Charlie welcomed him with a grin, but his artful patter didn’t falter; he was well launched on turning Miss Buckstead’s giddy head. Not that he meant anything by it; Charlie simply loved to flirt. With his curling golden hair, dark brown eyes, and even, fashionable drawl, he was an ornament of the ton greatly sought after by ladies of taste and discernment.

The point ladies discerned, usually with exemplary rapidity, was that Charlie was, in most cases, all talk and no action. Not that he didn’t indulge when it suited him; it simply rarely did.

Even Miss Buckstead, naive though she was, seemed quite unconcerned, laughing and parrying Charlie’s almost-but-not-quite-risqué comments.

Simon smiled and sipped his tea. Both he and Charlie knew they were safe with Miss Buckstead; it was James she had her naive eyes set upon.

Under cover of the chatter, he surveyed the company. The purpose of the gathering was clearly to acknowledge ties-with the Archers, Kitty’s family, and the Bucksteads, old friends, and the Calvins and the Hammonds, useful connections. An entirely normal collection of guests, but with Lucy Buckstead present, Simon could appreciate James’s strategy in ensuring a few extra gentlemen attended.

He didn’t begrudge James the days; it was, at base, what friends were for. He did, however, wonder what entertainment he himself might find to fill the time until he could safely leave James and continue on to Somerset.

His gaze came to rest on the trio of ladies standing by the other set of windows. Winifred Archer, Drusilla Calvin, and Portia. The latter were of an age, around twenty-four, a few years younger than Kitty, whose giddy laughter reached him over the hum of more restrained conversations.

Portia glanced at Kitty, then returned to the discussion between Winifred and Drusilla.

Winifred had her back to her sister and gave no sign of having heard her shrill mirth. Winifred was older; Simon judged her to be closer to his own twenty-nine years.