Giles nodded. The fellow had a short, pointed beard, but it wasn’t the sort of detail he cared about. Obviously, his sister did.

“I have never allowed Lord Pettigrew to even touch my hand, though we danced together any number of times last Season,” Lydia said earnestly, looking up at him. “I will behave, Giles. I promise. I just haven’t concentrated because I was enjoying the game.”

“Revenge is not a game,” he said evenly.

Lydia nodded. “The wrong game,” she amended. “Courtship is another, and I promise you, Giles, that I know how to play it.”

“Excellent.”

Giles couldn’t help wondering if he knew how to play it.

He had a sinking feeling that he did not.

Chapter Nine

The following day

12, Mayfair Place, London

The Duke of Huntington’s townhouse

The Dowager Duchess’s Scavenger Hunt

Yasmin strolled into Silvester’s townhouse the day after the Trent ball with her feelings in a jumble. Her grandfather was prancing beside her, beaming with satisfaction. He had decided that the Dowager Duchess of Huntington’s invitation to a scavenger hunt was a thinly disguised attempt to get to know Yasmin better before her son proposed marriage.

The house was brimming with members of the ton, all chattering in high voices. At first glance, Yasmin caught sight of two ladies who disliked her and—

Lydia.

Make that three ladies who disliked her.

“Dear me,” her grandfather said after the butler announced them. Scarcely a head turned in their direction; people were too busy peering at scrolls being handed out by footmen.

The dowager duchess, a stout lady with a monocle fixed in her eye, clambered up on top of a low table with the help of a footman. “Hear ye, hear ye!” she bellowed. She looked around, people quieting as soon as her eyes fell on them. “Oh, there you are,” she called to Yasmin’s grandfather. “Better late than never, I suppose. You and I are the judges. I’m not haring about London.”

“I can partner my granddaughter,” the duke replied. “Unless you intend to match her with your son.”

Her Grace scanned the list she held. “My son is with Lady Stella.”

Either Silvester hadn’t told his mother that he was courting Yasmin, or the dowager hadn’t welcomed the news.

“Lady Fester and Mr. Coke,” the dowager bawled. “Lady Caroline Gage and Lord Elton.” Mr. and Mrs. Addison were listed, but when Yasmin looked about, Cleo and Jake were nowhere to be seen.

Across the room, Silvester was bowing before Lady Stella, a cheerful smile on his face. Perhaps his mother had informed him that she had no intention of welcoming a French trollop into the family.

“She won’t offer you any competition,” her grandfather commented. “Bespectacled, poor girl, and has spots on top of it.”

The dowager was still shouting out pairings, so Yasmin whispered, “Lady Stella’s skin looks clear to me.”

“Not that sort of spots,” he said impatiently. “Freckles. The permanent kind of spots. Would have to be painted out in a portrait, along with those spectacles, of course.”