Braddon thoughtfully chewed on his lip as Kesgrave handed him his morning chocolate. Perhaps Madeleine was worried about her future. After all, the position of courtesan was a risky one, and she might not believe that he intended to act in such an unusual fashion. Perhaps he should summon his man of business and have a contract drawn up, right and tight, that would settle a good sum on Madeleine. Then she would understand that the relationship was forever, not for just a brief time.

Braddon absentmindedly drank some of his chocolate. The real problem was how to make Lady Sophie dance to his piping, while making it seem as if he were dancing to her tune. If he sent Sophie a message, she’d cry off the engagement for sure, in his judgment. Braddon had seen a quantity of hysterical women in his day, what with having three older sisters, and Sophie looked ready to fly off the handle at any moment. No, the trick was to appear at mid-night—but not to end up in Gretna Green.

Braddon swung his feet out of bed. He shouldn’t have thought about Madeleine. Because now he knew he wouldn’t be able to do anything until he saw her and maybe even snatched a kiss, if her father wasn’t looking.

Lord but her father could be as surly as a butcher’s dog! You’d think his daughter was a lady, the way he carried on about Braddon compromising Madeleine’s reputation and other rubbish. Braddon couldn’t seem to make either one of them understand that women who live above horse stables don’t have reputations—they just make ‘em! Braddon chortled.

When his man Kesgrave came in to dress him, Braddon told him the joke about having versus making reputations, but Kesgrave just gave him his usual blank look and said, “Would you care to wear the blue cutaway today, my lord?”

Braddon sighed. It was a good thing he was an even-tempered type, what with all the slow-tops he was surrounded by.

“I’ll wear that dust-colored one, Kesgrave. You know the one.”

“Not dust, my lord.” Kesgrave’s tone was critical. “Dun-colored.”

“That’s the one. I’m going riding.”

“Before breakfast?” Kesgrave’s tone grew even more reproving.

Damned if he wasn’t getting sick of having servants around who’d ruled over his nursery, Braddon thought.

“I’m going out.” His tone was a bit defensive, despite himself. Dressed, Braddon trotted down the front steps as if he were a boy escaping to the park, swung up onto his horse, and clattered down the street heading for the Blackfriars, the location of Vincent’s Horse Emporium.

The long, low stables were quiet. It was far too early for the little groups who would congregate under large oaks in the front yard later in the day, watching in a desultory sort of way as boys led out prancing Arabians and barrel-chested quarter horses.