It had been an easy enough situation there. On his gentleman's honor to attempt no escape, he'd had the freedom of the pretty village and even waltzed at the assemblée. The sole inconvenience had been the wife of the local chevalier, who had conceived a most ardent fondness for Lieutenant LeBlanc on the basis of a single trif ling kiss, which no amount of diplomacy—or indeed, discourtesy—had seemed to cool. She had been so relentless in her pursuit that he'd become the butt of the captive officers' mess until he was moved to Brussels to await a prisoner exchange that had never materialized—the defeated French apparently having no pressing need for one more LeBlanc littering their countryside.

He'd forgot about her until this morning, and that her name was also Malempré—a silly oversight that annoyed him. It seemed almost an insult to Callie. But it was too late to change now. He carried in his inner pocket several copies of a broadside imprinted with the handsome image of a dark bull and the breathless details of the Malempré Challenge:

The CERTIFIED Measurements of the Celebrated

BELGIAN BULL of Malempré! Freshly Arrived

in England, to Tour the Entire Country! The

PRIZE offered to Any BULL of Any Breed that

can be Proven GREATER in All Dimensions! 500

GUINEAS and a Silver Salver with the NAME of

the Winner ENGRAVED beneath its Likeness!

He had made sure that Colonel Davenport would be absent for the formal announcement by the simple expedient of putting a man to spy on him and discov ering his schedule. The good colonel was engaged this morning to determine which farm laborer had the honor of Supporting the Largest Number of Legitimate Offspring without Recourse to the Parish, for a prize of two pounds, and thereafter to judge turnips. Presumably he would be fully occupied in the counting of children and adjudicating of root vegetables, and unable to attend the public proclamation that Trev had arranged to give under the auspices of the president of the Agricultural Society. The colonel would not remain long in the dark, however, as Trev had caused a copy of the Challenge to be delivered to him by hand, courtesy of Monsieur Malempré, along with a bottle of excellent French wine to rub salt in the wound.

Trev had at first felt a twinge of guilt over leading Davenport a dance, but then he'd thought of how the fellow had taken Callie's bull and refused to sell it back for an honest price. When he remembered her tearstained cheeks hidden under the bonnet, his brief qualm vanished, replaced by a chilly desire to carve a liberal piece out of anyone who made her unhappy. Knowing that he himself was not entirely blameless in that regard did nothing to diminish his ire, but rather made him more inclined to exact revenge on whatever culprit he could reach.