My suggestion went unacknowledged. Instead, Milroy surveyed the impressive dimensions of Leonardo. “Such a large hunter for a woman. One wonders who advised you to purchase such an inappropriate mount.” He touched his forehead under his beaver hat in a theatrical gesture of recall. “Ah, but of course, you are sadly without the guidance of a husband.”

I matched his silky tone. “I think it is always best to ride a horse that matches one’s skill.” A glance at his smaller gelding brought home my double meaning. His mouth tightened. A pleasing result, but the mare had cocked her lame hoof and the suffering was plain in her eyes. Time to move this conversation to its goal. “You have not introduced your friend to me, Lord Milroy,” I said firmly.

Upon such a blatant prompt, he had no choice. “Lady Augusta, allow me to introduce Mr. Charles Rampling, lately of Hertfordshire, who is currently my guest here in London.”

“Lady Augusta, enchanted,” the man slurred, and made a clumsy bow in the saddle, sending his poor horse into an unnecessary step upon her lame foreleg. It seemed Mr. Rampling was still quite foxed from the night before.

“You should dismount immediately, Mr. Rampling,” I said briskly. How many times did I have to repeat myself?

“Dismount?” Mr. Rampling echoed. “Good God, no. I’d have to walk if I dismounted.”

Perhaps he did not understand the urgency of the situation. “That would be the case, certainly, but if you do not, you could damage your mare permanently.”

Mr. Rampling squinted at me, then giggled, a ridiculously high-pitched trill. “So, are you a horse physician, Lady Augusta?”

“Of course not,” I said, pitching my voice over Lord Milroy’s laugh. “Anyone with an ounce of knowledge would see—”

Rampling shrugged. “Then, begging pardon, my lady, this is my animal and I’ll do with her as I please. I am not about to walk upon the Row like some Johnny Raw.”

“Perhaps the effects of last night’s revels are still with you, Mr. Rampling,” I said sharply. “Only a fool would disregard such an injury to his horse and by doing so compound it. Surely you do not wish—”

“Are you scolding my friend, Lady Augusta?” Lord Milroy asked with mock jocularity. The angle of his long chin, however, held the jut of battle. “Perhaps it is not only this mare that needs a bridle.”

I stared at him, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“He means a scold’s bridle,” Mr. Rampling slurred helpfully. He giggled again, his rocking mirth pressing the poor mare into another pained shift upon her lame hoof.

I drew a steadying breath. Every fiber of my being demanded that I tell Milroy exactly what I thought of him, but that would not help the horse. I had to get her away from these men at any cost.