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Hapwell was talking to his tiger. Another few minutes, then; it looked like Hapwell was deep in instructions. Stupid to take a tiger on a race, even one like this one, over well-maintained roads at five in the morning, when the only traffic would be the odd farmer bringing vegetables to the Covent Garden market. Dangerous for the tiger, and that much more weight on the carriage. Of course, Hapwell’s carriage was barely more than wheels and a seat; he probably needed the tiger for ballast. His own was more substantial, but so lightly balanced he was perfectly confident that he’d beat Hapwell handily over the five-mile round trip course they’d laid out in the bet at White’s last night. Or was it this morning?
     
    “Hardly a chit, must be damn near twenty-five by now. Solidly on the shelf.”
     
    “Have you met her?” Tristan ran his hand along the back of the nearer horse, feeling the tension in its muscle. The horse soothed at his steady, confident touch—steady, despite the fact that he’d been drinking pretty well continuously since supper the night before. He knew how much liquor he could handle before a race—and, well, a little pickling relaxed him, made his hands lighter on the ribbons.
     
    “What, you’re marryin’ a pig in a poke?” said Berkeley groggily from where he leaned against the curricle, finally catching up with the conversation.
     
    “Guess I am.” Tristan stretched, then shoved Berkeley, so that the tankard of ale he’d just lifted to his lips splashed over his cravat. “Never met her, anyway.”
     
    “I did.” Berkeley dragged a hand across his mouth to wipe away the ale that had managed to get to his lips from his cup. “Came out at the same time as m’sister. Not a bad-looking girl—had a few interested parties but nothing came of it. Don’t know whether they never came up to snuff or she turned ’em all down, or her pa did. Only spent a couple Seasons in Town. Don’t know what the problem was.”
     
    “I don’t care,” Tristan said. “All women look alike in the dark, eh? Throw her nightgown over her head and I won’t care what she looks like underneath. Nobody says I have to pay any other attention to her.”
     
    “I say,” Berkeley frowned. “Not very gentlemanly. Girl is a lady, after all.”
     
    “Yes,” Tristan said, “but nobody said I was a gentleman.” His lip curled in a sneer. “My father least of all.”
     
    “Your father,” Berkeley said, then he belched. “Your father… is an ass. You’re not as bad as all that.” He looked at Gibson. “Is he as bad as all that, Gibs?”
     
    “No. He tries, but he’s a lousy rake. Only beds married women, won’t debauch an innocent or an honest wife. Doesn’t gamble to excess….”
     
    “Gambling is boring,” Tristan said absently. One couldn’t count races like this one, at any rate. He hadn’t done it for the money, though he was sure the betting was going heavy, from the crowd of gentleman gathered in the shabby yard. It was for the fun of it—and to prove to Hapwell that skill at driving was more important than the carriage beneath one.
     
    “And always lends me money when I ask for it. Drinks too much, but don’t we all? No, Woodsy is an abject failure as hellspawn.” Gibs shook his head sadly. “Berks, you’re more of a hellspawn than poor old Tris here.”
     
    “I am?”
     
    “Yes. For no other reason that you refused to spot me a pony last week.”
     
    Berkeley sniffed. “I draw the line at subsidizing your gambling excesses.”
     
    “You, sir, are not drunk enough if you can still pronounce subdisi… dubsidize… that word,” Gibson said, in the clear, careful tones of the very inebriated. “We are drinking to Northwood’s wedding. Drink up.”
     
    “You, sir, are going to end up facedown in the gutter one of these days, and you’ll be robbed and stripped naked. Then what will you do?” Berkeley said, belching again.
     
    “Stand up and stagger home