Seb indicated the lavish spread laid out on the table. “Alex is paying for dinner. He’s just been given three hundred pounds for recovering some antiquarian coins for General Sir Charles James Fox.”

Benedict gave him a jaunty salute with his glass. “Good work.”

Alex accepted the compliment with a lazy nod. He leaned back in his chair, indolently watching the crowds parade past the open front of the booth. The more subtle ladies contented themselves with peeping coyly at them from behind their fans. The bolder ones shot them saucy, suggestive glances that even a blind man couldn’t have misinterpreted.

A group of expensively dressed women swept past, as colorful as a flock of exotic parrots with their parasols, fans, and shawls. Their accents pronounced them to be Americans, and at least three of the younger ones peered into the box with undisguised interest.

Alex sent them a cheeky smile and a silent toast that had them blushing and hushing one another in a frenzy of flustered giggles. “Thank God we’ve stopped being at war with everyone,” he said fervently. “We’ve been deprived the company of French and American ladies for years.”

“I wouldn’t say you’ve exactly been deprived,” Seb drawled. “What about that pretty Spanish widow near Salamanca? Or that little French actress you’ve been meeting at the Theatre Royal?”

Alex raised a brow. “Who? Claudette? She’s as French as you are, which is to say, not at all. Her real name’s Sally Tuffin, and she’s never been farther than Covent Garden.”

Seb, who always made it his business to know everything about everyone—his personal motto was “knowledge is power”—inclined his head at the departing flock of ladies. “Those are the Caton sisters from Maryland. They’re filthy rich; father’s a tobacco baron. They’re on the hunt for titled husbands. Wellington dotes on them.”

Alex’s gaze followed them appreciatively. “Very transatlantic. Maybe we should take a leaf out of Benedict’s book, Seb, and get ourselves rich wives?”

“Neither of you have titles,” Benedict pointed out.

“Maybe one of ’em will fall for your brother?” Seb mused. “That would solve all his problems. I’m all in favor of introducing fresh stock into the ton. Anyone familiar with animal husbandry will tell you that too much inbreeding produces an unhealthy population. Look at the Hapsburgs. Or our own dear King George. Mad as a bunch of hatters, the lot of them. That’s what happens when you keep marrying your cousin.”

Ben shook his head at his irreverence. “John doesn’t stand a chance. I expect the Misses Caton are aiming rather higher than an impoverished earl.”

Seb smiled. “We should thank God there’s no need for either of us to get leg-shackled to some whey-faced harridan just to clear a debt, Alex.”

Benedict chuckled at his friend’s vehemence, but Seb wasn’t finished.