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that Lady Hester puts on. Much more down to earth. Take the dresses they’re wearing tonight, for example–they’re so practical they’re almost plain. A man could grow fond of a female with such simple tastes.”
    Simon bit his tongue to keep from enlightening the baron about the cost per ell of that particular grade of muslin. The man probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.
    Draycott leaned closer. “Just between you and me, old chap–what’s Miss Overton’s dowry like?”
    At the moment? Non-existent.
Simon refilled his port glass. “A bit premature to start that investigation before you even know whether you’re interested.”
    “Nonsense. Of course Lady Stone wouldn’t include any girl who didn’t have a respectable portion, but it’s never too early to find out how matters stand. I’m guessing ten thousand?”
    “Then you would be surprised.”
    The baron’s eyes lighted. “
More
?”
    Simon tired of the game. “A word to the wise, Draycott. Celia might be willing to accept a baron, considering her grandfather’s rank, but our great-uncle has much higher plans than that for her. He told me just last night that he expects her to snare an earl at least.”
    Draycott snorted. “That’ll be worth seeing.”
    Simon shrugged, doing his best to look mysterious. He wasn’t stretching the truth, for Uncle Rupert had uttered exactly those words over their port–and even though Simon was pretty certain Uncle Rupert had been exercising his bent for sarcasm when he said it, what the baron didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. This popinjay, basing his interest in Celia purely on the amount of her dowry, deserved to be smacked down.
    Lord Stone lingered over his port and appeared in no hurry to rejoin the ladies. Baron Draycott eventually said, “Stone, old top, shouldn’t we make a move toward the drawing room before the ladies get tired of waiting for us and toddle off to their beds?”
    Lord Stone cast a look at the carved-plaster ceiling with a long-suffering sigh. “The harpies will be lying in wait no matter when we arrive.” He drained his glass. “Gentlemen?”
    Simon had mixed feelings about leaving the safety of the dining room to join a covey of ladies who were on the hunt for husbands. Regardless of the way he’d tweaked Celia, he had no intention of finding himself leg-shackled by the end of the week.
    But he told himself it was foolish to hesitate, for he was perfectly safe from the ladies’ wiles. A mere Mr. Montrose was hardly a plump-enough rabbit to interest the Carew sisters so long as higher-ranking gentlemen remained in the lists, so he could safely amuse himself by watching the competition, or perhaps even by dabbling in the sport of flirtation. It might be entertaining to see if he could throw a few barriers in Draycott’s path as the baron devoted himself to one or more of his three potential brides.
    Simon debated whether he should warn Celia about the baron. Draycott’s tedious pomposity would surely be evident to her soon enough. But what if Celia thought the baron’s awkwardness was only a quirk, brought about by his self-conscious eagerness to impress her?
    She was such an innocent–her mother had raised her on fairy tales–that it wouldn’t be out of reason for the girl to assume that the very first gentleman who showed the barest interest in her must turn out to be her Prince Charming. And since even a man as self-absorbed as Draycott would be smarter than to come straight out with his shallow reasons for courting her, she might be enough of a foggy romantic to accept him regardless of his oddities.
    Simon supposed he’d better tell her that she was no more than a number on a list to the baron. Even though he didn’t cherish any of the warmer feelings for his cousin, it wasn’t as though Simon didn’t care what happened to her.
    Or for that matter, what happened to his five hundred guineas.
     
    ****
     
    The Carew sisters pounded out a duet on the