From that time, it was Trev's duty to regain all that had been stolen. Like a personal guillotine, that expectation had hung over him, repeated with every blessing his grandfather said at meals, in each letter sent to him at the English school, repeated whether he fell ill or whether he recovered, when he was thrashed and when he was praised, repeated until Trev had been sure he would throttle his grandfather, or shoot himself, if he heard it one more time.

He had done no such thing, of course. Instead he had seethed like the silly, mutinous boy he'd been, at least before all the gold and silver plate was sold and he had to leave school and move with his family to the modest house at Shelford. After that he talked to Callie and made her laugh. An agreeable alternative to murder, making Callie laugh. She always tried not to and always did. It changed her face, made her eyes tilt upward and sparkle in the hopeless attempt to stif le her giggle, just as it had tonight.

A bird called in the dark garden, a trilling whistle that made Trev turn his head. He stared into the shadows. Then he put his hand in his pocket and felt for the pistol he carried, realizing with some annoyance that another of his skeletons had dropped round for a chat.

"Come away from the house," he said softly.

With a rustle, a figure moved out of the tangled gloom, shoving the overgrown bushes aside. A chicken squawked and f luttered. The visitor uttered a heavy handed curse and came through the gate.

"Quiet, you codpiece." Trev walked across the open yard with his hand still in his pocket. When he reached the back of the small stable, he stopped and turned. "What do you want?"

"Bill Hayter is beggin' a new match, sir."

Trev gave an exasperated sound. "I told you I've done with all that. He's been paid off. Let him go to another operator if he wants to publish a challenge."

"But the stakes—"

"I will not act as stakeholder, damn it. Do I have to place an advertisement in the papers?"

"The gentlemen of the Fancy don't trust no one but you, sir." His visitor was only a black silhouette.

"Then they may go hang," Trev said cordially.

"Sir," the man said in a plaintive tone.

"Barton—my mother is dying. A low, unfeeling fellow I may be, in the usual course of things, but I find this concerns me just a little. If you suppose I'm going to saunter off to make book at some fight that would like as not be broke up by the sheriff and land me in the dock, you may reorder your ideas."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry to hear that." Barton was silent for a moment. Then he said tentatively, "Do you think, after she passes on, God bless 'er, that you might…"