's real alarm moved the Duke to stroll over to the townhouse, particularly since he had an item of news to impart which would, he hoped, cause the Duchess to give up their running battle at last. As the Duke entered his mother's drawing room, she became aware at once that she would have a battle royal upon her hands if she hoped to have any success at all in accomplishing her current scheme. Daral was so cool, so self-possessed -- so damnably good-looking! She gathered her wits for the attack.

"It took you long enough to get here!" was her opening volley.

"Ever gracious!" murmured her son, smiling. "How is your health, dear Mama?"

Normally good for ten minutes of self-pity and veiled accusations of heartless behavior on her son's part, the subject of her health was today ignored by Lady Letitia. "The King of France wishes you to sponsor some females he is getting rid of." She dropped her bombshell with as much venom as she could. "Your father's behavior while he visited Versailles and Paris was probably so licentious that the French monarch feels he would welcome two--"

She was stopped by her son's uplifted hand, but even more by the look on his face. "De mortuis nil nisi bonum," he intoned in a low voice, and then, with a show of pity for her noncomprehension, he translated: "Of the dead, speak nothing but good, Mama! Father has gone to his rest. Let us not belabor his name."

He really looked so handsome, standing in the light of the many-candled chandelier, his golden head gleaming, his dark green velvet coat almost the exact color of his remarkable eyes, that his mama felt a strong emotion to... do what? She had never practiced either love or gentleness with her family, and she did not even recognize the tenderer emotions when they tried to struggle through the hard shell that years of selfish, insensitive behavior had built. She shrugged her bony shoulders and changed her direction.

"Well, as Duke you must receive the message, and it is for you to act upon it as you wish. I do not wish these foreign females to stay in my house!"

"How did you know the letter concerned two female protégées of King Louis?" the Duke asked idly, making a business of seating himself in a chair opposite his mother's.

His mama fell into the trap. "I read--" she began, and then paused as she observed his bitter smile. "It was addressed to your father," she tried to excuse herself.

"But my father has been dead for over a year. Is the envelope inscribed to George, Duke of Lansdale? Perhaps you should let me see this so-urgent communication."

Silently she handed the heavy vellum to him. The Duke scanned the superscription carefully. As he had expected, it was addressed only to His Grace, the Duke of Lansdale. Without glancing at his mother, Daral opened the missive and extracted the note within. It was evidently written by Louis himself, a wretched scrawl. Probably did not wish to trust the incriminating contents to the eyes of any secretary, however loyal, thought the Duke cynically. The note was brief. It stated that Danielle, Comtesse de Granville, and her daughter, Tiri, were valued friends of Louis, who requested that his old friend George, Duke of Lansdale would accept the two ladies into his household and present them to their Britannic Majesties at a suitable opportunity. In addition, he would be pleased to have the Duchess sponsor Mademoiselle Tiri into English Society -- "so little Tiri may make a good marriage. I have known la petite poupée dorée since she was nine years old," the note continued with considerably more warmth than the first half had evinced. "She is a charming child and should do well. It should be a pleasure for you to have her in your house," added the King; he then expressed brief thanks and signed the note "Louis" in an almost indecipherable scrawl.

The Duke stared thoughtfully at the hastily written message. "I wonder how she forced him to write this," he mused.

"I should think it would be easy enough to guess," snapped his mother. "That kind of woman!--"

"But the daughter?"

"Louis's, of course!"

"When he expressly informs us he met her when she was nine years old?" mocked her son, his fine eyes glinting like emeralds.

"All lies," the Duchess sniffed. "Men!" This last was uttered in a tone of such loathing that the Duke gave his mother an assessing stare.

"I hardly think the King of France would wish to force an illegitimate daughter upon the King and Queen of England," he said, his mildness a rebuke to her venom, "much less propose that she be introduced as a débutante by you, my dear Mama. No, we shall probably find that she really is the child of some petty nobleman. And you do not have to introduce the mother," he added, with a false kindliness which set his mama's teeth on edge.

"I shall accept neither of the females into my house," she said coldly. "Since you have so much admiration for your papa, you may take over his responsibilities." And then she presented the ultimatum which had occurred to her as a solution of her greatest problem. "Unless, of course, you wish to return to live here as you should do. In such case, I would agree to chaperone these -- women."

The Duke, still smiling, dropped his own bomb. "I am to move into my new home this afternoon," he informed her. "It is in Grosvenor Square, and I think you will agree it is much more beautiful and impressive than this house. It will, of course, be known as Lansdale House, the official London residence of the Duke." He gave her the small smile she so detested. "You will have to retitle this place Mall House, will you not? Since it was your father's home, or his father's? Or perhaps you will choose to call it the Dower House?"

He watched the changing expressions which moved over her features -- shock, chagrin, rage. Perhaps it was unworthy of him to use her so? Then, remembering the years of his father's martyrdom, he hardened his heart.

Lady Letitia surprised him again with her strength. "Whatever I call it, my house will not be open to entertain a pair of soiled women," she said harshly. "You had better make arrangements to receive them in your fine new home at once. I have just had a note from the older female, who urges that I permit them to call upon me without delay. I'll send them off to you."

The Duke acknowledged the hit. "You know that without a suitable chaperone I cannot house such ladies in a bachelor's establishment," he said; then, shrewdly, "What would dear Lady Bridget say?"

This was a telling blow. For three years Lady Letitia had tried to force his distant cousin, Lady Bridget Mall, down her son's throat. The girl was presentable, but there was something about her eyes which reminded him too much of his mother. The very thought of marrying Bridget sent a cold chill through Daral's body. Better, as he had perhaps inadvisably retorted, to marry a bronze griffin than that hard-eyed, cold-hearted girl. Perhaps he could use his mother's matchmaking plans to fight off this latest challenge. "You know our dear little cousin would never agree to marry me if I had two dazzling French courtesans in residence!"

This brilliant riposte quite halted Lady Letitia's attack. She glared at her son, disbelief warring with hope, anger warring with dismay.

"Are you telling me you are considering offering marriage to your cousin?" she managed at length.

The Duke shrugged airily. "I should be wasting my time even considering such a course if I am compelled to house two ladies of questionable virtue in a bachelor's ménage," he said, "and no, do not tell me again that I must return to live in your house. I shall not do so."

The Duchess tightened her lips. He had bested her again! He knew -- the devil! -- that she wanted above all things to marry him off to the daughter of her childhood crony and cousin. Once safely tied to the formidable Lady Bridget Mall, Daral would soon become amenable to, if not enthusiastic about, her demands. She acknowledged defeat in characteristic fashion.

"When is the engagement to be announced?"

"When I am satisfied that King Louis's two protégées are well and truly launched into London's Beau Monde," said the Duke crisply. "If there is any trouble, any spreading of scurrilous rumor, even if your hand is not obvious in the canard, I shall of course offer for some other lady." At her gasp of surprise, he continued, smoothly, "Oh, I have listened to your tirades over the last year, Mama, and I begin to think there is much in what you say. The Line needs an heir. If not Bridget, perhaps some other well-born female will suit my requirements. There are two beautiful girls of even better lineage than Bridget among the débutantes this season, had you noticed? Perhaps Lansdale would benefit from an infusion of nobler blood than the Malls'."

The Duchess set her teeth. He had her there, as well! She was an ambitious woman, but she had not let her obsession with controlling her son blind her to the larger opportunities that his title, his wealth, and his personal beauty could provide. And yet! It had been her dream for so long that her son should marry the daughter of her cousin and best friend! She nodded her head, conceding yet another victory to this unnatural child.

"I shall receive the King's -- protégées here tomorrow," she agreed. "You will of course be here?"

The victor had no intention of conceding an inch. "I shall try to, Mama, I shall try!" he sighed theatrically. "Moving one's household to a new home is so demanding!--"

He rose, bowed in correct form, and departed, leaving his enraged mama to pace her dingy drawing room in a fury of envy and frustration.