A Perfect Scoundrel

Chapter 1

London 1813

She had loved him from the very first moment she saw him.

Jane Wentworth clasped her hands in her lap, her heart leaping as the majordomo ushered Lord Quentin Somerville into the drawing room. Oh, but he looked handsome this morning, so handsome that the sight of him quite stole her breath away.

Always impeccably dressed, today his lordship was the picture of urbane elegance. His coat, tailored to perfection and cut in the latest bobtail style, was a deep azure blue, and be­neath it he wore a bright red waistcoat and immaculately starched linen. Hungry, as always, to view every magnificent inch of him, she furtively dropped her gaze lower to admire the fit of his nankeen trousers and the way his gleaming Hes­sians molded to his strong calves.

Perfection. Utter perfection. She had just shifted back up to his watch fob and was admiring its jeweled design when he stopped before the tête-à-tête upon which she sat with her stepsister, Clarissa Edwardes.

Miss Edwardes. Miss Wentworth, he murmured, sketch­ing a bow.

As always happened when in his dazzling presence, the normally outspoken Jane was struck speechless and was thus unable to respond but for a stiff nod.

Her stepsister, however, suffered from no such bashfulness. Why, Lord Quentin, how very kind of you to call on us, she exclaimed, smiling the smile that had captured the hearts of the entire ton.

Had Jane been able to smile herself, she’d have done so at Clarissa’s use of the word us. Though the dear girl would no doubt have denied the fact until she was blue in the face, Lord Quentin, like the other nine gentlemen in the room, had come to see Clarissa, and only Clarissa.

Lovely, vivacious Rissa, as her stepsister was called by her friends and family, was the undisputed success of the Season, while Jane—well, she had begun to hear the terms last prayer and "on the shelf’ used in conjunction with her name of late. And with good reason. This was her fifth Season, and as with her first four she had again failed to attract a beau.

That wasn’t to say she completely lacked male attention. With her rich dowry there was always a debt-ridden wastrel or two eager to make her acquaintance. But Jane, being of the opinion that no husband at all was better than one she could neither love nor respect, always discouraged such for­tune hunters out of hand. Besides, she had no interest in marrying any man save one, and at the moment he was gaz­ing at her stepsister with the adoration she dreamed he would one day direct toward her.

Oh, she knew it was a hopeless dream, for never once in al­most five years, years in which she and his lordship had moved in the same circles, attended the same soirees, musi­cals, and balls, had he indicated so much as a spark of ro­mantic interest in her. Yet she continued to dream, clinging to the hope that he would someday come to love her as she loved him. And though she knew she was a fool for doing so, she couldn’t help herself. Besides, where was the joy in living without dreams?

Aching with bittersweet yearning, Jane watched as he sat among Clarissa’s bevy of admirers, awed, as she always was, how the other men seemed to pale, and then fade, beside his masculine beauty. And Lord Quentin Somerville was beauti­ful, undeniably so.

Lowering her lashes to hide her interest, Jane continued her infatuated scrutiny while Rissa dazzled her beaux with her much-admired wit. She studied him not to memorize his form or features—those were engraved upon her heart. She did so because she simply couldn’t keep her eyes off him.

Thus she passed the time as she always did when he called, first examining his person, then remembering how he had looked in past Seasons, and now marveling at how he grew handsomer with every passing year. This Season his appear­ance had taken on a decidedly artistic, and in her opinion, ro­mantic, quality. His hair in particular.

Like all the gentlemen in his set, a set currently absorbed in the rage of composing poetry, Lord Quentin had grown his hair until it just swept his shoulders. Unlike those other gen­tlemen, however, who managed to look merely unkempt, his hair curled naturally, creating a glorious mane of dark ma­hogany ringlets. Those ringlets, so fat and glossy, framed his handsome face and tumbled over his brow, emphasizing his amethyst eyes in a way that was nothing short of stunning.

As Jane admired the effect, he laughed at something Rissa said, flashing strong, white teeth and a rakish pair of dimples. Instantly she was besieged with a faint, familiar fluttering deep in her belly. Disturbed by her response, she tore her gaze away. After a beat during which she frantically looked every­where except at Lord Quentin, she dropped her gaze to her hands. The moment she did so, she almost groaned aloud.

Hateful things! They were wringing together like those of the overwrought heroines in Mrs. Smith’s novels. Praying that no one had noticed their telltale motion, she pried them apart and commanded them to lie still. They had just begun to obey when she heard her stepsister utter her name, as if in query.

Anxious at being called to attention, certain that she would be struck dumb or, worse yet, say something stupid, she re­luctantly looked up.

Lord Quentin asked if we are looking forward to Lady Kirkham’s masqued ball next week, Rissa said, giving her an encouraging smile. Aware of Jane’s feelings for his lordship and wishing to help further her cause, Clarissa had taken to deferring his lordship’s questions to her. Though Jane appre­ciated her stepsister’s good intentions, she lived in dread of such moments as this.

Not, of course, that she would ever tell Rissa of her feel­ings. Rissa was a dear, sweet girl who would be beyond wretched if she learned that she’d caused her stepsister even the smallest measure of distress. And because Jane loved her so, she’d sooner die than say anything that might bring her grief. Thus she forced herself to return the other woman’s smile and croak, Yes.

There followed a pause, during which the gentlemen po­litely waited for her to elaborate. As she miserably grappled for something to add, Rissa gave her hand a quick squeeze and came to her rescue. "Our Jane has created the most orig­inal costume for the ball. Clever girl that she is, she has de­cided to go as— she broke off with a small laugh. Oh, but of course I mustn’t tell. I shan’t. It is a masqued ball, after all, and you gentlemen are supposed to guess at the ladies’ iden­tities."

You can disguise your beautiful face, Miss Edwardes, but I shall know you the instant you walk into the room. You float like an angel upon the clouds of heaven. The duke of Goolding waxed poetic, his jowly face as rapturous as his words.

And I should know your voice. ’Tis like the sweetest of celestial music, interjected Viscount Dutnall, not to be out­done by his rival.

One by one, the other gentlemen rushed to add their flow­ery tributes, praising everything from the tilt of Rissa’s head to the way she carried her fan. All except Lord Quentin.

Jane stole a glance at him. He lounged in a Sheraton chair, his eyebrows raised and his arms folded across his chest, looking immensely amused by the other men’s fawning. For the first time since being in his presence, she smiled. For all his dedication to poetry, he wasn’t given to cooing insipid, prosy praise. No. When he flattered a woman, he did so in a straightforward yet gallant manner, one that left little doubt as to the sincerity of his esteem.

At least that is what she’d heard said by women who had received his compliments, and they weren’t inclined to lie. In­deed, so admired was Lord Quentin by those ladies, and a good many others in the ton as well, that had he not been a second son they would have been tripping all over themselves in their rush to set their caps for him. As it was, more than one had professed a willingness to forgo the titles and greater for­tunes of their other suitors for the sheer pleasure of being his wife. To Jane’s eternal relief, he had yet to declare himself to any of them.

When at last the poetry duel ceased, leaving Rissa prettily flushed from the glut of flattery, Lord Quentin finally spoke. As you can see, ladies, your attempts to disguise yourselves shall be quite in vain. Hence, you might as well spill the bag and save us poor gentlemen the torment of wondering at your costumes.

Jane felt a surge of gratitude at his use of the words ladies and yourselves. He was being gallant, of course. For she knew perfectly well that none of the gentlemen, most proba­bly including himself, had the least bit of interest in learning her disguise. Indeed, she doubted if, the day after the ball, any of them would even be able to answer correctly whether or not she had attended.

Not that she cared to be noticed—well, except by Lord Quentin, of course. No, she was perfectly content to sit alone, observing those around her. She’d found that one learned a great deal about people by watching them, and after five sea­sons of doing little else, she probably knew more about the members of the ton from her observations than their confi­dantes knew from their conversation.

Well, Jane? Rissa queried, interrupting her musings. What do you say? Shall we tell them?

Though Jane would have preferred to keep her costume a secret, being hopeful that Lord Quentin might notice it and be intrigued enough to ask her to dance, she nodded. She could see from the sparkle in her stepsister’s eyes that she was burst­ing to tell. No doubt she wished to ensure that she was asked to stand up for every dance, though Jane felt certain she had nothing to fear. As the men said, it would be impossible for Clarissa to hide her charms.

Well, in that instance … Grinning impishly, Rissa slanted her suitors a glance.

All the gentlemen, save Lord Quentin, leaned forward, eager to learn her disguise. They no doubt planned to use the advantage to claim all her dances before her other admirers had a chance to identify her.

As you know, the theme of the ball is ‘An Evening on Mount Olympus,’ her stepsister began, and …

And a devilishly fine theme it is, boomed Lord Witley, or Lord Witless, as the harebrained young man was referred to by his peers. By the exasperation on the other men’s faces, it was clear that they thought his interruption yet another justi­fication for his unflattering nickname.

Very fine, indeed, as shall be the ball, Rissa concurred. I hear tell that Lady Kirkham is having her ballroom trans­formed into a glittering Grecian temple set among clouds. The host and hostess are to reign over the merriment from bejeweled thrones, disguised as Zeus and Thetis. Thetis, as you might recall, was the sea nymph whom Zeus loved but didn’t dare wed. Lady Kirkham said that she chose to portray her, rather than Zeus’s wife, Hera, because she finds the tale deli­riously romantic.

You don’t say? murmured the flame-haired Lord Henson, exchanging a look of dismay with the stout, yet im­mensely wealthy, Lord Beveridge.

Jane was hard-pressed not to laugh aloud. What a minx Rissa was, tormenting the poor gentlemen like that. The slyboots knew that they were in an awful stew to learn of her costume, and she had chosen to tease them by changing the subject.

Nodding, her stepsister rattled on. There is to be an oracle beneath the oak tree in the garden, from which shall fall golden stars bearing the answer to whatever question one chooses to ask. The answers are to be written in riddle, which Lord Gramshaw, who shall be dressed as a mystical priest, will interpret.

Er, how very amusing. This was from Viscount Dutnall.

Rissa nodded again. More amusing yet, the menu is to be comprised entirely of foods described as ambrosia, though I simply cannot imagine what sorts of foods those might be. She paused a beat to ponder. Hmm. If I am not mistaken, there is a dessert of oranges and coconut called ambrosia. Per­haps all the dishes shall contain either oranges or coconut, or a combination of the two. What do you think, Lord Fitton?

The earl of Fitton, a smug, rather pompous sort of gentle­man who more than made up in wealth for what he lacked in looks and personality, preened like a peacock beneath her re­gard. I think your guess quite clever, my dearest Miss Ed­wardes.

Rissa graced him with a beatific smile, then slanted a meaningful glance at Jane. And what say you, Lord Quentin?

Rather than answer with the eager-to-please immediacy that the other men demonstrated, Lord Quentin took his time to consider her question. After several moments, during which Jane didn’t dare breathe for fear of missing a single word of his response, he slowly smiled and replied, I agree with Lord Fitton that your guess is quite clever. Since, how­ever, the Kirkham cook is decidedly lacking in both skill and originality, my prediction is that we shall be served his in­evitable menu of beef Tremblant and pickled grapes.

The corpulent Lord Beveridge groaned aloud at that prospect.

Rissa laughed. Except for Lord Quentin, who merely con­tinued to smile, the other men laughed with her, stopping abruptly when she did. No doubt you are right, my lord, she said. Then she fell silent, leaving her admirers to glance at each other helplessly.

Jane bit her lip to keep from giggling. The men were grow­ing visibly uneasy, most probably wondering if Rissa was going to reveal her costume and trying to think of a way to broach the subject should she continue to stray off course. If the game continued true to form, they would start dropping hints any moment now to nudge the conversation back in the desired direction.

It was the balding, sharp-featured Mr. Cuddimore who dropped the first hint. The menu aside, the ball should prove an excellent affair. It shall be most amusing to see the dis­guises and guess at the identity of their wearers.

Most amusing, Rissa serenely agreed.

Another glance among the gentlemen, one that eventually funneled to Lord Henson. Having been thus elected, he deliv­ered the second hint. "A-hem! I, for one, am having difficulty deciding whether to go as Helios, the Sun God, or Hephaes­tus, God of Fire. Which do you ladies think most fitting?"

Hephaestus, Jane surprised herself by replying. With your red hair, you shall make a wonderful fire god.

Rissa eyed him thoughtfully, then nodded. Yes, I do be­lieve you are correct, Jane. She nodded again, then trans­ferred her gaze to the man seated to the would-be fire god’s left. And what about you, Lord Beveridge? Who shall you be? As he opened his mouth to reply, she cut him off with a wave of her hand. No. On second thought, let us guess. You go first, Jane.

Not daring to look away from Rissa for fear of seeing Lord Quentin and losing her tongue, she promptly said, King Midas.

By Jove, that is correct, Lord Beveridge exclaimed, sounding genuinely surprised. How ever did you know?

Rather than point out his obvious fondness for gold, which today was evidenced by a pair of gold watches, gold fobs, gold buttons, a gold-topped cane, three gold rings, and an enormous gold cravat pin, she replied, I can assure you that it was nothing more than a lucky guess.

That statement was greeted by a soft chuckle, one that she instantly recognized. Very lucky, indeed, Lord Quentin drawled. By his tone it was apparent that he knew exactly how she had come by her so-called guess. And since you seem to have such luck at this game, let us see if you can guess whom I have chosen to portray.

His challenge left her with no choice but to look at him. Hoping that her face wasn’t as red as it felt, she reluctantly glanced his way. He returned her gaze with a smile, his cheeks dimpling in a way that always wreaked chaos on her emo­tions …

And her tongue. Oh, dear! However was she to reply when he smiled at her like that?

Well, Jane? Rissa murmured, giving her hand a squeeze. Who do you suppose Lord Quentin shall be? Heracles, the hero god, perhaps? Or maybe the valiant Perseus?

His smile broadened into a devastating grin.

Adonis, she blurted out. He is a perfect Adonis. The in­stant the love-struck words left her mouth, she wanted to die, especially when the gentlemen chuckled.

Always the mistress of every situation, Rissa again came to her rescue. I think that a perfectly wonderful guess, Jane. With his curls and dimples, Lord Quentin does bear a re­markable resemblance to Lady Saxby’s garden sculpture of Adonis.

To Jane’s relief, his lordship appeared to accept the expla­nation. Indeed? Well, in that instance, I shall keep your ob­servation in mind the next time I am called upon to disguise myself as a mythological character. He nodded. Since, however, I was unaware of the resemblance, I have chosen to portray not Adonis but Morpheus, God of Dreams.

An even better choice, for did he not rule her dreams, both sleeping and awake?

Now that you know my disguise, might I guess at yours? he smoothly inquired.

Jane didn’t miss the looks of gratitude the other gentlemen shot his way.

But, of course. Fair is fair, Rissa replied.

Do guess Aphrodite, Somerville, chimed in Lord Witley. If anyone can properly portray the Goddess of Love, it is our beauteous Miss Edwardes.

No. She should be Pandora, the first and most beautiful woman, Lord Goolding interjected worshipfully.

Eos. This was from Mr. Cuddimore. With her flame-blushed golden hair, Eos, Goddess of the Dawn, is the most logical choice.

I cast my vote for the incomparable Andromeda, volun­teered the thus far silent Lord Endicott.

Helen of Troy, Viscount Dutnall inserted, while Lord Henson and the bashful Mr. Betton added votes for Psyche and Artemis.

As for Lord Quentin, he merely listened, shaking his head at each suggestion. No, no, he finally said. Miss Edwardes is far too clever to chose anything so obvious. My guess is that she shall be one of the Graces.

Rissa laughed. You are all wrong, though Lord Quentin came closest. I shall be attending as one of the Muses. She glanced at Jane. Shall I tell them which one?

You might as well, she replied, amused by the men’s competitive zeal. They shall eventually plague you into telling, you know.

Indeed we shall, Lord Henson gaily concurred. We shan’t give you a moment’s peace until you spill the bag.

Rissa glanced from one gentleman to the other, each of whom nodded his accord with Lord Henson. Finally she sighed and said, You win. I shall be disguised as Urania, Muse of Astronomy. As the men released a collective sigh of relief, she added, Now, you must all guess at Jane’s cos­tume.

A long, leaden silence greeted that command. After several uncomfortable moments, during which no one looked even the least bit inclined to venture a guess, Viscount Dutnall glanced at the mantel clock and exclaimed, My word! Will you look at the time? I was due at my mother’s house ten min­utes ago.

And I am due at my tailor’s, chimed in Lord Fitton.

One by one the gentlemen excused themselves until only Mr. Cuddimore and Lord Quentin remained. That the former stayed surprised Jane; that the latter had done so warmed her soul.

Well now, Miss Edwardes. What shall we discuss? The theater, perhaps? I know how fond you are of plays, Mr. Cuddimore said, once the last farewell had been tendered.

You gentlemen were guessing at Miss Wentworth’s dis­guise, she reminded him, smiling at Jane.

He looked as pained as if he sat on a pin. Yes. Of course.

And your guess, sir? Rissa prompted.

He gave a disinterested shrug. I can’t begin to imagine.

Indeed? Both Rissa’s utterance and her gaze were like shards of ice—frigid and sharp. Instantly seeing his mistake in slighting her stepsister, he scrambled to make amends by declaring himself a dull fellow. But it was too late, Rissa had already transferred her attention to Lord Quentin.

And what is your guess, my lord? she sweetly inquired. I do hope you are more imaginative than poor, dull Mr. Cud­dimore.

Jane tensed as she waited for him to reply. Would he act the gallant she believed him to be and grant her the courtesy of a thoughtful guess? Or would he disappoint her with a random, disinterested response?

As she waited, his arresting gaze slowly moved to her face. After several beats of contemplation, beats during which her heart remained firmly lodged in her throat, he said, Is she to be a Muse as well? Euterpe, Muse of Music, perhaps? As I re­call, she is quite skilled on the pianoforte.

Jane managed a shy smile. Of course he hadn’t disap­pointed her. What a goose she was to have imagined that he might. For while it was true that he’d never paid her any spe­cial notice, he’d always been kind, which was more than she could say for most of the men in the ton. That in itself was one of the qualities that so endeared him to her.

True to his charming manner, he returned her smile. Did I guess correctly, Miss Wentworth?

There was something so gentle, so very encouraging about his smile that she found the confidence to reply, I am afraid not, my lord, though I thank you for the compliment on my musical skills.

No need to thank me. I speak only the truth. Having thus fulfilled his gentlemanly duty, she expected he would return his attention to Rissa. Instead, he tipped his head to one side and said, Well?

She blinked, taken aback. My lord?

His smile broadened, displaying his dimples in all their tongue-tying glory. Are you going to reveal your disguise? Or are you going to continue to torment us with suspense?

It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping in her astonishment. Beyond flattered by his interest, and the ability to speak, she simply returned his gaze.

Once again Rissa rescued her. Oh, no, you don’t, Jane. I shan’t allow you to keep your disguise a secret after convinc­ing me to reveal mine. Giving Jane a fond hug, she an­nounced, My dearest stepsister shall be going as Iris, the Rainbow Goddess. And a more cunning costume I have never seen.

I look forward to seeing it, Lord Quentin murmured, and to Jane’s delight he sounded sincere.

Could it be that he had noticed her at last?

Quentin Somerville stalked into the drawing room of his bachelor quarters, badly in need of a drink. Damn Miss Edwardes’s legions of suitors; damn them for courting her and damn them for the tenacity with which they did so. Most of all, damn them for their titles and superior fortunes. How the hell was he, a mere second son with only a tumbled-down es­tate in Worcestershire and twelve thousand pounds a year, to win her against such competition?

His mood growing fouler by the second, he marched to the sideboard and seized the nearest decanter. Without bothering to identify its contents, he poured himself a double measure of the intoxicant and tossed it down in a single gulp.

That bad, eh? came a sardonic voice from nearby.

Quentin choked on the gin?—or was it whiskey?—in his surprise. His throat burning and his eyes watering, he swung around to glare at his best friend and fellow house tenant, Ju­lian Palmer, Viscount Oxley, who lay sprawled on the worn crimson sofa, imbibing as well.

What are you doing here? I thought you were off dancing attendance on Miss Talcott, he growled, not particularly pleased to see his friend. Though Oxley was the best of com­panions in most instances, he dismissed love as missish twad­dle, thus making him the last person with whom he wished to discuss his problem.

Oxley heaved an exaggerated sigh. Alas, it didn’t go any better for me than it apparently went for you. I was turned away from Miss Talcott’s door with news of her engagement to Lord Buchner. Another sigh. Ah, well. I shall just have to set my sights on another well-dowered chit. I was thinking on Miss Wilkins, though her ears are rather large and stick out too much. He paused a beat to drain his glass, then added, I suppose I could grow used to those ears for the forty thousand her guardian is offering to have her taken off his hands.

Always the romantic, eh, Oxley? Quentin muttered, eye­ing the decanter from which he’d poured his drink. No won­der his throat felt blistered. He’d drunk the cheap gin they kept on hand to serve their foxed, and hence less than dis­criminating, visitors.

Oxley stared at him in genuine astonishment. What is this? You, the King of Rakes, chiding me for a lack of senti­ment? Don’t tell me that you’ve been felled by Cupid’s arrow?

It seems so, he reluctantly admitted.

There was a long pause, one during which Oxley gaped at him as if he’d sprouted horns. Then he sighed yet again and murmured, Oh, my. How very unfortunate.

Quentin shoved aside the gin with a force that made the de­canter stopper rattle, and reached for their best brandy. It is unfortunate only in that I haven’t a thief’s chance in heaven of winning the girl’s hand.

Another pause, then, Do you really wish to wed her that badly? This was uttered softly and in a tone free of irony.

Yes. I do. Quentin filled his glass with the brandy, after which he held up the decanter in mute offering.

The other man nodded his acceptance. I must say that I’m surprised by all this.

Carrying his glass in one hand and the decanter in the other, Quentin moved to where Oxley lounged. As he deposited the decanter on the cluttered tea table before him, he replied, I can assure you that no one is more so than I. Like you, I al­ways believed love to be nothing more than a delusion prompted by the reading of too many romantic novels. But now— he broke off, shaking his head.

Are you certain you’re truly in love and not just suffering from frustrated lust? I saw your mistress in the park yesterday, and she complained that you have neglected her quite dread­fully of late. Perhaps all you need is a quick tussle between the sheets to restore your senses.

Quentin more fell than sat in the chair opposite his friend. Trouble is, I have no interest in bedding anyone but Miss Ed­wardes. Indeed, I doubt I could become aroused enough to do anything with anyone else.

Surely you jest? Oxley looked as appalled as if his friend had just confessed to murder.

Quentin’s only response was to drain his glass.

Oxley shook his head, his expression sympathetic. You poor, poor fellow. You truly are in a bad way.

You can’t even begin to imagine, he muttered, pouring himself a refill.

Oxley eyed him gloomily for a beat, then sat up and fol­lowed suit. When he had resumed his lounging position, full glass in hand, he said, It seems that the only thing for you to do is to marry the chit. There is nothing to restore a man’s ap­petite for his mistress and the pleasures of Town quicker than a wife.

Quentin snorted. If I thought that I had even the slightest chance of winning her, we wouldn’t be having this conversa­tion.

What makes you so certain she would turn you down? I’ve seen the way she and her stepsister—uh—Oxley snapped his fingers twice, then made a dismissive hand mo­tion—whatever her name is, whisper and watch you every time you’re in company together. If that doesn’t signify inter­est, I don’t know what does.

Jane Wentworth. The stepsister’s name is Jane Went­worth, he miserably supplied, and mere interest in my per­son doesn’t necessarily indicate a desire to wed. Hell, I’ve had chits all but give up their maidenheads to me and then cast me aside in favor of a title. And as you know, Miss Edwardes has at least a dozen titles vying for her hand, all with impressive fortunes attached to them.

As he always did, Quentin cursed his wretched luck in being born second. Were he the current earl of Lyndhurst and heir to the mighty marquess of Beresford, Miss Edwardes would skip to the altar hastily enough. Unfortunately such was not the case, and since his obnoxiously perfect brother, Nicholas, was in equally perfect health, his lot in life wasn’t likely to change anytime soon.

Are you so certain that Miss Edwardes is after a title?

Aren’t all women? he retorted bitterly.

If I remember correctly, there have been several dozen chits over the years who have been more than willing to forgo the grandeur of a title in their infatuation with your person.

Pshaw. Those misses were either silly beyond endurance or being courted by titled men three times their age, neither of which is the case with Miss Edwardes. And even if she were inclined to choose my face over her other suitors’ titles and fortunes, I doubt very much if her parents would indulge her in her foolishness.

Oxley sipped from his glass, his gaze never leaving Quentin’s face as he considered his words. Suddenly a sly smile curved his lips. Well, then, I suppose you must com­promise the girl.

Again Quentin choked on his drink, this time in his shock at his friend’s suggestion. While he wasn’t above employing an occasional unsporting tactic to sway things in his direction, it had never crossed his mind to use such a ploy on Miss Ed­wardes.

If matters are as hopeless as you profess, it’s the only way, Oxley continued, ignoring his companion’s startled re­action. Besides, where is the harm in it? You love the girl and shall no doubt make her happy enough.

Indeed he would. In fact, between his twelve thousand a year and her generous dowry, he would be able to spoil her in the manner she deserved. And unlike her titled suitors, who would most probably dump her in the country once they had their heir and spare, he would see that she never had reason to regret their marriage. Hmm. When viewed that way, it seemed that he would be doing her an enormous kindness by entrap­ping her.

Having thus rationalized the admittedly unscrupulous ac­tion, he slowly acknowledged, The idea has merit.

Of course it does, Oxley shot back. We have only to decide how you shall compromise her, and when.

Well, it had best be soon. I overheard Goolding tell Endicott that he was going to declare himself to Miss Edwardes the day after Lady Kirkham’s masqued ball. And as you know, Goolding is a duke.

An enormously wealthy one with a hot head and a steady hand with a pistol, his friend added thoughtfully. Yes. You must definitely make your move before he proposes. Can’t have Goolding calling you out for dallying with his fiancée. As to when … He drummed his fingers on the side of his glass, frowning as he mulled over the question.

Quentin considered it as well. After a moment, he snapped his fingers in inspiration. "But of course! I