With a sharp nod to Charlotte, and the merest tip of the hat to Mrs. Benton, who had given up trying to blister Charlotte’s ears and was presently engaged in backing her phaeton with an eye to ramming her team into the black-and-scarlet racing curricle, he turned and started off for the solicitors’ office at a brisk, no-nonsense pace.

“Wait, Lord Carlisle!” Charlotte called, flicking the reins across the well-groomed rumps of Noble’s matched grays, sending the horses forward. Crouch and Batsfoam ceased discussing the relative merits of tourniquets versus cauterization as they leaped out of the way, Crouch swinging up behind the curricle as it passed him, Batsfoam ending up in the pile of offensive waste he had commented upon earlier. He stood and shook off clumps of sodden, odiferous matter, adding yet another nail in the cross he bore as his lordship’s servant before lumbering after his master.

“Alasdair, wait! I have something to say to you!”

“I don’t recall making you free with my name, Lady Charlotte,” he said pleasantly, ignoring the sudden appearance of the curricle beside him. He continued to walk, aware that people were standing and gawking openly at the sight of Charlotte pursuing him. He’d be damned if he would acknowledge her, though. He hadn’t surrendered to any of the ankle-twisting, pond-diving, bed-warming schemers, and he certainly wasn’t going to give a lesser hunter any sign she had him snared. “Now I know what a fox must suffer,” he muttered to himself.

“Do you really? Being torn to shreds by a pack of slavering hounds and having your tail cut off, do you mean?” Charlotte asked as the curricle kept pace with him.

Dare fought the urge to smile. He had to admit that Lady Charlotte hadn’t lost any of her delightfully unique sense of humor, the one attribute that had almost led him to offer for her five years before. She was so unlike the other young ladies out at the time, a fresh, lovely breeze of wit and charm in a room filled with unexceptional misses who were indistinguishable from one another. He had been captivated by the wicked glint of humor in her eyes, but events parted their paths before he could commit himself. Given the desperate state his life was in, that was all for the good, and all the more reason he should not now be recalling his fondness for her. He schooled his face into a scowl. “No. I was referring to the feeling of being hunted, chased, pursued.” He added emphasis to the last word and chanced a quick glance at her to see if she caught his meaning, but her lovely brow was wrinkled in thought.

“Who is hunting you, Alasdair?”

He raised one dark blond eyebrow at her.

“Lord Carlisle,” she quickly corrected.

“It seems at times, Lady Charlotte—er—what was your husband’s name?”

“Di Abalongia, but you may call me Char. All of my intimates do.”

“It seems, Mrs. di Ablagon…Alab…Alban…Lady Charlotte, that every marriageable woman within the bounds of the city of London has declared hunting season open, with me the game of the day.”