“And happily so, thank the Deity and my darling countess.” Bellefonte tipped his hat again and beamed his signature smile at a pair of widows swaddled in fur muffs and wool scarves. Because his lordship stood over six and a half feet tall and sported a head of shining blond curls, his gallantry was like a beacon across Mayfair, summoning the admiring glances of any female with eyes to behold him.

“Remind me,” Dunfallon said, “that the next time we meet for breakfast at the club, we arrive separately.”

“Nonsense. A brisk stroll works up the appetite.”

“Blast ye, Bellefonte, don’t ye dare even think—”

This time, the earl made a sweeping gesture out of removing his hat before a roving band of well-dressed young ladies.

“Enjoy your shopping!” he called. “Remember that I have been a very good boy this year!”

A chorus of tittering and simpering followed from the young women, their chaperones, and the maids trailing after them. Across the street, a petite female attired in a white velvet cloak gawked at the spectacle Bellefonte created. Her older companion, sensibly attired in blue, smiled indulgently.

“What sort of fool wears a white cloak in London?” Bellefonte asked, settling his hat onto his head, then taking it off again and tipping it to the pair across the street. “The fabric will be gray before she’s bought her first pair of dancing slippers.”

The day was brisk but sunny. A shiver nonetheless passed over Dunfallon’s nape. “That wee princess is Miss Minerva Peasegill, accompanied by her mama. Miss Peasegill turned down three proposals during the Season and two during the Little Season, to hear her mama tell it. Stop lollygagging and get on wi’ ye.”

“She’s quite pretty,” Bellefonte said, budging not one inch, “if you like the delicate porcelain look. Still, white isn’t very practical. I like a practical woman. My countess, for example—”

“Move your lordly arse, Bellefonte, or s’help me, I’ll… God have mercy, they’re coming this way.”

Dunfallon’s best hope lay in the fact that Bellefonte, being as tall as a lighthouse, would hold the ladies’ attention. Dunfallon himself could steal away unseen if he moved with the purpose and stealth of a border reiver beneath a quarter moon.

The chronic congestion of London’s fashionable streets prevented Miss Peasegill and her mama from charging across the thoroughfare. Dunfallon took half a moment to assess the surrounds. If he ducked into a shop, the ladies might well follow. If he simply loped off down the walkway, they would also give chase, hallooing and you-hooing like hounds on the scent.

Where was a gentlemen’s club when a duke needed safety from the matrimonial press-gang?

His gaze lit on a modest two-story building tucked between a coffee shop and a milliner’s. The windows displayed neither gloves, nor boots, nor fans. No porters loitered outside prepared to bear purchases home for any shoppers.