Hello all! Yes, I have started yet another story! As if I don't have any other ones to consider...:D

Anyway, this is based in the Regency era in London, England (early 1800's, after the Napoleonic Wars). If you've read Austen or Georgette Heyer's work, you'll get an idea of what I'm going for. This focuses on the Nephrite/Makoto pairing though the other Senshi and Shitennou will be included as well. This takes place a couple of months after my one-shot Of Good Ton, so I'd recommend reading that first, though you definitely don't have to in order to know what's going on. Well, enjoy, and please, please review!

Characters (in this chapter)

Nevan, Viscount Stafford- Nephrite

Anne Mariner- Ami Mizuno

Zain, Baron of Latham [but called Lord Latham]- Zoisite

Raye-...Raye XD Raye Hinston to be more precise

***

Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud's the babe unborn:
First streak of a new morn.
--Robert Browning--

***

Women. Bah humbug.

"At least have the courtesy to lower your voice," whispered his companion.

Viscount Stafford straightened, then turned to the young woman who'd spread her cream-colored muslin skirts out on the grass to sit beside him. Laying aside the book she'd brought along to their picnic, she leveled her deep blue eyes at him. Anne's softly spoken words had been stern, but the Viscount caught the amused glint in those same enchanting eyes.

"Did I say that out loud?" he asked innocently.

Nevan's childhood friend shook her head in despair. "Nevan," Anne said, her voice kept low but light as a bell, "why do you continuously blame the poor girls for not living up to your expectations?"

"Oh, I like that!" he exclaimed, arms thrown up indignantly. "Is it too much to ask that the girl I propose to refrains from throwing a vase at me?" He frowningly looked across the park. The vase-thrower, a raven-haired woman by the name of Raye Hinston, sat obliviously on a blanket, finishing her picnic luncheon. At twenty, she had garnered the reputation of being both one of the most sought-after and aloof of the young women of Quality. Beside her sat Zain--also known as Lord Latham--who, as everyone who was anyone knew, was pining after Miss Anne Mariner. My lord frowned over at Nevan, jealousy written clearly on his fair features. He immediately tried to engage Miss Hinston in a desperation conversation. Unfortunately, Miss Hinston was never encouraging to those unfortunate enough to be of the opposite sex.

"Did you have to invite her to come with us?" Nevan asked.

"Shush. Raye happens to be my dear friend. Besides, your pride shouldn't still be wounded. Raye's rejection of you is old news compared to the last few..."

Nevan hastily interrupted: "Yes well, time does not heal all wounds." He indicated the faint scar on his jaw, a pout nearly coming to his lips. He moved aside a rich brown curl so Anne could inspect the practically unnoticeable discoloration.

"You fibber--I'll wager ten to one that's from when you raced Jim around the city (backwards) on your new horse."

"He had the gall to say that that mare wasn't fit to pull a baby carriage! The nerve," he muttered.

"So naturally you had to tear through London like a madman and end by hitting a lamp post."

"Stupid place to put a lamp post--on the side of the street."

"You're lucky Missy's still fit enough to pull a baby carriage." Anne stood to her full height of five foot one to pet Nevan's beautiful grey mare.

Nevan stood to rest an arm on his horse's side. He leaned over Anne, close enough to feel the loose strands of her blue-black hair that had danced out of their bun, and said in his deep voice, "If you hadn't rejected my proposal, there might soon be a little one for Missy to be pulling in that carriage."

Anne flushed bright pink but managed to look Nevan full in the face. "That is a grossly inappropriate thing to say or even to bring up, and you know it."

Nevan shrugged, but pulled back since he knew without looking that his golden-haired friend was shooting him a death glare. He inwardly shuddered at the thought of Zain knowing what had taken place in Anne's carriage a few months back. Drunk as per usual that night, Nevan had welcomed a ride home from Anne, only to fasten on the idea that he needed a wife. Anne seemed the only halfway decent, practical girl he genuinely liked and in Nevan's intoxicated state...well, Anne had been hard put to stave off the proposal.

"Inappropriate?" he queried. "Wasn't it you who said you'd never been kissed like that before?"

"Nevan!"

He chuckled this time, aware of how uncomfortable he was making her feel. She'd removed her straw, ribboned hat and began fanning her face as if to cool her blush away. "You know very well I never said that. Don't pretend you're not glad I turned you down."

Nevan made as if to protest, but Anne meet him with a no-nonsense look and he stopped himself from denying it. "Still, it was most unhandsome of you to reject me," he said sulkily.

Anne couldn't help laughing. "If you'd just bide your time..."

"Easy for you to say when Zain's making a cake out of himself over you. The fellow doesn't seem to talk of anything but you; seems to think your the cat's meow and the dog's bark." He shook his head in an uncomprehending way that was more suited to a brother than a rejected lover.

Anne wisely ignored all this. "And as a matter of fact," she said in an innocent tone, "I believe it was you who said something about my delightful kisses."

"Careful, brat, or your Zain will be hearing all the details of that 'chat' in the carriage."

In unison, they turned to look at Zain, who'd decided that the conversation had gotten much too cozy. He marched up to the pair, cleared his throat very loudly and said: "Miss Mariner, would you take a turn around the park with me? Please," he added, his tone becoming suddenly so earnest and sincere her heart twinged.

Anne blushed again, this time in pure pleasure, and nodded.

Nevan watched them go, then looked across at Raye. She deliberately turned away to sketch some invisible bird that had apparently perched in a nearby tree.

The Viscount scowled. What was the use of being wealthy, handsome, and titled to boot if no woman would give him the time of day?

***

Only the flames from the kerosene lamps kept Nevan from stumbling into every solid object in the vicinity. Clumsily, he made his way down the slippery, darkened London street, batting his cane from time to time. He wound along to his home in Grosvenor Square thinking to himself that he'd had a marvelous time at the club. Or had it been a ball? Perhaps a card party at Zain's lodgings?

"Th'only logical solution's that it was all three," he concluded aloud. Thinking that the night was entirely too free of song and dance, his fine bass voice suddenly rang out--"Sing old ROOOOSE and BURN the bellows! " into the (thankfully) empty streets.

It was, overall—decided the butler who opened the door as Nevan drew near—a typical, rather dull, Tuesday night.

"Pssst."

Nevan paused before reaching the doorstep, then looked up and over his shoulder. Had that tree just hissed at him?

Hm. How very odd.

"I'll be along in a minute Mr. Godfrey. If you could just put away my things," he said, handing his hat and dove grey greatcoat to his butler through the doorway. "Do go off to bed my good man."

"Sir, shall I have Mr. Thompson stay up to help undress you?"

"Goodness no! He hasn't earned that right quite yet!" exclaimed Nevan. He paused thoughtfully: "Though I'm not quite sure what male I know has...or whether I want him to..."

"Good night, sir," was his butler's icy reply, before retreating to the servant's wing of the house. As was usual when called to the door past midnight, he began making plans to go home to mummy's. Luckily for the state of the Viscount Stafford's household, he held back the impulse to pack immediately, deciding to wait till breakfast to make the final decision.

Now left alone, the Viscount hurried to cross the cobbled road to the garden square and the tree that had presumably spoken to him. "Psst," the Viscount hissed back at the tree. He drew close enough to it to see that in the boughs dangled a pair of long trouser-clad legs. "Who're you?"

"Shh," the stranger whispered back.

"I wish you would stop shushing me. I've had quite enough of that from every woman of my acquaintance today."

The tree stranger made a sound of sympathy. "It's terrible when all those mother types start nagging you, isn't it?"

"It is! But the worst are the young marriageable ladies...especially those who've known you since you were a dreadful little boy."

"And are you still dreadful?" asked the youth in curiosity.

"Certainly not! Who are you?" he asked as the person in the tree laughed.

There was no response for a moment. Then: "Is that the Viscount Stafford's house across the street there? 42 Grosvenor?"

"I hope so, or else I'm even more drunk than I thought," Nevan frankly replied.

Another pause.

The Viscount broke the silence. "I beg your pardon, but if you don't mind my asking: who are you and what the devil are you doing in that tree?"

"I--It's rather difficult to--"

"Of course, if you're one of those who enjoys living in trees, I won't deny you that pleasure," Nevan assured the stranger. "Isn't it uncomfortable?"

"What?"

"Living in trees?"

"I don't live in trees!" came the exasperated answer.

By this time Nevan was barely listening. "I suppose finding food would be easier--just pluck and tuck in--but as for sleeping, with all that bark and those leaves scratching at--"

"Excuse me, but who are you?" interrupted the young man.

Nevan didn't answer immediately. Then..."Hang on, I asked you first."

"I'd rather not tell you before you tell me."

Reasonably, Nevan answered: "I can't very well tell you who you are since you haven't told me yourself!...who you are, that is."

"For heaven's sake!" The tree's occupant suddenly, and very easily, leapt down so the Viscount Stafford could more clearly see him. The youth wore an abominably tied white cravat, a close-fitting hat, and a dusty shirt. Equally dusty brown trousers and dark boots covered long, and obviously graceful, legs. The Viscount looked the stranger square in the face, but in the dim lamplight could only detect rather feminine features and large eyes.

"Tired of life among the squirrels?" he asked the boy sympathetically.

The young stranger countered with a different question. "Are you related to Viscount Stafford? I gather that you live in his house."

Nevan blinked rapidly. "My dear boy, I am the Viscount of Stafford."

"What? You must be bosky."

This use of slang to describe Nevan as improperly drunk very much offended him. "Well, like it or not, I AM the Viscount."

The poor youth had stumbled back a little, leaning against the tree now. "But--but the Viscount is old enough to be my father!"

Realization slowly lit Nevan's mind. "You're speaking of my father. My father passed away a few years back and left me the title, you see."

"Oh…"

"What do you want with him?"

The youth sighed, then reluctantly admitted: "I came here to see the—the late Viscount Stafford because…well, he was my godfather."

***

Surprising as this may seem to those of you who read me (read me? how...not correct, but you know what I mean), the next chapter should be up shortly. In the meantime, review!!