“I want to!” The ragged voice came from a black-garbed man seated in a chair by the wall, his thin hands clutching a pair of crutches. “And I do know the facts!”

“I doubt it.” Lucas’s voice softened. “If you want to explain why you want me dead, I’ll be happy to discuss the matter with you.”

The man in black spat at him, but was too far away to hit his target. Lucas shrugged. “I can’t refute charges that haven’t been made, Godfrey. Feel free to summon me if you want an honest talk. If not, you can damned well leave me alone!”

Released by Simon, Kendra slipped through the group of onlookers. “I want to take a look at that shoulder wound, Lucas.”

“It stings. Not serious.”

“Nonetheless.”

She’d almost reached him when one of the onlookers said under his breath, “Denshire’s whore! A good match for a cowardly oath breaker.”

Kendra had pretended not to hear such comments in the past, but not this time. She spun on her heel. “Mine is another case in which you don’t know the facts, sir!”

“No?” he said with a leer.

Kendra’s hands tensed and she realized that she was still carrying the small sword she’d been practicing with. She swung it upward and brought the point to rest in the middle of the oaf’s chest.

He gasped and tried to retreat, but his escape was blocked by other men. “When a dishonorable man wants to rid himself of a wife while stealing her inheritance, what better way to do it than by slandering her good name, hmmm?” she asked sweetly. “Don’t you agree?”

“I . . . I suppose so,” he stammered, his gaze locked on the small sword resting above his heart. Though the tip had a safety button on, it would be easy for Kendra to pull it off and do serious damage.

“Think about it then.” She pressed the sword just hard enough for him to feel the pressure through his shirt, then lowered the weapon and turned her back on him.

The crowd melted away, leaving Kendra and her two friends. Simon had taken off his cravat and was efficiently bandaging the wound in his cousin’s shoulder.

A man helped a groaning Patrick from the floor and led him to a seat by Godfrey. Looking up, he saw Simon and stiffened. “Colonel Duval! You’re a hero of Waterloo! Why are you supporting this . . . this oath breaker?”

“I have known Lucas Mandeville my whole life,” Simon replied in a voice that could freeze a regiment in its tracks. “I have known no man more honorable. I have personal knowledge; you have only hearsay. Consider your sources, sir!”

The man flushed a deep red and didn’t reply.

The conversation was broken when Henry Angelo approached. “Miss Douglas, Colonel Duval, Lord Foxton, will you join me in my office?”