“Hold a moment, Carson.” Jane went to a small escritoire in the corner, pulled out a sheet of paper, and took up her quill pen. “A single sentence stating that four o’clock is agreeable?” she queried Maggie. “And I’ll sign your initials, shall I?” She wrote out a few brief lines, folded the paper, and sealed it with a wafer. “Take this round to Lord St. Clare at once,” she instructed the footman. “He’s presently at the Earl of Allendale’s residence in Grosvenor Square.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Carson said before exiting the room.

“Clearly he’s trying to get you alone in the park before the fashionable hour.” Jane resumed her place beside Maggie on the sofa. “It may be that he doesn’t want the two of you to be observed by all of the ton. Or I suppose there’s always the chance he has some nefarious scheme in mind. A kidnapping, perhaps. Spiriting the unmarried heiress away to Gretna Green so that he can gain control of her fortune.”

Maggie managed a wry smile. “If that’s his plan, he’s in for a very unpleasant surprise. At any rate, I don’t believe the viscount to be a fortune hunter.”

“Nor do I,” Jane admitted. “And yet…I don’t know exactly what to make of him. Oh, he’s gentlemanly and polite, to be sure. Not but that I don’t think he’s sneering a bit at everyone under all that civility. But there’s something else. Something not quite right. I can’t put my finger on it. Then again, I have little experience with rakes. And even less with truly dangerous men.”

“Dangerous?”

Jane nodded. “Oh yes. To hear George tell it, St. Clare is absolutely lethal. The way he recounts that duel…”

“Gentlemen are far too easily impressed. To hear them talk, you’d think it was the most difficult thing in the world to hit a target at fifteen paces. Why, at Beasley Park, I’ve hit an empty bottle off of a fence at twenty, and a bottle is a far smaller target than a man.”

“Yes, dear, but the bottle wasn’t firing back at you.”

“Perhaps not. But to think he’s dangerous merely because of his ability to shoot straight is an utter absurdity.”

“It wasn’t merely that. It was his cold-bloodedness. He stood still as a statue as Fred’s bullet whizzed past.” Jane held her arms stiffly at her sides, affecting an air of boredom as she watched a make-believe bullet go by. “And then, he raised his pistol.” She lifted her hand as if holding a weapon. “And fired.” Her finger pulled an imaginary trigger. “‘My dear fellow, if you’re going to act the brutish country squire—’”