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Should Colonel St. John’s admiration prove shallow, if any fortune-hunting glint surfaced in his fine hazel eyes, Freddy would be the first to sense her heartbreak.

And she would not, must not, break. Whether spinster or bride, Joy Whitford would step forward with head high, spectacles shining, unashamed.

Freddy submitted with outward docility to the careful strokes of Dobson’s razor.

In his mind, he rode again yesterday’s hack with Joy, reliving every jolt of the quarrel that had followed.

Westwood, hoping to silence London’s whisperers, had insisted Joy take a groom to ride ten paces behind for propriety’s sake, which made her bristle from the start.

Immediately she began interrogating him.

How progressed his search for a bride? Had he settled his mind at last?

Freddy, nettled by the implication that he dithered, answered that Miss Letty Partridge would do as well as any.

“Do?” Joy had repeated, blue eyes sparking behind the hated spectacles.

Did he mean to be bored to tears for an entire lifetime?

The accusation stung—worse, it lodged. He retaliated with a jibe of his own.

Would she like to be abandoned while Colonel St. John gallivanted with the army?

“That would suit me perfectly,” she had snapped.

Then, with exasperating calm, she had dispensed advice.

Introduce Miss Partridge to the pursuits he himself loved—Ascot, Henley, any field where a pulse might rise—and observe her response.

A sober suggestion, delivered with military precision.

But the sting lingered. A man did not relish being characterized as a fellow who settled.

Now, Freddy admitted a flaw in the scheme.

Ascot lay weeks away, Henley more distant, and he had little time to spare.

In the meantime, he must contrive some demonstration of gallantry.

And there, Fortune (in the form of Joy) had placed an opportunity squarely in his path.

Lord Orville, the kitten destined for his future ownership.

“Does not everyone love kittens?” Joy had remarked, handing the creature into his arms the evening she had proclaimed its custody.

It seemed a plan of simplicity for Freddy’s simple mind.

A gentleman presents his adorable feline; the lady’s affections soften; admiration for the gentleman blooms. Certainly this would enable original conversation with the pretty Letty.

With this agreeable prospect, Freddy submitted to Dobson’s ministrations, chose a waistcoat unexceptionable in pattern, and set out for Westwood House to collect the ambassador of his courtship.

Westwood’s butler ushered him into the smaller morning room where the kittens loved to bask in the sun.

Hartley informed Freddy that Joy and the ladies were out on morning calls, but he knew Joy wouldn’t mind if he took the little fellow.

Within, Lord Orville reposed like a sultan upon a chaise longue, pale eyes narrowing in suspicion as his tail whisked slowly.

“Come along, your lordship,” Freddy coaxed, gathering the kitten.

“You must help me woo.” The kitten offered a plaintive mewl as Freddy lowered him into a wicker basket, but no claws yet pierced the wicker.

Encouraged, Freddy tucked the basket beneath his arm, thanked the butler, and descended the steps.

The curricle awaited. The tiger—an imp of twelve years and infinite curiosity—secured the basket by a strap in the seat next to him.

Not two furlongs along Brook Street the first hint of rebellion emerged.

A faint scrabbling, then the distinct pop of loosened wicker.

Freddy spared a glance, and four white paws protruded through the lattice.

“None of that!” he urged with a tap. The paws withdrew.

Peace lasted until the corner of Bond Street, whereupon Lord Orville executed an escape worthy of a seasoned picklock.

He erupted onto Freddy’s lap, tail lashing, and fixed luminous orbs upon the passing thoroughfare as though debating a launch.

The curricle swerved. Shoppers scattered.

“Confound it, sir,” Freddy muttered, wresting the reins with one hand while the other tried to cradle a wriggling bundle intent on scaling his perfectly tied Mathematical.

By prodigious luck they arrived without collision at the Partridge town house in Grosvenor Square, though more than one jarvey shook a fist at the reckless driving.

Lord Orville seemed content to be on Freddy’s person. So be it.

He handed the reins to his tiger, then proceeded up the steps to the Partridge front door.

Freddy was shown in, and though the butler’s eyes had fixed upon Lord Orville, he refrained from comment.

In the lemon-striped drawing room Letty looked every inch the genteel idyll, pale curls arranged round a heart-shaped face, and an embroidery hoop poised in her hands. Her mama, installed on a rosewood settee, surveyed Freddy with canny pleasure giving him a sense of distaste at his errand.

“I wondered,” he began, mindful of Joy’s inclinations, “whether you might enjoy to meet my small friend.” He indicated Lord Orville on his shoulder.

Lord Orville performed his entrance with theatrical finesse.

A leap to Letty’s lap, a half-spin, and a squeaking purr pitched for universal delight.

Letty gave a delicate gasp, and Freddy exhaled.

Success. Or so he reckoned until the kitten discovered embroidery thread—the very skein currently attached to the fichu near Letty’s needle.

A flurry of claws, a shriek, and the fichu unravelled like a cavalry charge.

The kitten flailed, tangled in silk, and scampered—unfortunately—up Letty’s sleeve.

Freddy, heart plummeting, darted forward, but silk tore with an especially expressive ripping sound.

Lady Partridge swooned whilst the butler fetched a servant armed with pruning gloves, and Letty’s composure dissolved into high treble.

The rescue, once effected, left Freddy and the servant clutching a quivering kitten swaddled in a tea towel and Letty dabbing tears (of mortification rather than injury). The fichu was beyond salvation, the sleeve in want of repair, and Lady Partridge’s earlier approval cooled to a polite frost.

When, at length, order reasserted itself, Lady Partridge spoke with brittle composure. “You do not intend to keep that creature, do you? Cats belong in the barn or, at the very least, in the kitchen. Perhaps, Mr Cunningham, the kitten would prefer—open air?”

The translation was plain enough for Freddy: retreat, regroup, preferably elsewhere.

Freddy bowed, murmured apologies, reclaimed the culprit—who emitted an indignant chirrup—and allowed the butler to escort him out.

Driving back towards Berkley Square he attempted stoicism.

Kittens, apparently, were not a universal passport to feminine favour.

Lord Orville, exhausted by his exertions, curled upon Freddy’s lap, tiny paws flexing in dreams. Freddy slowed the vehicle to an amble and considered alternatives.

A vision flashed in his mind’s eye of Joy herself, laughing as the curricle raced the wind, arguing between leaps, bonnet ribbons trailing.

Freddy’s heart performed an unhelpful skip.

She would have adored Lord Orville’s escapade.

He smiled and turned a corner. He hoped she was now home so he could tell her the tales!

“A slight contretemps?” Hartley enquired, eyeing the silk threads still clinging to Lord Orville’s claws.

“A massacre,” Freddy admitted.

“Miss Whitford has returned, sir, and is in the ladies’ parlour.”

“I will show myself up, Hartley.”

“Very good, sir.”

He found Joy attempting to teach Camilla to retrieve a paper ball. At the sound of his step she looked up; the kitten abandoned him and streaked beneath the sofa.

“You look as though Trafalgar has been re-fought upon your person,” she observed, taking in the destroyed neckcloth and a suspicious rent in his sleeve.

“Only feline antics,” Freddy said, depositing himself on the nearby settee. “Your protégé distinguished himself.”

Joy crouched, gathering the kitten, who immediately purred like the angel he was not. “What mischief?”

“Invasion, occupation, and the wholesale destruction of Miss Partridge’s embroidery, fichu, and sleeve. I arrived bearing him like a peace offering, yet I departed like Bonaparte from Moscow.”

Laughter burst from her—bright, unrestrained, deliciously improper for a lady. Freddy felt the tension of the day melt as she fell back with ungirded laughter, tears of mirth glazing her eyes.

“Tell me everything,” she commanded, seating herself on the hearthrug.

He obeyed and recited first the escape from the basket, then his lordship deciding Freddy’s neckcloth was where he ought to perch, then on to the fichu massacre.

With each fresh calamity, Joy’s amusement grew.

By the time he described nearly crawling beneath the sofa while Letty squealed and her mama swooned, she was quite helpless, pressing a hand to her ribs.

“Oh, Freddy,” she gasped, “if only I had been there to watch!”

“You would have joined Lord Orville in climbing inside her sleeves.”

“Undoubtedly.” She wiped her eyes, still smiling. “So, the experiment in the universal charm of kittens has failed?”

“Spectacularly.” He studied her upturned face—cheeks flushed, eyes dancing behind their lenses—and felt a queer warmth expand beneath his ribs.

“But you were right on one point: the creature is an incomparable judge of character. He spotted a room devoid of adventure and remedied the want in under a minute.”

Joy laid her cheek against the kitten’s head, dimples deepening. “He is your perfect accomplice, then.”

Freddy sobered. “How do I retrench and regroup now? I have two knocks against me.”

“Do not lose heart yet, Freddy.” She furrowed her brow, considering his question. “Perhaps a house party, Freddy, where you can see if she suits away from Society.”

He sighed heavily, not wishing to force the issue or show partiality, but he was becoming desperate. “I will speak to my parents. You will come, will you not?”

“Anything to go to the country,” she retorted. “However, I know just the thing to lift your spirits.”

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked impatiently.

“We have been invited to Ascot!”

Freddy perked up at the word. “By whom?”

“Thornhill’s Banquet is racing!”

“Whyever is Thornhill inviting you to Ascot?”

Joy looked heavenward so he must be doing something daft again. “Not me, all of us. Carew, Grace, Maeve, Ashley, and Patience—it is to be a party.”

“Then why did you not say so from the beginning?”

“I thought it was obvious that Thornhill is taken with Maeve. The rest of us make it respectable.”

“Well, as you know, I am always game for a race!”