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Fletcher would cross that milestone when he came to it.

Mayhap, he’d claim an early meeting or a forgotten issue that demanded his attention and depart directly after dining.

Poltroon. Coward.

No, he would not.

Fletcher would simply have to treat Rayne as he would any other debutante on the marriage mart.

Avoid her.

Remain coolly polite, detached, and unaffected.

He very much feared it was already far, far too late for any of that logic.

“Was I mistaken, Your Grace, or did you not wink at Rayne in Hyde Park earlier today?”

Miss Breckensole’s barely audible inquiry meant for his ears alone sucked the air from his lungs.

Fletcher choked on the mouthful of wine he’d sipped to wash the taste of carrot from his palate and nearly spewed the contents onto the snowy white tablecloth. Stinging tears burned his eyes as he forced the fermented liquid down his constricted, convulsing throat.

Shite.

He’d never be asked to dine in Polite Society again.

Another thought—this one filled with abject dismay—came swiftly on the heels of the first.

She saw me.

Jesus.

Ye werena so verra suave after all, were ye?

Miss Ophelia Breckensole gazed at him, her face a mask of benign innocence. Yet behind her politesse, there was a glint of something else in the shrewd hazel eyes that she leveled at him. Something steely and relentless and unforgiving, despite the placid, demure countenance she presented.

How to answer her?

Christ, save me.

Salvation came from a wholly unforeseen source.

Asherford, seated on Miss Breckensole’s other side, unexpectantly queried, “Miss Breckensole, will you be attending the Gravenstones’ masked ball next week? I’m going as a…a...”

Visibly struggling to summon a believable costume from thin air, his sharp gaze roved the room and settled jubilantly on the silk peacock-themed wallpaper.

“I’m going as a peacock,” he blurted.

A…?

What the hell?

A peacock?

Peacock?

The hoot of laughter that jolted to Fletcher’s throat damned near strangled him. He swiftly covered his mouth, but a muffled sound very much like a dying squirrel emerged nonetheless.

Flying vegetables. Screeching forks. Choking on wine. Making peculiar sounds?