“So have you men settled the affairs of the world?” Rosalind inquired, having noticed their quiet conversation.

“More or less,” Fitz blandly replied.

“Provided we get through this evening unbloodied,” Oz said with a grin.

“Pshaw. As if anyone will dare speak out of turn to either of you. To be perfectly honest,” Rosalind declared, “I’m rather looking forward to all the spite and malice. The evening should be as amusing as a Sheridan play.”

A single rap on the door interrupted the conversation.

Josef entered and bowed. “Nine o’clock, sir.”

The men exchanged glances as if before battle, drained their glasses, set them down, and offered their arms to their wives.

This evening was warfare of another kind but equally strategic. Tonight was meant to be a deterrent to a perceived enemy-Compton-as well as a chivalrous mobilization against the fashionable world that could be tiresomely vicious. Oz wished to protect Isolde from both. And as with any duel, he felt it easily within his power to prevail.

A few minutes later, Isolde and Oz stood at the top of the stairs waiting to greet the first guests ascending the flower-garlanded and footman-lined staircase. The Duke and Duchess of Groveland were seated within sight of their hosts but beyond the need for conversation with the visitors. Josef had placed a small table with a bottle at Fitz’s side, the duchess had an iced lemonade at hand, and both were intent on the coming performance.

“You needn’t get up, dear, if you don’t wish,” Fitz said. “If Oz leaves, I’ll take his place.”

“I’ll see how I feel,” the duchess answered with a small smile. “There might be one or two of your old paramours I might wish to send away with a flea in her ear.”

“Be my guest.”

“Lady Buckley for instance.”

Fitz laughed. “I warn you, she’s a bitch. Don’t expect me to save you.”

“I already know she’s a bitch, darling. We’ve met. And I won’t need saving.”

The most avidly curious were the first to arrive, and as Josef announced them by name, Isolde and Oz smiled the required smiles, uttered the prescribed courtesies and polite trivialities, countered the expected malice with suave malice of their own, and in general averted any overt belligerency with dulcet impudence or in Oz’s case, with the occasional warning glance.

Nell’s transit of the reception line passed without controversy since her husband was at her side and in consequence she was muzzled. Lord Howe had come specifically to meet the woman who’d lured Lennox away from his wife. While Nell was resentful of Oz’s new bride, her husband was intrigued. Well aware of his wife’s sexual expertise and agility, Lord Howe suspected that Lennox’s wife was highly imaginative in the bedchamber.

“A prodigious pleasure to meet you, Countess,” Lord Howe said, his voice silken as he gracefully bowed over Isolde’s hand.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Withdrawing her hand, Isolde spoke with counterfeit warmth. “Do enjoy yourself tonight.” She was surprised that Lord Howe was so good-looking. For some reason she’d naively thought Nell’s search for pleasure was predicated by an ugly husband.

“Thank you, I will.” Lord Howe turned to Oz with an urbane smile. “Congratulations, Lennox. You’ve found a beautiful diamond of the first water. Dashing and spirited I don’t doubt. Why else would you marry?”

The insinuation was plain, the word spirited pronounced with a certain small emphasis.

“Thank you. I consider myself fortunate.” Oz cooly met Lord Howe’s amused gaze. “Did you enjoy Paris?”

“Not as much, apparently, as you did London in my absence.”

“Ah-no one new in the corps de ballet? I heard a young dancer from Hungary was all the rage.”

Lord Howe didn’t so much a blink an eyelash at the allusion to his latest adultery. “You must have better sources than I.”

“I do, of course. Mine are excellent. Enjoy our little soiree. My chef has outdone himself it seems, but then one must allow him his romantic fervor. I don’t get married every day.”

“Indeed. Brooks’s betting book was inclined to wager-never.”

“Then someone won a tidy sum.” Oz deliberately turned to the next person in line, dismissing Lord Howe and his wife. Not that the following couple was an improvement. Another of his lovers had come with her husband, and unlike Lord Howe, the Earl of Dugal took issue with his wife’s infidelity.

“Will married life rein in your debauchery, Lennox?” the Scottish earl demanded in his heavy brogue.

“Marriage has brought it to complete standstill, Dugal. What about you?”

The elderly man turned a mottled red and cleared his throat. “I don’t see how that concerns you,” he growled.

“Nor does it, no more than my life concerns you,” Oz said, an edge to his voice. “Now make your bows to my lady wife and go off and drink my liquor. Unless you have something more to say.”

Dugal’s pretty young wife smirked behind her husband’s back, dipped her head to Oz, and turning to smile at Isolde, said with sweet innocence, “I wish you well, my lady. Lord Lennox is exceedingly kind.”

“I know. Thank you.” She almost felt sorry for the young wife who gazed at Oz with such longing. If she were married to a frightfully old as well as unfaithful man, she’d be looking for love elsewhere, too.

And so it went, the men offering their good wishes with leers at Isolde, the many women who’d slept with Oz predictably offering him seductive smiles and winks and whispered asides. Then there was the general herd who’d come to gawk or scrutinize or hope to ferret out the freakish and unaccountable explanation for Lord Lennox’s marriage. And last but not least, Achille’s reputation was well-known due to Oz’s wild bachelor parties. A small percentage of guests with epicurean tastes had come for the haute cuisine alone.

Those who dared mention Oz’s bites and bruises were ignored if Oz was in a lenient mood or were warned off with a look even the most obtuse recognized if he wasn’t. Also as promised, he was ever gracious and adoring to his wife, so much so that those who didn’t actually believe in love were given pause. If cupid’s arrow could strike a reprobate heart like Lennox’s, surely the concept was more than a matter of poetic license.

Isolde had long ago given up any notion of publically exerting control over her husband. Oz was at his charming best in any event, and at base she found herself indifferent to all but the pressing need for escape.

An hour had passed, Josef had brought Oz several brandies, the number of arriving guests had dwindled, the drawing rooms were crowded-and still no Compton.

Oz was impatient. He needed Compton; he wanted this over.

Isolde was relieved. If she never saw her cousin again, she’d be content.

A footman jogged up the stairs, spoke to Josef, who in turn spoke to Oz. “I think we’ve done our duty long enough, dear,” Oz said. “Why don’t I have Fitz and Rosalind escort you into the supper room. Try some of Achille’s special dishes. He did it all for you. It seems that Sam has something he can’t deal with. I’ll be right back.”

A look of fear came into her eyes. “Is it Compton?”

“No, a matter to do with our departure tomorrow. It’s nothing serious.” Turning, he signaled to Fitz. “Would you escort Isolde into the supper room? I won’t be gone long.”

He waited until Isolde and the Grovelands had disappeared into the crowd before quickly making his way downstairs.

“Sorry to bother you,” Sam said as Oz entered his study. “Davey thought you wanted him to go with you,” he added, indicating the secretary. “I said I thought not. He’s wondering whether he has to pack your business ledgers and papers tonight. Tell him what you want him to do.”

Oz glanced at the clock. “I have to get back. Compton hasn’t come yet. You’re staying in London, Davey. Follow me and I’ll explain what I need.”

As the two men walked down the corridor, Oz gave directions in crisp, rapid-fire accents: he needed a daily courier between London and Cambridgeshire; more than once a day if matters were urgent; Davey could sign anything that wasn’t of singular importance; he particularly needed the shipping schedules of his fleet. “The exact times of departure, dates, hours, the captains, destination. Everything.”

Davey was half running to keep up with Oz’s long stride. “Are you shipping an important cargo?”

“I might. It depends. Make sure that the departure schedules are current-to the minute.” They were entering the entrance hall. “If you have any more questions, we can talk in the morning.” Oz scanned the empty stairway.

“Will you be staying in the country long?”

“Only as long as I must. Not very long as far as I can tell. I’ll let you know.” Catching sight of the man he’d been waiting for out of the corner of his eye, Oz came to a stop. “We’ll talk later,” he murmured, waving off Davey before turning to his right. “What are you doing skulking in my entrance hall, Compton?”

Isolde’s cousin stepped from behind a malachite pillar into the light, a petulant thrust to his jaw.

“No answer? Have you seen all you wish to see?” Oz’s brows lifted faintly. “Mute tonight? Very well,” he calmly said. “Since you’re here, go upstairs and wish Isolde happiness on her marriage.”

“If she’s married,” Compton blurted out. “You of all people married?” he sullenly added. “I’m not the only one suspicious.”

“Would you like to see the marriage license? Your hired minister brought it to the hotel as I recall.”

“He seems to have disappeared.”

Oz looked amazed. “Are you sure?”

“You know damned well he’s gone,” Compton spat. His solicitor had immediately attempted to see the minister.

“You may find this hard to believe, but men of the cloth are of no interest to me.” Oz’s gaze was direct and pointed. “Nor will they ever be.”