“Hart! Dear fellow, don’t tell me—you are, you are!” Sinc almost fell on him, chortling with delight. “You’re going to the Rutherford ball, after all! Oh, that’s splendid!”

“Whatever makes you think that?” Hart said dryly. They were almost at the steps leading up to Ashendon House.

Sinc’s face fell. “But you’re wearing formal duds, enough black for a funeral, except it’s nighttime, so—oh, you’re bamming me, you rat.” He grinned in relief and slapped Hart on the back. “I’m delighted to see you, old fellow, simply delighted.”

Hart eyed his friend thoughtfully. “You are showing an unwonted joy at the prospect of my company, Sinclair. Another bet, I suppose.”

“Moi? Bet on you? My dear old friend?” Sinc tried to look hurt. It failed—smiles kept popping out—so then he tried for humble sincerity. “I am simply pleased to have your company for the evening, my dear fellow.”

Hart wasn’t fooled for a minute. “You bet on me to attend.” They were inside the house now and had joined the crowd of magnificently dressed guests moving slowly up the stairs leading to the ballroom.

Sinc’s smile tried desperately to achieve ruefulness, but glee won. “The odds were irresistible.”

Hart laughed. “You’re a disgrace.”

“I know, but I’m a very much richer disgrace than I was ten minutes ago—or I will be as soon as you step through that ballroom door.” He pushed Hart up several more stairs, then turned to wave to some of his cronies, standing below them, staring up at them with jaws agape. “Losers,” he explained to Hart. “Bet that you wouldn’t come.” He rubbed his hands in glee. “But I knew better.”

Hart frowned. “How? I had no intention of coming.” Until half an hour ago, after several hours spent pacing and fuming and being ridiculously indecisive—which wasn’t at all like him.

“Ah, yes, but I’ve known you a devilish long time—ever since we were seven-year-olds, trembling with fright outside the headmaster’s office, abandoned by our nearest and dearest and facing the prospect of living with hundreds of young savages dressed in civilized sheep’s clothing—and all bigger than us. Ghastly. Remember?”

“Yes, but what does the first day of school have to do with betting I would attend this wretched ball?” They climbed another few stairs.

Sinc grinned. “It doesn’t. But I know you. The moment that girl refused to sell you—no, before that—the moment she ripped strips off you at the opera, I knew.”

“Knew what?” Hart said irritably. It was more than he knew.