Charlotte twinkled at her in the mirror. Marie slipped into French only in moments of strong emotion.

Sophie was waiting for her by the time Charlotte’s mare delicately pranced her way to a stop before the marble steps of the Marquis of Brandenburg’s town house. She ran down the steps lightly, dressed in a crimson riding costume that was just as form-fitting as was Charlotte’s. Sophie’s groom threw her up onto her fidgeting horse, a sprightly, slender mare she had named Erica.

“Erica!” her father the marquis had said in disgust. “Such a pedestrian name for a lovely animal.”

But Sophie just smiled at him and sent her groom to fetch Erica. Nothing he said, her father gloomily thought, had ever had any effect on her actions; what made him think that he could influence the name of her horse?

Now Sophie looked appreciatively at Charlotte, whose gray costume was perfectly complemented by her midnight black mare.

“My God! We make an exquisite pair, don’t we?” She gave Charlotte a wicked smile. Sophie loved to embarrass Charlotte by pointing out the obvious, but she noticed with interest that Charlotte didn’t turn a hair today.

“Do you think we ought to bring two of our grooms, rather than one of yours and one of ours?” Sophie twisted about to look at the two grooms mounted behind the girls.

“Why on earth?”

“Sweetness,” Sophie teased, “their liveries don’t match. And when two dashing high-flyers like ourselves are taking the air, shouldn’t we be accompanied by matching grooms?”

Charlotte shrugged, sending a slanting grin in Sophie’s direction. “I personally think that all eyes will be on me,” she said impudently. “And if there is anyone left to look at you, I don’t think they’ll notice the grooms.”

“Oooooh,” Sophie replied. “My sweet Charlotte is growing some thorns. All right, then. On y va, Philippe,” she called to her groom. The marquis—who insisted that his title be spelled in the French way—was more than a little proud of his wife’s French background. He employed only French servants, insisting that they provided a nobleman’s house with an extra touch of refinement. After growing up her whole life surrounded by French servants, Sophie slipped easily into either English or French.

Sophie and Charlotte ambled along the crowded London street together. After meeting noses and snorting a few times, their mares pranced neck to neck, one occasionally tossing her neck and indicating a wish to bolt. The street was thronged with London’s rich and poor inhabitants. Orange sellers slipped past well-breeched swells, their hands sliding gently over rich fabrics, perhaps removing a watch chain or a wallet. Children dashed into the crowded street every other moment, running between carriages and horses, recklessly tossing their lives into the hands of people who, for the most part, didn’t give a tinker’s curse for the life of a London waif.