I glanced at my friend; the warning was odd enough, considering George’s own penchant for hard gambling, but I would never have expected him to impugn another man’s honor. Still, I could believe it of Milroy. He was in politics, after all. “He challenged me to a race down the Row for the mare, but of course I could not take him up on it.”

George smiled. “Yet you were sorely tempted, no doubt, despite the scandal that would have ensued.”

I returned the smile. “Oh, George, you have no idea how tempted.”

“I have some idea. You do like to push boundaries, don’t you?”

I snorted: that was definitely the pot calling the kettle black. George Brummell had risen from a common birth and a mediocre cavalry career to become the king of fashionable society, all on the strength of good looks, good taste, and a great deal of wit. He had not just pushed boundaries; he had vaulted over them.

He raised his quizzing glass and surveyed me. “So, you took my recommendation and went to Weston.”

I looked down at my riding outfit: a habit styled along military lines in blue superfine wool with four rows of black braid across the bodice and epaulets à la Hussar. George, of course, was the epitome of riding elegance, his own superfine blue jacket—also made by the great tailor—cut precisely across his shoulders, with immaculate buff breeches, a pristine cravat, and well-shined riding boots.

“Indeed. Thank you for the introduction. I had not expected Weston to make it himself.”

George dropped the quizzing glass back upon its riband. “But of course he did. I introduced you.” He surveyed the misty bridle way, a frown upon his handsome profile. “It is a pity there are not more riders to see our matched splendor.”

I laughed at his pained tone. “I must admit I was not expecting to see you here at this hour.”

“Alas, my own lost wager at Watier’s,” George replied.

“I did not lose the wager,” I said. “I just could not accept it. Now or ever, unfortunately. I thought you had vowed never to appear in Watier’s wager book again after that last loss.”

George had told me about the famous wager book—all gentlemen’s clubs had them, apparently—where bets, from the frivolous to the extraordinary, were recorded.

He shrugged. “I could not resist. Alvanley bet me that Lord Dannerby would not wear his usual repulsive puce this Friday past. The man had not deviated from the color for months. Alas, he arrived wearing chartreuse, and so I must accompany Alvanley here for a week. He finds galloping down the Row at this godforsaken hour the height of enjoyment, whereas he knows it is my worst nightmare.”