Dame Cynthia Kathryne St Claire swept into the teahouse. The double doors swung shut behind the vibrant lilac silks that swirled around her. A waiter hurried to draw up a chair at the small table loaded with sandwiches, tiny cakes, and a tea set with about four too many floral designs.

Lord Tybalt Montcroix paused, teacup in hand, smiling as Dame Cynthia smoothed out her dress and helped herself to a lavender scone.

"Darling you look delicious. That is De Floranci's Spring of Eleven is it not?"

"Early Summer of Eleven, actually." The score sliced easily under her flurry of strokes, far less composed than usual.

"Of course, I remember. The Corantine War delayed silk shipments. De Floranci was inconsolable. Although it meant we got a lovely blend of Spring silks with Summers Hats."

Lord Montcroix raised the teacup back to his mouth and then paused again.

"Don't ever let this leave this room but I've never cared for De Floranci's Spring hats. Always was the weakest part of any of his collections. Do you remember Spring of Seven? Those hats almost ended the poor man's career."

He finally took a delicate sip of tea.

"Oh, I agree, darling." A mountain black currant jam found its way onto Dame Cynthia's scone. "But I don't have time to discuss such frivolities."

Lord Montcroix almost spat out his tea. The teahouse rang with the noises of his spluttering and coughing has hurriedly tried to swallow it down.

"How could you say such a horrid thing! You! Why, Cynthia, you spent the entire Sunset Gala arguing with Lady Procipine Ashfield about whether De Floranci's Winter of Four or Giles Whiteley's Autumn of Eigutilisedr utalised the woodland animal theme."

Dame Cynthia St Claire's face flashed at the mention of Lady Ashfield, a mixture of anger, gleeful vengeance, and sadness.

"Why, you spent the entire duration of Lord Mayor Kirkland's speech talking about the hat pins alone. What on earth has gotten into you that would make you say such a vile thing, Clair Bear."

"Tybbie dear, there is nothing I love more than discussing De Floranci. But in light of what I have just seen even his genius pales. Why poor Alastair Ashfield is about to be caught in a hideous scandal."

More spluttering filled the room as Lord Montcroix chose the wrong moment to take another sip.

"Lord Ashfield? The man's purer than my poodle. What on earth has he gotten himself into?"

"Oh no, dear. He's not to blame in the slightest. He's just the poor soul who will be caught in the crossfire ."

"And what is this horrible scandal you know so much about but I have heard not a whisper?"

Dame Cynthia Kathrynne St Clairs eyes flashed again with the same mixture of sadness for poor Lord Ashfield and the gleeful vengeance of putting Lady Ashfield in her rightful place. She paused as she raised her scone to her lips.

"Well, it appears Lady Procipine Ashfield's obsession with Giles Whiteley extends further than his fashion genius."

"You don't mean...?"

"Caught canoodling closer than curtesy concedes."

Scarlet black currant jam slid to the edge of her mouth. Dame Cynthia dabbed it away, leaving her lips stained red, a vampiric look combined with her pale complexion and deep scarlet robes.

"I have seen my fair share of canoodling and those two were rather. He was kissing her like a cat at a cutlet."

The teacup fell back to the saucer.

"You saw it?"

"Why of course, Tybbie. Would I spread around such a vicious rumour if it was just hearsay?"

"How on earth did it happen?"

"I had just entered one of my favourite spa's and there they were. The steam was not as thick as they thought."

The other half of the scone disappeared.

"The steam from the hot rocks that is. The steaminess come of them could have powered an ocean liner."

Lord Montcroix chuckled. "I wonder how long it's been going on?"

"Oh, at least a couple of months. They were not new at it, let me tell you."

Lord Montcroix raised the teacup to his lips, his eyes glinting with an idea. "You remember when she excused herself at the Sunset Gala? Was gone for more than half an hour. Do you think...?"

"Almost certainly. Seven months. My, my."

"Poor Alastair. Do you think he knows?"

"The man is no genius but compared to Porcupine he's Jackson Bainbridge-Darcy himself. He's bound to have figured something out."

"Yes. Remember her excuse at the Sunset Gala?" Lord Montcroix's voice changed to a high falsetto. "Oh, I must go and congratulate the Lord Mayor on his speech."

"That does not take forty-five minutes."

"And she walked off in the other direction."

A delicate tinkle flowed from Dame Cynthia St Claire's lips. One that did not match her deep scarlet robes and the look of anger and glee on her face.

"If she's been coming up with excuses like that for seven months she's bound to have let something slip."

The double doors of the tea house flew open as two people walked in.

Giles Whiteley strode in, calm and composed with only the flash of terrifying anger behind his eyes. His yellow spring of nice pantsuit was slightly ruffled, the vest a little askew and the buttons hurriedly done. His hair was still wet.

Lady Procipine Ashfield flew in, her blue satin swirling like a storm around her. Her boiling red face, from the mixture of steam and anger, showed none of the composure of Giles'.

Dame Cynthia Kathrynne St Claire rose, her red silks crackling like fire. Her stained lips smiled without lighting up her pale face.

"Porcupine. Care for a cherry?"