“A tiresome habit. Tell me, Miss Honeywell, am I right in concluding that you’re somehow affiliated with Mr. Burton-Smythe?”

“Affiliated?” Maggie gave a short laugh. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” She rubbed her forehead with her hand.

“Does your head ache again, Miss Margaret?” Bessie asked, moving toward her.

“What? No. Please don’t make a fuss. I’m perfectly well.” Maggie turned her attention back to St. Clare. She hadn’t thought it possible, but he seemed to be watching her even more intently now. “Yes, my lord. Mr. Burton-Smythe and I are affiliated. He is, in a manner of speaking, my guardian.”

For a fraction of a second, St. Clare’s mask of slightly bored affability dropped, revealing a glitter of outrage. “Your guardian?”

“More precisely, he’s the executor of my father’s will and has control of my property and funds until the date of my marriage. The provisions of the will are such that, if anything were to happen to him, there’s a fair chance I would end up living in penury.”

“Ah. This begins to make sense.”

Maggie took a breath. She’d already fainted into the gentleman’s arms. There was no need to stand on ceremony. “I understand that you’re particularly proficient with a pistol, my lord.”

He shrugged his shoulder again. “I’m a Beresford.”

“I beg your pardon. A Beresford, did you say?”

“I’m John Beresford, Viscount St. Clare. My grandfather is Aldrick Beresford, Earl of Allendale. And yes, Miss Honeywell. The Beresfords are particularly proficient with pistols.”

“Yes, of course. Your family name. Forgive me, I didn’t know.” Maggie dropped her eyes to her hands for a moment before raising them back to St. Clare’s face. “I’ll not beat about the bush, my lord. I’ve come to beg you to call off your duel with Mr. Burton-Smythe.”

St. Clare seemed to consider this. “I assume you’ve already asked the same of Mr. Burton-Smythe?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “For all the good it did me. He’s utterly unreasonable. But you… Well, I don’t know you, my lord, but I have every hope that you’ll take my concerns seriously. If not, the only course left to me is to discover where your duel is to be held and to somehow arrange to appear there at the pivotal moment so that I might throw myself between the two of you.”

He gave her a strange look. “Does that method usually work?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never attempted it when pistols were involved.”

“Do you mean to say that you have attempted it on other occasions?”

“Oh, yes. Before… That is, many years ago. But it was merely fisticuffs. And Fred—Mr. Burton-Smythe, I mean—only ever withdrew from fighting because I had some measure of influence over him then.” She smoothed out a crease in her skirt. “It’s different now. I have no influence at all. Indeed, I’m powerless to stop him doing anything.”