“So speaks the eternal cynic. Well, if she’s so keen to hook a husband, why has she knocked back half a dozen fellows that I know of?”

Hart frowned. “Half a dozen?”

“At least. There’s Porter, Yeovil, Trent”—he counted them off on his fingers—“Towsett, Belmore and who else? Oh, yes, Morcombe—and they’re just the ones I know of.”

“Towsett? You mean the earl of?” They’d been to school with Towsett. The dullest boy he’d ever met had grown into the most pompous man.

Sinc nodded. “The same. He’s mad for her by all account. Won’t take no for an answer. Been refused several times, but determined to wear the girl down.” He chuckled. “It’s the joke of the clubs—such a stuffed shirt full of self-consequence, utterly desperate for such a lively, unconventional filly.”

Hart swirled his wine thoughtfully. Towsett was a more than eligible match for any girl in the ton: titled, wealthy and . . . solid—if you liked that kind of thing.

“My money’s on Lady George.”

Hart looked up sharply. “You’re betting on her?”

Sinc grinned. “Lord, yes, the odds are irresistible. Most of them are backing Towsett—well, you have to admit he’s very eligible. All the matchmaking mamas are in hot pursuit—any one of their daughters would snap him up in a heartbeat—but he won’t look at anyone except Lady George. But the others don’t know her like I do. She’s not like those other girls—she’s an original. Prefers her independence.”

“So you hope.”

Sinc grinned and raised his glass. “Oh, I’ll win, all right. She doesn’t want a bar of him—of marriage at all—and there’s the joke, you see. Hardly anyone believes her, least of all Towsett. He can’t imagine anyone turning him down, let alone a girl like Lady George.”

Hart shrugged. “There’s your answer then—she’s aiming higher.” For a dukedom, apparently.

“Cynic. Well, time will prove which of us is correct. Now, tomorrow night—what do you think about dropping into the opera? Dine at the club beforehand, of course.”

Hart raised a brow. “The opera?” It was the last place he would have imagined Sinc. “Whatever for?”

“Monty has his eye on one of the dancers, and the little minx has been leading him a right merry dance. She hinted that she’d give him her answer tomorrow night, so a few of us are going along with him in case the poor fellow needs consolation. Monty’s mama has a box. So, are you coming or not? Should be quite entertaining—not the caterwauling, of course, but watching Monty trying to corral the little filly.”