The attractive young Englishman man Constance knew as Lance Fondulac had arrived upon the scene. He kissed both tangoing trollops.

Slid himself in between their frolics.

His length of lingam curved between Veronica’s lips. Bounced beneath Morrigana’s tits.

Tip of prick appearing like the head of a spear. Glancing off the sides of the women’s faces.

Lipstick traces running from pricktip down the haft to where the ballocks grew like the dewy bloom of rare wild orchids.

Lance grappled with four tits as his prong was kissed. He stooped gallantly and licked the women’s boobs.

Toured his tongue down Morrigana’s middle and sniffed a tuft of pubes.

Lubed Veronica’s underarms with licks.

His mouth sprayed a mist amidst the drizzling kisses he applied to the misses.

“And who, may I ask,” Antoine said, “is that- how do you say-brash young chap?”

“You mean my escort of the night? The future Lord Farnsworth, presently a knight.”

Constance knew there was an element missing from this unrehearsed scene.

She needed a foil endowed with unflappable restraint among the libertines.

A man whose thoughts were dreams.

Whose actions were extreme.

And at odds with his place.

A new face.

Neither noble nor humble.

Obscuring his wit with cultivated bumbling. Speech alternately clear and mumbling.

“Everything okay?” he addressed Constance. “I mean, this is your show, after all. I’m only the security you hired ma’am. If you don’t give a damn about their balling at the ball-”

“That will be all,” Constance smiled. “The events are well in hand. But thank you for your interest in the welfare of my guests.”

Constance watched the private dick walk quickly from one end of the room to the next.

Keen eyes.

Lean thighs.

His evening clothes an obvious disguise.

Pose of gentrihood an evident ruse.