Sir Stanley Kenilworth had offered for her the year she’d come out. He had seemed genuinely surprised when she’d declined the privilege of settling his numerous debts in exchange for him “overlooking her city roots.”

He’d grown even fatter since then. His bloodshot eyes indicated a dedication to drinking, and his slack mouth and red jowls made her thankful she hadn’t accepted his suit. This would have been her money that he was drinking and gambling away.

She stifled a squeal of indignation when he leaned back and casually pinched her bottom.

“Who’s this little beauty, Wylde?” he slurred. “Lucky dog. You always do find the prettiest wenches.”

The old coot didn’t know who she was. His lecherous eyes ran over her, and Georgie dodged his hand and edged closer to Wylde. The dress was having the desired effect, but on the wrong man. She didn’t know whether to be insulted, alarmed, or perversely flattered.

Wylde smiled easily and dealt the cards with practiced skill. “Keep your hands off, Kenilworth. I don’t share.”

His tone was pleasant enough, but there was an underlying thread of steel the other man didn’t miss. Sir Stanley raised his palms in a gesture of surrender. “No offense, old man. Just saying, she’s a pretty bit o’ muslin.”

Wylde’s lips twitched. “She is. But trust me, you can’t afford her.”

Another man at the table laughed. “Well, I certainly can’t. You’ve cost me a pretty penny this month, Wylde. I lost a pony when you bested Millington in that horse race to Brighton. I bet you’d never make it in under three hours.”

Wylde shrugged. “What can I say? I ride as well as I shoot.”

Georgie raised her brows. So that was how he augmented his meagre earnings from Bow Street; he took part in games of skill. The man was a scandalous disgrace, permanently without funds, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned. She envied his assurance, that mantle of confidence honed by generations of aristocratic forebears.

Genteel poverty like his was quite commonplace amongst the ton. The entire monetary system ran on promises and debts, unpaid bills and gambling IOUs. She’d bet everyone in this room owed something to someone. Except for her.

She accepted a glass of wine and took the opportunity to study the rest of the room as Wylde played. She identified their host, O’Meara, moving smoothly between his guests. He seemed genial enough, with dark curly hair styled à la Brutus and rather hooded eyes. When he reached their table, he greeted the men and paid her scant attention; his gaze slid over her and dismissed her as mere ornamentation. Good.