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it.”
    “Quite right, quite right.” His friend ground the butt of tobacco beneath his boot heel. “Perhaps a night away from female company would clear that black scowl from your brow. There are several new gaming hells in the stews that I’ve heard are worth a visit, and you always have the devil’s own luck at cards.” Harkness lowered his voice. “The place in Seven Dials is said to be quite unusual.”
    Osborne shook his head. “Tempting. But I have promised to show my phiz at Lady Haverton’s ball. She is counting on me to keep Silliman and Morse from coming to blows.”
    “Lud, are they still threatening to spill each other’s claret over the pattern of a waistcoat?”
    “They both take matters of fashion very seriously. But I believe I’ve thought of a way to stitch together a truce.”
    Harkness rolled his eyes. “Well, if anyone can mend frayed feelings, it’s you.”
    Would that he could feel comfortable in his own skin.
    “Now, about the horse, Dev.”
    “Right. Let’s have a look …”
     
    “I can’t thank you enough.” Light from the glittering chandeliers caught the curve of the lady’s smile as she twirled through the last figures of the waltz. “Without your help, those two might well have declared a duel right here on the dance floor. It would have ruined the evening.”
    “Nothing could have marred such an enchanting entertainment.” Osborne glanced around the crowded ballroom. “The musicians are marvelous, and the flower arrangements are exquisite.”
    Lady Haverton turned as pink as the peonies. “You like them?”
    “Stunning,” he murmured, knowing full well that the lady, a bluestocking botanist, had designed them herself.
    Her blush deepened. “You are too kind—”
    “La, Osborne!” As the final notes of the dance ended, a buxom blonde turned from her partner and tapped his shoulder. “You simply must call on me tomorrow and give your opinion on which shade of blue I should choose for the drawing room draperies.”
    He inclined a bow. “I should be delighted to.”
    “Osborne!” The hail was from a group of gentlemen by the punch bowl.
    “As always, you are in great demand.” His hostess smiled as she took her glove from his arm. “Let me release you to your friends.”
    “I shall be back. I’ve put my name on your card for the supper dance.”
    “Much to the dismay of every other lady in the room.” Lady Haverton patted his sleeve. “Go on.”
    “Osborne!”
    “Osborne!”
    He slowly made his way through the crowd, stopping every few steps to exchange pleasantries. When finally he managed to slip behind a screen of potted orange trees, he let out a sigh and took a sip of his champagne.
    “A popular fellow, I see.”
    Osborne looked around to find Lord Lynsley by his shoulder. “I seem to have a knack for keeping them amused,” he replied lightly, though to his own ears the words had a slight edge to them.
    The marquess regarded him thoughtfully before replying. “Major Fenimore thinks your talents merit a more serious adjective than
amusing.
He said your analysis of French cavalry tactics at the battle of Marengo will prove invaluable for our Eastern allies.”
    “I am gratified to hear it.” Osborne quaffed another swallow of his wine, unsure of how else to respond.
    Lynsley’s official position at Whitehall was not overly important, but Osborne was aware that his real government responsibilities were a closely guarded secret. The vague rumors about the marquess’s early exploits abroad were enough to make a man’s hair stand on end. And though Lynsley now spent most of his time behind a desk, Osborne imagined he was involved in more than pushing papers around on his blotter.
    “I wonder … might you be interested in helping out in another matter?” In the play of light and shadow, it was hard to make out the marquess’s expression. “This one would not require any military expertise.”
    “Perhaps,” he replied, keeping his own face