What a bloody cock-up the whole thing had been. Marcus had told Daniel not to play cards with Hugh Prentice. But no, Daniel had just laughed, determined to try his hand. Prentice always won.

Always. He was bloody brilliant, everyone knew it. Maths, physics, history—he’d ended up teaching the dons at university. Hugh Prentice didn’t cheat at cards, he simply won all the time because he had a freakishly sharp memory and a mind that saw the world in patterns and equations.

Or so he’d told Marcus when they’d been students together at Eton. Truth was, Marcus still didn’t quite understand what he’d been talking about. And he’d been the second best student at maths. But next to Hugh . . . Well, there could be no comparison.

No one in their right mind played cards with Hugh Prentice, but Daniel hadn’t been in his right mind. He’d been a little bit drunk, and a little bit giddy over some girl he’d just bedded, and so he’d sat down across from Hugh and played.

And won.

Even Marcus hadn’t been able to believe it.

Not that he’d thought Daniel was a cheat. No one thought Daniel was a cheat. Everyone liked him. Everyone trusted him. But then again, no one ever beat Hugh Prentice.

But Hugh had been drinking. And Daniel had been drinking.

And they’d all been drinking, and when Hugh knocked over the table and accused Daniel of cheating, the room went to hell.

To this day Marcus wasn’t sure exactly what was said, but within minutes it had been settled—Daniel Smythe-Smith would be meeting Hugh Prentice at dawn. With pistols.

And with any luck, they’d be sober enough by then to realize their own idiocy.

Hugh had shot first, his bullet grazing Daniel’s left shoulder. And while everyone was gasping about that—the polite thing would have been to shoot in the air—Daniel raised his arm and fired back.

And Daniel—bloody hell but Daniel had always had bad aim— Daniel had caught Hugh at the top of his thigh. There had been so much blood Marcus still felt queasy just thinking about it. The surgeon had screamed. The bullet had hit an artery; nothing else could have produced such a torrent of blood. For three days all the worry had been whether Hugh would live or die; no one gave much thought to the leg, with its shattered femur.

Hugh lived, but he didn’t walk, not without a cane. And his father—the extremely powerful and extremely angry Marquess of Ramsgate—vowed that Daniel would be brought to justice.

Hence Daniel’s flight to Italy.

Hence Daniel’s breathless, last-minute, promise-me-now- because-we’re-standing-at-the-docks-and-the-ship-is-about-to- leave request: “Watch over Honoria, will you? See that she doesn’t marry an idiot.” Of course Marcus had said yes. What else could he have said?

But he’d never told Honoria of his promise to her brother. Good God, that would have been disaster. It was difficult enough keeping up with her without her knowledge. If she’d known he was acting in loco parentis, she’d have been furious. The last thing he needed was her trying to thwart him.

Which she would do. He was sure of it.

It wasn’t that she was deliberately willful. She was, for the most part, a perfectly reasonable girl. But even the most reasonable of females took umbrage when they thought they were being bossed about.

So he watched from afar, and he quietly scared off a suitor or two.

Or three.

Or maybe four.

He’d promised Daniel.

And Marcus Holroyd did not break his promises.

Chapter Two

“When will he be here?"

“I don’t know,” Honoria replied, for what must have been the seventh time. She smiled politely at the other young ladies in the Royles’ green and gray drawing room. Marcus’s appearance the day before had been discussed, dissected, analyzed, and—by Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, Honoria’s cousin and one of her closest friends —rendered into poetry.

“He came in the rain,” Sarah intoned. “The day had been plain."

Honoria nearly spit out her tea.

“It was muddy, this lane—” Cecily Royle smiled slyly over her teacup. “Have you considered free verse?"

“—our heroine, in pain—"

“I was cold,” Honoria put in.

Iris Smythe-Smith, another of Honoria’s cousins, looked up with her signature dry expression. “I am in pain,” she stated.

“Specifically, my ears."

Honoria shot Iris a look that said clearly, Be polite. Iris just shrugged.

“—her distress, she did feign—” “Not true!” Honoria protested.

“You can’t interfere with genius,” Iris said sweetly.

“—her schemes, not in vain—"

“This poem is devolving rapidly,” Honoria stated.

“I am beginning to enjoy it,” said Cecily.

“—her existence, a bane . . ."

Honoria let out a snort. “Oh, come now!"

“I think she’s doing an admirable job,” Iris said, “given the limitations of the rhyming structure.” She looked over at Sarah, who had gone quite suddenly silent. Iris cocked her head to the side; so did Honoria and Sarah.

Sarah’s lips were parted, and her left hand was still outstretched with great drama, but she appeared to have run out of words.

“Cane?” Cecily suggested. “Main?"

“Insane?” offered Iris.

“Any moment now,” Honoria said tartly, “if I’m trapped here much longer with you lot.” Sarah laughed and flopped down on the sofa. “The Earl of Chatteris,” she said with a sigh. “I shall never forgive you for not introducing us last year,” she said to Honoria.

“I did introduce you!"

“Well, then you should have done so twice,” Sarah added impishly, “to make it stick. I don’t think he said more than two words to me the whole season."

“He barely said more than two words to me,” Honoria replied.

Sarah tilted her head, her brows arching as if to say, Oh, really? “He’s not terribly social,” Honoria said.

“I think he’s handsome,” Cecily said.

“Do you?” Sarah asked. “I find him rather brooding."

“Brooding is handsome,” Cecily said firmly, before Honoria could offer an opinion.

“I am trapped in a bad novel,” Iris announced, to no one in particular.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sarah said to Honoria.

“When will he be here?"

“I do not know,” Honoria replied, for what was surely the eighth time. “He did not say."

“Impolite,” Cecily said, reaching for a biscuit.

“It’s his way,” Honoria said with a light shrug.

“This is what I find so interesting,” Cecily murmured, “that you know ‘his way.’ ” “They have known each other for decades,” Sarah said.

“Centuries.” “Sarah . . .” Honoria adored her cousin, she really did. Most of the time.

Sarah smiled slyly, her dark eyes alight with mischief. “He used to call her Bug."

“Sarah!” Honoria glared at her. She did not need it put about that she had once been likened to an insect by an earl of the realm.

“It was a long time ago,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “I was seven."

“How old was he?” Iris asked.

Honoria thought for a moment. “Thirteen, most likely."

“Well, that explains it,” Cecily said with a wave of her hand.

“Boys are beasts."

Honoria nodded politely. Cecily had seven younger brothers.

She ought to know.

“Still,” Cecily said, all drama, “how coincidental that he should come across you on the street.” “Fortuitous,” Sarah agreed.

“Almost as if he were following you,” Cecily added, leaning forward with widened eyes.

“Now that is just silly,” Honoria said.

“Well, of course,” Cecily replied, her tone going right back to brisk and businesslike. “That would never happen. I was merely saying that it seemed as if he had."

“He lives nearby,” Honoria said, waving her hand in the direction of nothing in particular. She had a terrible sense of direction; she couldn’t have said which way was north if her life depended on it. And anyway, she had no idea which way one had to travel out of Cambridge to get to Fensmore in the first place.

“His estate adjoins ours,” Cecily said.

“It does?” This, from Sarah. With great interest.

“Or perhaps I should say it surrounds us,” Cecily said with a little laugh. “The man owns half of northern Cambridgeshire. I do believe his property touches Bricstan on the north, south, and west.” “And on the east?” Iris wondered. To Honoria she added, “It’s the logical next question."

Cecily blinked, considering this. “That would probably send you onto his land, as well. You can make your way out through a little section to the southeast. But then you would end up at the vicarage, so really, what would be the point?” “Is it far?” Sarah asked.

“Bricstan?” “No,” Sarah retorted, with no small measure of impatience.

“Fensmore.” “Oh. No, not really. We’re twenty miles away, so he would be only a little farther.” Cecily paused for a moment, thinking. “He might keep a town home here as well. I’m not sure.” The Royles were firm East Anglians, keeping a town home in Cambridge and a country home just a bit to the north. When they went to London, they rented.

“We should go,” Sarah said suddenly. “This weekend."

“Go?” Iris asked. “Where?” “To the country?” Cecily replied.

“Yes,” Sarah said, her voice rising with excitement. “It would extend our visit by only a few days, so surely our families could make no objection.” She turned slightly, sending her words directly toward Cecily. “Your mother can host a small house party. We can invite some of the university students. Surely they will be grateful for a respite from school life."