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Peter Burnsey has closed the east wing of Burnsey House and dismissed nearly half his staff.”
    “That explains why the idiot wouldn’t leave the game last night. I probably won his last twenty quid.”
    “He should have known better than to wager against you, my lord.”
    “Yes, he should have.”
    That explained both Burnsey’s exceptionally heavy drinking and his own pounding skull, but not why the usually pragmatic gentleman had decided to wager what amounted to the remainder of his estate in a card game.
    Valentine shrugged. God help the world if he ever became that desperate. All things considered, if armed robbery Sin and Sensibility / 25
    failed, a ball through the brain seemed both more decisive and less painful than the path Burnsey had chosen for himself.
    Shrugging off Burnsey’s troubles, Valentine finished his morning—afternoon—ablutions and had Iago saddled.
    The big bay stallion was used to irregular hours, and he barely batted an ear as they trotted off in the direction of the Society Club.
    He chose a path that took him along Bond Street, nodding at various acquaintances spending the afternoon shopping. A glimpse of bright material caught his attention down one of the narrow, less-populated side streets, and he turned his head to look down the lane. And pulled Iago to a halt.
    “Lady Eleanor?”
    Eleanor froze halfway out of the small dress shop she’d obviously been visiting. With a breath she faced him, then visibly relaxed. “Deverill. Thank goodness.”
    “That’s the first time goodness and I have ever been mentioned in the same breath,” he returned, urging Iago toward her down the narrow street. He glanced at the rear door of the shop from which Lady Eleanor had just emerged, and at the deep, rich burgundy material half hidden beneath her bundled shawl. “Madame Costanza’s?” he murmured, lifting an eyebrow.
    The fine rose blush of her cheeks deepened. “I needed a few new gowns.”
    Valentine nodded, deciding to keep to himself the information that some of London’s finest—and most daring—actresses and high-flyers hired Madame Costanza to make their gowns. From Eleanor’s high color, she already knew that, anyway. “I’m certain they’ll be stunning.”
    Before he could take his leave she approached, clasping 26 / Suzanne Enoch
    the toe of his Hessian boot in one hand. “Don’t say anything, Deverill. I want it to be a surprise.”
    He couldn’t help grinning. “No worries. I’m all for creating a ruckus, but it doesn’t seem quite in your character.”
    The color fled from her cheeks. “It is not in my brothers’
    character. I doubt anyone knows my character. Yet.”
    That sounded intriguing. At the same time his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in twelve hours. “I hope I’m there for the unveiling, then.”
    “Do you attend the Beckwith soiree tonight?”
    “I do.”
    “Then you will be.”
    A small, secret smile touched her mouth, the expression lighting her eyes with a breathless, indescribable excitement. Valentine realized he was staring, and shook himself. He’d known Eleanor Griffin since she was five, and she fell into one of two well-defined categories he had for females. She was in the do not touch section, along with nuns and grandmothers and very ugly chits. She was the younger sister of a good friend, and therefore not actually a female as much as she was a…puppy dog.
    Except that puppy dogs didn’t have that sly smile or those fine gray eyes. Valentine cleared his throat. “I’ll see you then.”
    Her smile deepened. “Unless you’re distracted elsewhere, of course.”
    Hm . “I think it’s fair to say I won’t be.”
    Chapter 3
    “M y lady, are you certain you wish to wear this…particular gown this evening?”
    Eleanor pretended to ignore both Helen’s carefully worded commentary and the way her maid kept wringing her hands in obvious dismay. Of course she knew what a risk she was taking, but tonight she