Jack got his revenge by lifting her easily and carrying her down the steps. As he settled her amid Sophie’s cushions and rugs, Lucilla favoured him with a dignified glare. Then her lips twitched and she lay back on the seat, waving him away.

His own lips curving, Jack handed Sophie up, resisting the temptation to bestow a fond pat on her retreating anatomy. And then they were away.

FIVE NIGHTS LATER, under the glare of the chandeliers in the Duchess of Richmond’s ballroom, Sophie dimly wondered why she had imagined awaiting her uncle’s return in the bosom of the ton would be safer than at Little Bickmanstead. Mere hours had sufficed for Jack to make it patently clear that he had meant every word he had uttered in Great-Aunt Evangeline’s summer-house. Twenty-four hours had been enough for her to realize that, that being so, the possibility of ever denying him receded even further with every successive day.

Casting a glance up at him as he stood, planted immovably by her side, starkly handsome in severe black and white, Sophie stifled a sudden tremor.

Jack caught her glance. He bent his head to hers. “There’s another waltz coming up.”

Sophie shot him a warning glance. “I’ve already danced one waltz with you.”

His rakish grin surfaced. “You’re allowed two dances with any gentleman.”

“But not two waltzes, if I’m wise.”

“Don’t be wise, my Sophie.” His eyes gently teased. “Come dance with me. I promise you no one will remark unduly.”

Resistance, of course, was useless. Sophie allowed him to lead her to the floor, knowing any show of reluctance would be pure hypocrisy. She loved being held in his arms; at the moment, waltzing was the only safe way to indulge her senses.

As they circled the floor, she noted the looks of resignation many of her mother’s old friends turned upon them. In contrast, Lady Drummond-Burrell, that most haughty of Almack’s patronesses, smiled with chilly approval.

“Amazing,” Jack said, indicating her ladyship with an inclination of his head. “Nothing pleases them more than the sight of a fallen rake.”

Sophie tried to frown but failed. “Nonsense,” she said.

“No, it’s not. They’ll all approve once the news gets out.”

Sophie did frown then. Jack had told her how the change in his fortune had come about. “Why hasn’t it got out by now? Presuming it’s real, of course.”

The arm about her tightened, squeezing in warning. “It’s real,” Jack replied. “But I confess I purposely neglected to mention it to anyone.”

“Why?”

“You’ve met the elder Miss Billingham; just imagine her sort, multiplied by at least a hundred, all with yours truly in their sights.”

Sophie giggled. “Surely you weren’t afraid?”

“Afraid?” Jack raised an arrogant brow. “Naturally not. I merely have an innate dislike of tripping over debs at every turn.”

Sophie laughed, the delicious sound teasing Jack’s senses, tightening the tension inside him until it was well-nigh unbearable. He metaphorically gritted his teeth. The wait, he promised himself, would be worth it.

At the end of the dance, he escorted Sophie back to her aunt and took up his position-by her side.

Sophie knew better than to argue. Lord Ruthven stopped by, then Lord Selbourne joined them. With practised ease, Sophie laughed and chatted. While there were many gentlemen who still sought her company, her suitors, not only the three she had already dismissed but all the others who had viewed her with matrimony in mind, rarely hove in sight. Jack’s presence, large and dark by her shoulder, was more than enough to make them think twice. Their rides in the Park every morning continued, but with Jack by her side, she found herself blissfully free of encumbrances. It was impossible to misinterpret his interest; as he was so tall, whenever he spoke with her, he bent his head to hers, and she, motivated by her instincts, naturally turned into his strength, reinforcing the image that they were one, wanting only the official announcement. Horatio’s absence explained their present hiatus; none doubted the announcement would eventually come, as her mother’s old friends’ attitudes clearly showed.

She was his, and every passing day made her more aware of that truth. And that much more nervous of her uncle’s return. She still doubted Jack’s story; she had seen the passion in him and knew his love to be strong enough to motivate the most enormous lie. Regardless of what he said, it was possible. Only Horatio could lay her doubts to rest-and none knew when he would return.

With an inward sigh, Sophie mentally girded her loins. She glanced across at Clarissa, holding court on the other side of her aunt’s chaise. Her cousin looked radiant, charming her many youthful swains yet, as Sophie had noticed, careful to give none any particular encouragement. Beside her, Ned occupied a position that had much in common with Jack’s. Sophie’s lips twitched; she returned her gaze to Lord Selbourne. There was a light in Ned’s eyes that she did not think Clarissa had yet noticed.

Ned, in fact, was almost as impatient as Jack. But both his and Clarissa’s parents had agreed that no formal offer should be considered until after Clarissa’s Season. Which meant he had a far longer wait ahead of him; and, to his mind, far less assurance of gaining the prize at the end.

Which left him feeling distinctly uneasy. His silver princess still smiled on her court; he had even heard her laugh with that bounder Gurnard.

“This wooing business seems to drag on forever,” he later grumbled to Jack as they both kept watch over their ladies, presently gracing the floor in other men’s arms.

Jack shot him a sympathetic glance. “As you say.” After a moment, he continued, “Has Clarissa let slip any information as to when they might retire to Leicestershire?”

“No,” Ned replied. He cast a puzzled glance at Jack. “But I thought they were staying until the end of the Season. That’s more than a month away, isn’t it?”

Jack nodded. “Just a thought.” As Sophie whirled past in Ruthven’s arms, Jack’s easy expression hardened. “As you say, this business of wooing is an ordeal to be endured.”

While Jack, Ned and the ladies of his family were thus engaged, Toby had embarked on amusement of a different kind. At that moment, he was strolling along the pavement of Pall Mall, along the stretch which housed the most notorious gaming hells in town, in company with Captain Terrence Gurnard.

The captain stopped outside a plain brown door. “This is the place. A snug little hell-very exclusive.”

Toby smiled amiably and waited while the captain knocked. After a low-voiced conversation with the guardian of the portal, conducted through a grille in the door, they were admitted and shown into a sizeable room, dimly lit except for the shaded lamps which shed their glow onto the tables. There were perhaps twenty gentlemen present; few raised their heads as Toby followed Gurnard across the room.

With his usual air of interested enquiry, Toby glanced about him, taking in the expressions of grim determination with which many of the gentlemen applied themselves to their cards and dice. There was a large table devoted to Hazard, another to Faro. Smaller tables attested to the hell’s reputation for variety; there were even two older gentlemen engaged in a hand of Piquet.

This was the third night Toby had spent with Gurnard, and the third hell they had visited. He was, as usual, following one of his father’s maxims, that which declared that experience was the best teacher. After tonight, Toby felt, he would have learned all he needed of gaming hells. His real interest tonight lay in the play. Gurnard had allowed him to win for the past two nights; Toby had begun to suspect the captain’s motives.

Initially, Gurnard had brushed against him with apparently no particular intent; they had subsequently struck up an acquaintance. It was after their sojourn at Little Bickmanstead that the captain had sought him out and, being apparently at a loose end, had offered to show him the sights. Toby had accepted the offer readily; he had not previously spent much time in the capital.

Now, however, he wondered whether the captain had taken him for a flat.

By the end of the evening, which Toby promptly declared once his losses had, almost mysteriously, overtaken his current allowance, he was quite sure the captain had done just that. Comforting himself with the reflection that, as his father was wont to say, there was no harm in making mistakes just as long as one didn’t make the same mistake twice, he frowned slightly as he looked across at Gurnard. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to meet that last vowel until the pater returns to town-but he should be back any day.”

He hadn’t expected to outrun his ready funds. However, as his father had settled a considerable sum on him two years before, and managed it for him under his direction the better to teach him the ways of finance, Toby had no real qualms about asking Horatio for an advance. “I’ll speak to him as soon as he returns.”

Gurnard sat back, his face flushed with success and the wine he had steadily consumed. “Oh, you don’t want to do that.” He held up his hand in a fencer’s gesture. “Never let it be said that I caused father and son to fall out over the simple matter of a few crowns.”

Toby could have set him straight-he fully expected his father to have a good laugh over his adventure-but some sixth sense made him hold back. “Oh?” he said guilelessly. There were rather more than “a few crowns” involved.

Gurnard frowned, his face a mask of concentration. “Perhaps there’s some way you can repay the debt without having to apply to your pater?”

“Such as?” Toby asked, a chill stealing down his back.

Gurnard looked ingenuous. He frowned into space. Then his face cleared. “Well, I know I’d count it a blessing to have a few minutes alone with your sister.”