“A lot of the gents in the park were present at the duel,” George went on between bites of his plum cake. “I wish I’d been! There’s not many who’ve seen St. Clare shoot, excepting Lord Vickers and Lord Mattingly. They traveled a bit with him on his grand tour, you know, and they said he was as deadly as all the rest of the Beresfords. Not that St. Clare’s reputation meant a thing to Burton-Smythe. But then, as I told Vickers, Burton-Smythe’s so full of self-importance that it would never even occur to him that any man could best him.”

“Oh, go on!” Jane demanded.

“Well, the short of it is, the handkerchief was dropped and Burton-Smythe fired. His shot went a touch wide. Nearly singed the viscount’s sleeve, I heard. And St. Clare didn’t even flinch! Just stood there and without batting an eye, fired a bullet straight through Burton-Smythe’s shoulder.”

Maggie’s mouth fell open. “St. Clare shot Fred?”

“To be sure, he did, but that’s not even the best part.” George’s eyes were bright with excitement as he entered into the spirit of the tale. “Burton-Smythe was lying on the ground with the surgeon kneeling over him, and St. Clare walks up to him as cool as you please and says, ‘Let this be a lesson to you, my good man. If you’re going to act the brutish country squire, best stay in the country.’ And then he leapt into his curricle and drove off.” George laughed appreciatively. “If that don’t beat all!”

Maggie felt a sickening flicker of dread in her stomach. One didn’t have to be killed outright in order to die from a gunshot wound. Why, if Fred’s shoulder festered, he could expire within the week! And then what was she to do? “Where is Fred now? Is he all right? Oh, Jane… Do you suppose I should go to him?”

“I say, Miss Honeywell, don’t put yourself into a taking,” George said. “Burton-Smythe is holed up at his lodgings. He’s not hurt too badly—the bullet went clean through—but I hear he’s in as foul a mood as anyone ever saw him. You’d be wise to leave him be for a while.” George cleared his throat, giving an uncomfortable tug at his cravat. “Besides that, there’s some who already think you have an agreement of some sort with Burton-Smythe—”

“Indeed, I do not!” Maggie objected.

“—and if you arrive at his lodgings to nurse him through his injury you may as well put a notice of your betrothal in the paper.”

“Is that the subject of the gossip you mentioned?” Jane asked. “Well, is it?”