Hart shrugged. “I’ll dine with you at the club, but that’s all.” He was not fond of the opera, and was indifferent to Monty’s success or otherwise with the opera dancer. He knew it would be a purely financial transaction—if Monty offered the girl enough, she’d accept his attentions; if not she’d be looking for another protector.

Opera dancers and young ladies of the ton—in his experience they were all the same under the skin. It all depended on the offer.

*   *   *

George’s horse, Sultan, picked his way fastidiously through the crowded London streets, superbly disdainful of all the activity—the dogs, the urchins, the barrows, carts and carriages. Oh, he didn’t like them—George could tell by the way his ears went back and swiveled and the way he tensed up from time to time, but months in London had taught Sultan that at the end of these tediously unpleasant streets lay a glorious run.

It was too late in the day to ride again in Hyde Park, unless one wanted to walk placidly along, bowing to acquaintances, and every now and then to break out wildly with a staid trot for five minutes. Neither of them, nor Finn for that matter, would enjoy that, so they were making for the wide-open spaces of Hampstead Heath. Of course it took much longer to get there, but it was worth it, and Emm had said she had the afternoon free.

And freedom was what George craved.

She rode ahead, Finn trotting along at her side, magnificently indifferent to the yapping street curs. Kirk followed close behind. His eyes were watchful, on the lookout for trouble, but his expression was dour as usual. He’d made this excursion with her many times before and generally enjoyed himself—though it was hard to tell with Kirk—but today he radiated grim disapproval.

It had started when she’d met him in the stable yard, mounted and ready. He usually fetched the horses and brought them to the house, and he’d taken one look at her and frowned.

“Does his lordship know ye’re going out in public like that?”

George grinned. “It’s Hampstead Heath. I want a proper ride.”

“It’s no’ fitting, Lady Georgiana, ye know that.”

“It’s a split skirt, see.” She flipped up one of the panels of cloth that just barely covered her breeches.

He snorted. “It’s a man’s saddle.”

“No, really?” she said sounding amazed. “And yet here I am, mounted and ready.”

He’d opened his mouth to argue, but she’d cut him off. “Oh, don’t be stuffy, Kirk. You know perfectly well I’ve ridden astride dozens of times—even when Cal’s been with me.”

“Aye, at dawn,” he said. “When there’s no’ a soul about. But it’s broad daylight and we’ll be riding through the streets. Ye’ll cause a scandal, Lady Georgiana.”