Hart was playing piquet with his friend, Sinc. He’d decided to eat dinner at his club, and had run into Sinc. Afterward, with a brandy at their elbow, they’d played cards.

“Something on your mind?” Sinc asked, after having won the last three tricks.

“Hmm? No.” But it wasn’t true. Shortly before he’d left for his club, a note had been delivered from Lady Salter. It was a damned piece of cheek telling him—not suggesting, but virtually ordering him—to accompany Lady Georgiana to some wretched party. A party he had no interest in attending.

He’d tossed the note in the fire and gone out.

Sinc dealt the next round. And won the next two tricks. “Well, whatever it is, your mind’s not on the game.”

Hart sipped his brandy and considered his hand.

“Surprised you decided not to go to the Renwicks’.”

Hart looked up. “Not you, as well.”

“Not me what?”

“Thinking I ought to attend the Renwick party. I never attend such insipid events, you know that.”

“No, s’pose not.” Sinc made his discard. “Just thought . . . Oh, never mind.”

“Never mind what?” Hart asked after a minute.

“I suppose you know the harpies have been getting stuck into Lady George.”

Hart frowned. “What do you mean? What harpies?”

“Quite a few of ’em, from what m’sister says. Some nasty talk around. Lady George not exactly getting the benefit of the doubt.”

“In what sense?”

Sinc stared at him incredulously. “You think the fine ladies of the ton will universally heap blessings on Lady George’s glossy little head? After she’s claimed all season to be averse to the very idea of marriage? And then she walks off with the marriage prize of the season—you. After having been caught in public with your tongue wrapped around her tonsils? Oh, yes, they purely love her for it.”

Hart stilled. So that was what Lady Salter’s note was about. “Damn!” He threw down his cards and left.

*   *   *

George drained her glass of champagne and looked around for a footman. Her third glass in—she glanced at the clock—not quite an hour. She never drank more than one glass, usually. She didn’t actually like champagne. Trouble was she didn’t much like ratafia either. What she wouldn’t give for a nice cup of tea. But she’d have to wait until she got home.

A woman hurried up to her, hands held out and a wide smile on her face. Mrs. Threadgood, the lady she’d last seen in the Peplowe conservatory.

“Good evening, Mrs. Threadgood,” George said cautiously.