"And getting stranger," Garrick muttered. His gaze shifted to a point behind Sebastian's left shoulder. "Your cousin just walked into the room. Odd. He rarely visits this particular club."

"Only because he knows I can frequently be found here."

"Precisely. So what, one might ask, is Fleetwood doing here to­night?"

"That's easy enough to guess." Sebastian set down his glass. "He has no doubt come to wish me luck on the field of honor."

"Not bloody likely." Garrick frowned. "The opposite, no doubt. Fleetwood would not weep any tears if someone were to put a bullet in you, Angelstone, and everyone knows it. As far as he's concerned, you usurped the title, and he's never forgiven you. He and his over­bearing mama both assumed for years that he was next in line."

Sebastian shrugged. "As did everyone else in the family."

Garrick fell silent as Jeremy Fleetwood came up behind Sebastian.

"Angelstone." Jeremy's voice held the raw, brittle tone of a young man who knows he is facing an older, more powerful male. It was a tone balanced between fear and bravado.

Sebastian ignored the interested hush that fell over the crowd at the nearest gaming tables. He knew everyone in the room was strain­ing to hear the confrontation without appearing to do so. The entire ton was aware of the icy feud between Sebastian and his relatives.

It was highly unusual for either side to even speak to the other. The fact that young Fleetwood was here in Sebastian's favorite club and had actually addressed his cousin by name would no doubt fasci­nate the gossips every bit as much as the rumor of a duel.

"Was there something you wanted, Fleetwood?" Sebastian turned slowly to face Jeremy. "Aside from my title, that is? Or have you come to wish me good fortune on the morrow?"

Jeremy's handsome face flushed. His eyes were a much darker shade than Sebastian's, brown rather than gold. His hair was lighter in color, a deep mahogany rather than midnight black. Nevertheless, Sebastian knew the family resemblance between himself and his cousin was unmistakable. He also knew that obvious fact irritated the rest of the Fleetwoods. They would have preferred him to have resem­bled his fair-haired mother.

"You bastard." Jeremy doubled a hand into a fist. "One of these days someone is going to put a bullet through your cold heart and it will serve you right."

"Thank you." Sebastian inclined his head politely. "Always nice to know one's family is behind one in a time of crisis."

"It's true, then?" Jeremy demanded, appalled. "You're going to subject the family reputation to another round of scandal by engaging in a duel with some country yokel?"

"You'll be happy to learn that the rumors of a duel are false."

"I don't believe it."

"It's the truth, cousin." Sebastian smiled. "Tell your doting mama to cancel her order for mourning clothes. I imagine she has already selected something appropriate in black on the off chance that her fondest wish might come true on the morrow. Unfortunately for her, I intend to live yet another day."

Jeremy scowled. "I heard that the brother of the Merryweather chit challenged you."

"Did you? Amazing how gossip flows through the ton, isn't it? A pity that so much of it is false."

"Damn it, man, what are you up to this time?"

"Nothing that need concern you, Fleetwood."

"You're an arrogant bastard, cousin."

"Arrogant I may be, but I am most definitely not a bastard." Se­bastian smiled again. "And that, dear cousin, makes all the difference, doesn't it?"

Jeremy's mouth worked, but in the end he seemed to be unable to find words. He spun around on one well-shod foot and stalked out of the room.

The buzz of conversation resumed at the card tables. Sebastian turned back to pour himself another glass of port. He stopped when he saw the thoughtful expression in Garrick's eyes.

"Don't worry, my friend," Sebastian said. "Fieetwood and I have an understanding. Long ago we both made a pact to detest each other."

Garrick's gaze remained on the door. "I believe he truly hates you."

"Not entirely his fault, I suppose. His mother has taught him to do so from the cradle. She never forgave my father for running off with my mother and thereby soiling the family name for all eternity. When I came into the title last year instead of her precious Jeremy, she nearly keeled over with apoplexy."

"I am well aware of your family history. Be careful, Angelstone. I swear there was murder in Fleetwood's expression just now."

"Calm yourself, Sutton. Your imagination is running riot."

"I'm not so certain. I have the distinct impression that if Jeremy Fleetwood could find a way to do you in without making himself look guilty in the process, he wouldn't hesitate a minute." Garrick smiled suddenly. "There's a solution to your dilemma, you know."

"And that is?"

"Do your duty by your title, man. Get yourself a wife and then get yourself an heir as quickly as possible. Once the title is secure for another generation on your side of the family, the Fleetwoods will cease praying for your demise. If you have an heir, there would no longer be any point in hoping you'll kick the bucket."

"I congratulate you on your pragmatic approach to the situation," Sebastian said. "Perhaps I shall give your notion some consideration."

Garrick gave him a sharp, inquiring look. "What's this? Don't tell me you've finally decided to be sensible."

"I have been told that at my age a man should begin to demon­strate the qualities of wisdom and responsibility, Sutton."

Garrick shook his head again. "You truly are in an odd mood tonight."

"Yes. Perhaps you'd better convey my apologies to young Mer-ryweather before I change my mind."

Sebastian ignored the gossip that swept through the ton the following afternoon as the haut monde learned of his apology to Trevor Merryweather. Instead of making himself available to the curi­ous in his club or retreating to the privacy of his library, he took himself off to keep an appointment at a certain coffeehouse near the docks.

Whistlecroft's message had reached Sebastian just as he had sat down to a leisurely late breakfast. The note had been short and to the point. Whistlecroft's messages generally were brief, as the Bow Street Runner did not read or write with any great skill.

Sir,

There be a matter of interest I wish to discuss with you. If it be agreeable with you, I suggest the usual place at three.

Yrs. W.

At three o'clock Sebastian walked into the coffeehouse and found Whistlecroft waiting for him in his customary booth. The Runner raised his mug in greeting. Sebastian went forward to join him.

Whistlecroft was a heavyset man with a florid, bewhiskered face and shrewd little eyes. The purple veins in his nose bespoke a fond­ness for gin and he seemed to have a perpetual cold during the winter months. He always wore a grimy scarf around his neck and snuffled a great deal.

"Good afternoon, yer lordship. I see ye got my message."

"I trust this matter will prove more amusing than the last, Whistle­croft." Sebastian sat down in the booth across from the Runner. "I am in the mood for something a bit more challenging."

"Yer too good at this sort o‘ thing, that's yer problem." Whistle­croft grinned, displaying several gaps in his teeth. "Well, I got a new one that should interest ye. Same arrangement as before? I collect the reward from the suitably grateful party what hired me?"

"The reward and the credit, Whistlecroft. Neither are of any use to me."

"Must be nice to be rich," Whistlecroft said with a sigh. "And have a fancy title into the bargain. Don't mind tellin‘ ye, I still don't under­stand why ye take such an interest in these little affairs."

Sebastian signaled for coffee. "I've explained that before, Whistle­croft. You provide me with an amusing hobby. Every man needs a hobby, don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know about that, yer lordship. Ain't never had time for no hobby. Too busy trying to keep food on the table for me and mine."

Sebastian smiled coolly. "I trust you and yours are eating some­what better since we began our partnership."

Whistlecroft chuckled. "That we are, m'lord. That we are. My wife's getting plump and the five little ones is all filling out nicely. We moved into a little house just last week. Real pleasant, it is."

"Excellent. Then let me hear what you have for me this time." Whistlecroft hunched forward and lowered his voice. "A little mat­ter o‘ blackmail and a nice bit o' jewelry, m'lord. I think ye'll find it amusing enough."

Chapter Three

What do I know of Angelstone?" Hester, Lady Pem­broke, paused with her teacup halfway to her mouth and looked at Prudence. "Only that he is not on speaking terms with his relatives and that he has an exceedingly dangerous reputation. All of which makes him extremely interesting, of course. Why do you ask?"

Prudence smiled. Hester was an awesomely built woman of inde­terminate years, whose size was exceeded only by her generous heart and her lively interest in the affairs of the ton. As she had once ex­plained to Prudence, she had long been deprived of her natural place in the social world due to the mysterious disappearance of the famed Pembroke jewels a generation earlier. One could not move in the best circles of the ton without money, regardless of one's pedigree.

Now that she had money, Hester was happily indulging herself in all the pleasures of society that had previously been denied to her. She had concluded that she had an innate sense of style and when the Morning Post reported that gowns of lavender and violet hues were the most fashionable this season, Hester had redone her wardrobe ac­cordingly. Today her stout frame was encased in a heavily flounced and ruffled lavender gown trimmed with pink lace.