At the sight of St. Clare and Maggie, Fred’s ruddy face mottled with fury. He advanced on them, his pistol half raised against any perceived interference on the part of the tavern’s customers. “I didn’t want to believe it,” he said, giving Maggie a look of disgust. “You, sneaking out of the house like the veriest light-skirt. For an assignation at a hedge tavern of all places.” He pointed his pistol at St. Clare. “You’ll answer for this.”

“I intend to,” St. Clare replied “Though I do wonder how it is you came to find us here?”

“Ah,” Lionel said. “That would be my doing.”

Maggie dropped St. Clare’s hand. “You set your valet after me, didn’t you? Of all the cheap, underhanded tricks. And you a guest in my home!”

“He did follow you, I confess, and then returned to fetch me. I thought it only prudent to summon Mr. Burton-Smythe.” Lionel gave St. Clare a lazy smile. “Apologies, Cousin, if I’ve interrupted your pleasure.”

“My pleasure has just begun,” St. Clare said. And reaching into the inner pocket of his greatcoat, he smoothly withdrew his own pistol—a nasty-looking double-barreled flintlock.

Lionel took an involuntary step back.

The table of old men in the corner laughed heartily. “Where’s your magistrate now, guv?” one of them cackled.

Fred’s hand trembled, but he didn’t waver. “Come, Margaret. At once. I’m taking you home.”

“Oh, do put that thing down, Fred,” Maggie said in exasperation. “You’ll never best him with pistols, and well you know it.”

There was more laughter from the old men in the pub. “You tell him, missus!” one of them said. “He won’t get the better of our lad.”

“That’s right,” another cried. “You show our lad some respect.”

Our lad.

St. Clare vaguely registered the words. Just as he’d registered the old men’s stares and whispers when first he’d entered the Crossed Daggers. He knew what it all meant, but there was no time to dwell on it. He had his old rival to contend with.

The two of them faced each other at the edge of the shadowed taproom.

“Come here,” Fred commanded Maggie. “Now.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” St. Clare said. “Not tonight—not ever. She belongs to me.”

“You!” Fred glared at him with something very like hatred. The same unbridled hatred with which he’d once regarded St. Clare so long ago. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

One of the grizzled old men stood up from his seat at the corner table. “Don’t you know who you’re talking to, boy? Why, that’s Gentleman Jim.”

Another of the men laughed. “He’s not Jim, you silly sod. He’s too young.”

“He looks like him right enough,” the first man replied. “A damned mirror image. Must be his son.”