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He was not wearing costly clothes or jewels, although he had dressed more carefully than usual.

He adjusted his waistcoat and touched his cravat. His valet had tied his cravat in a perfect Osbaldeston—uncomplicated, neat, and clean.

Imagining Lenora’s reaction to the yew-maze knot she'd grabbed certainly differed from purposefully preparing to catch her eye, of course.

He journeyed onward around the corner, hoping for a chance to speak with Lord Hampton before escorting Preston and Amelia to the Exchange. As suspected, he found Preston balanced atop his velocipede.

“Ah! Asquith!” Preston called out as he wobbled to a stop. “What they say is true! Candlelight is a great deceiver. In sunlight, you look positively haggard.”

“Preston.” He smirked as he inclined his head. “Have you developed a squint?”

Preston grinned.

With a chin lift, Asquith indicated Preston’s feet. “Take care with those boots. The way you use your heels to stop will not earn your valet’s goodwill.”

“Oh, he’s used to scuffs. They were far worse at first. Now, I can go the entire length of the square with only one push. And I’m better at judging my stopping distance.”

“Impressive,” Asquith replied. “And how many pairs of boots have you ruined?”

“Four. But the ones I mussed last night had nothing to do with the velocipede.” Preston leaned in. “Too much gin at The Plow. Cast up my accounts and tore the tassels. Surprised I can balance at all this morning.”

Asquith understood the reference. The Golden Bough had once been a respectable dockside gin house favored by well-connected, spirited young men. Last Season, a cunning individual had converted its upper floors into a private brothel. Ever since, younger patrons had taken to calling the tavern The Plow.

But the name was a little too crude for his tastes.

“Stock there’s not to be believed.” Preston whistled. “There’s one doxy with ditties and a tight bite—”

“Ah-hem.” Asquith cleared his throat. “Slightly coarse, wouldn’t you say?”

Preston scoffed. “If you can’t indulge in loose talk about pushing—”

“I’d rather not indulge in loose talk at all. Especially in public.”

“Forgot myself.” Preston reddened. “I could get you an invitation if you’d like.”

“Thank you, but no. A man is likely to meet his ruin in such a place.”

“Not this man.” Preston flashed a smile. “I know my limits.”

Did he? Asquith wondered.

“’Melia should be down soon. Or”—the boy rolled his eyes—“could be hours yet. You know ladies. Everything must be just so.”

Asquith took in Preston’s starched mathematical tie, his dark blue coat’s cinched waist, and his nankeen trousers. No doubt, the fellow had taken just as much care with his person as his sister.

Preston’s disparaging tone, taken together with his earlier vulgarity, suggested the young man had fallen in with a rowdy crowd. But in that boyish smile, Asquith could see the charming lad Preston had been.

He wondered which version would win the young man’s inner contest for character—the budding dandy, or the dawning dissolute?

Perhaps he could tip the balance? Neville had once guided him in such a fashion.

“Come.” He put a palm on Preston’s shoulder. “Hand that monstrosity off to a footman. We can stretch our legs in the square whilst waiting.”

“Capital!” Preston exclaimed. “Sure you don’t want to try? I know I’m half your age, but...”

“Try balancing on two wheels while mucking up my boots? No.” Asquith slanted a smile. “We ‘old men’ like to keep our dignity.”

Preston handed off his dandy horse. Then he fell into step with Asquith.