“You’re going to teach her,” he replied. “You’re going to turn her into a lady, Sophie. You know all the odd bits of etiquette and such. You teach ‘em to Madeleine, and she’ll go to a ball and pretend to be a French aristo. Then I’ll meet her and marry her right away, before people think about it too much.”

“You’re cracked, Braddon,” Sophie said, staring at him in fascination. “This scheme will never work. It is impossible to transform a horse trainer’s daughter into a member of the French aristocracy.”

“I don’t see why not.” Braddon’s face took on the bull-doggish look his family dreaded. “I don’t see anything so difficult about being a lady. After all, Madeleine is French, so no one will expect her to act exactly like an English girl. There’s swarms of French aristos over here, and I bet half of ‘em are fakers.”

Sophie had heard her father complain of the same thing. “It still doesn’t solve the problem of making your friend—Madeleine is it?—into a lady.”

“She’s a natural lady,” Braddon said positively. “It’ll be easy, Sophie. Tell her a few things about fans, and dresses, and the like. You can do it,” he urged. “And you do owe me the help. You’ve thrown me back to the wolves. I can’t go through that whole charade again, proposing marriage to a woman I don’t give a toss about.”

“I wasn’t the one who broke my leg,” Sophie retorted, casting a dubious eye at Braddon’s obviously sound limbs.

He shot her a nervous glance. “Least said about that whole night, the better.”

They finally parted with Braddon’s pleas hanging in Sophie’s ears. “I’ll get Madeleine started, Sophie,” Braddon said, his long eyes beseeching. “I’ll teach her what I know, but I can only tell her what I’ve heard m’mother nagging at my sisters about over the years. You simply must help me.”

Patrick had adroitly made his way about the ballroom, winding back toward the pillar where he had left his wife and Braddon Chatwin. He was stopped every few feet and offered congratulations. He had almost reached Sophie when Lord Breksby popped up like a jack-in-the-box.

“I must offer my congratulations, my lord,” Breksby said. “And my gratitude. I understand that you will be making a small voyage down the coast. I assume you will cast an eye at the shore now and again.”

Patrick bowed. “My pleasure,” he murmured.

“I shall look forward to hearing about the fortifications, on your return,” Breksby said genially. “I trust your marriage has not altered your intention to travel abroad in the coming year?”

Patrick stiffened at the implication that he might be henpecked before he was wed a full day. “Certainly not,” he replied in his most top-lofty manner.