“I wonder if it would be possible to abduct Lady Langton’s pastry chef?” Mother muttered around a delicate mouthful of éclair. “He’s French, you know. These are divine.”

Georgie smiled, well used to such flights of fancy. “I don’t think it’s legal. And even if it were, it sounds expensive. I bet you’d have to lay out a tidy sum for a kidnapping. Even for a lowly pastry chef.”

Her mother chewed thoughtfully. “Hmm. You’re probably right. Besides, Cook wouldn’t like it if we let a revolutionary invade her kitchen.” She poked Georgie in the ribs with her folded fan. “I hope you’re not going to discuss trade routes with Lord Galveston again. This is supposed to be a party. No one wants to talk about latitude and longitude. Eccentricity is all very well in a ninety-year-old spinster, but it is hardly becoming in a woman who is only twenty-four.”

Georgie managed not to roll her eyes. “Twenty-five, as of today,” she murmured.

Mother had decided that Georgie would soon be a widow—thanks to the short life expectancy of criminals in the Antipodes. She’d been suggesting potential second husbands with depressing regularity.

“Oh, look, there’s Clara Cockburn. Admiral Cockburn’s wife.” Her mother waved at a plump, dark-haired woman across the room then raised her fan to hide her mouth. “Odious gossip. I don’t care what you say, Georgie, that woman has a mustache. I swear, in certain lights—”

“Shh!” Georgie smothered a laugh. “Someone will hear you! You wouldn’t want to ruin Juliet’s chances, would you?”

As if by unspoken agreement, they both turned to watch her younger sister, who was dancing in the center of the room. A tiny frown wrinkled the perfection of Juliet’s otherwise smooth forehead. Mother sucked in a breath. “Oh dear. It doesn’t look as if she’s finding the Duke of Upton amusing.”

Not for the first time, Georgie wondered how she could be related to such a beautiful creature. Juliet literally turned heads wherever she went. Just this morning, walking to Hatchard’s, a distracted carriage driver had taken one look at Juliet and pulled so hard on his reins that his horse had crashed into a street vendor’s stall. A torrent of apples had rolled down from the poor merchant’s carefully constructed pyramid. A besotted young buck had rushed forward to shield Juliet from the fruity threat—ignoring Georgie in his haste—and when Juliet had thrown him an absent-minded smile of thanks, he’d backed away, bowing, until he’d bumped into a window cleaner’s ladder. Both of them had toppled to the ground.