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almost hugging herself with glee.
    Charles tore his eyes away from Jillian to look at Octavia. “The horse has never won anything in its life; I’ve even heard tell it has a wooden leg.”
    Octavia was unruffled. “The creature will not dare to lose for me, especially as I am celebrating the King’s birth day the next day.”
    Lord Gainsford was smiling. “Well, I wish you well, Octavia, although I can’t say I approve of ladies involving themselves in gambling.”
    “Don’t be so pompous,” she retorted. “Besides this isn’t gambling, it’s backing a certainty.”
    “I suppose you are in with a knowing one?”
    “With the Duke of Grafton himself, to say nothing of the jockey, Frank Buckle. They inform me that Tyrant cannot fail, and I believe them. I shall be there myself to cheer the brute home.”
    Jillian was shocked. “You are going to the Derby, Your Grace?”
    “Why, yes, I wouldn’t miss it, Epson has the most in iquitous EO and faro tables!”
    “But don’t they also have fairs and crowds of the most disreputable sort?” asked Jillian, obviously shocked that a lady of such high rank should be attending so vulgar and popular a race meeting.
    Octavia chuckled again. “Of course they do, my dear. There are similar crowds at Ascot, only there they mas querade as high society. You’ll see for yourself when you join my house party for Ascot week.”
    “Are we joining you?” Jillian glanced uncertainly at Alabeth, who nodded.
    “Why, yes, Octavia has kindly asked us to be her guests at Stoneleigh Park, which is barely a mile from Ascot race course.”
    Lord Gainsford beckoned a footman to refill his glass. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to,” he grumbled. “This damned Peace of Amiens has sent the whole world mad, completely mad. There’s more money being squandered on leisure and pleasure this summer than ever before, and all because people are foolish enough to believe Bonaparte to be sincere.”
    Jillian was fearful that the conversation would turn upon the boring topic of the First Consul’s political machinations, and she hastily intervened. “Well, at least the peace means that Count Adam Zaleski will be coming to Town.”
    Lord Gainsford nodded, “Aye, a pretty fellow from all accounts, guaranteed to have all the ladies swooning at the sight of him.”
    “What is he like?” asked Alabeth. “Has anyone here seen him yet? Octavia?”
    “No,” replied the Duchess. “Like Gainsford, I only know what is said of him. He’s reputed to be quite the most divine of creatures, all golden and angelic, and yet full of Polish fire. Why do you ask? Have you heard some thing interesting?”
    Alabeth lowered her eyes. “No.”
    “You’ve aroused my curiosity—”
    “It’s nothing, truly it isn’t.”
    Jillian warmed to the subject of the Count. “I simply can’t wait to see him.”
    Charles was scornful. “I’m given to understand that he’s nothing more than a salon musician, a little gaudy, and reliant upon his looks to carry him through.”
    Jillian’s eyes flashed with annoyance and Octavia reproved him a little. “Nonsense, Charles, you don’t know what you’re talking about. I have it on most reliable evidence that he is indeed a virtuoso of the first order and can bring forth more life from the pianoforte than anyone else in the world.”
    Charles was determined to be unimpressed, and Alabeth knew that it was because he was jealous of Jillian’s interest in the Count, for he went on, “I trust you are right, Octavia, for I am already heartily sick and tired of hearing the fellow’s name. Zaleski, Zaleski, Zaleski, that’s all one hears from morning till night, in every drawing room, club, or pleasure garden.”
    Jillian was superior. “And you will continue to hear of him, sir, because he is a genius, a veritable magician of music, and I pray with all my heart that I will be fortunate enough to be one of his pupils.” She looked at Octavia. “He is still