A woman marched forth from the crowd. She was tall, dark-haired, attired for driving, and wearing the sort of flat, straw skimmer Clonmere associated with boating parties on hot summer days. Her ensemble was years out of date, but the older style suited her height.

“Gentlemen.” She waited a moment, while the combatants exchanged a puzzled glance. “Surely you don’t intend to engage in fisticuffs over a minor mishap?”

That was the voice of an older sibling or a mama, though the lady wasn’t matronly. She was, in fact, very nicely put together, and she had the attention of both parties.

“My dear lady,” Amherst said, drawing himself to his entire five and half feet of height. “Destroying my new phaeton through careless disregard is not a minor mishap. If Mr. Dersham had used an ounce of sense, instead of careening recklessly right down the middle of the street—”

“You was the one in the middle of the street, Amherst. Tell the lady how you planted your nags so nobody could get past in either direction, because you’re so mad keen to show off that derelict dog cart to anybody who’s never seen a proper conveyance.”

“Derelict dog cart?” Amherst puffed out his chest. “I’ll tell you who’s derelict— ”

The tall woman stroked the neck of Amherst’s off-side black. “I truly would not want to see the watch summoned over an accident, but I fear if you gentlemen must debate the origins of your contretemps at any greater length, a bent wheel will be the least of your worries.”

The horse was settling, and the combatants appeared entranced by the caress of a worn driving glove over a muscular equine neck.

Clonmere stepped forth, prepared to seize the moment of relative calm and spread ducal fairy dust over a pair of dunderpates. If that required knocking their heads together a time or two, that was the least consolation he was due for his troubles. He’d moved a yard closer to the damaged vehicle when the lady caught his eye and gave a slight shake of her head.

A warning. Nobody warned Clonmere of anything, firstly, because he didn’t require warnings, secondly, because he was usually the party handing them out. He warned his siblings of crooked gaming hells. He warned his mother away from elderly bachelors looking to flatter their way to a comfortable dotage. He warned his head groom away from windbroken teams going on the block at Tatt’s.

For the sheer novelty of the experience, he heeded the lady’s admonition and remained where he was.

“Call the watch?” Dersham repeated, dropping his fists. “No need for that. A gentlemen’s disagreement should be kept private.”

The lady sent a pointed glance to the crowd. “Your grooms can mind your teams,” she said, “while you gentlemen repair to The Happy Heifer to discuss the situation over a civilized pint.”

Amherst scowled at his wheel. “Damn thing’s useless. Papa will read me the Riot Act.”

“Perhaps Mr. Dersham will lend you his curricle while the wheel is being repaired.”

Oh, she was good. She tossed out that casual suggestion while repositioning her hat, as if the slanting afternoon sun was of more moment than the potential for broken noses and criminal charges.

Amherst left off visually lamenting his bent wheel and walked over to Dersham’s bays. “Prime goers. They can’t help who’s at the ribbons.”

Dersham apparently had sense enough to detect a resolution to his troubles that wouldn’t jeopardize his fine tailoring.

“Got ’em off Greymoor,” Dersham said. “Everybody wants the matching white socks and fancy bloodlines. Greymoor says it’s more important to have sound conformation and matching minds.”

Rather like marriage.

The crowd was drifting away, and again, Clonmere shifted forward, prepared to clap each good fellow on the shoulder and shove him toward the pub, but the lady’s glower gave him pause.

Her reproach was fleeting and aimed only at him, also startlingly ferocious. For one instant, green eyes promised him a verbal thrashing that would make fisticuffs in the street look like a mere squabble among chickens.

Clonmere took a step back.

“Greymoor knows what he’s about,” Amherst said. “D’you fancy an ale? I fancy a turn with your bays.”

“The day is a trifle warm,” the woman murmured. “A cool pint would appeal to anybody.”

Clonmere abruptly became thirsty for a tall pint of summer ale, though the day was only warm by English standards.

“Isaacs,” Dersham called, “walk the boys to Amherst’s mews and see them settled.”

“Show him the way,” Amherst said to his tiger. “Try to put the phaeton up without letting the whole world see that wheel.”

Forelocks were tugged, teams led off, and if Clonmere hadn’t been staring directly at her, he would have missed the tall woman melting back into the passing foot traffic.

“Not so fast,” he said, planting himself in her path.

She nipped around him as neatly as water sluices past a boulder in a stream bed. “Have we been introduced, sir?” Her tone made it clear she hoped not.

“That was magnificent. You governessed a pair of grown men into exercising sense. I’ve never seen the like.”

Her steps slowed. “Magnificent?” Her green eyes were wary, also fringed with long, dark lashes.

“They will be fast friends for life because of how you handled that. Neither will go to Tatt’s without the other, they’ll swap conveyances when needs must, and their grooms will become drinking companions.”

“All that from a few words?”

Her smile was soft and a touch shy. Ferns bending over a woodland path made the way seem more inviting, and her smile had the same quality—a little mysterious, very quiet, entirely beautiful.

“Instead of a drawn cork, Dersham got a budding friendship. Might I walk you to your destination?” Annis would despair of him. He was to be in the park, parading himself fashionably, and catching a first glimpse of Falmouth’s blossoms. The groom could see to his horse, but Annis would not keep silent about this deviation from strategy.

“I’m not on foot,” the woman said. “The day was too pretty to remain cooped up in a sewing room all afternoon, so I’ve tended to some errands. Thank you for not interfering. Men will accept guidance from a woman that they’d never allow from another man.”

She was no seamstress, if she had her own conveyance, and her clothes were first quality for all they were not the latest fashions.

“That’s your mare?” Clonmere asked, nodding at a plain gig by the side of the road.

A grim-faced older woman sat staring straight ahead on the bench, a reticule clutched in her lap with both hands. A groom held the horse’s bridle, though that precaution was unneeded. The beast was serviceable—solidly muscled, good size, lovely calm eye—but had a coarse hair coat and the start of feathers about its sizeable feet.

Not a horse chosen to make an impression, but rather, a creature suited to its task.

“That is my Rosinante,” the woman said. “She is getting on, but likes the occasional ramble about Town on a fine day.”

The horse’s name was a literary allusion to Don Quixote, a half-mad romantic figure in an all-mad, unromantic world.

The lady repositioned her hat again, tugged up her gloves, and sketched a curtsey. “I’ll wish you good day, sir, and thank you for exercising restraint when restraint was needed.”

Before Clonmere could reciprocate with a bow, the lady was off across the street. She had a purposeful walk, one that set her hems swishing and covered ground at a good clip.

That is my duchess.

The notion was outlandish, and yet, it arrived in Clonmere’s brain accompanied by a warmth in his chest, a sense of joy and hope he hadn’t felt in ages. Perhaps what his mind was telling him was that he needed a woman like the tall lady. She was attractive because of her air of competence, her common sense, and her brisk approach to a situation others had been hoping would escalate to violence.

Her ascent to the bench was nimble, her driving posture regal. When she tooled past Clonmere, he lifted his hat and offered her the bow she was due. She made no sign that she’d seen him. Her gaze was fixed on the traffic—and in London on a fine day, there was always traffic.

And yet, as the mare trotted past, the lady was smiling.

So was Clonmere.

“I HOPE a journalist was present among the mob,” Hattie said. “When not one but three grown men listen to common sense from a woman, all of London should hear the tale.”

Cousin Hattie was probably not a first cousin. She was a relation to the late Countess of Falmouth, and while Hattie was every bit as kind as the countess had been, she resembled a bulldog more than a fairy godmother.