“And what’s the point of that? You can’t do the job properly, and I’m not wedding Jerningham’s daughter to … to … in that case. I’ve got principles. The girl’s got a right to expect a sound husband, for God’s sake.”

Quill, as Erskine was known to his intimates, opened his mouth again. And then thought better of it. He could certainly consummate the marriage, but it wouldn’t be a very pleasant experience. Any woman deserved more from marriage than he could offer. While he had come to terms with his injuries, especially now that they had ceased to bother his movement, the three-day migraines that followed repetitive motion made his likelihood for marital bliss very slight.

“Can’t argue with that, can you?” The viscount looked triumphantly at his eldest son. “I’m not some sort of a caper merchant, passing you off as whole goods when you’re not. Mind you, we could. The girl wouldn’t know a thing, of course, until it was too late. And her father’s turned into such a loose screw that he’s not even accompanying her out here.

“Point is,” Dewland went on, turning back to his youngest son, “the girl’s expecting to marry someone. And if it can’t be Quill, it’s got to be you. I’ll send your picture over on the next boat.”

Peter replied through his teeth, each word spaced. “I do not wish to marry, Father.”

The viscount’s cheeks reddened again. “It’s time you stopped gadding about. By God, you will do as I say!”

Peter avoided his father’s gaze, seemingly absorbed in flicking the smallest piece of lint from the black velvet collar of his morning coat. Satisfied, he returned to the subject at hand. “You seem to have misunderstood me. I refuse to marry Jerningham’s daughter.” Only the smallest tremor in his voice betrayed his agitation.

The viscountess broke in before her husband could bellow whatever response he had in mind. “Thurlow, I don’t like your color. Perhaps we might continue this conversation at a later time? You know what the doctor said about getting overtaxed!”

“Balderdash!” the viscount protested, although he allowed his wife to pull him back onto a couch. “By George, you had better obey me, Mister Peter Dewland, or you will find yourself out the door.” The veins of his forehead were alarmingly swollen.

His wife sent a beseeching glance to her youngest son. His jaw was set in a manner that his father would have recognized, had there been a mirror in the near vicinity.