"I will see you for grass before breakfast!"

Lucian, fourth earl of Wandersee, tossed his cards onto the table and stood. "I think not, Andover. Dueling will do neither of us any good."

"You have insulted me by-- "

"I have neither insulted you nor have I done anything to change Lady Rockington's affections toward you. If the lady has decided that her heart is going to lead her elsewhere, then that is her choice." He pulled on his dark coat and downed the last of the wine in his glass before glaring at Andover, who with his bright red hair and furious scowl resembled more than anything else a puffed-up rooster. "By all that's blue, Andover, I give you my word as a gentleman that I have not spoken more than a score of words to the lady."

"As a gentleman?" Andover drew himself up to his full height which left him still half a head shorter than Lucian. "That is a jest. No gentleman would-- "

Lucian drove his fist into the shorter man's nose and watched the baron collapse against a chair, knocking it and himself to the floor. Looking at the other men who had been listening with impatience and were eager to return to their cards and conversation, he arched a dark brow. "Mayhap no gentleman would, but I was quite happy to."

Another man stood. "Pay him no mind, Wandersee. You tolerated his prattle longer than I believe I would have. Come back to the table while good fortune is with us."

"Good fortune is with you, Carlson. Not me." He pocketed the handful of coins that were left in front of his place at the gaming table.

Stepping over Andover, whose hushed groans warned that he soon would be regaining his senses, Lucian walked out of the room. He looked in both directions along the upper gallery of the club that he had been mad to become a member of only five years ago. Obtaining membership had offered him a challenge, and he enjoyed a challenge -- both then and now.

But in the wake of his service on the Continent in the war against that blasted Corsican, playing cards and giving a bottle a black eye seemed less than challenging. To own the truth, doing that night after night was boring. He had never thought London could fill him with ennui, but it did.

"Wandersee!"

Lucian turned to see Franklin Bullock motioning to him from the other side of the gallery that ringed the stairs leading down to the ground floor. Knowing that Bullock would not believe that Lucian had not seen him, Lucian waited for the man, who was built like the beast that had inspired his family's name, to lumber around the gallery to where Lucian was standing.

"Glad I could catch you before you took your leave," Bullock said, huffing as if he had run from Hyde Park. "You may want to avoid Andover today."

"Too late. I just spoke with him." He rubbed his knuckles, which still stung from their impact against the baron's nose.

"If you need a second-- "

"I have no need for a second, because there will be no duel." He leaned one elbow on the cast iron railing between the thick pillars. "I refused Andover's challenge."

"Refused? But you cannot do that!"

"I did."

Bullock scratched his chin where dark whiskers indicated he had not been home to enjoy the attentions of his valet in more than a day. "Andover will be livid."

"Mayhap when he wakes." He tapped the reddened knuckles of his right hand.

With a laugh Bullock said, "He has been bragging for almost a week that he would make you rue your dalliance with Rockington's wife."

"I leave chasing after the skirts of another man's wife to Andover and his ilk. I have no interest in any wife."

"Even your own?"

"Do not sound like a matchmaking mother. It does not suit you."

Again Bullock laughed. "If you heeded on dits, Wandersee, you would know that I am only asking to your face what others are whispering behind your back. Everyone is eager to discover when the earl is going to select a bride. It is rumored that Lydia Meyers is the one upon whom you have set your cap."

"Lydia asked me to escort her and her grandmother to the theater one evening when Sellman was ill. 'Twas a favor for a longtime friend of my family. Nothing more." He laughed wryly and shook his head. "I would have guessed that the ton had better things to do than worry about my matrimonial state."

"The Season is over, and those who linger in Town are seeking any sort of entertainment."

Lucian pushed himself away from the railing. "I have no interest in providing it for them. Mayhap it is time for me to take my leave as well." He grimaced. "Wandersee Manor is still being renovated, and I have no interest in getting involved in my mother's plans for the house."

Bullock chuckled as they walked down the stairs. "I knew you to be a wise man, Wandersee. You are welcome to join me at my dirty acres."

"All the way in the north of England? I appreciate the offer, Bullock, but I have to be in Bath for Jordan's wedding in late September. I do not fancy the idea of riding the length of England twice in such a short time."

"Which Jordan? The viscount or his younger brother?" He tapped his chin. "What are the lads' names?"

"Rupert is the viscount, and his title is Fortenbury now that he has inherited from his uncle. 'Tis Henry who is being wed."

"Ah, yes, I forgot Henry Jordan had decided to marry Wallace's younger daughter." Bullock laughed again. "September, is it? I guess he wishes to take no chance on her returning here for the Little Season and having another chap catch her eye."

"I suspect Henry grew tired of listening to his mother remind him of the need for an heir, as his bookish brother has yet to consider a bride. However, he seems quite enamored of the young woman, singing her praises until my ears are quite over-full. He has arranged for a gathering in a few weeks at his house near Plymouth. I would guess he is eager to take a break from the wedding plans at the family's estate in Bath, although his betrothed is to be at this gathering."

"It sounds rather as if he is starting the celebration early."

"Celebrating about to be leg-shackled? I would say it is more likely he intends to have the company of his fellow bachelors this one final time, and he knows that the only way to do so is to have a party to which the feminine guests will keep his fiancée occupied."

Bullock clapped him on the back as they reached the ground floor. "One of these days, you will find yourself thinking endlessly of a pair of flashing eyes and beguiling curves. After all, you have a duty to your title, too. Has no woman intrigued you enough to consider buckling yourself to her?"

"Now you are sounding like a matchmaker. Leave off. When the time comes, I suspect the lady will make herself quite clear in her intentions, so I can be equally forthright in mine."

"Is that what you think?" Bullock put his hands on his massive belly as he roared with laughter. In the galley above, two footmen stopped and peered over the railing to see what was happening below. "Ladies are not always as obvious as a man would hope. Mayhap we have become too accustomed to the candid behavior of our convenients. Do you agree?"

Lucian considered his possible answers with care. If he told Bullock he had not even thought of a dalliance with a convenient since his return to England, Bullock would label him a beef-head and worse. Saying that his mind was scattered and that he was having trouble regaining the easy bachelor's fare that he had enjoyed before his commission took him to the Continent might bring more ridicule from Bullock, who had lambasted him as an air-dreamer for buying that captaincy in the first place. Nor would Bullock understand if Lucian was to relate that he was tired of the posturing of petty fools like Andover when he had become familiar with the straightforward ways of soldiers who knew pride could be fatal.

Better to change the subject to politics, a favorite topic for Bullock. He opened the door, letting the bustle of St. James's Street invade the club's hush. Walking down the front steps to the narrow street, Lucian drew on his gloves while Bullock spoke to the footman by the door who would have their carriages brought.

A hint of a mist was weighing down the air. Narrow fingers of fog were already crawling along the street, and he guessed the fog and smoke from the chimney pots would be thick tonight.

"So you are going?" Bullock asked.

Lucian knew he had let his attention wander too far, because he had not heard anything else Bullock had said since they emerged from the club. "Going where?"

"Jordan's seaside gathering."

"I had thought that one round of toasts to the happy couple would be enough, so I plan only to attend the wedding."

"That is a shame. You shall miss the sight in Plymouth Harbor."

"Sight?"

"It is said that the H.M.S. Bellerophon and its imperial passenger will be bound there to await the orders to transfer Napoleon to another ship for his final exile on St. Helena."

Lucian's mouth tightened. He was infuriated that after so many men had died on both sides during the wars that had been fought solely to obtain that Corsican an empire throughout Europe, Napoleon was being treated like a respected prisoner. "A waste of time and manpower," he growled.

"These things must be handled with care," Bullock said, stepping back as a passing carriage splattered water up onto the walkway. "He did put himself in British hands."

"To escape the Russians who would have dealt with him quickly and efficiently."

"But he is our problem now, and the laws of England must outweigh the yearning for vengeance."

"That is your opinion."

"Yes."

"It is not mine." Lucian smiled coldly as his carriage came into view. "This is a disgrace. How can we let him go unpunished for the deeds he has done? A man must be made to pay for his wrongs."

An icy laugh came from behind him, and he felt something hard and cold push against his back. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Andover and a member of the club he knew only by sight.

"I am glad to hear you say that, Wandersee," Andover crowed, "because I feel the same way. You have wronged me, and I demand satisfaction."

Lucian started to turn, but Bullock's abruptly pale face warned him to take due caution. Stretching his neck to an awkward angle, he saw the sharp finger in his back was the long barrel of a pistol. "I have told you, Andover, that I will not accept your challenge."

"You have wronged me!" He screeched the words so loudly that people stopped all along the street to stare. "I demand satisfaction."

"You shall not have it from me."

"Then I shall kill you where you stand!"

Bullock choked, "By the elevens, Wandersee, humor the man. Accept his challenge."

"No." Lucian crossed his arms over his chest, but doubted he betwattled anyone with this careless pose.

"Do not be a fool, Wandersee!" cried Bullock, his face turning a dangerous shade of gray-green. When the man wobbled, the footman hesitated only a moment, then ran to steady him.

"Andover," Lucian said, keeping his voice calm, "you have distressed Bullock so with your antics that the man is taking ill."

" 'Tis not his state of health that should concern you, but your own." Andover emphasized his words by pressing the gun more deeply into Lucian's back.

"If I accept your unwarranted challenge, will you let this be done with for now?"

"I would gladly have this done with now."

Lucian frowned. He could not mistake the drunken slur in Andover's voice. Agreeing to the duel would put an end to this farce now, and surely Andover would come to his senses when he was no longer foxed. A groan from Bullock, who was leaning heavily on the footman as both sank toward the walkway, warned the man might be worse than ill. This could not be allowed to go on any longer.

"Very well," he said. "I accept your accursed challenge." The gun remained at his back. "Deuce take it, Andover! I accepted! Now let me go and see if Bullock needs help."

"The footman can take care of that. I want my satisfaction now."

"Now?" Lucian wanted to turn and declare Andover completely mad, but he knew that would guarantee a pistol ball in his back. "At this hour, there are ladies and children at any of the areas commonly used as dueling greens in Hyde Park or Green Park."

"Then we shall face each other here."

"Here? You may have forgotten, Andover, but dueling is not exactly authorized by law. Certainly not on St. James's Street. The watch will be here before a single shot is fired."

Andover chuckled with malevolent glee. "You need not worry about that, Wandersee. You shall not be alive to witness that. Or have you forgotten how often I bested you in shooting when we were younger?"

He had not forgotten. Andover was a skilled marksman, far better than Lucian could ever aspire to be. If Andover was not as drunk as a piper, Lucian would remind the baron that Lucian had served on the Continent. That might have given Andover pause, even though Lucian had not fired over a dozen shots during his time there.

The gun barrel jabbed his back, and he realized Andover was handing it to his companion, whom he addressed as Markham. Passersby drew back in horror, edging into doorways and calling for the watch as Lucian was herded to the middle of the narrow street. Andover walked the width of five buildings from him and raised another pistol.

"This should be about the twenty paces we have between us," Andover bellowed. When a man moved toward him, pleading with Andover to rethink this madness, Andover shifted the pistol toward him, and the man froze before inching back onto the walkway.

Shouts came from the clubs and shops on either side of the street, but Lucian ignored them as Markham withdrew the gun from his back and shoved it into his hand. A quick check told him it was primed and ready to be fired. His initial thought to grab Markham and use him as a hostage to persuade Andover to be sensible was an idea he tossed aside. Andover was in such a pelter he might shoot his own second.

Glancing at the walkway in front of the club, Lucian saw that Bullock was being helped to his feet and to a safe place in order to avoid being struck by a wild shot. His face was no longer the pasty color of death, but his eyes were so wide that Lucian feared they would roll right out of his head.

"Wandersee!"

At Andover's shout, Lucian hefted the pistol. He wished he could think of a way to put an end to this without further hullabaloo. He could not.

"On the count of three, Wandersee!"

He saw people scrambling for cover and heard more shouts as bets were being made on which one of them would be the victor in this outrageous duel in the middle of St. James's Street. He held his pistol at the ready as Andover slowly began the count. The baron was so deeply in his cups that he was acting as if this were sport.

"Three!" Andover shouted and fired. The detonation seemed doubly loud on the narrow street.

Pain burst along Lucian's left arm. He looked down to see blood pooling on his best coat's sleeve. That Andover had ruined his favorite coat vexed him for the second before another wave of pain gushed through him, rocking him backward. He fought to maintain his footing and raised his head. Andover was staring at him, looking to be abruptly sober as he realized the enormity of what he had done.

Knowing that he should fire either at Andover or up into the air, Lucian walked to the walkway and handed the gun to the footman who had assisted Bullock once again to his feet. Lucian would not take the chance of the ball striking someone who was watching from an upper floor.

His coachee, Moss, rushed forward and pulled Lucian's right arm up onto his shoulder. Lucian leaned against him as voices came at him from all directions. He heeded none of them while his ears rang as if they were bells being struck again and again.

"Yes," he replied to Moss asking if Moss the coachee could drive Lucian home now.

Andover rushed up, chattering like an Indian monkey. Through the cacophony in his ears, Lucian heard him say, "But the duel is not over until both men have fired."

"You want me to shoot you?" Lucian asked, struggling to form each word.

"My honor remains unredeemed."

" 'Tis your good fortune that it is not your corpse that must be salvaged," he growled as he turned toward his carriage. Andover must be as much of a widgeon drunk or sober.

"You cannot leave yet!" Andover grasped Lucian's left sleeve.

Pain seared Lucian's arm, and his reaction was instinctive but not unsatisfactory. Lucian's fist hit squarely on Andover's face again. The baron fell hard on the stone walkway, senseless once more.

Bullock stepped forward and assisted the coachman in helping Lucian into the carriage. Sitting on the comfortable seat, Lucian grimaced when he saw the blood still flowing down his arm. Bullock pulled off his own coat and handed it to him.

"No need, sir," Moss said. The coachman pulled some clean rags from the boot and handed them to Lucian. "I keep these around for polishing the carriage. They should work well, my lord."

"Thank you, Moss." He forced a smile for his friend and the others watching. "And thank you, Bullock."

"Have that wound checked," Bullock ordered. "Then rest." He smiled suddenly. "Go to Jordan's party and let the sea air relax you. Watching Napoleon sail away would do you good now."

"That is an excellent idea." He motioned for the tiger to close the door.

"I will see you there." Bullock raised his hand to wave.

Lucian leaned his head back against the seat. Leaving London now seemed like the best idea anyone had had in a long time. There was an undeniable pleasure at the anticipation of witnessing Napoleon banished to the nether regions of the Atlantic. Traveling to Plymouth across the breadth of England would be a challenge for a man just shot in a duel in the middle of St. James's. It was not a challenge he would have wished for, but it was one he would take.