"Can we expect you at seven?" Justin asked.

Stephen wanted to refuse. He had no desire to make polite conversation. In fact, he felt wholly incapable of it. But there was little he would refuse his sister, and as he had begged off from her last several invitations, he felt he had to accept.

"Will anyone else be there?"

"Actually, yes. We invited your parents and Gregory and Melissa."

A bark of incredulous laughter erupted from Stephen. "A cozy family gathering? Forget it, Justin."

"I want to observe Gregory's reactions to you in a private setting. You don't have to do anything at all except sit, eat, and drink brandy."

"How much brandy do you have?"

"Enough."

Stephen doubted there was enough brandy in the bloody kingdom to dull his pain. "Very well. I'll be there at seven. This is sure to be a delightful evening."


* * *

The luxurious carriage moved slowly through Hyde Park, the lone occupant staring through the window with hate-filled eyes. You survived again, you bastard. Why won't you die? Black-gloved hands clenched into fists. You're the only thing standing between me and everything I've always wanted and deserved. No more mistakes. No more hiring fools. I will kill you myself.


* * *

"You're looking rather pale, Stephen," his mother observed over the rim of her wineglass. "Are you ill?"

Stephen stared across the dinner table at the woman who had given birth to him and then promptly forgotten her son except for such times as suited her. She was undeniably stunning, was a charming hostess, and graced the guest list of every Society function. She was also completely selfish and blatantly uninterested in anything that did not directly concern her own wants. Stephen knew she wasn't really concerned about his health-only the possibility that she might catch whatever sickness he might have, thus interrupting her social engagements. He noticed she wore a new bauble around her neck, a large square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds. Obviously a token from her latest lover-her husband had ceased purchasing her jewelry years ago.

"I'm fine, Mother. How kind of you to inquire."

His sarcasm sailed over her head, as he'd known it would, and she smiled, clearly relieved.

"Are the accounts of the Yorkshire estates ready for my review?"

Stephen turned to his father. At fifty-two, the Duke of Moreland still cut a tall, imposing figure. Gray streaked his dark hair and deep lines bracketed his unsmiling mouth. He had the coldest eyes Stephen had ever seen. "No. I need another day to finish them."

"I see." The duke accompanied those two words with a long, silent, frigid stare that clearly indicated his disapproval. He returned his attention to his dinner, dismissing his son as effectively as slamming a door in his face.

Stephen realized that that exchange was the longest conversation he'd had with his father since his return to London.

"I heard an interesting bit at White's this afternoon," Gregory said, accepting more wine from a footman. "The betting book is filled with wagers on the outcome."

Stephen's gaze moved down the table and settled on his brother. Signs of Gregory's dissipated lifestyle were taking their toll, marring his handsome face, and the alcohol-induced bleariness never completely left his eyes anymore. His high color announced his inebriated state. If Gregory weren't such an immoral bastard, Stephen would feel sorry for him.

"What did you hear?" Victoria asked.

"There's talk that a woman has been writing a series of stories appearing in Gentleman's Weekly magazine."

Stephen froze. "What?"

Gregory gulped his wine, spilling burgundy drops on his white cravat. "Do you read A Sea Captain's Adventures by H. Tripp in the Gentleman's Weekly?"

"Indeed I do," said Justin from the head of the table. "You read them as well, Stephen."

"Yes. Continue, Gregory."

Clearly confident that he held his audience spellbound, Gregory said, "Of all the stories serialized in the magazine, H. Tripp is the only author who has never been seen in person. Why is he not a member of any writing society? Why does he not attend any social functions? There is speculation that the reason is because he's a woman."

"Perhaps he's merely shy, or infirm, or lives too far away," suggested Melissa in a quiet voice.

Gregory fixed his wife with a watery, baleful stare. "Why, what a brilliant suggestion," he taunted, his words thick with sarcasm. "I cannot imagine how we'd carry on without your sparkling insights."

Twin slashes of red humiliation colored Melissa's thin cheeks and her gaze dropped to her lap.

Schooling his features into an impassive mask, Stephen said, "Melissa's suggestions explain very logically why no one has ever met H. Tripp."

"Then explain why Mr. Timothy, publisher of Gentleman's Weekly, becomes visibly distraught when H. Tripp's name comes up in conversation," Gregory challenged. "The color drains from his face and sweat breaks out on his brow."

A humorless smile curved Stephen's lips. "Perhaps the alcohol fumes on your breath do him in."

Crimson mottled Gregory's face. He made a move to rise from his chair, but Melissa laid a restraining hand on his arm. "Gregory, please don't make a scene."

Gregory's attention turned to his wife and he pinned her with a venomous stare. "Get your hand off me. Now."

Melissa's pinched face reddened to crimson. She snatched her hand away, and for just one instant, before she lowered her gaze once again to her lap, Stephen thought he saw hatred flash in her eyes.

Gregory brushed at his sleeve where her palm had rested. "Your touch makes me ill. Just sit there and keep your stupid mouth shut."

Stephen's fingers tightened around his wineglass. "That's enough, Gregory. As for your theory regarding H. Tripp, I hope you didn't wager more than you can afford to lose."

"Indeed? Why is that?"

"Because I am personally acquainted with H. Tripp, and I assure you the author is the breeches-wearing sort."

Stephen could tell by the dismay that flashed on Gregory's face that his brother had indeed overextended himself in White's betting book.

Belligerence quickly replaced dismay, however, and Gregory narrowed his eyes. "Where did you meet him?"

"I am not at liberty to say."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Are you questioning my integrity, Gregory?" Stephen asked in a deceptively quiet, icy tone.

Gregory's watery eyes shifted nervously. "Do you give your word as a gentleman?"

"Absolutely," Stephen said without hesitation. "In fact, I'll make it a point to visit White's at my earliest convenience and put an end to this nonsense."

With a nonchalance he was far from feeling, he turned to Victoria and asked her about the party she was planning, knowing she would rhapsodize on the arrangements for at least a quarter hour.

He'd make sure he visited White's on his way home this very evening and squelch that damn rumor. No one would dare question the Marquess of Glenfield's word of honor.

He realized this might be the first time in his whole life he was grateful for his title.


* * *

"Delightful dinner party, Justin," Stephen remarked several hours later when he and his friend retreated to the library. The Duke and Duchess had departed, no doubt anxious to meet up with their latest lovers, and Gregory had staggered out, berating Melissa, who'd followed meekly behind. Victoria had retired to her bedchamber claiming the headache, and Stephen could not blame her. His own temples pounded from the tension-filled atmosphere.

Pouring himself a hefty brandy, Stephen tossed the drink back in one gulp. The liquor burned through him, relaxing his tense muscles. He promptly poured another, bringing it and the decanter to a wing chair next to the fire. He set the decanter down on the small mahogany table next to him.

Justin poured himself a finger of brandy and sat in the chair opposite Stephen. Both men remained silent for several long minutes, staring at the dancing flames.

Justin cleared this throat. "If you continue drinking at that pace, you'll end up in worse condition than Gregory." He eyed the brandy snifter in Stephen's hand. "Perhaps you already are."

"Not yet, but that is my ultimate goal," Stephen replied. He tossed back his drink and poured another.

"I see. Then, before you pass out, do you want to hear my observations of the evening?"

"By all means, although I'm certain they're the same as mine."

"Which are?"

"My brother is a greedy, abusive, debt-ridden drunk who I'm certain wished me dead at least a dozen times during dinner." He swallowed more brandy, praying for numbness. "Do you have anything to add to that?"

Justin shook his head. "No." After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, he asked, "Do you want to talk about what's really bothering you?"

The lump that formed in Stephen's throat nearly choked him. "No." Taking a long pull of his drink, he stared into the flames. Why the hell didn't the liquor dull the pain? How much brandy did he need to drink to make it go away?

"I don't mean to criticize, Stephen, but is drinking yourself into oblivion really the best course of action for you to take?" Justin asked quietly. "Whoever tried to kill you is still out there, waiting for another chance. You can hardly defend yourself if you're foxed."

Stephen leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. The potent alcohol seeped through him, and he felt the onset of the blankness he strove for. Perhaps the liquor didn't make him feel good, but it kept him from feeling quite so bad. In fact, with any luck and a few more drinks, he would cease to remember anything painful at all.