“What? Not pointed enough, for you? Never fear, my boy. It soon will be.” Allendale tapped the offending report with his finger. “This is how it always begins. Small. Just a few lines of suggestion. Of innuendo. But it won’t be small for long. Not if Lavinia and her boy have anything to say about it.”

“You hold them responsible?”

“Who else?”

St. Clare was silent. Who else indeed.

Allendale’s eyes narrowed. “You haven’t been doing anything you shouldn’t have, have you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I warned you, no more dueling with country squires. No more personal vendettas. You and I have bigger matters to contend with.”

“So you’ve said.”

Allendale leaned across his desk. His face reddened. “By heaven, if you’ve faltered—”

“Calm yourself,” St. Clare said. “There have been no more duels. Nothing that would cause remark.”

Indeed, as far as he was aware, Burton-Smythe was still holed up in his rooms in St. James’s Street, nursing his wounds. St. Clare looked forward to the moment when he emerged.

“I told you to be careful,” Allendale said, frowning. “All you must do is find a bride and secure the title. I’ve drawn up a list. Suitable ladies of breeding years. Each of them of good stock.” He withdrew a sheet of paper from a drawer of his desk and extended it to St. Clare. “You met several at the theater last week, Miss Steele among them.”

St. Clare took the paper and set it down, unread. “I told you, I’ll find my own bride.”

“And what efforts have you made in that regard? Have you called on Miss Steele? On the dowager’s granddaughters? Even that young chit, Mattingly’s sister, might do if you insist upon having her. Only make up your mind—”

“I have made up my mind,” St. Clare said with uncharacteristic heat.

Allendale came to attention. “And? What’s the gel’s name?”

“Miss Margaret Honeywell.”

It was in this very room she’d appeared to him not two weeks before, cloaked in a shapeless gown, her face shadowed in the firelight. He’d caught her in his arms as she swooned. Had held her so very close to his breast. He’d understood then what he knew now absolutely. There could be no one else. No other lady, save her.

“Honeywell. Honeywell.” Allendale murmured the name as if he was on the cusp of recalling some troublesome memory. “Who’s her father?”

St. Clare hesitated. “A wealthy country squire, recently passed away.”

Allendale’s expression darkened. “Whereabouts was his property? Not Somerset, I trust.”

St. Clare was silent.

“Foolish boy—”

“I’m not a boy. Not any longer. And she’s the one I want. The only one I want.”

“Want,” Allendale echoed derisively. “What does that have to do with anything? You know your duty. You claimed to have accustomed yourself—”