Giles had been watching his sister leave; he looked down at Yasmin when the door closed behind Lady Lydia. “I see.”

“Did you even hear what I said?”

“You are gifted with godlike powers of discernment. I expect that must prove useful in navigating polite society.”

Yasmin sighed. “Do you mind if we pause for a moment before we run out the door to try to find these items? I still don’t understand the game.” Giles was a wooden statue without a sense of humor. She was astonished to think that she even bothered to waltz with him, let alone speak to him. Or allow him to kiss her.

“Number one,” she read aloud. “Queen Elizabeth’s coronation crown? That is impossible.”

“Ignore the first three,” Giles said. “Traditionally, the first three items are jokes, items that are impossible to obtain.”

“I take it that we want to win the contest?”

Like her grandfather, a shrug was beneath the Earl of Lilford, but he moved his shoulders restlessly. “We needn’t play at all. We could simply return here in three hours.”

“But what would we do in the interim?” Yasmin objected.

His eyes suddenly gleamed under heavy lids. She blinked. She must have misinterpreted what came to his mind.

“We should attempt to win,” she said quickly. “The dowager duchess has gone to a great deal of trouble. To win we would merely need to go from Covent Garden Market to my grandfather’s residence.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Number three,” Yasmin said, pointing. “A hat worn by Napoleon, the erstwhile Emperor of France.”

“That’s right. You have one of his hats,” Giles said, frowning.

“Exactly,” Yasmin said, smiling. “My mother owns three. She gave me one when my father threatened to throw them on the rubbish heap. She is convinced that someday there will be whole societies devoted to the study of Napoleon and his campaigns. Academic congresses that do nothing but discuss him, the way they do Aristotle.”

Giles snorted. “I doubt that very much.”

“Yes, so do I,” Yasmin said.

They waited in silence until Silvester’s butler produced their outer garments.

“Lady Yasmin, do you wish for a chaperone?” the butler asked.

Only five maids waited in the entry although a chattering line of guests remained. The chance that Giles would bother to compromise her was approximately one thousand to one. She was about to assure the man that they would be fine without a maid when the butler spoke again.

“We are running out of chaperones, and I want to make certain that all . . . younger ladies are accompanied.” The butler’s eyes darted to her bodice and away. His implication was clear: a debauched woman such as herself had no need for a chaperone.

A gleeful thought shot into Yasmin’s mind: if she married Silvester, one of her first actions would be to dismiss the butler.

“That was an extremely ill-advised comment,” Giles said, his voice rock hard. “Apparently, you don’t realize that you may be speaking to the future Duchess of Huntington? His Grace’s attentions have been extremely marked of late.”