Chapter Eighteen

DERMOTT STOPPED by Bathurst House to collect Shelby, his valet, Charles, and his dueling pistols. There wasn't time to change. He'd stayed with Isabella much longer than he should have. After a few brief orders for Pomeroy, he discussed his time constraints with his driver and then rested on the steps of Bathurst House until Charles and Shelby appeared. Quickly rising, he exchanged greetings with his servants before they entered the carriage.

"The doctor will meet us at Morgan's field," Shelby noted as the closed carriage raced through the predawn streets of London. [8] "Lord Devon left ahead of us. He stopped by Bathurst House, but since you weren't there at the appointed time, he thought you may have already gone to Morgan's field. Of course, I knew better. I knew you'd see to your pistols yourself, but one doesn't argue with Lord Devon."

Dermott smiled. George Harley was blustery, always sure of himself regardless whether he was right or not. But more important, he was an old friend and a crack shot.

"He won't be far ahead. I told Jem to make all speed and Devon doesn't like to press his grays. Charles, did you bring the brandy?"

"Yes, sir. And a clean shirt, if you wish."

Dermott laughed. "Do you think I need one?" His valet always saw to his linen with a particularly discerning eye.

"That would be for you to say, my lord, but you will have your coat off."

"Lonsdale will probably hie himself from some stew."

"While you, sir, will have on clean linen."

Dermott began shrugging out of his coat at such pointed comment. Although he said "I'll keep that" when Charles was about to take his discarded shirt from him. He shoved the wrinkled garment into a corner of his seat, not wishing to relinquish it when it smelled of Isabella's perfume. In short order he was dressed in a fresh shirt and well-tied neckcloth. Charles had also brought water so Dermott could wash his face and hands, although the earl hesitated briefly before washing his hands. The scent of Isabella still lingered on his fingers.

But in the end his regret didn't prevail over Charles's sense of good grooming. And once he was offered his cologne after washing, that fragrance soon pervaded the interior of the carriage.

When the earl alighted from the carriage at Morgan's field, he was as well turned out as his valet could manage under rough conditions. A faint fog swirled over the open field, the sun not yet risen to burn it away. And Dermott's boot struck spongy turf when he stepped to the ground.

The other carriages were waiting. Devon sat in the open door of his town coach, talking to the doctor. A group of men stood together near one of the other carriages, Lonsdale's blond head visible in their midst.

Morgan's field was advantageously located near the City but not so near that unwanted spectators were likely to appear. The grassy field, surrounded by a heavy stand of sturdy English oaks, afforded the necessary seclusion. The trees also served to muffle the sound of gunshots, while Lamb's Inn was conveniently at hand just past the line of oaks, should any injured party require a bed or makeshift operating table.

Everyone's gaze turned to Dermott as he strolled toward Lord Devon, Shelby following with his case of dueling pistols, Charles last, carrying his brandy flask.

Dermott breathed deeply of the cool morning air, wanting to clear his head of the previous night, of memory and morbid musing, of any distraction that would interfere with his concentration.

Devon was in a cheerful mood as he greeted Dermott. With his friend celebrated for his skills on the dueling field, Lord Devon didn't expect any problems. The men shook hands; Dermott spoke briefly with the doctor and then turned to Charles for his brandy. He drank deeply out of habit before turning his attention to Lonsdale, who was already in his shirt-sleeves, loading his pistols.

It seemed to be time.

Neither he nor Lonsdale were novices. They'd both been here before.

The seconds met, agreed on the rules of engagement, and returned to their respective sides.

"Lonsdale's half drunk, Ram," Devon offered. "But still dangerous, I imagine, or perhaps more dangerous. They wanted two shots at six paces; we agreed on two shots at twelve. Six paces is too damned close. And Lonsdale's not to be trusted."

Dermott handed his coat to Charles. "I already know that. I'm here today to put an end to his untrustworthy soul."

George Harley hadn't heard that icy tone before. "You're serious about this?"

"I'm always serious when I put my life at risk." Dermott began rolling up his shirt-sleeves.

"You're going to kill him?" First blood was often enough for satisfaction.

Dermott signaled for his pistols. "That's my intent, as I'm sure it's his."

"No doubt," Lord Devon said with a sigh, understanding there was more to this than a lady's reputation. "Well, bloody good luck, Ram, although you're not apt to need it. Do you want me to load your pistols?"

Dermott smiled. "No thanks. I prefer doing it myself." [9]

His revolving-cylinder firearm design had been perfected by the best English gunsmiths over the last decades, and the two-shot pistols he and Lonsdale had were popular on the dueling field. After checking the loaded cylinders one last time, he handed one weapon to Devon, and taking the other, lifted his hand casually in adieu and walked to the middle of the field.

He and Lonsdale were supposed to exchange courtesies, but neither man was capable of such deceit, and with a nod to each other they took their positions back-to-back and waited for the signal to advance.

It was nearly light now, the mist had begun to fade, the color of the turf altering from gray to green as the sun crept over the horizon.

Twelve paces, Dermott silently rehearsed, lifting his hand slightly to test the weight of his pistol. He had a hair-trigger Manton weapon, and his finger rested on the trigger with great delicacy. Walk, turn, shoot. He ran the sequence through his mind. His nerves were sharp, clear, untroubled by anxiety. Emotion had no place on the dueling field.

The protagonists were given a verbal signal to advance, and both men moved forward. One of the surgeons counted the paces in a loud voice, Dermott silently echoing the words. Eight, nine, ten… He began lifting his pistol, ready to turn on twelve.

The first shot slammed into his back, the second shattered his ribs as he spun around, the impact of shot and powder at such close range dropping him to his knees. Through an agonizing roar of pain, Dermott caught a glimpse of Lonsdale's smiling face.

Astonishment and fury flared through his brain. Fucking coward shot early! A spasm of crushing pain jolted through his side, almost doubling him over, and he hung there, panting, trying to focus his senses and sight. He could hear a tumult of sound-shouts, commands, angry oaths drifting in and out of his consciousness. And suddenly through the racking anguish and distant noise, Devon's face appeared only inches away. He looked frightened. Dermott tried to reconcile that oddity in the confusion of pain and curious liquid warmth seeping through his shirt. And his knees were getting wet from the damp ground, he incongruously thought. Charles was sure to object to the stains.

"We have to get you away," Devon grunted, trying to lift Dermott.

Devon's hands on him brought him to full attention. "Not done yet," Dermott fiercely whispered, blinking to clear his vision. "Give me a hand." He gritted his teeth. "And then stand back." With Devon's help he struggled to his feet, calling on his last reserves of energy, blood gushing from his wounds. He wavered unsteadily for a moment and then with superhuman effort braced his legs wide.

Lonsdale's triumphant expression had turned to horror as Dermott came to his feet. His pistol was empty and Bathurst still had two unfired shots. He fell to his knees, faced with certain death, terror stricken, and raising his hands in entreaty, he pleaded, "Don't shoot me in cold blood. Bathurst… please-I beg of you-be merciful. My pistol misfired. I swear! It wasn't intentional-as God is my witness!"

It wasn't immediately apparent whether Dermott had heard, whether he was even capable of understanding anymore, until everyone watched him turn his head very slightly toward Devon. "Give him a pistol," he ordered, his voice audible only because of the horrified silence.

"Don't, Ram," Devon cried, appalled at the amount of blood pouring from Dermott's wounds, wanting to take him from the field. "He didn't give you a chance. Shoot him!"

"Hurry," Dermott whispered, hanging on to consciousness by sheer will, commanding himself to remain upright a few minutes more.

A hush had fallen over the field.

Devon ran to Lonsdale's second, ripped the pistol from his hand, raced back to the marquis, and handed it to him with an oath.

Instantly a predator again now that he was armed, Lonsdale leaped to his feet, whipped the pistol up, sighted in on his wounded opponent, and fired.

Two shots rang out.

And both men fell to the ground.

Dermott's party ran to him. Dropping to his knees, the doctor quickly checked for a pulse and then crisply gave orders. As Dermott was carried to his carriage, his eyes came open. "Lonsdale?" he croaked.

"A bullet through his heart. He deserved a slower death," Devon gruffly added.

"Send a note to Molly." Dermott's voice was a wisp of sound. "Tell her I'm fine."

Shelby had tears in his eyes as he penned the note at Lamb's Inn, where Dermott had been taken. The surgeon was operating now, the parlor having been put into service as an operating room. The doctor was trying to remove the ball and shot from Dermott's wounds before he bled to death. The pistol ball in his back had taken some of the shirting with it, and the bits of fabric were causing trouble. The metal shot in the ribs had proved impossible to locate. Not a hopeful sign when they were in a race against time.

Following orders, Shelby wrote the lie to Molly. The earl had killed Lonsdale and he was unscathed. Shelby knew for whom the note was intended, and had he dared, he would have sent for Miss Leslie so she might see Bathurst before he died. But Shelby was loyal in all things to his master, and even if this turned out to be the earl's last request, he would honor it.

Once his task was completed and the note dispatched, Shelby returned to the parlor where Dermott lay.

He stood frozen in the doorway, shocked at the gruesome sight. The parlor had become a charnel house, blood puddling on the floor as it dripped from the dining table where Dermott lay on his stomach, motionless as a corpse. Panicked at the appalling sight, Shelby wondered how the earl could possibly survive such a loss of blood. His powerful body was mangled, torn apart, and so utterly still, the secretary debated whether he should send for another surgeon. Was there time? Or would Bathurst die before another doctor could arrive?

But Dermott had particularly chosen Dr. McTavert, Shelby reminded himself. If the earl had faith in him, so must he. Gingerly stepping around the bloody footprints leading from the door, he entered the room.


Somehow Dermott's strong heart continued to beat through the long ordeal, until at last the surgeon picked the final bits of linen and metal from the back wound with a soft prayer of gratitude. The shattered ribs posed greater problems over and above the damaged bones, for the ball hadn't been found and he didn't dare probe any deeper for fear of touching Dermott's heart. Wherever that piece of metal had disappeared, so must it remain. And pray God it didn't fester. Gunshot wounds were highly susceptible to infection.

"Is there anyone we should call?" he asked at the end when the wounds had been bandaged and Dermott had been moved into a bed.

"Only his mother, and she's indisposed," Shelby replied. "Will Lord Bathurst live?"

The surgeon didn't answer for so long, Shelby was sorry he'd asked.

"Under normal circumstances a man wouldn't. But the earl's still alive when I hadn't thought he'd survive this long." The doctor surveyed Dermott's small party, devoid of Devon, who had been sent to London to confer with Dermott's lawyers in the event of his death. "I'll stay with him as long as you wish," Dr. McTavert added. "But the earl shouldn't be moved."

"We'll all stay," Shelby declared. "Charles, see that the surgeon has a room and dinner. I'll remain with the earl. And thank you, sir, for your great skill." The earl had always called McTavert one of London's best, not the most fashionable, but the most competent, and today he'd lived up to his reputation.

The tall, sandy-haired Scotsman acknowledged the praise by saying, "I'd best wait a few days before accepting your thanks, Shelby. We've a way to go yet. I'll be back to check on Bathurst as soon as I clean up."

"Very good, sir. And if you need any messages sent to London, give Charles their direction."

And once the doctor left, Shelby began writing a carefully worded letter to the earl's mother.


Isabella had returned to Molly's from Green Abbey, and the two women had been sitting together in the blue saloon since then, nervously awaiting news.

"If he said he'd send a note, he will," Molly declared, as she had countless times already.

"How can he if he's dead?"

"Please, dear, you mustn't think the worst," Molly pacified, as she'd done since Isabella had returned. "Dermott is an excellent shot. He's been involved in duels before. No one can outshoot him."

It was a recurring conversation, for Isabella's anxieties continued despite Molly's attempts to console her. But as the morning progressed and they'd had no word, Molly, too, was becoming concerned. Although she took care to conceal her worry from Isabella, who was already white with fear.

"Maybe I should go to Bathurst House and inquire," Isabella suggested as the hour neared ten.

"Not this early. They may not be back in town yet. If we don't hear anything by early afternoon though, I'll send a servant."

"I couldn't stop him, Molly," Isabella murmured, a feverish desperation in her tone. "I wish I knew… why do men do such foolish things? My reputation isn't worth his life!"

"Who knows why men do what they do? I've never understood their misplaced sense of honor," Molly said with a sigh. "Come, let's try to eat some breakfast. You haven't had a bite since yesterday."

Isabella grimaced. "I couldn't eat a thing."

"Have a cup of tea. I want company, so you must oblige me." Molly rarely spoke so severely to Isabella, nor was she hungry herself, but she needed to distract Isabella-however briefly-from her despair.

Shelby's note was delivered to them in the breakfast room, and after quickly perusing it, Molly handed it to Isabella with a broad smile. "All our fears were for naught. Dermott is fine, as always. Dear boy."

Snatching the page from Molly's hand, Isabella quickly scanned it as though needing confirmation for Molly's words. And then with a grand sigh, she settled back in her chair and felt as though life was worth living again. "Thank God," she softly said. "Thank, thank, thank God…"


The first rumors reached the City early but didn't arrive in Grosvenor Place until evening. It was then that Joe heard the news of Bathurst's wounds from his brother, who had heard them from Devon's valet. Aware of all that transpired in the household, Joe knew the contents of Dermott's note to Molly and the probable reason that the truth had been withheld.

After informing Molly of his brother's report, they debated telling Isabella. Obviously, the earl hadn't wanted her to know. So the question was-did they do a disservice by telling her?

"How badly is Dermott hurt?" Molly asked. "The degree of his wounds would make a difference."

"He's not expected to live." Joe's voice was hushed.

Molly, who had seen so much misery and thought herself immune, turned pale. "Poor dear," she whispered. But only seconds later, she pinned Joe with a challenging gaze. "There has to be an explanation. Dermott's never wounded; he's the best shot in England."

"Lonsdale fired early."

"Damned cur. I hope he died a slow, painful death." Her voice was pitiless.

"Apparently not, but you can be sure he's burning in hell."

"Exactly the fate he deserves for what he's done! Lonsdale should burn in hell a thousand times over!"

"Why should Lonsdale burn in hell?" Isabella had just entered the room. "Besides the obvious reasons, of course." But the look of panic on Molly's face at her question struck her with terror. Lonsdale's death should have been a triumph for Dermott. Why had they gone silent? Why were they staring at her with such apprehension? "What's going on?" she asked, scrutinizing Molly's pale face. Seized by dread at Molly's hesitation, tears sprang to Isabella's eyes. Furiously, she turned on Joe. "Dammit, you tell me the truth!"

Joe looked to Molly for guidance, and Isabella felt as though the world were collapsing around her.

"Joe heard a rumor that Dermott is wounded," Molly reluctantly offered, trying to speak with calm. "Don't immediately jump to conclusions. All gossip isn't true; most gossip isn't true, as you well know."

"But you're ashen and Joe is afraid to talk to me, so please don't tell me everything is all right when it clearly isn't." Isabella stood trembling with fear, her hands clenched at her sides to still the tremors, her gaze swiveling from one to the other as though she might be able to decipher their thoughts. "I want to know where he is," she whispered, her voice tight with horror. "And don't tell me you don't know."

"He was at Lamb's Inn," Molly replied.

"Was?"

"Lord Devon drove back to the inn with Dermott's lawyers, and he was gone. Against his doctor's orders, the inn owner said."

"Where did he go?"

"Apparently no one knows, or if they do, they're not talking. That's all we've been able to find out."

"Is that the whole truth?" Isabella searched the faces of her companions, looking for any indications of subterfuge. "I'm not a child," she reminded them. "I'm aware of what Dermott wants and doesn't want. You're not going to break my heart any more than it's already broken if you're honest with me. I fully realize he doesn't want to be with me, that he doesn't love me. But I'd like to know how badly he's hurt. For God's sake, tell me. I need to know."

"They don't expect him to live," Molly whispered.

Isabella sank to the floor, her legs suddenly gone weak. "Oh, my God…" Looking up at Molly, tears streamed down her cheeks. "It's all my fault…"

"Don't even think that, darling." Rushing to comfort her, Molly dropped to the floor and took Isabella in her arms. "It's not your fault," she soothed. "Don't for a minute blame yourself. Everyone knows Dermott and Lonsdale have long been enemies, since their public school days at least. And Dermott pleases no one but himself. Tell her, Joe, she mustn't take responsibility for this."

"He's met more than one man on the dueling field, Miss Isabella. This weren't the first time by a long shot."

"You see," Molly insisted. "You're as guiltless now as with any of the others."

"I won't even be able to see him before-" Convulsed with a sob, Isabella couldn't conceive of so strong and vital a man facing the awful finality of death. Perhaps he was already dead… Whimpering, she clung to Molly, terrified of so fearful a thought.

"Come, darling," Molly cajoled. "Come sit and have a glass of wine to ease your nerves. We'll see if we can find out more." Rising, she tugged on Isabella's hands.

Numb with grief, Isabella allowed herself to be helped to her feet and led to a chair, where Molly wiped the tears from her face. When she was handed a glass shortly after, she drank the wine, though it was tasteless in her mouth. Like dust.

She answered when spoken to, but she neither heard nor cared what was being discussed. All she could see was Dermott's cold body laid out in death. All she could think about was how sad and dreadful and devastating beyond belief the waste of his life.

And she couldn't go to him because she didn't know where he was.

Because he didn't want her to know.

"I can't stay here," Isabella abruptly declared, interrupting the murmured conversation, feeling a desperate, inexplicable need to flee. "I'm going to the country."

Molly looked at Joe and then at Isabella. "I'm glad."

Isabella came to her feet, her spine rigid, her shoulders stiff as a soldier on parade, shield against the collapse of her soul. "I'm going right now."

"Wouldn't you rather-" Molly's words died away at the look of anguish on Isabella's face. "I'll have the maids pack your clothes."

"Don't," she brusquely retorted, a kind of defensive anger in her voice. "I'm not taking anything." She didn't want to be reminded of Dermott, how he'd looked the day she'd been trying on the black lace gown at Molly's, or the way he'd stripped the white dress from her at Bathurst House and made her love him, or the scent of his hair and cologne that still lingered in the silk of her clothes. "Joe, please call for my carriage." Her voice was sharp and crisp. If she could pretend she'd never known Dermott, if she could obliterate any memory of the last unbelievable weeks, if she could physically separate herself from the people and places that reminded her of his beauty and tenderness, his playfulness and essential goodness, maybe with time she could learn to bear the unbearable pain.

Or if she couldn't, at least she could hide her misery from the world.


Dermott, traveling south, was undergoing his own unbearable torment, each revolution of the wheels an agonizing shock to his ravaged body, each bump in the road racking torture. Despite the doctor's protests, despite Shelby's pleadings, despite the horror in Charles's eyes, he'd insisted on leaving once he'd regained consciousness. He'd wanted to find a solitary cave where he could lick his wounds, a hermitage and refuge away from the world, away from prying eyes and gossip, away from help he didn't want and decisions he couldn't make. And if he were to die-he'd heard the doctor through the shifting levels of his consciousness-he'd take that final journey alone.

He didn't wish his mother alarmed. She was to be told only that he was recuperating at the seashore.

And so he meant to. His spirit willing.

He was unconscious more than he was conscious on the road to the south coast. A blessing, the doctor declared, seeing that Dermott swallowed another dose of laudanum each time he woke. And on that painful journey to the Isle of Wight, when those with him never knew if his next breath might be his last, Dermott's opium dreams were peopled with familiar images of his wife and son, the sweet visions bringing a smile to his lips. But another face intruded in the habitual, well-known fantasies-a beauty with golden hair and gentian eyes and the strength to draw him away. Sometimes he fought against her lure, and other times he willingly followed her. But their path always took them to the very edge of a high, rocky precipice shrouded in fog, and he found himself unwilling to follow her when she took that last fatal step. Invariably, he'd wake with a start, only to be met with a more brutal kind of pain, a clawing, fiendish pain that mercilessly ripped through his body and brought him panting, begging for oblivion.


The same evening Isabella was on her way to Suffolk, her uncle's family was dining at home, gloating over the events of the day.

"Herbert, tell us again when you first heard of Bathurst's mortal wounds," his wife cheerfully said, glancing at her two beaming daughters.

"And tell us, Papa, when we may attend the more refined society entertainments now that Bathurst is no longer your nemesis."

Their father cast them a lowering look. "He's not dead yet."

"But he's as near dead as ever may be, Papa!" Caroline exclaimed with considerable glee. "I heard it from Harold's valet, who heard it from any number of his friends. It's quite certain."

"So he can't hurt you now, Papa," Amelia declared. "It's so exciting! Just think, we can mix with the very best of the ton now."

"Don't set your sights too high, my dear," her doting papa remarked, more sensible than the females in his family of their station in life.

"But, Papa, you're ever so rich and you know that means we'll have our pick of a number of eligible parties. Now that we aren't obliged to go to those dreadful routs in the City."

"And have to talk to mushrooms without titles."

"Abigail," he sternly noted, "I suggest you set your daughters on a more realistic path. The world of the ton doesn't offer many titles to bankers' daughters."

"Oh, pooh on you. Papa. Just think of Evelina Drucker, who married a viscount only last year."

"A very poor and old viscount."

"Well, who would give a fig how old or poor they might be if one could wear a coronet," Caroline maintained.

"And you know the aristocracy never even talk to each other," her sister chimed in. "They live in separate parts of their great mansions and see one another only at ceremonies."

"So you girls know it all."

"Enough, Papa, to know that the only thing that matters is your money. And now that Bathurst is almost dead, we will be allowed to dance at the very best balls."

"Isabella is gone as well, Herbert. You said it yourself. Your watchers told you. So surely there are no further impediments to our daughters' season."

"Where did she go?" Harold had just come down from his chambers, his dandified attire having taken considerable time to adjust on his porcine body.

"You've missed the first course, Harold," his mother admonished him.

"Save your reproach for Steeves," he protested, sitting down across from his sisters. "He ruined a dozen of my neckcloths before managing to make me presentable. So where did she go?"

"To Tavora House. Are you going to woo her now that Bathurst is dead?" Amelia teased, knowing of her brother's tendre for their cousin.

"She's not worth my time now that she's used goods," he said in an affected manner, Isabella's relationship with Bathurst the stuff of gossip. "But I may pay a visit on her-and give her the benefit of my advice."

"Used goods, indeed," Abigail sniffed. "She was out and out Bathurst's whore."

"But Lady Jersey slept with the Prince of Wales for years and now Lady Hertford does and the Duke of Devonshire has a mistress living in his house along with his wife and any number of nobles do-"

"For heaven's sake," Abigail exclaimed, directing a blistering glance at her younger daughter. "How in the world would you know such scandal?"

"From Maude, of course. You know how informed she is, Mama, and that's the reason you keep her. And if I'm going to be married soon, I should understand how the world goes along."

"Herbert! I would wish you to inform our daughters that immorality is wrong regardless of rank."

It took a moment for Herbert Leslie to gather the proper severe expression when he knew very well how the beau monde conducted itself. Fornication and flirtation had long been the amusements of the leisured class. "Listen to your mama, girls. She knows best."

"A little more sincerity, if you please, Herbert."

"Cut bait, Abigail," he brusquely retorted. "As if you don't know how the ton play at life and the world be damned."

The girls snickered and Harold smiled, but none dared confront their mother openly. She managed the household with an iron fist, and even Herbert rarely interfered in his wife's domain.

"We'll have no more talk of disreputable people at this table." Abigail scanned the faces of her family with a penetrating gaze. "Now then," she said in her most proper tone, "what if we all attended Mrs. Bambridge's tea tomorrow-as a family."

"I have to work, as you well know, Abigail."

"And I'm bound for the races, Mama."

Abigail frowned at her husband and son. "It wouldn't hurt you to show yourselves at some of the girls' parties."

"Not old lady Bambridge's tea though, Mama. There's no one of consequence there."

"Mrs. Bambridge has hired an opera singer. And she has hopes that Baroness Tellmache may appear, for she likes Madame Dolcini's voice above all things."

"Mama, don't bother. Harold would lief walk to his races before he'd listen to an opera singer. And Lucinda and Emilie will be there, which is quite enough for us to have fun."

"Luanda's maid knows the dresser for Lady Jersey, so she always has the most divine gossip about the royal family," Amelia added, grinning at her sister.

"There you go, Abby, the girls will have a great good time without us men to bother with. And as a little compensation for my busy schedule at the bank, why don't you girls go shopping for new gowns and bonnets."

"Oh, Papa!" his daughters both squealed, indifferent to their father's company but charmed by his purse.

"You're the greatest papa in the world!" Amelia cried. "I know exactly what I want. Remember, Mama, that darling primrose gown that you wouldn't let me buy because it was too dear. Is that all right now, Papa?" she cajoled.

"Of course, poppet." For all Herbert's grasp on reality, he had hopes that his girls would make good matches-maybe even titled gentlemen if ones could be found who were necessitous enough. "Abby, you see that our daughters look up to snuff, now." He winked. "And I'll see that the bills are paid."

The rest of the dinner conversation was taken over by a discussion of various gowns and milliners, while the men enjoyed their roasts and wine without further interruptions. And once the women had gone from the table and father and son were left to their port, Herbert said, "I'd like a word with you about your cousin."

"I thought I might call on her after the races. Tavora House is only a few miles from Newmarket."

"I've sent some men to follow her there. With Lonsdale out of the picture, and very luckily, since Bathurst is near dead, I thought you might like to consider marrying Isabella."

"Mother won't allow it. Her reputation after Bathurst-" He shrugged at the impossibility.

"Just leave your mother to me. We're talking eighty thousand a year, my boy. I'll see that she understands one way or another. Isabella could be kept in the country until the season is over, I was thinking. No one need know you're married."

"I might consider it, then."

"Don't put on airs with me, son. I know how you feel about Isabella. And now with the threat of Bathurst over, we can return to our original plans. The money should be kept in the family anyway, by Jove," he gruffly noted. "And if George hadn't had his head turned by your cousin's sweet ways, he would have done the right thing. Call on her, by all means, when you go to Newmarket."

"Is her bodyguard still in place?"

Herbert lifted his brows. "There's two of 'em now. But you needn't make more than a social call. See how she seems. Whether she's friendlier. Reconnoiter, as it were."

"Until such a time as we find a means to carry her off?"

His father nodded. "Exactly."

"If Bathurst kept her," Harold slyly murmured, "she's bound to be well trained."

"And capable of giving you a go for it in bed, eh, my boy?" his father replied with a soft chuckle. "Nothing wrong with that."

"A man wouldn't dare give her much freedom-if she's such a hot little piece."

"No need to give her freedom, son. She'll be your wife. You can keep her locked away in the country or in the mews behind the house if you like. And if I didn't trust your mama's sterling reputation, I'd do the same." It was bluster, of course. Abigail would have his hide if he dared cross her. Or her brothers would, and they were more powerful and influential bankers than he. "Fortunately, Isabella is without family to come to her aid," Herbert said in a musing tone. "We can be grateful for that."

"Lonsdale proved very convenient, didn't he-killing Bathurst like he did."

"And he had the decency to die as well," Herbert observed, lifting his glass to his son with a smile. "To the noble art of dueling."

Harold raised his glass. "May they both rest in peace."

"Not likely with Lonsdale-or Bathurst, for that matter. Hell's likely waiting. Now, just a word to the wise on the issue of honor. Such sublime principles may be well and good for the aristocracy, but don't let me ever hear of you involved in anything so dangerous. We can hire men to fight our battles, as anyone with half a brain does."

"Don't worry, Papa. I know better than to risk my life."

"You're a sensible young man." He smiled. "As my son should be. I never brought you up to foolishly spill your blood on the dueling field."

"I prefer the pleasures of life, Papa. Like this very good port." He held the rich ruby liquor up to the light.

"Shipped in from the Douro despite that damnable Peninsular War that's bleeding England dry. If they'd let the bankers run this country, we wouldn't be fighting to keep some damned king on his throne. Making money for England and ourselves. That's what counts."

"And I'll do my best to bring Uncle George's money back into the family," Harold said with a grin.

"Hear, hear." Herbert saluted his son, and lifting his glass to his mouth, drained it in one gulp.

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