“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.”

St. Clare watched her awhile longer, and then, in a gentler tone than he’d used thus far, said, “Rest easy, Miss Honeywell. Much as he may deserve it, I don’t intend to kill Mr. Burton-Smythe at dawn. It’s a capital offense, you know, and having spent the better part of my life on the continent, I have no immediate desire to return there.”

Hope surged in Maggie’s breast. “You’ll call off the duel?”

“Ah. No. That, I’m afraid, I cannot do. But I give you my word of honor that Mr. Burton-Smythe will not die at my hand.”

Maggie had a poor opinion of a gentleman’s word of honor. Even so, she knew better than to call it into question. A gentleman could be quite touchy on the subject. She supposed that St. Clare’s assurances would have to satisfy her. “Thank you, my lord. I’m very much obliged to you.”

“Indeed you are,” he murmured. “One might even say that you’re in my debt.”

Bessie gave a sharp intake of breath.

Maggie cast a fleeting glance in her maid’s direction before turning her attention back to the viscount. “In your debt? For sparing Mr. Burton-Smythe, do you mean? But you said you had no intention of killing him in the first place.”

“So I did. And at the moment, that’s very true. At dawn, however…” He shrugged. “Who’s to say? Your Mr. Burton-Smythe can be devilish provoking.”

“Of that I’m well aware, but I don’t see how—”

“There’s a good chance he’ll say something to annoy me.”

Her brows drew together. “He very well might.”

“And when he does, the impulse to put a bullet in his brain may be too great to resist.”

Maggie heard another gasp from Bessie. And no wonder. A gentleman shouldn’t speak of duels at all in the presence of a lady, let alone be so lost to decency as to mention firing a bullet into someone’s brain.

Perhaps St. Clare was trying to put her out of countenance?

If so, he was in for a disappointment. As a girl, Maggie had frequently heard her father threatening to blow this or that person’s brains out, or to tear them limb from limb. Indeed, she recalled making similar threats a time or two herself. The Honeywells were known for their bluster.

“If he offends you in some way, can you not simply ignore him?” she asked. “It’s what I try to do.”