“Nothing for it,” Barnaby declared. “I shall have to flee the capital.”

Gerrard grinned. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Yes it can. I tell you, Lady Oglethorpe isn’t looking to me just for escort duties. She has a gleam in her eye I mistrust, and if that wasn’t bad enough, the dreadful Melissa clasped her hands to her bosom-not a bad bosom, but the rest is hopeless-and fervently stated that yours truly was her ideal, and that no gentleman in the ton could hold a candle to my magnificence.” Barnaby grimaced horrendously. “Coming it a great deal too strong, as the pater would say-made me feel quite ill. And it’s June-don’t they know the hunting season’s over?”

Gerrard regarded his friend thoughtfully. Barnaby was the third son of an earl, and had inherited a substantial estate from a maternal aunt; like Gerrard, he was a prime target for matrons with daughters to establish. While Gerrard could and did use his painting as an excuse to avoid the worst of the invitations, Barnaby’s hobby of studying crime was a far less acceptable diversion.

“I suppose,” Barnaby mused, “I could go to m’sister’s, but I’m no longer sure she’s not dangerous, too.” His eyes narrowed. “If she invited the Oglethorpes to visit over summer…” He shuddered.

Gerrard leaned back and reached for his coffee cup. “If you’re set on escaping the dreadful Melissa, you could come with me to Cornwall.”

“Cornwall?” Barnaby blinked his blue eyes wide. “What’s in Cornwall?”

Gerrard told him.

Barnaby perked up.

“Mind you,” Gerrard warned, “there’ll be at least one unmarried young lady present, and where there’s one-”

“There’s usually a pack.” Barnaby nodded. “Nevertheless, I’ve handled all comers to now-it’s just Melissa, her mother, and the family connection that have so demoralized me.”