“Hrmph. What a weakling Beckman is. Never did have any backbone. Oooh, look, Gilly, Anne is sitting on the Duke of Firth’s lap! How very clever of her. I wonder how she did it?”

“Excuse me,” Gillian said politely as she slipped past two men. “Char, come along. Stay with me lest you be confused with one of the ladybuns.”

Charlotte’s eyes glittered as she followed reluctantly behind. “Do you think there’s a chance of that?”

“Here’s a door. Nick, stay behind me. Charlotte, you’re responsible for keeping him safe.”

Charlotte saluted and put a protective arm about the lad.

Gillian threw the door open without preamble and stood staring at the sight within. There were several men inside, one of whom was a tall, burly fellow who could only be the famous Gentleman Jackson himself. He was talking with Noble, while Lord Rosse and Sir Hugh stood nearby.

Noble was in the act of removing his upper layers of clothing, his back to the door. Directly in front of Gillian was Lord Carlisle, handsomely garbed in a colorful kilt. She spent no time in admiring the attractive ensemble, for he was in the act of removing his hand from his hose and looking toward Noble. In his hand he held a small dagger, which he hefted in a manner that clearly indicated he was going to throw it.

At Noble.

In his back.

The result of such a heinous act being that her beloved husband would surely die.

Not if she had anything to say about it! Gillian thought as she leaped toward the Scot. Just as she did so, he stepped forward, her hand just missing his arm but ending up with a handful of woolen kilt. She didn’t hesitate even a fraction of a second—Noble’s very life was at stake, and only her actions could keep him from coming to harm. She took a firm grip on the material with both hands and yanked as hard as she could.

“I would say that answers the question of what a Scotsman wears beneath his kilt,” Charlotte said over her shoulder, her eyes wide and sparkling.

Nick pushed his way into the room. “He’s not wearing anything,” he said, puzzled, looking up at Gillian.

“Exactly,” she answered, distracted by the scene before her. It wasn’t the horrified look on Lord Carlisle’s face that worried her. It was the steel-blistering scowl on her husband’s handsome countenance that suddenly made her wish she were miles away.

“Good afternoon, Noble,” she said with a weak smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

***

“It won’t happen again, Jackson, I can assure you of that. If I have to lock my wife away, I will make sure she never comes here again.”

Gentleman Jackson was adamant. No matter how important Lord Weston’s patronage was, he couldn’t be having a repeat of the day’s chaos. “I’m sorry, my lord. It would be best if you found another of the boxing schools to patronize.”

Noble glanced around at the debacle. While most of the bloods had left after it had been made clear the duel was off, they had not left peaceably. Chairs had been smashed against the floor, cups of wine and other libations had been dashed against the walls, occasional tables were thrown through the windows, and the famed gold curtains had been ripped down and thrown out to the crowd gathering below the windows. In the midst of this destruction, what looked to be a full phalanx of his footmen were milling around the remains of the crowd. Gillian’s two dogs were running from man to man conducting their own investigation, while his ex-mistresses—he didn’t want to even begin to ponder what they were doing here, although he knew Gillian had a hand in it—were busily chatting up the remaining gentlemen present. He wished them well. Perhaps if they all found the protectors they sought, they would be out of his life once and for all.