“Why, the earl was once considered to be one of the foremost shots in England, and his son, if all the tales are true, was even more deadly. He killed a man in a duel decades ago and was forced to flee to the continent, where he promptly killed another. Dueling is in their blood, you see. And I’ve heard that Lord St. Clare is the most lethal of them all.”

Maggie rose abruptly from her place on the bed. She paced the length of the bedroom and back again. “But this is terrible, Jane! If Fred is killed, what will happen to Beasley Park? What will happen to my money?”

“He won’t be killed. Only frightened, and perhaps humbled a little—or so I hope! That’s why the tale is so diverting.” Jane’s smile faded. “Isn’t it?”

“No, Jane. It’s not diverting at all. It’s maddening. Infuriating. Only think what the consequences might be if anything should go wrong.” Maggie wrung her hands as she paced. “Oh, how utterly thoughtless of him—and how completely typical! He never considers anyone but himself. He’s the most selfish, inconsiderate man alive!” She stopped suddenly, turning back to her friend in a whirl of overlarge blue skirts. “I shall have to put a stop to it somehow.”

“Put a stop to it? But how can you?”

“I shall…I shall summon Fred and tell him… Oh, what shall I tell him, Jane?”

Jane’s brow creased. “I cannot think. I’ve never heard of a woman stopping a duel before unless… I suppose you could find out where they’re to meet, and throw yourself between them. But that doesn’t seem advisable, does it?”

“No, indeed.”

“Well then, at the very least, you must summon him here. You must reason with him as well as you can.” Jane paused. “And while you’re at it, you must demand as much money from him as you require for the season, and then some. You have the moral high ground now, Margaret, and Frederick Burton-Smythe will not be able to deny you anything.”

Chapter Two

Maggie’s note requesting Fred come and see her was taken round to his lodgings by a footman at half past four. The footman promptly returned with Fred’s reply: Mr. Burton-Smythe would do himself the honor of calling upon Miss Honeywell in half an hour.

By the time Fred arrived, Maggie had washed and changed into a fresh gown and put her hair into some semblance of order. She received him alone in the Trumbles’ drawing room, sitting composedly in a chair near the fire with a tea tray arranged in front of her.

“Margaret.” Fred executed a smart bow. It caused the lines of his coat to strain against the brawny muscles of his back. “I’d have thought you had the good sense to rest after your journey.”