Percy was frowning. “I can’t see it. Why not let it out that you’re all as rich as bedammed? God knows, you Lesters have been regarded as nothing more than barely well-to-do for generations. Now that’s changed, why not reap the rewards?” His guileless expression was matched by his next words. “The debs would be yours for the asking-you could take your pick.”

Both Lester men bent looks of transparent sympathy upon their hapless friend.

Bewildered, Percy blinked and patiently waited to be set aright.

Unable to hold a candle to his long-time companions in the matter of manly attributes, he had long since become reconciled to his much slighter figure, his sloping shoulders and spindly shanks. More than reconciled-he had found his vocation as a Pink of the Ton. Dressing to disguise his shortcomings and polishing his address to overcome his innate shyness had led to yet another discovery; his newfound status spared him from the trial of chasing women. Both Jack and Harry thrived on the sport, but Percy’s inclinations were of a less robust nature. He adored the ladies-from a distance. In his estimation, his present style of life was infinitely preferable to the racy existence enjoyed by his companions.

However, as both Jack and Harry were well aware, his present lifestyle left him woefully adrift when it came to matters of strategy in handling the female of the species, particularly those dragons who menaced all rakes-the matrons of the ton.

And, naturally, with his mild manners and retiring ways, he was hardly the sort of gentleman who inhabited the debutantes’ dreams. All the Lester men-Jack, at thirty-six, with his dark good looks and powerful athlete’s physique, and Harry, younger by two years, his lithe figure forever graceful and ineffably elegant-and even twenty-four-yearold Gerald, with his boyish charm-were definitely the stuff of which females’ dreams were made.