Gillian rolled her eyes. “Really, Crouch, I appreciate your concern, but my plan is quite sound, I assure you. We’ll be perfectly safe; his lordship will be there, after all.

Crouch crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, m’lady, but who’ll keep ye safe from ’im once ’e discovers ye there?”

“Testicle!” Charles shouted suddenly, tugging at the pirate’s sleeve. “Testicle, Mr. Crouch. Look, over there, testicle!”

“Why the devil are ye yammerin’ on about yer cods?”

Charles danced up and down before Crouch’s unbelieving eyes. Was the man actually wringing his hands?

“Testicle! Look, coming down the street — testicle!”

Crouch suddenly remembered the watchword and spun around, his eyes narrowed, looking for any threat to his mistress’s safety. A carriage was speedily bearing down on them, the horses lathered and wild-eyed. Immediately footmen began running to and fro, stumbling over each other, over the dogs, and over their own feet. Crouch shouted orders to form a circle around Gillian, but the orders were lost in all the noise and confusion.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Gillian said, shaking her head as she stepped over a prone footmen. She grabbed Nick and pushed him up the stairs. “Quickly, Charlotte, before they regroup. Oh, I do hope the mistresses have seduced all the men by now.”

Charlotte panted behind her as they dashed up the steps. “I’m sure it takes more than two minutes to seduce a man, let alone a whole room full of them. Even Lord Weston must take longer than two minutes to be seduced.”

Gilian recalled several occasions when Noble had proved that statement false but kept that bit of news to herself, concentrating instead on how they would stop the ridiculous boxing match. They paused at the top of the second flight of stairs to catch their breath.

“I still don’t understand why you want the mistresses to seduce every man present, cousin. Other than for the sheer pleasure of watching their expertise in action, of course.”

“Charlotte!” Gillian scolded, and tucked several strands of hair back into her chignon. “They are there for distraction. You don’t think we’re just going to be allowed to stroll into Mr. Jackson’s rooms without being questioned, do you?”

Charlotte tugged at her gown and pinched her cheeks. “Certainly I thought so. Why shouldn’t we?”

“Because ladies are not allowed in. Hence the mistresses. Nick, darling, you have a bit of dirt smudged on your chin…yes, thank you, that’s got it. Are you ready?”

Nick squeezed her hand. “I’m ready.”

“Excellent. Char, ready? Oh, blast, that would be Crouch and his reinforcements. Shoulders back, everyone. This is a glorious cause we fight for!”

“Lord Weston?” Charlotte asked as Gillian pushed open the door. “Glorious? Good-looking, I’ll admit, but glorious? I — oh, my! Will you look at that gentleman! He is bare-chested! What a magnificent figure of a man! Beverly, you cannot possibly want that gentleman, he’s much too young for you. I’ll take care of him for you, shall I?”

Gentleman Jackson’s rooms were in an uproar. Several gentlemen of the ton had arrived to watch the battle royal, and they had made themselves quite comfortable as they strolled around the outer room, carrying out loud conversations with each other over the deafening noise of the other gentlemen gossiping, arguing, and wagering over the outcome of the duel. Into that sea of masculinity the mistresses had sallied, flags flying and sails unfurled. The result was utter pandemonium.

“Excellent!” Gillian cried upon viewing the chaos, her hand tight on the back of Nick’s jacket. It wouldn’t do at all to lose him in this crowd of hot bloods. “Look, Char, the mistresses are a smashing success!”

“I’m looking, I’m looking,” Charlotte muttered, quickly donning an expression that pronounced her a shy, frightened, innocent young maiden who suddenly found herself in an unsuitably masculine environment. “Why, Lord Beckman, what a surprise to find you here!”

Lord Beckman looked equally surprised to see two ladies push their way through the crowd. He stuttered an excuse and slunk away.

“Hrmph. What a weakling Beckman is. Never did have any backbone. Oooh, look, Gilly, Anne is sitting on the Duke of Firth’s lap! How very clever of her. I wonder how she did it?”

“Excuse me,” Gillian said politely as she slipped past two men. “Char, come along. Stay with me lest you be confused with one of the ladybuns.”

Charlotte’s eyes glittered as she followed reluctantly behind. “Do you think there’s a chance of that?”

“Here’s a door. Nick, stay behind me. Charlotte, you’re responsible for keeping him safe.”

Charlotte saluted and put a protective arm about the lad.

Gillian threw the door open without preamble and stood staring at the sight within. There were several men inside, one of whom was a tall, burly fellow who could only be the famous Gentleman Jackson himself. He was talking with Noble, while Lord Rosse and Sir Hugh stood nearby.

Noble was in the act of removing his upper layers of clothing, his back to the door. Directly in front of Gillian was Lord Carlisle, handsomely garbed in a colorful kilt. She spent no time in admiring the attractive ensemble, for he was in the act of removing his hand from his hose and looking toward Noble. In his hand he held a small dagger, which he hefted in a manner that clearly indicated he was going to throw it.

At Noble.

In his back.

The result of such a heinous act being that her beloved husband would surely die.

Not if she had anything to say about it! Gillian thought as she leaped toward the Scot. Just as she did so, he stepped forward, her hand just missing his arm but ending up with a handful of woolen kilt. She didn’t hesitate even a fraction of a second — Noble’s very life was at stake, and only her actions could keep him from coming to harm. She took a firm grip on the material with both hands and yanked as hard as she could.

“I would say that answers the question of what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt,” Charlotte said over her shoulder, her eyes wide and sparkling.

Nick pushed his way into the room. “He’s not wearing anything,” he said, puzzled, looking up at Gillian.

“Exactly,” she answered, distracted by the scene before her. It wasn’t the horrified look on Lord Carlisle’s face that worried her. It was the steel-blistering scowl on her husband’s handsome countenance that suddenly made her wish she were miles away.

“Good afternoon, Noble,” she said with a weak smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“It won’t happen again, Jackson, I can assure you of that. If I have to lock my wife away, I will make sure she never comes here again.”

Gentleman Jackson was adamant. No matter how important Lord Weston’s patronage was, he couldn’t be having a repeat of the day’s chaos. “I’m sorry, my lord. It would be best if you found another of the boxing schools to patronize.”

Noble glanced around at the debacle. While most of the bloods had left after it had been made clear the duel was off, they had not left peaceably. Chairs had been smashed against the floor, cups of wine and other libations had been dashed against the walls, occasional tables were thrown through the windows, and the famed gold curtains had been ripped down and thrown out to the crowd gathering below the windows. In the midst of this destruction, what looked to be a full phalanx of his footmen were milling around the remains of the crowd. Gillian’s two dogs were running from man to man conducting their own investigation, while his ex-mistresses — he didn’t want to even begin to ponder what they were doing here, although he knew Gillian had a hand in it — were busily chatting up the remaining gentlemen present. He wished them well. Perhaps if they all found the protectors they sought, they would be out of his life once and for all.

“Papa?” His son tugged at his hand. Noble put the hand on the boy’s head, surprised at his lack of surprise at seeing him. Why should he be surprised? Hadn’t Gillian included Nick in every other of her harebrained schemes?

“Not all of them, Papa,” Nick answered solemnly. “She didn’t let me meet your ladybuds.”

“Ladybirds,” Noble said without thinking. “Er…that is…oh, hell, never mind. It doesn’t matter. Where is your mother? I don’t see her anywhere.”

“She went out the door with that man who didn’t have anything on underneath his skirt.”

“Kilt,” he replied absently, then suddenly grabbed Nick by both shoulders. “She what?” he bellowed at the boy. “When did she leave?”

Nick’s face turned pale. “Just a few minutes ago, but Papa, I want to tell you about—”

Noble was off before Nick could finish his sentence.

“—the man who hurt you,” he said softly.

“McGregor!” Noble roared as he pushed his way through the remaining gawkers, his heart feeling as if it was going to burst out of his chest. “McGregor!”

He’d done it; the bastard had done it. He’d taken Noble’s soul and crushed it to a lifeless pulp. If he’d done anything to harm her…Noble choked on the thought. He rounded up his men and, after giving them a brief tongue-lashing for letting Gillian out of their sight, raced down the stairs and out onto the street, the entire population of Jackson’s following swiftly on his heels.

Noble paced back and forth in front of a house in Cheapside, muttering to himself just what he’d do to that murdering bastard McGregor when he caught up with him. He wanted nothing more than to be on the back of the nearest horse, hunting for his Gillian, hunting for the man who had spirited her away directly under his nose, doing something — anything — to find her.