Braddon stuck out his bottom lip in a characteristic pout. “Sophie’ll toss me over. She seems to be the hysterical sort. She told me last night that if I don’t fetch her off that ladder, she won’t marry me at all.

“Hey!” he said suddenly. “I know why you’re acting like a bear with a sore head.” He grinned and looked at Patrick assessingly. “You’re getting married yourself, aren’t you? Miss Boch. Been out sizing wedding rings, have you?”

He almost quailed under the furious glance leveled at him by Patrick.

“Don’t be more of a dunce than I’m used to, Braddon.”

Braddon pouted again. “I hate it when you get that icy tone,” he observed. “You can be more knaggy than your brother, and that’s saying quite a bit. What’s caught you on the raw? The whole room was talking about you strolling out in the moonlight with Miss Boch last night.”

Suddenly Patrick’s eyes flashed to his. “Last night,” he said slowly. “Last night before you left?”

“That’s right,” Braddon confirmed. “You thought m’mother wouldn’t notice when you two wandered off for a bit of a cuddle and didn’t come back?”

“The girl got stung by a bee and started yowling,” Patrick replied almost absently. “When did you hear about my supposed marriage? Before or after Sophie proposed such a rapid conclusion to your engagement?”

“Oh no!” Braddon said. “You can’t get away with that! Sophie proposed an elopement well before you made such a scandal.” He preened a bit. “I told you, Patrick. This may have been the only time I’ve been able to take a woman off the Foakes brothers, but Sophie adores me.”

He paused. “You know, perhaps you shouldn’t be the one to take her down the ladder.” Braddon pulled at his long lower lip meditatively. “Do you think she might take offense at it?”

Patrick looked at him in disgust. Sometimes, for all the bonds of boyhood, he wondered how Braddon managed to get through the day without being murdered.

“Undoubtedly she will,” he said coolly. “So you better just send one of your footmen up the ladder, because I’m not your man.” He tossed off the glass of brandy in his hand.

“I can’t do that,” Braddon protested. “How can I send a footman up the ladder into the bedchamber of a gently bred lady—more, my future wife? No, it has to be you, Patrick, because I sent a message over to Alex and he hasn’t shown up, so he probably didn’t receive it.”

“Alex is in the country,” Patrick said.