Dare wondered briefly what he had done to deserve Batsfoam, but his attention was quickly wrenched from contemplation of his greater sins to the scene before him. Just as the pink carriage was slowing to a stop, a scarlet-and-black racing curricle swerved around the slower vehicle and came to an abrupt halt a mere foot from the tips of Dare’s glossy Hessians, effectively cutting off the phaeton’s approach, much to the dismay of its team and driver.

“Have you ever heard such language from a lady?” the driver of the curricle asked, a pair of cornflower-blue eyes twinkling at him as her bonneted head tipped in inquiry. “You’d think she was from the stews the way she’s carrying on! What exactly do you suppose she meant by saying I was no better than laced mutton?”

Dare’s jaw dropped as he got a good look at the face under the wide brim of the blue bonnet. “You!” he sputtered. “You’re in Italy! You ran off with some mealymouthed son of a count, didn’t you?”

“He’s dead. I’m back.” Charlotte dimpled at him before turning to face the phaeton behind her. “Mrs. Benton, I really must protest your shocking habit of driving up on people’s heels. Not only is it rude in the extreme, but your horses are most ill mannered, and appear to be lunching on my cousin’s butler’s wig. Kindly remove them from our vicinity.”

“Crotch!” Dare bellowed, catching sight of the figure clinging to the tiger’s seat while beating off two horses clearly bent on eating his powered wig. The earl’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he glanced between Charlotte and the butler, wondering why a terrible sense of foreboding swept over him at the sight of the lovely blonde.

“Really, my lord, should you?” Charlotte murmured as she swept open her fan and adopted an expression of innocence that was not so far from the truth as she would like.

“Should I what?” he asked, stepping back as Mrs. Benton’s horses, having consumed the wig, turned their powdery white noses to him.

“Speak about genitals.”

He goggled at her, feeling as if he was a piece of driftwood caught helplessly in a whirlpool. With an effort, he swallowed and asked in a low, calm voice that was in direct contrast to his desire to shriek, “What the devil did you say?”

“Genitals. You brought the subject up, my lord, so you needn’t give me that look of surprise. I am a lady. I would never approach a man and enter into a discussion of genitals. Well, that’s not strictly the truth, perhaps I would under special circumstances, but not without him first introducing the subject, as you have just done.”

“I have mentioned no such thing!” Dare snapped, outraged at such a patently false accusation. Him? Discuss genitalia? With a lady? He glanced over to see if Batsfoam had heard such an outrageous slander, but that worthy was engaged in discussing the finer points of field amputations with the behooked pirate, Crotch, whom Lord Weston kept as a butler and general all-around thug.