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“The subject hopes to rehabilitate his reputation, Mr. Meggett, and he cannot do so in the light of public ridicule. You will indulge me in this matter, I hope?”

Why would he? Bint had turned her down flat, and that was in the virtuous pursuit of a school to refine and educate young ladies. This was the business of peddling broadsides meant to skewer their subject.

But the guineas laid out on the counter decided Mr. Meggett. “Alexander, lad, the prints and plates, just as the lady wishes.” His son hastened to the back room while Mr. Meggett swept the coins into his palm. His expression mirrored that of the avid gentleman in Rowden’s print.

The junior Meggett reappeared with a cloth sack that did not seem very heavy when Sophronia took it. “You are certain this is all your inventory?” she asked.

Meggett turned up his hands. “We’ve sold some of the plates to other printers, Madam, and the prints sell well. I have no doubt done myself an injury in agreeing to your demands, but I am too much a gentleman to cause distress to a lady.”

He would be incensed when he realized she was no one of name or influence, just a woman with coin in her pocket. Sophronia lifted her chin. “And you will reimburse your artist for the trouble of turning to other subjects.”

“But of course, my lady. Zebedee Meggett is a man of his word.”

She held her head high as she departed the shop, aware of how keenly every other person in the store had been regarding this exchange, and that several of the spectators outside had been listening, too.

Mr. Gibbs met her with a questioning look. Sophronia turned to Sal. “What else is said of Mr. Rowden?”

Sal raised darkened brows. Her lips had been reddened with color and her skin made pale with what was no doubt lead makeup. She was a woman of business herself. Paint creased the lines around her mouth as she twisted her lips in thought.

“Well, they says he’s lost enough fortunes to last lifetimes, and him ain’t a man to cross. But he’s decent to his women, is what I’ve heard, and great skill in the feather-bed jig, though he don’t keep the flyers long.”

Sophronia was glad no one she knew was close enough to hear her pursue this line of questioning. “And does he often—pay for female companionship?”

“Not near enough to spread hisself round proper!” Sal cackled. “Took that Fanny Glass a world of cunning to nab him, and we all wants to know who he’ll take up with next.”

“I thank you for your time.” Sophronia discreetly withdrew a coin from her purse and passed it to the other woman, who, in a show of far less discretion, bit the silver to test it, then tucked her prize into her pocket.

Gibbs watched with alert interest. “It seems Rowden has a champion, Mrs. Hinton.”

“Far from it. My concerns are that he not anger Lord Denford, who has the power to make both our lives very unpleasant, and that he not injure the marital prospects of his cousin, who is on the hunt for a wife.” Satisfactory excuses that were not exactly lies, if not precisely the truth.

Sophronia watched Rowden lead Hercules back across the street, Nate driving the carriage behind him. He would not be pleased if he learned of the little comedy she had just staged. He would call her meddling for certain.

What was burned into her mind was the image of Fanny Glass, his mistress. In the print, she was blue-eyed, statuesque, and had dark blonde hair. She somewhat resembled Sophronia.

She didn’t know what to make of any of it. The lion he had bought her all those years ago, now residing through some unknown means in her husband’s office. His mistress. Their ridiculous wager, which she meant at all costs to win, mostly because she would permit no one to arrange another marriage for her, and especially not Rowden.

Had he loved Fanny Glass? Had he loved any woman? Was he really asking self-satisfied squires about access to their daughters? For Giles, or for himself?

He was more impressive in person than depicted in the print, striding through the bustling London street as if he were a lord of the realm. Hercules was a magnificent animal, and his owner exuded a similar sense of power and careless grace. Women were vying for this man’s attention, if Sal was to be believed.

This man was so different from the boy who had been her near-constant companion. She knew so little of him.

In all honesty, she was a bit afraid to find the man had grown so distant as to be unrecognizable, and that would mean the boy she’d loved was well and truly lost to her, gone forever.

But she could not ignore the whisper of her heart as she watched Rowden coming back to her. She did not always heed the advice of that organ, but she had always understood her heart.

She wanted to know Rowden, the man.

And she was playing a reckless game, wagering with a rogue who had made gambling his profession. Years ago, she had taken a gamble without fully understanding the consequences. Now, she had so much more to lose.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The day was warm and mild, but Aunt Dobbs decided she did not wish to walk to the Panorama, citing the dust, dirt, crowds, noise, and general nuisance of traffic on Piccadilly. This litany decided Giles to ride in the coach with her, and Sophronia immediately added herself and Miss Westall to the conveyance.

Rowden glared at Sophronia as they assembled in the entrance hall of the townhouse, waiting for Nate to bring round the coach. In the country, Sophronia walked everywhere. She was the sturdiest soul of his acquaintance, and she hated to be confined. He would wager his walking stick that she would rather ride Dulcinea beside him than sit demurely in the Denford equipage. She was simply taking another opportunity to thwart him and throw Miss Westall at Giles.

He was determined not to be thwarted.