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Prince George’s old mistress.”
    Lady Charlotte’s fair cheeks darkened. “No, that was her mother-in-law,” she said crisply. “But proper young ladies do not discuss such things, regardless.”
    Ranulf cocked his head. “Ye lot have an odd idea aboot what’s acceptable, then. Why give any o’them the leave to pass judgment on every lass who walks into the Assembly rooms? That’s daft.”
    From Charlotte’s expression she didn’t appreciate having to explain her peers to a barbarian such as himself, but he’d be damned if he’d let Rowena walk into something where he didn’t know all the facts. It would be bad enough if some elderly woman of unblemished reputation were to give the nod, but foreign princesses and daughters of royal castoffs? Ridiculous.
    “Aren’t there people in your … village or town or—”
    “Clan,” Rowena supplied.
    “Clan,” Charlotte took up, nodding her thanks, “who have to acknowledge when a girl becomes a lady, or a boy becomes a man, or when two people may marry? All the social minutiae a society requires?”
    “Aye,” he returned, not seeing any similarity in the two situations at all. “That would be me.”
    Her eyes widened, hazel darkened almost to brown by the yellow sprigged muslin she wore. “You?”
    “Ran’s the chief of Clan MacLawry,” Rowena explained, a touch of pride entering her tone. Good; at least she wasn’t embarrassed to be a MacLawry. Not yet, anyway. “It’s the largest clan still with its main seat in the Highlands.”
    “With its only seat in the Highlands,” he amended with a slight frown.
    “I’m not quite certain what all that means, I’m afraid,” Lady Charlotte said, continuing to eye him. It wasn’t the same apprehensive look he had from her sister, though. Mostly, she seemed curious.
    “I’ve nae the time nor the inclination t’explain it to ye at this moment.” She wouldn’t understand, and he didn’t like being ogled like some two-headed lamb. Ranulf gestured at his sister. “If she’s to be presented at Almack’s, what’s required?”
    Rowena threw her arms around him. “Thank ye so much, Ran! This means the world to me!”
    He put a finger beneath her chin, tilting her face up to look at him, admitting to himself that he’d lost yet another argument before he’d even begun it. At least this time he could blame himself rather than the blond-haired witch. “I know it does, my dear one. Just ye keep in mind that ye’re the world to me. I do mean to keep ye safe, Rowena.”
    “I know ye will, bràthair .”
    “Oh, it’s perfectly safe on Bond Street,” Jane said emphatically. “We need to get Winnie fitted for a gown. I’ve had mine for ages.”
    Clearly he was missing something again, but rather than beginning another conversation over what was wrong with the gowns she’d brought with her—the gowns he’d bought for her—he nodded. “It’ll be safer still with me aboot. Let’s be off then, shall we?”
    As they left the foyer the two eighteen-year-olds linked arms and practically skipped down the front steps. Ranulf gestured at his two men, and both of them dismounted, handing the reins over to the affronted-looking Hanover stable boys.
    “We’re off to Bond Street,” he said in a low voice, as they reached him. “Owen, ye stay to the left, and ye get the right, Debny.”
    “On foot?” Debny returned, scowling.
    “Aye. On foot.”
    “I’m a groom. Nae a … man who walks.”
    “Today ye’re a man who walks,” he returned, hiding a smile. Turning, he caught sight of the Hanover sisters eyeing Fergus and Una, who seemed to be viewing them with equal interest.
    “What are those?” Jane asked with an obvious shiver. “They’re big as ponies.”
    Ranulf flashed a grin and whistled the dogs to his side. “These are my hellhounds,” he drawled.
    “Oh, stop it, Ran.” Rowena walked over and knelt between the hounds, who then nearly turned themselves inside out with licks and