Stephen grinned. “To win the woman of my heart.”

Oh. Well. That sounded far more positive than the maudlin musing of the lad when Chase had first entered the room. “Good for you. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you! Although, if this works—” A wide grin burst across his face. “I shall report back in an hour!” He saluted, and then left, stumbling over the very edge of the carpet as he went.

Chase was left facing the closed door. His gaze traveled to the askew tea table and then to the nearly empty brandy decanter. Though he was happy to see Stephen so revitalized, Chase had the unmistakable feeling that he’d missed something. Something significant.

He mulled that thought over for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever happened, he’d cheered up the boy and that was certainly worth something. Why, as soon as Harriet found out, Chase was certain she’d be abject in her apologies for ever calling him selfish.

Feeling very altruistic, Chase pushed up from his chair and made his way out of the library to see if perchance his bath was ready.

Chapter 19

They say that love is the grandest passion of all. Except, perhaps, passion itself.

Anthony Elliot, the Earl of Greyley, to his wife while on the way to visit the earl’s half brother, Marcus St. John, the Marquis of Treymount

Devon ran up the wide steps, his booted feet making a ringing announcement of his presence. Located in the heart of Mayfair, Treymount House was an awe-inspiring manor, filled with antiquities and treasures, yet blended with the most modern of conveniences.

Even in London’s most exclusive neighborhood, the house caused much comment, from its towering height to the outstanding quality of stonework that graced the entry. Even the shrubbery that lined the drive was painfully perfect. Marcus, of course, would have nothing less.

To many, it seemed cold and somewhat overbearing, but to Devon, who had slid down the stair railings untold times and had frequently jumped out the lower windows while escaping from Cook after stealing a hot pie, Treymount House was just home. Or had been until he’d moved out at the age of nineteen into his own lodgings.

“Sir,” the butler said, smiling a little on seeing who had been hammering on the door. “It has been a long time.”

“Hallo, Jeffries. It hasn’t been that long. Two weeks, no more.” Devon stepped through the door and handed his hat to the butler. “Is his lordship up and about? I feel the need to upset my brother’s peaceful existence.”

“I would hardly call the marquis’s existence peaceful. And he has been up since dawn. In fact, he has already met with his man of business, one of his solicitors, as well as two new investors.”

“Showing us all up, is he? All I’ve managed to do today is eat breakfast and tie my cravat.”

Jeffries bowed appreciatively. “I cannot speak for your breakfast, but your cravat is without compare.”

Devon grinned. “Damn! I wish you’d let me steal you away from Marcus. I’d pay you twice what you’re worth and you’d never have to answer that heavy door again.”