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“Yes, and it was truly a pleasure to see you there, Lady Clary,” Lily allowed. “But oddly, I did not enjoy it as much as the others this season. It was just that something seemed to be…
missing
.” And then she poured a gaze so melting over Gideon that he felt like a fly trapped in amber.

Constance’s cool gray eyes moved from one to the other of them. Two thin white lines of agitation appeared on either side of her patrician nostrils.

More and more interesting
, Gideon thought.

“Splendid animal, Constance,” he commented mildly. “Your mare.”

“Yes. It’s the new horse I told you about.” She glanced at Lily.
See? I still hold private conversations with him
.

“What is her name?” Lily asked brightly.

“It hasn’t a name.” Constance sounded amazed to be answering horse questions again.

“She looks like a Mavis,” Lily mused.

“It looks like a
horse”
Constance corrected grimly.

“Constance is a marvelous horsewoman,” Lord Jarvis volunteered.

“Thank you, Malcolm.” Constance pointedly and warmly delivered his first name. “Do
you
ride, Miss Masters?”

There was a pause. “Oh, yes, Lady Clary.” Lily’s voice was a slow velvet caress. “I do so like to go for the occasional…
ride
.” And her gaze slid sideways ever so briefly toward Gideon.

It seemed to Gideon he had never heard a more prurient sentence in his life.

He felt his face growing warm; he risked a glance at Jarvis. Jarvis was rosy, too, and his mouth had dropped open just slightly in amazement.
Probably wondering
, Gideon thought with some dark amusement,
if he ‘d heard her correctly
.

Constance, disappointingly, seemed to have missed the innuendo entirely. But then she had never lived downstairs from a prostitute.

A barouche full of young ladies rolled by. Fragments of giggled conversation drifted in their wake; Gideon caught the words “heavenly” and “divine” and “Mr. Cole” and “Miss Masters.”

The white lines on Constance’s face deepened.

Lord Jarvis spoke up at last. “Perhaps Miss Masters would like a ride—that is, perhaps we can all ride together someday,” he corrected hurriedly, flushing again.

“Perhaps,” Gideon allowed, smiling in a way that meant he did not intend to make any plan of the sort at the moment.

“Mr. Cole! Mr. Cole!” They all turned with a start; none of them had noticed the man huffing up to them on foot, hat in hand, until he was nigh upon them. “Oh, I knew it was
you
, Mr. Cole! Ye’re a big ‘un, and I says to meself, Wesley, I says, that’s Mr. Gideon Cole.”

The man, tall and broad-backed, cheeks and nose and hands ruddy from a life spent mostly outdoors, grinned up at Gideon and thrust one of those ruddy hands up; Gideon seized it in his own and shook it.

“Hullo, Mr. Wesley.” For this was the son of the man who had died and left him his infamous thirty pounds. Mr. Wesley, a farmer, was no doubt on a rare visit to London.

Constance’s eyes went to where Gideon’s hand, covered in its fine glove, joined to Mr. Wesley’s weathered paw. And then she looked into Gideon’s face. Her expression was much the same as the one she’d worn when he’d insisted she give her horse a name: confused and anxious.

“I’m in London just the day, ye see, Mr. Cole, and when I saw ye I wanted to thank ye once again on behalf of me da. We miss ‘im, rest ’is soul, but we’re prosperin‘, and ’tis all yer doin‘. If ye didna time and again take on the likes of us fer no—”

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Wesley,” Gideon said swiftly, and then said no more. He was certain Mr. Wesley was about to say “no pay,” and those two little words might inspire Constance to ask dangerous questions. Such as, “Where do you get your money if you take on clients for no pay, Gideon?” And the truthful answer to that question would be: “What money, Constance?”

Mr. Wesley, puzzled by the abrupt response, moved his eyes between Constance and Jarvis. He took in their mildly repulsed expressions, and his smile vanished, replaced with a sort of stoic understanding.

A swift surge of anger took Gideon by surprise, an alien thing when it came to Constance. He wrestled it back. He supposed he couldn’t fault her for it, really; no doubt she had never been exposed to someone like Mr. Wesley—a man of rough dress and speech and questionable cleanliness.

A man whose labor put food on the tables of the
ton’s
aristocrats.

But then, marriage to Constance would mean he could take on
every
client for no pay, if he so chose. A veritable battalion of Mr. Wesleys.

“You received our bequest, Mr. Cole?” Mr. Wesley asked. “Dodge passed it on t‘ ye?”

“I did,” Gideon said gently. “And I thank you.”
And look what I bought with it
! He was perversely tempted to add, with a gesture at Lily.

But he said nothing more.

“Well, I’ll be off, then, Mr. Cole,” Mr. Wesley said with great dignity. “My thanks again, sir, and bless you.” He bowed and strode away, pulling his battered hat back down upon his head as he went.

Wait
! Gideon was tempted to call after him. But he didn’t. He simply stared. And felt ashamed.

“Good
heavens
,” Constance said with a breathy little laugh. As though Mr. Wesley had committed a social faux pas simply by virtue of being.

Again, that surge of anger. Gideon tamped it back. He glanced at Lily; she was watching Mr. Wesley become a speck in the distance, her expression softer than he’d seen it all day.

“Handsome dress, Miss Masters,” Constance said finally, with the air of one who thought she was rescuing the conversation.

Dresses. With Constance, it was always, always
dresses
.

“Thank you, Lady Clary.” Lily sounded genuinely touched by the compliment. “By the way, I have alerted my modiste to your interest in her services. She has agreed to observe you from a distance to see whether you would make a suitable client.”

“A… a suitable
client
?” Constance’s horse danced a little beneath her, as though she had squeezed her thighs in outrage.

Well
, Gideon thought. If talk of dresses could lead to an obvious loss of composure in Constance Clary, perhaps it was worth it, after all.

“That is,” Lily explained hurriedly, “she wishes to ascertain whether her skills can do your figure justice, of
course
.”

Constance managed to get her dancing horse under control. “I see. Well, I should still like to see how she does Reading dresses. I have yet to see any of
yours
, Miss Masters.” Constance looked out at Lily through hooded eyes.

Lily’s brows dipped a little in puzzlement. “Well… I suppose that would be because you wouldn’t wear a Reading dress for a ride in a high flyer, now, would you, Lady Clary? Or to a ball or dinner?”

Constance regarded Lily for a silent moment. “Of course not,” she agreed weakly.

It was like watching two people duel with flower-tipped rapiers, Gideon exulted. Something had definitely shifted. Lily Masters had ceased to become a curiosity; she was officially a rival. And Constance had never
had
one of those before.

We’ve done it
, Gideon quietly marveled.

“Well, we must move along.” Gideon tossed the words breezily into the silence. “Will the two of you attend the Ryce-Martin party?”

“Certainly.” Jarvis beamed at them.

Constance, for her part, merely nodded curtly. “And Gideon,” she said coolly, “my father would still like to speak with you about the position in the Treasury. They hope to fill it by the end of the month.”

It was too soon for celebration. But nevertheless, he felt a firefly-sized flare of elation.

“I would be delighted to meet with your father at his convenience, Constance. And I shall look forward
greatly
to the Ryce-Martin party.” He fixed her with a long, meaningful gaze meant to soothe away her agitation. And after a moment Constance’s jaw seemed to loosen and she was able to show all of her teeth in her signature smile.

Gideon slapped the ribbons over the backs of Kilmartin’s brown geldings and the high flyer lurched forward.

“Pleasant chap,” he heard Jarvis commenting as they rolled away.

He wondered what Constance would reply to
that
.

Lily was silent again, her face shuttered—as though a curtain had come down over the performance. And what a performance it had been.
Reading
dresses?
Mavis
? Against all odds, it was
working
. Constance had been officially thrown off her game; it was breathtaking to witness. It remained, of course, a delicate situation, and would need to be managed carefully. But at this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if Constance proposed to him solely to spite Lily Masters.

He almost turned to Lily to share the joke, the small triumph. But layers of confusion and hurt and distrust prevented him from turning his head; he kept his eyes on the backs of the geldings. Better that he nurture this wall between them, he thought.
Better, in the long term, for both of us
.

Lily stood on the walk and watched Kilmartin’s geldings, two horses as beautifully and ideally matched as Gideon Cole and Constance Clary, pull the high flyer and Gideon swiftly away.

Gideon had deposited her back at Aunt Hester’s as if she were a… hod of coal. With
exactly
that much ceremony and care. He had swung her down from the high flyer, and then his hands had practically flown from her, unwilling to remain on her a second longer than necessary. And then he’d touched the brim of his hat. She was sure he resented the compulsion to do so.

Fine
, she thought furiously. If Gideon became engaged to the odious woman, at least Lily would get some satisfaction from knowing that she had bested her, even if Lady Constance Clary would never know it.

By some satisfaction, she actually meant a very, very minute
particle
of satisfaction.

For three strained nights, Kilmartin and Aunt Hester had escorted her to parties and balls; for three strained nights, Kilmartin had made clumsy apologies for Gideon, assuring Lily that
disappearing
was merely all part of Gideon’s plan. And Kilmartin’s solicitousness on those three nights had been excruciating, for it meant he suspected she was hurting. And here she thought she’d been doing a
splendid
job of keeping that a secret. Her pride had fairly throbbed every time Kilmartin said something to her in a gentle voice.

And then this morning, her heart nearly stopped when Gideon appeared at Aunt Hester’s town house. His face had been pale and there were dark rings beneath his eyes; his expression had been unreadable, of course, his hands fidgeting with his hat. The sight of him shaved the sharpest edge from her anger: for it was clear that Gideon was hurting, too.

Good.

She’d encased herself in icy silence. And it had nearly worked; she had almost felt nothing as she sat next to him in the high flyer; she had almost been able to derive nothing but pure enjoyment from tormenting Lady Constance Clary. Until Mr. Wesley appeared, and Gideon was confronted with his two selves.

And one of those selves was the man she loved.

She’d seen it in Gideon’s face today; his coolness to Mr. Wesley had not come naturally. But he could expect that sort of discomfort if he continually stifled the best part of himself.

The fool.

He
deserved
to get what he wanted so desperately. She was certain it would make him bloody miserable. With some difficulty, she restrained herself from throwing her bonnet on the floor and stomping on it in frustration.

One of Aunt Hester’s impossibly handsome footmen appeared before her then, startling her. They were always doing that: Thanks to the thick carpets everywhere, they were as silent as cats.

“There’s a visitor for you in the parlor, Miss Masters. A Madame Marceau. I took the liberty of bringing in some tea.”

“Oh!” This was good news. Madame Marceau’s frank company would go a long way toward cleansing her mind of the horribly oblique Lady Constance Clary. ‘Thank you! Splendid. Have you any cakes, too?“

“I brought in cakes.” The footman smiled; the entire household had become familiar with Miss Masters’s fondness for food of any kind.

Madame Marceau rose to greet Lily. She was, as usual, stunningly turned out in one of her own creations, a dress of a deep claret hue, severely and exquisitely cut to show off her elegantly tall form.

“Miss Masters! How lovely to see you! And I don’t mind saying that your dress is smashing.”

Lily smiled at Madame Marceau and curtsied. “I know a wonderful modiste, if you’d like her name.”

Madame Marceau laughed. “She
is
wonderful, isn’t she? And she has a delicious dilemma, entirely caused by you, she suspects.”

“Oh, dear! What could that be?”

“I received an urgent message a very short time ago— from a Bow Street Runner, if you can imagine it—inquiring if I were the modiste who dressed Miss Lily Masters, and, if so, would I please consider making, and I quote, a ‘Reading dress’ for a certain Lady Constance Clary.
The
Lady Constance Clary! Daughter of Marquis Shawcross! And they had bribes in hand if I would do it straight away! I was simply flabbergasted, as you can imagine.”

Lily clapped her hand over her mouth in glee. “Oh,” she said faintly, struggling with laughter. “I had no idea… it worked so amazingly well…”

“Miss Masters? Would you care to share with me what is going on?”

“It’s just this, Madame Marceau: I told Lady Constance Clary, who is simply insufferable, that you are my modiste of choice, and that
you
choose your clients, rather than the other way around. Today I even told her you might be watching her from a distance to determine whether she would make a suitable client.”

Madame Marceau’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, and then she threw back her head and laughed raucously. “
Ohhhh
, Miss Masters, that is the most
marvelous
tale.” She wiped her eyes. “And what on earth is a
Reading
dress?”