The dawn light had broken through the dense autumn fog, and the trees and paths of Hyde Park were finally visible around us. Most of the other riders on the bridle way were grooms exercising their highbred charges. Only a few members of the bon ton, including myself and the two men ahead, were flouting the royal order that allowed grooms—and only grooms—to gallop upon Rotten Row at daybreak. Since anything above a trot was forbidden at all other times, it was worth the early start and slight risk. Although if I rode as badly as Mr. Deplorable, I would not have bothered.

“Ho, ahead,” I called, my breath misting in front of my mouth. “Stop! Your horse is lame.”

I drew Leonardo alongside the two riders and matched their slower pace. I did not know Mr. Deplorable, but I certainly recognized the compact athletic man mounted on the bay beside him: Lord Milroy.

Damn, one of the most contrary men I had ever met. He had a reputation as a Tory kingmaker—always avoiding the forefront of politics, but highly influential nonetheless—and was well-known for his view that women had no place in the political sphere, even at the social periphery where we were relegated. Ironically, we came into each other’s orbit quite frequently at the Berry sisters’ soirees—the heart of informal political discourse—and he and I had clashed twice in the debates. So far, the score was one all, but I believed the money was on me to win the next bout.

“Lord Milroy, your friend’s horse is lame,” I said in greeting. “He should dismount before he does any more harm.”

“Lady Augusta,” Milroy said, saluting me with a bare nod, his voice a rumbling baritone of disdain. He liked to dabble in the theater—imagining himself, no doubt, another Kemble—and had learned to use his voice to excellent effect. “I see you do not confine your lectures to the debating ring.”

The swords, it seemed, were already drawn. “This is not a lecture, Lord Milroy, it is a fact: the mare is lame.”

He and his companion reined their mounts to a halt. I did the same, settling more firmly into my saddle. This was not going to be an easy rescue after all.

“We are most fortunate, then, to have your eagle eyes upon the situation,” Milroy said, casting a droll look at his friend. “I had heard you liked to ride with the grooms, Lady Augusta—so singular for a lady of your rank. What is the attraction, I wonder.”

I ignored his sly innuendo and the fact that he did not introduce his smirking companion to me as etiquette demanded. “I imagine it is the same as for yourself, Lord Milroy: the chance to gallop. However, your friend should dismount now.”