Mac moved to Charles Summerville, who quickly paid up without fuss. Mac swung the hat to the other aristocrats his friends had persuaded to accompany them. Some gave, grinning. Others snarled until Mac caught and held their gazes, and they meekly paid up.

Mac had known these men since the faraway days when they’d scrapped and fought at Harrow, establishing a hierarchy that had lasted into adulthood. Mac had been the leader of the troublemaking faction, a group that had fearlessly bullied older boys and tutors; sneaked out of school to drink, smoke, and lose their virginity; and scraped through with marks that barely let them finish. Though some of these men were or would become grand peers of the realm, and Mac was a third son, they still acknowledged him as their superior.

Mac finished his collection, deliberately not seeking out any of the poorer members of the crowd, and took the full hat back to the lady sergeant. Her eyes widened as she viewed its contents.

“My lord—thank you. And thank your friends. How kind they are.”

Mac took up his cymbals again. “They are always happy to give to a good cause. In fact, I will make certain that they regularly support you.”

“You are too good to us, my lord.”

Mac didn’t answer. “More music, sergeant?”

The sergeant brightened and led them off in a rousing rendition of a crowd favorite. Sweeping through the gates of the new Jerusalem, (Crash!) Washed in the blood of the Lamb! (Crash! Crash! Crash!)

Mac rolled back to Mayfair in his coach with Isabella seated next to him and Aimee in his lap. His arms hurt from all the cymbal banging, but he felt content and at peace.

And a little bit smug. The look on Randolph Manning’s face when he’d been forced to cough up thirty guineas had been priceless. Randolph was notoriously cheap, always touching his friends for money although he had thousands upon thousands tucked away in his bank.

“What is funny?” Isabella asked.

Mac realized he’d chuckled out loud. “Thinking that my friends should know better than to wager with me.”

She smiled, her face soft in the carriage’s lantern light. “In other words, they thought you’d lost, but you really won?”

“Something like that.” He didn’t explain that the wager had let him win everything he’d ever wanted. The courting game had given Mac a place to start with Isabella, but if it hadn’t been for the silly wager, he’d be a long way from the smile she now bestowed upon him. The wager had not only let him touch her and love her, but also to find the art that once more poured out of his fingers.

“You are a rogue.” Isabella leaned her head on his shoulder. The straw of her hat scraped his chin, but he didn’t mind. He had a warm, sleeping child on one arm, his wife on his other. What could be better?

He found out later, when Isabella waited for him at her bedroom door as he returned from carrying Aimee to the nursery. Mac decided he didn’t give a damn how sore his arms might be as Isabella took his hand and led him inside.

Isabella was surprised the afternoon after Mac’s bold debut with the Salvation Army to see her friend Ainsley Douglas stepping out of a coach at the front door, coming to call.

Isabella invited her in and had Morton bring tea. Ainsley had news, Isabella could tell, but neither said anything while Morton delivered the tea tray and three-tiered platter of cakes. Under ordinary circumstances Isabella liked the formality of taking tea, a comfortable ritual that gave even the shiest person words and actions with which to fill in awkward spaces. At the moment, however, she wished the ritual of pouring tea would drop to the bottom of the nearest well.

Ainsley set down her cup as soon as Morton had retreated and closed the pocket doors behind him. She leaned forward, a somber look in her eyes. “Isabella, I am so sorry. I came to warn you, before you read it in the newspapers.”

Isabella jerked her cup, spilling a line of tea down her skirt. “Warn me of what? Has something happened to Louisa?” She thought of Payne and went cold.

“No, no, she is well.” Ainsley said. She took Isabella’s cup from her frozen fingers and set it on the table. “This is not about Louisa. Not directly.”

Isabella had already read the morning newspapers from the Pall Mall Gazette to Mac’s racing news and had seen nothing that might upset her personally. “What then? You have me nervous.”

Ainsley took Isabella’s hands in hers, her friendly gray eyes filled with concern. “My oldest brother Patrick—you know he is something in the City and knows everything that goes on there, usually before the rest of the world does. He got wind of the news this morning, and knowing we were great friends, he advised me to prepare you.”

“Got wind of what? Ainsley, please tell me before I scream.”

“I’m sorry; I’m trying to.” Ainsley paused, her face drawn in sympathy. “It’s your father, Isabella. He’s ruined. Completely and utterly ruined. As of this morning, your family has been rendered penniless.”

Mac had expected his friends to shun him after he’d embarrassed them over the Salvation Army wager, but typically, his antics had only raised him in their estimation. When he encountered Cauli outside Tattersalls in Knightsbridge that next afternoon, Cauli grabbed Mac’s hand and wrung it with enthusiasm.

“You turned the tables on us but good, Mac old man.”

Mac rescued his hand. “The Salvation Army was most pleased with your donation, the sergeant told me. She went on in adulation about you for hours. There was talk of putting up a plaque.”

Cauli looked horrified. “God save me from being known as a philanthropist. Everyone in London will touch me for money.”

“I was joking, Cauli.”

Cauli sighed in relief. “Good, good. Very amusing. Ah, there’s your brother Cameron. Is this a family reunion?”

Cameron was walking into the arcade with his usual long stride, a big man dressed in a greatcoat to ward off the chill in the October air.

“Cauliflower,” Cameron greeted him when he stopped next to them. “Why don’t you go find some other vegetables to play with?”

Cauli chortled. “Very good, very good. The fine Mackenzie wit. Well, I’ll be off, so you can indulge in family warmth. Tallyho.” He lifted his hat and wandered off toward the auction circle.

Cameron gave Cauli’s retreating back a speculative look. “It’s said he’s the most erudite of the Dunstan line. Makes ye worry for the marquisate. I heard you were clashing cymbals over in Whitechapel last night, Mac. I never knew ye were so musical.”

Mac shrugged. “A wager. When did you arrive?”

“Late train. I had Jockey Club business.” He put his large hand on Mac’s shoulder. “I need a word with ye, if ye don’t mind.”

Mac nodded, and they walked away together, Cam not speaking until they’d reached Mac’s coach. Once inside, Cameron told Mac what had reached him from a friend of his in the City.

“Bloody hell,” Mac exclaimed in shock. “How the devil did Scranton manage to ruin himself?”

Cam looked somber, the deep scar on his cheekbone shadowed in the closed carriage. “Bad investments, mostly. A railroad line that was never built, an invention of some gadget that never got past the drawing stage. Things of that sort. The last straw was a diamond mine in Africa. The fighting there is preventing anyone from getting to the mine, so he’s been told. And it’s doubtful there are any diamonds in it at all. Lord Scranton wasn’t the cleverest when it came to his investments.”

Mac imagined Isabella faced with the news, her worry for her family. “Damn, I knew I should have stayed home this afternoon, but I needed to settle an account. A brief errand, I thought. The bloody idiot.”

“Many men trust the wrong advice,” Cameron pointed out. “It sounded like a house of cards collapsing. A bottom card got yanked out, and everything else followed.”

“Gambling with money meant to keep your wife and daughter in food and clothing is lunacy. I suppose when Scranton’s creditors hear, they’ll call in all their debts, if they haven’t already. Damned bloodsuckers.”

“Scranton’s been sliding downhill for some time, Mac. Hart told me that years ago. The earl has had to sell off every piece of his estate that isn’t entailed, and he’s only leasing his house in London.”

Mac stared at him. “Hart told you that? Years ago? Why didn’t Hart bother to tell me? Why didn’t you?”

Cameron shrugged, but Mac could tell that Cameron hadn’t liked the decision. “Hart knew you’d feel obligated to let Isabella know, and he thought she didn’t need more to worry her. I agree with him about that. Hart thought Scranton might turn around in the end, but the man’s been damned unlucky.”

“One day, Hart will have to stop deciding things for me.”

“That will be an interesting day. I hope I’m there to see it.”

The brothers were silent for the rest of the journey to North Audley Street, where Mac leapt out of the coach and hurried inside, followed closely by Cameron. Morton took their hats and coats and pointed to the closed drawing room door, a worried look in his eyes.

Mac shoved open the pocket doors, and Isabella jumped to her feet, her face paper white. Ainsley Douglas, who had been holding Isabella’s hand, rose more slowly.

“Mac,” Isabella said. He saw her struggle to retain her composure, not wanting to break down. “I’m afraid something rather dreadful has happened.”

“I know.” Mac went swiftly to her and took her ice-cold hands. “Whatever I can do, I will do. I promise you that.”

“I’ll leave you then,” Ainsley said. “I am so very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Isabella.”