Maggie met St. Clare’s eyes, unable to contain the swell of longing within her.

How many years had she wasted waiting for Nicholas Seaton to return to Somerset? Too many to count. He’d been her first love. Her only love. She’d long ago resigned herself to the fact that he was dead. He’d have joined the army. He’d have been killed in the Peninsula or at the Battle of Waterloo. He must be dead. For if he were still alive somewhere in the world, he would have found his way back to her.

“The brandy was not to your liking, I see,” St. Clare said. “Shall I send for a glass of wine? A cup of tea? Pray tell me what you require, Mrs. Ives, and I shall endeavor to supply it.”

Maggie struggled to a sitting position. “I thank you, my lord, but I don’t require anything. I’m much better now. Indeed, if you’ll be so kind as to release me…”

St. Clare waited until she was fully upright before removing his supportive arm. He then drew back, taking a seat in a nearby chair. His gaze never left Maggie’s face. “It is Mrs. Ives, is it not?”

Maggie straightened her skirts around her. Her gown, like all her others, hung loosely on her frame. She feared that whatever illusion her fine cloak had provided had now been dispelled. For all she knew, St. Clare thought her some sort of poor, grasping opportunist in ill-fitting clothes who went about pretending to be a fine lady. “No. It isn’t,” she admitted. “Mrs. Ives is, in fact, the name of my maid.”

Bessie, who had remained near Maggie on the sofa, gave a nod to St. Clare but said nothing.

“I’m Margaret Honeywell of Beasley Park.” Maggie thought she saw a flicker in St. Clare’s gaze, but it was gone before she could interpret it. “I’m at present a guest of Lord and Lady Trumble in Green Street.”

“So, not a Mrs. at all.”

“No, my lord. But as I told your butler, my business with you is most urgent. It concerns your duel. And, as I only arrived in London this afternoon, time was of the essence. I had to contrive a way to call upon you without endangering my reputation. That’s why I’ve come at this hour, and why I didn’t give your butler my true name.”

“Quite.”

Maggie hesitated. St. Clare’s expression was completely inscrutable. She couldn’t tell for the life of her if he was one of those odious gentlemen who pokered up as soon as a lady mentioned such topics as duels or gaming hells or the demi-monde. She lifted her chin a notch. “I suppose you won’t even acknowledge that you’re having a duel with Mr. Burton-Smythe.”

He shrugged one broad shoulder. “Why shouldn’t I?”