If a man wanted to align himself with the most powerful families in Britain, he could do a lot worse than Hyacinth Bridgerton.

But if one took the time to reflect upon the timing of the proposals she had received, which Hyacinth didn’t care to admit that she had, it was starting to look damning indeed.

Three proposals her first season.

Two her second.

One last year.

And none thus far this time around.

It could only be argued that she was growing less popular. Unless, of course, someone was foolish enough actually to make the argument, in which case Hyacinth would have to take the other side, facts and logic notwithstanding.

And she’d probably win the point, too. It was a rare man—or woman—who could outwit, outspeak, or outdebate Hyacinth Bridgerton.

This might, she’d thought in a rare moment of self-reflection, have something to do with why her rate of proposals was declining at such an alarming pace.

No matter, she thought, watching the Smythe-Smith girls mill about on the small dais that had been erected at the front of the room. It wasn’t as if she should have accepted any of her six proposals. Three had been fortune hunters, two had been fools, and one had been quite terminally boring.

Better to remain unmarried than shackle herself to someone who’d bore her to tears. Even her mother, inveterate matchmaker that she was, couldn’t argue that point.

And as for her current proposal-free season—well, if the gentlemen of Britain couldn’t appreciate the inherent value of an intelligent female who knew her own mind, that was their problem, not hers.

Lady Danbury thumped her cane against the floor, narrowly missing Hyacinth’s right foot. “I say,” she said, “have either of you caught sight of my grandson?”

“Which grandson?” Hyacinth asked.

“Which grandson,” Lady D echoed impatiently. “Which grandson? The only one I like, that’s which.”

Hyacinth didn’t even bother to hide her shock. “Mr. St. Clair is coming tonight?”

“I know, I know,” Lady D cackled. “I can hardly believe it myself. I keep waiting for a shaft of heavenly light to burst through the ceiling.”

Penelope’s nose crinkled. “I think that might be blasphemous, but I’m not sure.”

“It’s not,” Hyacinth said, without even looking at her. “And why is he coming?”

Lady Danbury smiled slowly. Like a snake. “Why are you so interested?”

“I’m always interested in gossip,” Hyacinth said quite candidly. “About anyone. You should know that already.”

“Very well,” Lady D said, somewhat grumpily after having been thwarted. “He’s coming because I blackmailed him.”

Hyacinth and Penelope regarded her with identically arched brows.

“Very well,” Lady Danbury conceded, “if not blackmail, then a heavy dose of guilt.”

“Of course,” Penelope murmured, at the exact time Hyacinth said, “That makes much more sense.”

Lady D sighed. “I might have told him I wasn’t feeling well.”

Hyacinth was dubious. “Might have?”

“Did,” Lady D admitted.

“You must have done a very good job of it to get him to come tonight,” Hyacinth said admiringly. One had to appreciate Lady Danbury’s sense of the dramatic, especially when it resulted in such impressive manipulation of the people around her. It was a talent Hyacinth cultivated as well.

“I don’t think I have ever seen him at a musicale before,” Penelope remarked.

“Hmmmph,” Lady D grunted. “Not enough loose women for him, I’m sure.”

From anyone else, it would have been a shocking statement. But this was Lady Danbury, and Hyacinth (and the rest of the ton for that matter) had long since grown used to her rather startling turns of phrase.

And besides, one did have to consider the man in question.

Lady Danbury’s grandson was none other than the notorious Gareth St. Clair. Although it probably wasn’t entirely his fault that he had gained such a wicked reputation, Hyacinth reflected. There were plenty of other men who behaved with equal lack of propriety, and more than a few who were as handsome as sin, but Gareth St. Clair was the only one who managed to combine the two to such success.

But his reputation was abominable.

He was certainly of marriageable age, but he’d never, not even once, called upon a proper young lady at her home. Hyacinth was quite sure of that; if he’d ever even hinted at courting someone, the rumor mills would have run rampant. And furthermore, Hyacinth would have heard it from Lady Danbury, who loved gossip even more than she did.

And then, of course, there was the matter of his father, Lord St. Clair. They were rather famously estranged, although no one knew why. Hyacinth personally thought it spoke well of Gareth that he did not air his familial travails in public—especially since she’d met his father and thought him a boor, which led her to believe that whatever the matter was, the younger St. Clair was not at fault.

But the entire affair lent an air of mystery to the already charismatic man, and in Hyacinth’s opinion made him a bit of a challenge to the ladies of the ton. No one seemed quite certain how to view him. On the one hand, the matrons steered their daughters away; surely a connection with Gareth St. Clair could not enhance a girl’s reputation. On the other hand, his brother had died tragically young, almost a year earlier, and now he was the heir to the barony. Which had only served to make him a more romantic—and eligible—figure. Last month Hyacinth had seen a girl swoon—or at least pretend to—when he had deigned to attend the Bevelstoke Ball.