Two wolves of the ton; no one with eyes would mistake them for anything else, and seen together, the effect was compounded. They were both tall, lean, broad-shouldered, and loose-limbed, neither overly heavy. Where James’s brown hair curled lightly, Simon’s once-fair locks, darkened with age to a burnished light brown that still held the promise of hidden gold, lay in silk waves about his head. Simon was blue-eyed and fairer of skin; James had soulful brown eyes he used to good effect.

Both were dressed in the first style, their coats perfectly fitted, the cut bearing the unmistakable stamp of the ton’s foremost tailor. Their cravats were pristine white, precisely tied; their waistcoats were exercises in subdued elegance.

They wore the mantle of tonnish grace as if they’d been born to it, as, indeed, they had. They were brothers beneath the skin-rakes of the ton; as James performed the introductions, that was clear beyond doubt.

They were joined by Charlie Hastings, the third member of their crew, a slightly shorter, fair-haired gentleman of the same handsome, devil-may-care ilk.

Portia surveyed the rest of the company, scattered about the large drawing room, grouped about chairs and sofas, teacups in hand. The only guests still to arrive were Lady Hammond and her two daughters, expected later that afternoon.

James led Simon first to their host, his father, Harold, Lord Glossup, a well-built gentleman of middle age, who had made all his guests heartily welcome. Beside him stood George Buckstead, a solid country sort, an old friend of Harold’s and in much the same vein. Also of the group was Ambrose Calvin, a gentleman of somewhat different stamp. Ambrose was in his midthirties, and apparently determined on a political career, hence, Portia suspected, his presence here.