Benedict watched Georgie until she’d reached the safety of her mother, then headed toward the rotunda, where two semicircular “piazzas” opened up, illuminated by hanging lanterns. Seb and Alex had secured one of the curved, open-fronted supper boxes and were partaking of a fine dinner.
Seb raised his wine glass when he caught sight of Benedict. “Ah, there you are. Come and have a drink. Did you meet up with your little contact?”
“Jem? Yes. He’s still as slippery as ever. The little bugger even tried to pick my pocket.” Ben took a long drink of the wine Seb poured him and noticed with some amusement that his hand was still shaking. That dratted woman.
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.
“I’m serious. Choosing a bride in the ton is worse than selecting a horse at Tattersall’s. At least at Tat’s, you get to look at their teeth.” Seb subtly inclined his head toward the next female to stroll past. “Shall I try to get Miss Asquith to smile so you can get a glimpse of her pearly-white gnashers?”
Alex gave a theatrical shudder. “Please don’t.”
Benedict scanned the crowd, searching for Georgie, and finally located her coming down one of the tree-lined walks. It was time to set tongues wagging about the two of them. He downed his drink, vaulted easily over the low wall at the front of the booth, and stalked toward her.
She saw him approach, and then pretended she didn’t, and he smiled at her evasion. She hadn’t been so coy when she’d kneed old Josiah in the crown jewels earlier. He stepped into her path and bowed low to her mother, who preened a little at the attention, then at Georgie and her sister.
“Ladies, what a pleasure to see you all again. I hope you’re having a pleasant evening?”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Caversteed enthused. “It is a little chilly, perhaps, with this breeze, but the fireworks were wonderful. And did you see Madame Saqui descending her rope? Extraordinary.”
Benedict caught Georgie’s eye. “It has been a most enlightening evening.”
Color rose in her cheeks as she caught his double meaning, and she shot him a chiding “don’t-you-dare-say-anything” look from behind her mother’s back. He sent her a bland, angelic smile in return.
“May I walk with you a little way, Miss Caversteed?” He offered her his crooked arm, and after a small hesitation she took it, leaving Juliet and her mother to follow on behind.
He steered them away from Seb and Alex’s avid interest and along a row of vendors’ stalls, pointing out various foodstuffs and trinkets along the way, and making sure to smile brightly at every gossipy old biddy he encountered while simultaneously keeping his head bent toward Georgie as if enchanted. It wasn’t as difficult as he’d imagined; watching her expressive face as she enthused over such simple things as toasted chestnuts or a gaudy fan was entertaining in itself. She seemed to find delight in everything.
They stopped to watch a Punch and Judy show, laughing as the shrill-voiced puppet of Judy battered her poor husband over the head with a rolling pin and tried to prevent an incongruous crocodile from stealing a string of fabric sausages.
“Poor Mr. Punch,” Benedict murmured under his breath. “I do hope you won’t treat your own husband quite so poorly, Miss Caversteed.”
Georgie chuckled. “Only if he deserves it, Mr. Wylde.”
He smiled down at her. “I do believe we’ve just given Clara Cockburn something to discuss at her next dinner party. I’ve spent a conspicuous amount of time escorting you through one of London’s most popular attractions, in the very proper company of your sister and mother. Not once have I attempted to lure you off the path of virtuousness and into the shrubbery. People will be wondering what’s wrong with me.”
As one they turned, and sure enough, Lady Cockburn’s fan had whisked up to cover her mouth as she leaned in to speak to her companion. Her eyes flashed over at Georgie and Ben with speculative interest.
Benedict raised Georgie’s hand and kissed the back of it in farewell, just to fan the flames. Her cheeks pinked charmingly.
“I can guarantee that within a quarter of an hour Whites’ betting book will be filled with speculation as to whether you’re to be my next mistress . . or something more permanent,” he said.
“Well then, I suppose we can call the evening a success,” Georgie murmured back. “Since that is precisely what we set out to achieve. Your work here is done, Mr. Wylde. At least for tonight. You are released from your duties.”
“Your servant, ma’am,” Benedict said, with only a trace of irony. He bowed and left.