“There was quite a line of carriages to get in,” Billie said. “I told your mother we should just get out and walk, since the weather is so fine, but she was having none of it.”

George chuckled. Only Billie would make such a suggestion.

“Honestly,” she grumbled, “you would have thought I’d asked if we could stop off and see the King for a cup of tea on the way.”

“Well, seeing as the palace is quite across town . . .” George teased.

She elbowed him in the ribs. But lightly, so no one would see.

“I am glad you did not wear a wig,” he said to her. Her hair had been styled elaborately, as was the fashion, but it was her own, and only lightly powdered. He liked that the rich chestnut color shone through; it was Billie without artifice, and if there was one thing that defined her, it was that she had no artifice.

He wanted her to enjoy her time in London, but he did not want her to be changed by it.

“Dreadfully unfashionable, I know,” she said, touching the long lock of hair that had been left to drape over her shoulder, “but I managed to convince your mother that there was a good chance I would step too close to a sconce and set myself on fire.”

George turned sharply.

“Given my history being presented at court,” she said, “it was not as unreasonable as it sounds.”

He tried not to laugh. He really did.

“Oh, please do,” she said. “It has taken me this long to be able to make a joke of it. We might as well be amused.”

“What did happen?” he asked. “Or don’t I want to know?”

“Oh, you want to know,” she said with an impertinent sideways look. “Trust me. You definitely want to know.”

He waited.

“But you won’t find out now,” she declared. “A woman must have her secrets, or so your mother keeps telling me.”

“Somehow I don’t think setting fire to the Court of St. James was the sort of secret she had in mind.”

“Considering how fervently she wishes me to be seen as a young lady of grace and refinement, I think it might be exactly what she had in mind.” She glanced over at him with an arch expression. “Lady Alexandra Fortescue-Endicott would never accidentally set someone on fire.”

“No, if she did it, I imagine it would be purposeful.”

Billie snorted back a laugh. “George Rokesby, that’s a terrible thing to say. And probably not true.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Much as it pains me to admit it, no. She’s not that evil. Or clever.”

He paused for a moment, then asked, “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

She gave him a look.

“Of course it was,” he said, but he didn’t sound nearly as certain as he ought.

“Kennard!”

At the sound of his name, George looked reluctantly away from Billie. Two university friends of his—Sir John Willingham and Freddie Coventry—were making their way through the crowd. They were both perfectly pleasant, utterly respectable, and exactly the sort of gentlemen his mother would wish him to introduce to Billie.