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“Hardly my cousin. He must be two or three times removed,” Silvester pointed out.

“Irrelevant. He spent the night at Germain’s Hotel, and he will move here this morning.” She turned to the butler. “Wickford, pay attention, if you please. Tell the housekeeper to open the green suite. It has the largest wardrobe. As I recall, Harold never travels with fewer than three trunks.”

The butler bowed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Silvester flicked him a sardonic glance. He knew perfectly well that Wickford not only paid attention to all conversations, but made a habit of listening at doors, the better to gather material to sell to gossip columns.

Which explained why his sisters, who hadn’t yet debuted and were allowed to attend only events hosted by their mother, regularly appeared in the newspapers.

“We’ll take him around society with us,” the dowager continued. “His mother writes that he plans to marry and move to Paris, where he will open a laughing gas salon.”

“A what?”

“Surely you’ve heard of it. A gas made from iron filings and nitric acid.”

Of course, his mother knew the formula. “I remember fools trying it at Oxford,” Silvester said. “It made them giggle like dairymaids. But a ‘salon’?”

“His mother says that the gas is offered at parties nowadays.”

“Not parties that I attend,” Silvester said. “I suppose Harold is looking for a large dowry to finance his scheme.”

“Of course,” the dowager replied. “His mother quite rightly refuses to allow him to draw funds from the estate. Moreover, he needs a lady to act as his hostess and read aloud poetry and such.” The duchess was uninterested by most social gatherings and had only the faintest idea what took place in them.

“It’s a laughing gas salon, not a literary salon,” Silvester pointed out.

“After the Scavenger Hunt tomorrow, I shall send Pansy and Holly to visit my sister in the country,” the dowager said thoughtfully. “My daughters will not marry a giggler, and Harold is remarkably pretty for a man.”

“The last time he was in London, he followed Beau Brummell around like a duckling, albeit one in frills and lace.”

“His mother complains that Harold is fashionable and expensive, not unlike Brummell,” the dowager said. “Wickford, this milk has gone quite cold.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Wickford looked regretful.

“Fetch hot milk from the kitchen,” Silvester ordered, when the butler showed no sign of moving.

After the door closed, he added, “We have to let that fellow go. He’s not only lazy, but he’s making a fortune selling lies to the gossip columns.”

“Hmmm,” his mother said vaguely. Domestic duties did not interest her. “I believe Wickford has corns, and it’s quite a walk to the kitchens.”

“Harold is presumably following Beau Brummell to Paris,” Silvester said, returning to the matter at hand. “Brummell fled the country last month, leaving a raft of gambling debts.”

The dowager pursed her lips. “I never liked Brummell. Though his edict regarding the brushing of teeth has improved the air quality in ballrooms.”

“I suspect the laughing gas salon will offer opportunities for gambling, rather than poetry readings.”

“I shall bring Harold to that Boodle woman’s tea party this afternoon. She can be counted on to limit her invitations to young ladies with substantial dowries.”

Silvester finished his ham. If his cousin wanted money to back his salon, he’d have to venture into the lion’s den. Lady Boodle would be guarding the cave.

“You will accompany us,” his mother continued.

“No, I will not.”

“I need you to get us through the door. Your sisters aren’t out, so I can’t use them as an excuse. Lady Boodle won’t have invited gentlemen, but she’ll make an exception for you. She would like her daughter Blanche to be a duchess.” The dowager’s voice had a clipped edge of distaste.

Silvester was used to being eyed like a piece of prime beef, but that didn’t mean he allowed lionesses to snap at his toes. Moreover, Blanche was one of those young ladies who fancied themselves clever thanks to an ability to make unkind comments. Like Lady Lydia, her best friend. “Never.”

“The sooner Harold finds a fiancée, the sooner he’ll take her off to France,” his mother said, waggling her eyebrows. “Until then, you will have to escort him to your club. To that boxing salon. To Almack’s. It’s the least you can do.” More eyebrow waggling.