St. Clare tossed the newspaper onto the desk with disgust. The report was no stab in the dark. It had to have been suggested by someone. Someone with firsthand knowledge of his dealings with Fred and Maggie.

Had it been Lionel? At the ball, he’d asked outright if Fred was an old enemy of St. Clare’s. Or had it been Fred himself? Had he at last managed to put two and two together?

St. Clare thought the latter unlikely.

Fred was—and always had been—thick as a fence post. A mindless bully, reacting more on instinct than sense. Never mind that on each occasion he’d crossed paths with St. Clare the visibility had been poor. It had either been dark or shadowed by smoke and flickering candlelight. Even on the morning of their duel conditions had been murky, a heavy fog billowing over the heath.

No. Fred hadn’t recognized him. Not yet. But a man like him could be easily led by the right person. Someone who was sly and calculating, who knew how to play on Fred’s vanity and insecurities.

Someone like Lionel Beresford.

Exiting the library, St. Clare promptly called for his curricle.

Driving was a bit difficult with a wounded arm. The stitches pulled whenever he tightened his hands on the reins. But it wasn’t too long of a journey to manage. Only a little over a mile.

Lionel and his mother had taken a modest house in Half Moon Street. It was a respectable address, if not an ostentatious one. As St. Clare arrived, he fully expected to see some sign of his grandfather. But the earl’s elegant black lacquered carriage was nowhere in sight.

“Walk the horses, Enzo,” St. Clare said as he jumped down from the leather-upholstered seat of his curricle.

The tiger trotted forward to take the reins.

St. Clare rapped on the front door. It was opened immediately by a young footman garbed in garish pink livery.

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Yes, sir?”

“Lord St. Clare to see Mr. Beresford.” St. Clare didn’t wait for an invitation. He walked straight into the small hall, removing his driving gloves and slapping them impatiently against the palm of his hand. “At once, man.”

The footman scurried up the staircase to the second floor. Seconds later, Lionel appeared on the landing. He was wearing a tightly fitted coat with equally tight pantaloons. His starched shirt-points were as high as his ears, and the great bulk of his neckcloth had been tied in some overblown approximation of the Waterfall style. “Cousin,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

St. Clare ascended the stairs. “Then you’re not half as intelligent as I gave you credit for.”

Lionel’s eyes gleamed beneath his heavy lids. “Ah. You’ve read the report in Bell’s Weekly Messenger, I gather.”

“A report that you’re responsible for.”