“Batsfoam—”

“Even now I struggle to contain the joy that fills me at the thought of fulfilling your most gracious and thoughtful request. Indeed, were it not for the fact that I am even now wrung to the very limits of my poor, crippled body with the heat of the day, I should take the opportunity to turn a few handsprings just to demonstrate my utter delight at the task you have set before me.”

Dare knew how to play the game. Smiling was allowed if it was done properly, in a subdued manner, but laughing out loud would only wound Batsfoam’s feelings, so he kept his chuckles locked deep inside and instead gave his servant a long-suffering smile. “I believe I’ll survive the rigors of luncheon without forcing you into a show of acrobatics.”

“Indeed, I would be most happy, sir—”

Dare held up his hand and took his stick from the carriage. “Just make sure Johnson does the job properly, and then fetch me when it’s ready. And before you say it, no, you won’t disturb me. I can’t do anything until that cylinder is repaired, so I might as well wait at the club and catch up on what’s been happening in the world while I’ve been recuperating.”

Batsfoam made a halfhearted attempt to gain permission for the handsprings, but in the end he climbed back into the carriage and promised he’d keep a close eye on the blacksmith’s repairs. Dare mounted the steps to his club feeling only the slightest pinch in his thigh where his wife had shot him.

He started laughing then, unable (or unwilling) to keep the laughter contained as he thought of his indignant Charlotte driven to shooting him in order to bring him back to his senses. How could he have even contemplated living without her? She was everything he wanted, everything he needed. Wife, lover, friend, nursemaid…

“Executioner.” He chuckled to himself, shocking the doorman who took his hat and cane.

He spent a few minutes talking with an elderly member who remembered his father, then made his way toward the area containing deep leather armchairs situated so as to catch a breeze from the nearby opened window. There was mild amusement to be drawn from the fact that no one knew quite where to look at him—at his eye patch, the scars that trailed along the hairline on one side of his face, or his obviously limp arm—nor did anyone seem to know exactly how to address him, some calling him Carlisle as if to indicate their support, while others used his surname. It was the need to think about his cousin that was behind claiming the few hours it would take for the cylinder to be repaired. He had to think about what to do about Charlotte, and he couldn’t do that with her very distracting presence at home.

Dare was no fool, he’d seen the writing on the wall before his accident; although he had no idea who had arranged for his cousin to be packed aboard a merchant ship bound for the Orient, he had no doubt at all that Geoffrey McGregor was exactly who he said he was, which meant the title and estates—such as they were—not to mention his late uncle’s debts, all now rightfully belonged to his cousin. Truth to be told, he was better off without the title and estates—now all he had to do was take care of himself and Charlotte, and no longer would he need to throw money into the drain that were the estates. But Charlotte, his sweet, loving, eccentric Charlotte—she was determined to save the title.