Scandal

Chapter 6

"Marry her. Damnation, man, you cannot be serious. What devil's game are you playing now?" Broderick Faringdon, barricaded behind the massive mahogany desk in the library, glared at his visitor in open-mouthed astonishment. "We both know a man with a title like yours ain't about to marry a chit with a past."

"I believe I should warn you to be extremely careful about the manner in which you speak of my fiancee. The fact that you are Emily's father would not stop me from calling you out. In fact, it would give me great pleasure." Simon walked over to the brandy decanter and poured himself a glass of the amber liquid.

He knew the simple, overly familiar act would further infuriate an already confused and angry Broderick Faringdon.

"Calling me out? Calling me out? Damn it, Blade, I cannot believe I am hearing this. It makes no sense. Tell me what is going on here, blast you. I know what you originally intended. You planned to blackmail me into giving you St. Clair Hall on the threat of making my daughter your mistress."

"Whatever gave you that notion? My intentions are quite honorable, I assure you."

"The devil they are. I've heard about you, sir. You're known for being a deep one. There's something strange going on here. Why should you want to marry my daughter?"

Simon studied the view outside the window as he sipped the brandy. "My reasons are no concern of yours. Let us just say that I am convinced she and I will do very well together."

"If you think to hurt her somehow, you'll pay for it. I swear it."

"I am relieved to hear you have some fatherly feelings for her. But do not fret. I do not intend to beat her." Simon glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the bookcase. "Not unless she causes me an excessive amount of trouble, that is," he added, raising his voice just slightly.

"Do you think I'll give you St. Clair Hall as her dowry? Is that your game?" Broderick demanded. "If so, you can think again."

"Oh, you will give me St. Clair Hall, Faringdon. I intend to take both your daughter and the house."

"The hell you will. How do you propose to make me turn my house as well as my daughter over to you?"

"Because I am going to dangle the possibility of seeing Emily once in a while in front of you as a lure. We both know that as long as you perceive any chance at all of communicating with her, you will do whatever I say. On the other hand, if I forbid contact altogether, which as her husband I can do, you and I are well aware of what your fate will be. St. Clair Hall will be on the market within three months. Six on the outside."

"I can maintain this place on my own. I kept it all going while she was growing up," Broderick snarled.

"Yes, you did. I found that fact quite amazing, initially. The first thing I did when I got back to London was look into just how you had managed to keep things going until Emily's remarkable talents began to emerge. As it happens, my man of affairs knows yours. Davenport explained everything to him one evening over several glasses of claret."

"How dare you pry into my private affairs."

"The answer was simple," Simon continued, swirling the brandy in his glass. "It took you several years to gamble your way through my father's fortune, thanks to your wife's efforts at restraint. Also, your sons were still quite young at that time and had not yet joined you in your irresponsible ways."

"Your father lost his inheritance in a fair game, damn you. It was not his fortune after I won it. It was mine."

"I am not at all certain it was a fair game."

Broderick turned livid. "Are you accusing me of cheating, sir?"

"Calm yourself, Faringdon. I am not accusing you. I can prove nothing after all these years. I merely admit I have a few questions. My father was an excellent player, from all accounts, and he had never gambled to excess before. One does wonder."

"Damn you."

Simon smiled slightly at the note of impotent rage in Broderick's voice. "Even the Blade fortune could not hold out forever. But just as you were facing disaster again, your next stroke of luck came through. That bit of luck was the death of Emily's aunt on her mother's side, was it not? The woman conveniently died, leaving Emily a large sum of money. But the aunt made the mistake of making you the poor girl's trustee. You went through Emily's inheritance by the time she was sixteen. And then things got a bit desperate for a while, didn't they?"

"You make it sound as if I frittered away my daughter's inheritance, you bastard."

"So you did."

"I spent it on her and this house, which is her home," Faringdon rasped.

"And on your London life, your excellent bloodstock, expensive clothes, and the gaming debts you were piling up. As I said, the money was gone before your daughter was even out of the schoolroom. I doubt if you could have scraped together enough to give her a Season even if you had been inclined to try. Which you were not, of course, because by then she was starting to show her remarkable talents. Davenport told my man about those, too, and how you capitalized on them."

"There was no point giving her a Season. She's not the sort to attract much notice on the marriage mart."

"And you certainly did not want to assist her chances of contracting a good marriage by giving her a decent dowry, did you?"

"Damn you, her mother died the next year. We were in mourning. No possibility of a Season. Then she went and ran off with that bastard, Ashbrook. Impossible to bring her out after that." Faringdon beetled his brows and gave his nemesis a shrewd look. "She was ruined, sir. Do I make myself clear? Utterly ruined."

"That is a matter of opinion." Simon put down the empty brandy glass. "Now, then. I shall want you and your sons to vacate St. Clair Hall by the wedding day. I think we shall set the date for the first week of April."

Broderick gasped. "That's less than six weeks away."

"I see no need to delay matters. We have settled the financial end of things. And I do not believe Emily is inclined toward a long, formal engagement. I will want to spend my honeymoon here at St. Clair, so you and your sons will definitely have to be gone by then. Your staff can stay. Emily seems quite fond of them and they appear to be well trained."

"There is the matter of settlements," Broderick said desperately.

Simon smiled grimly. "There will be no settlements as such. You must rely on me to look after your daughter."

"I do not believe this is happening." Broderick looked rather like a fish that had just been pulled out of the water. He was gasping for air and his face was blotched with unnatural color. "You cannot want to marry her. Not after that scandal of five years ago. Think of your title, man."

Simon's mouth hardened. "I warned you not to say any more on that score, Faringdon. I meant it. Now, I believe that seals the bargain."

"No, by God, it does not. I will speak to Emily. She is a smart little thing, even if she is inclined to indulge foolish romantic fantasies. I will convince her that you are up to no good."

"You are welcome to try, of course, but I doubt you will have any luck changing her mind," Simon said confidently. "Face it. Your only hope of ever seeing Emily again is to agree to what I want."

"Damme, this is a diabolical piece of business. She is my only daughter. I will make her see reason."

"You must suit yourself on that score. Why don't we ask Emily if she's likely to come around to your way of thinking?" Simon strode over to the bookcase, found the hidden lever in the bottom of the cabinet, and pressed it.

The bookcase slid soundlessly away from the wall and Emily, who had obviously had her ear pressed against the wood on the other side, spilled into a colorful heap at Simon's booted feet.

"Bloody hell," Emily muttered.

"Good God, what is this?" Broderick stared in astonishment, first at the opening in the wall and then at his daughter.

Emily sat up, attempting to douse the candle she had been carrying, straighten her skirts, and adjust her spectacles all at the same time. She peered up at Simon, who towered over her. "How did you know I was back there, my lord?"

"You must attribute my uncanny knowledge to the fact that we obviously do communicate on a higher plane, my dear. In the metaphysical realm such things as mental communication are no doubt everyday occurrences. We shall have to accustom ourselves to the experience."

"Oh, of course." Emily smiled in delight.

Simon reached down, helped her up, and set her lightly on her feet. He smiled down into her brilliant eyes and wondered if he should add that her presence on the other side of the bookcase had been a safe enough guess on his part. He knew her well enough by now to know she would have been unable to resist the opportunity to eavesdrop. Especially not when there was a secret passageway conveniently available in which to do so.

Emily sighed philosophically as she brushed at the dust on her peach-colored muslin gown. "So much for my dignity. But at least the business is completed, is it not?" She looked up at him quite hopefully. "We are engaged to be married?"

"We are, indeed, my dear," Simon assured her. "I have many faults, as you will no doubt discover soon enough, but I am not stupid. I could not possibly pass up the chance of making the best investment of my life."

On a dreary, damp morning two weeks later Simon sat in the library of his Grosvenor Square townhouse reading the letter from Emily that had arrived at breakfast. It contained, as usual, a lively report on the discussions at the latest meeting of the literary society, discussions which seemed to have been devoted entirely to Byron again. There was also a long paragraph describing the new verses being added to The Mysterious Lady and a few desultory remarks about the weather.

When he finished reading, Simon was vaguely aware of an odd flicker of disappointment. It was obvious Emily had fought valiantly to resist the temptation to put anything into her note that might be interpreted as an excess of passion.

Simon gently refolded the letter and sat gazing into the fire. After a moment's contemplation, he reached out to pick up the beautifully enameled Chinese teapot that sat on a nearby table. He poured the Lap Seng into a gossamer thin cup decorated with a green and gold dragon. As he started to lift the cup, he paused, studying the figure of the mythical beast.

Emily had called him a dragon. And her eyes had been full of wonder and passion and sweet, feminine adoration when she said it.

Simon glanced around the room in which he sat. When she saw his townhouse she would undoubtedly term it a suitable lair for a dragon.

The entire house was done in the rich, exotic shades he had grown to appreciate while living in the East: Chinese red, dark green, midnight black, and glowing gold.

The lush library was filled with reminders of the strange lands he had traveled. The richly hued Oriental carpet was a suitable backdrop for the black lacquered cabinets with their fabulous motifs. The heavily carved teak settee and armchairs were covered with red velvet and trimmed with gold tassels.

The desk was a massive thing, intricately inlaid and worked by master craftsmen. He'd had it made in Canton. Incense urns from India filled the room with a fragrance that had been blended in Bombay to his exact specifications. Huge golden silk brocade pillows large enough to double as beds were arranged near the hearth.

And everywhere there were dragons, beautifully sculpted images of ferocious mythical creatures from the folklore of the Far East. The dragons were green, black, red, and gold and each was encrusted with a fortune in gems. Wherever one happened to look in the library one saw fantastic beasts with emerald and ruby eyes, golden scales, onyx claws, and topaz-studded tails.

Simon had a hunch the creatures would appeal to Emily.

He inhaled the smoky-scented tea as he leaned his head back against the crimson cushion of his chair and thought about his forthcoming marriage. He did not know quite when he had decided to marry Emily Faringdon. He'd certainly had no such intention when he'd laid his initial plans several months past. But life, he had learned over the years, had a way of reshaping a man's intentions.

He was mentally composing a reply to Emily's letter when his singularly ugly butler announced Lady Araminta Merryweather. Simon got to his feet as a vivacious woman in her late forties swept into the room amid a cloud of expensive scent.

Lady Merryweather was, as usual, dressed in the first style of fashion. Today she was wearing a pale blue merino wool gown cut with long, tight sleeves and a delicate flounce. Her height, which was unusual for a woman, gave her a regal air. Her hat was a charming little confection perched rakishly atop her graying curls. Her eyes were the same yellow gold as Simon's. Her handsome, patrician features were flushed from the cold.

"Simon. I have only just got back to town and discovered the news of your engagement. To a Faringdon, no less. I came around at once, of course. I can scarcely believe it. Absolutely astonishing. And never a hint. You must tell me all about it, dear boy."

"Hello, Aunt Araminta." Simon kissed the back of her hand and invited her to seat herself in front of the fire. "I appreciate your coming here this morning. As it happens, I was going to call on you tomorrow."

"I could not have waited until tomorrow," Araminta assured him. "Now, then, I want to know precisely what is going on here. How on earth did you come to get yourself engaged to the Faringdon girl?"

Simon smiled faintly. "I am not precisely certain of just how it happened myself. Miss Faringdon is a most unusual creature."

Araminta's eyes grew speculative. "But you are far too clever to have gotten caught up in any woman's toils."

"Am I?"

"Of course you are. Simon, do not play games with me. I know you are up to something. You are always plotting. I vow you are the most devious creature I have ever met and there is not a soul in town who does not agree with me. But surely you can trust me."

Simon smiled faintly. "You are the only person in the whole of England whom I completely trust, Araminta. You know that."

"Then you know I would never breathe a word of your plans. Have you developed some monstrous scheme that will bring down the entire bunch of Flighty, Feckless Faringdons?"

"There have been some modifications in the original scheme," Simon admitted. "But I will be getting St. Clair Hall back."

Araminta arched her elegantly thin brows. "Will you, indeed? How did you arrange that?"

"The house will be my wife's dowry."

"Oh, my. I know you have been obsessed with that house since the day your father died, but was it worth shackling yourself to a Faringdon in order to get it?"

"Emily Faringdon is not an ordinary Faringdon. Soon, she will not be a Faringdon at all. She will be my wife."

"Do not tell me this is a love match," Araminta exclaimed.

"More of a business investment. Or so I am told."

"A business investment. This is too much, by half. Simon, what on earth are you about?"

"I am thirty-five years old." Simon studied the flames on the hearth. "And the last of my line. You have been telling me for some time that I should do my duty and set up my nursery."

"Granted. But you are the Earl of Blade and you have accrued a sizable fortune during the past years. You could have your choice on the marriage mart. Why choose Miss Faringdon, of all people?"

Simon's brow tilted. "I believe it was the other way around. She chose me."

"Dear heaven, I do not believe I am hearing this. I assume she has the Faringdon looks, at least? Tall and fair?"

"No. She is rather short, has bright red hair and freckles, a nose that tilts upward, and she is almost never without a pair of spectacles. She looks rather like an intelligent elf and she has a habit of saying 'bloody hell' when she is overset."

"Good heavens." Lady Merryweather was genuinely appalled. "Simon, what have you done?"

"Actually, I think she will become something of a sensation when you take her out into Society, Aunt Araminta."

"You want me to introduce her?" Araminta looked horrified at first and then rather intrigued by the challenge. "You want me to turn an elf into a social triumph?"

"I cannot think of anyone more suited to the task. It will be a delicate business, I fear. Emily will definitely need some guidance, as she has never been out in Society, but I would not have her spirits depressed or dampened by too many rules and strictures. You, I think, are quite capable of appreciating her unusual qualities and finding ways to set them off to their best advantage."

"Simon, I am not certain there is a best way to set off a short, redheaded elf who says things such as 'bloody hell' when she is overset."

"Nonsense. You will find a way. I have complete confidence in you."

"Well, I shall certainly do my best. Lord knows, it is the least I can do for you after all you have done for me, Simon. I would still be stuck in that moldering pile of stones in Northumberland if you had not rescued me from genteel poverty a few years ago."

"You owe me nothing, Araminta," Simon said. "It is I who shall be forever grateful to you for helping me take care of Mother and for selling the last of your jewels to buy me a commission."

Araminta grinned. "Giving you a start in life was the best investment I could have made. The jewels and clothes I am able to buy now are worth a great deal more than the paltry few I had back in those days."

Simon shrugged. "You deserve them. Now, then, as to the matter of introducing my wife to Society. As I said, I shall leave the project largely in your hands. But I will undertake to quash the one potential problem that looms on the horizon."

Araminta eyed him cautiously. "What is the nature of this potential problem, Simon?"

"My fiancee is a rather impetuous sort and there apparently was a rather Unfortunate Incident a few years back."

"An Incident?" Araminta demanded in distinctly ominous tones. "Just how bad was this Incident?"

"As Emily explains it, she was temporarily overcome with an excess of romantic passion and ran off with a young man."

Araminta leaned her head back against the cushion and closed her eyes in horror. "Dear God." She promptly opened her eyes and shot her nephew a shrewd glance. "How bad was it? Did her father stop the pair before they got to the border?"

"There is every indication that the man involved had no real intention of making it to Gretna Green. In any event, Emily ended up spending the night with him at an inn. Faringdon caught up with her the next day and brought her home."

"The next day? He did not find her until the following day?" Araminta was clearly beyond shock now. She leaned forward, her eyes fierce. "Simon, you cannot be serious about any of this. It is all some sort of bizarre joke you are playing on your poor aunt. Confess."

"It is no joke, Aunt Araminta. I am about to marry a lady with a past. But you need not fret. I shall see to it that her past effectively ceases to exist."

"Good God, Simon. How?"

He shrugged without any concern. "My title and fortune will prove a most effective stain remover. We both know that. And I will personally blot up any small leftover drips that may appear."

"Dear heaven. You are enjoying this, aren't you?" Araminta gazed at him in sudden comprehension. "You are having yourself another great adventure."

"Emily has a way of adding spice to one's life, as you will no doubt soon learn."

"Simon, I am going to be blunt. The chit may be an original and I know you are attracted to the unusual. But you must think of what you are doing. We both know you simply cannot marry a young female who is not a virgin, no matter how charming she is. It is one thing for a woman to have discreet affairs after she is married, quite another for her to have been involved in a scandal with a man before marriage. You are the Earl of Blade. You must think of your name and position."

Simon took his gaze off the fire and gave his aunt an amused, quizzical glance. "You misunderstand, Aunt Araminta," he said gently. "There is no question about my wife's innocence. She is, I assure you, as pure as snow."

"But you just said there was a great scandal in her past. You said she ran off with some young man and spent the night with him."

"I do not know yet precisely what happened that night," Simon mused. "But I am quite satisfied that Emily did not share a bed with the young man."

"How can you be so certain?" Araminta retorted, and then her brows climbed. "Unless you have already been to bed with her yourself?"

"No, I have not, more's the pity. I assure you, I am certainly looking forward to my wedding night. I am persuaded it will be a most interesting experience."

"Then how can you be sure she is innocent?" Araminta asked, exasperated.

Simon smiled to himself. "It is rather difficult to explain. I can only say that Emily and I have established a unique form of communication that takes place on a higher plane."

"A higher plane?"

"I refer to the metaphysical world. Your problem is that you do not read very much modern poetry, Aunt Araminta. Let me assure you that certain things are very clear on the transcendental level where two like minds may meet in an excess of pure, intellectual emotion."

Lady Merryweather stared at him speechlessly. "Since when have you concerned yourself with higher planes and pure intellectual emotion? I have known you long enough to realize you are up to some dark business here, Blade. I can feel it."

"Can you really? How fascinating. Perhaps you have access to a higher plane of knowledge yourself, Aunt Araminta."

Lord Richard Ashbrook did not normally frequent the same clubs Simon favored. It was necessary, therefore, to seek out the dashing young poet at one of the smaller clubs in St. James that catered to the dandy set.

Simon eventually located his quarry in a card room.

Ashbrook was playing with the sort of devil-may-care recklessness that was quite the height of fashion.

Simon could see at a glance that the poet was obviously every maiden's dream, assuming said maiden did not mind the weakness about the eyes and chin. Ashbrook was indisputably handsome in a Byronic manner: black hair, brooding dark eyes, and a jaded, somewhat petulant tilt to his mouth.

Simon waited quietly in a winged chair, amusing himself with a bottle of hock and a newspaper until his quarry left the tables around midnight. Ashbrook joined a companion and together they strode toward the door of the club muttering something about going to look for more interesting action in the hells.

Simon got up and followed slowly, delaying his move until Ashbrook had summoned a carriage and leapt into the cab. When the poet's companion made to follow, Simon stepped forward and tapped his shoulder. The man who turned in annoyance to confront him was older and far more dissipated-looking than Ashbrook. He was also quite drunk. Simon recognized him as a gamester named Crofton who frequented the hells.

"What's this? Who are you?" Crofton demanded in a surly, slurred voice, his once handsome face twisted in irritation.

"I require a word with Ashbrook. I fear you will have to wait for another carriage." Simon gave Crofton a small push, just enough to send him staggering backward.

"Damn you," Crofton snarled as he tried to catch his balance.

"Grosvenor Square," Simon said to the coachman as he stepped up into the carriage and slammed the door.

Inside the darkened carriage Ashbrook lounged in the shadows and scowled. "What the devil is this all about? You're Blade, aren't you?"

"Yes. I am Blade." Simon sat down as the carriage lumbered forward through the crowded street.

"What have you done with Crofton? He and I had plans for this evening."

"This will not take long. You can return to pick up your friend after you have set me down at my townhouse. In the meantime you and I must come to an understanding about a small matter."

"What the deuce are you talking about? What understanding?" Looking almost overcome with ennui, Ashbrook removed a small snuffbox from his pocket and took a pinch.

"You may congratulate me, Ashbrook. In case you have not yet heard, I am about to be married."

Ashbrook's gaze sharpened warily. "I heard."

"Ah, then you must also have heard that the young lady I am going to marry is not unknown to you."

"Emily Faringdon." Ashbrook turned his head to stare out the window of the cab.

"Yes. Emily Faringdon. It would appear that you and my fiancee shared a small adventure some years back."

Ashbrook's head came around swiftly. "She told you about that?"

"Emily is a very honest young woman," Simon said gently. "I do not think she would know how to lie if she tried. I am also well aware that nothing of a, shall we say, intimate nature occurred between the two of you that night."

Ashbrook groaned and turned his gaze back to the darkened streets. "It was a fiasco from the start."

"Emily can be unpredictable."

"No offense, sir, but Emily Faringdon is not only unpredictable, she is dangerous. I suppose she told you everything?"

"Everything," Simon echoed softly.

"I had a sore head for three days from the blow she gave me with that damn chamber pot."

"Did you, indeed? Emily is quite strong for her size."

"Nearly caught my death of cold from spending the night on a pallet in the hall. That bastard of an innkeeper said he did not have a spare room. Personally I think his wife told him to say that. God knows why she felt so protective of Miss Faringdon. She'd never even seen the chit before that night."

"Many people find themselves feeling protective toward Miss Faringdon. She has any number of friends. But from now on it will be my privilege to protect her and you may be assured that I will do so."

Ashbrook slid him a quick glance. "Are you trying to say something, Blade?"

"I merely wish to tell you that should the subject of your adventure with Miss Faringdon ever come up in conversation, you will make it very clear that there never was any adventure."

"You want me to pretend it never happened?"

"Precisely."

"But it did happen. I assure you, I have no intention of discussing it, but you can hardly pretend it did not occur."

"You would be amazed at what can be made to vanish when one has power, fortune, and title. And a little cooperation from certain parties."

Ashbrook stared. "You think you can make the scandal just disappear?"

"Oh, yes. I can make it disappear."

Ashbrook hesitated, looking momentarily uneasy. Then he smiled insolently and took another pinch of snuff. "What do you expect me to say if someone raises the question?"

"If anyone is so impertinent as to inquire into the matter, you will inform him that you were nowhere near Little Dippington at the time and you know nothing about any scandal. You will say you were up in Cumberland worshiping in the footsteps of Coleridge, Wordsworth, and the other Lake poets."

"Must I?" Ashbrook drawled. "Such a dreary, dull lot."

"Yes, I fear you must."

Ashbrook watched him in silence for a few taut seconds, clearly attempting to take Simon's measure. "They say you are a mysterious sort, Blade. Full of dark schemes that others do not discover until too late. You must be up to something. What game are you playing with the Faringdon girl?"

"My plans do not concern you, Ashbrook."

"Why should I bother to assist you by lying about what happened five years ago?"

"If you do not, I will do what one of the Faringdons should have done five years ago. I will call you out."

Ashbrook straightened with a jerk. "The devil you will."

"If you check with the crowd that practices at Manton's gallery, you will find that I am accounted an excellent shot. Now, I will bid you good night, Ashbrook. It has been a most informative evening." Simon used his stick to tap on the roof of the carriage. The vehicle came to a halt.

Ashbrook leaned forward as Simon opened the door. His dark eyes were suddenly intent. "You did not know, did you? Until I told you about the chamber pot and sleeping in the hall, you did not know that nothing had happened between me and Emily that night. It was all a bluff."

Simon smiled fleetingly as he stepped down onto the street. "You are wrong, Ashbrook. I knew from the beginning that nothing of a serious nature had transpired. My fiancee has a taste for adventure but she is far from stupid. I simply was not aware of all the particulars of the incident. Be grateful for that chamber pot, by the way."

"Why?"

"It is the only reason I am letting you live now."

Ashbrook leaned back against the cushions again and reached for his snuffbox. His eyes glittered angrily in the shadows as he looked at Blade. "Damnation. What they say about you is true. You are a cold-blooded bastard. Do you know? I believe I pity little Emily."

Ten days later Simon was again sitting down in his dragon-infested library to enjoy a letter from Emily when he was again interrupted by his butler informing him of unexpected visitors.

"Two gentlemen by the name of Faringdon to see you, my lord. Are you at home?" Greaves announced forebodingly. His naturally ferocious features were accented with a variety of old scars including an interesting knife slash that had once laid open most of his jaw. Simon had been the only one on hand to sew the wound closed and he had done his best. He was the first to admit, however, that while his stitches were functional, they had lacked artistry.

Simon reluctantly refolded the letter. "Show them in, Greaves. I have been expecting them."

A moment later Charles and Devlin Faringdon strode into the room, looking as stern and determined as it was possible for two such handsome men to appear.

"Ah, my future brothers-in-law. To what do I owe the honor of this visit?" He motioned the two young men to chairs across from his own.

"We have decided it is imperative to speak to you personally, sir," Devlin announced. "We are fully aware you are playing some devilish game with this nonsense of an engagement to Emily. We thought you would show your cards before you went through with the wedding."

"But now you appear determined to actually marry her," Charles concluded darkly.

"I most certainly am determined to go through with it." Simon rested his elbows on the crimson velvet arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. He regarded the two Faringdons through hooded eyes. "I would not dream of doing anything so ungentlemanly as crying off. So if that is your concern, you may rest assured that this wedding will go through as scheduled."

"Now, see here," Devlin said, "Charles and I are men of the world. You ain't fooling us, Blade. You're up to something and we know it. We've thought this thing through and we've decided there's only one reason why you would want to marry Emily."

"And that reason is… ?" Simon inquired softly.

Charles held his chin at a challenging angle. "You have decided she can make you a second fortune on 'Change. This way you get it all, don't you? St. Clair Hall, your revenge on Father, and the promise of a second fortune from the stock exchange."

"You are planning to use our sister in a most unprincipled fashion," Devlin announced. "And she, poor chit, is so foolish and so romantically inclined, she does not have a hint of your true intentions."

Simon considered that briefly. "What makes you think I am not marrying your sister simply because I have become quite fond of her and have decided she will make me an excellent wife?"

"It won't fadge, Blade," Devlin snapped. "You ain't in love with her. Only the promise of having her make you a second fortune could make you overlook the scandal in her past."

"Damn right. We ain't fools, y'know. You could do a lot better for yourself than marry a silly young female who's gone and ruined herself," Charles added with a man-to-man air. "Not to put too fine a point on it, our poor Emily is soiled goods."

Simon got languidly to his feet and took two steps over to where Charles was sitting. He reached down, took a fistful of Charles' immaculately tied cravat, and hauled the younger man bodily to his feet. Charles' eyes widened.

"What the devil… ?"

The remainder of his comment was lost as Simon pivoted swiftly in the graceful movements of the ancient fighting art he had learned in the East. He knew his unorthodox, potentially lethal method would have astounded the young bloods who practiced boxing at Gentleman Jackson's academy. They would have been even more perplexed by the elaborate techniques for establishing mental discipline and control that the monks had taught along with the physical skills.

Charles went spinning wildly toward the fireplace. The young Faringdon fetched up against the mantel, cracking his chin on the black marble. With a stunned look in his handsome eyes, Charles collapsed slowly to the carpet.

"Good God, sir." Devlin shot to his feet and took a step toward his brother. "What have you done to him?"

Simon caught Devlin in midstride and sent him flying ignominiously after his brother. Devlin hit the wall, doubled over with a muffled cry, and then sprawled on the carpet beside Charles.

The two brothers, dazed and furious, glared at Simon as they struggled to recover themselves.

"What was that for, you bloody bastard?" Devlin hissed as he wavered to his feet.

"That was for insulting your sister, of course. What did you think it was for?" Simon absently checked his cravat. It was still perfectly tied. "It was also, I believe, for failing to call Ashbrook out five years ago as you ought to have done."

"Emily wouldn't let us," Charles growled, rubbing his chin as he staggered over to a chair and sat down heavily. "Said the whole thing was as much her fault as his. Told us Ashbrook was going to be a great poet someday and we shouldn't deprive the world of a great talent."

"Emily should have had nothing to say about it." Simon surveyed the two handsome young cubs with a look of disgust. "It was your duty to take care of the matter."

"Father said the whole thing should be hushed up as much as possible. Calling out Ashbrook would have caused an even bigger scandal," Devlin muttered.

"As it happens, Emily took care of her own honor that night. But, then, Emily has always had to fend for herself, hasn't she?"

Devlin looked at Simon, scowling. "What are you talking about? She spent the night with him, for God's sake. She lost her honor."

"No, she did not. She hit Ashbrook over the head with a chamber pot and he wound up sleeping in the hall."

"Well, we know that's what actually happened," Charles said impatiently. "Emily explained it all the next morning. But the damage to her reputation was done, right enough. Father said so."

"As of now," Simon said coldly, "the Incident never occurred. And I will personally destroy anyone, anyone at all, who says it did. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?"

The twins gaped open-mouthed at him and then exchanged bemused glances with each other.

"You cannot make the great blot on her reputation simply vanish, sir," Charles finally ventured carefully.

"Watch me," said Simon.