“Being Good Samaritans. The cobbler in the village, a brute of a man, beat his wife. My father learned of it, went to pack her up, to bring her to . . .” To Camberley Glenn. But that was too much information to share. “To our estate. Mother went with him to reassure the woman, to let her know all would be well. Only it wasn’t. The cobbler was in possession of a Tranter revolver—I don’t know how he came to have it, but he shot my parents. Dead. Then his wife. Then he took his own life.” Winslow had always been a weaponry enthusiast. Through him, she’d learned the Tranter’s chamber held five bullets that could be fired in succession with the continual pulling of the trigger. The Crimean War as well as the war in America had resulted in the development of more effective firearms—if the number of people killed without reloading could be termed effective. “My father thought himself invincible, that his title girded him with armor. Only it didn’t.”

“I’m sorry.” She heard true regret laced through his voice. “I’ve never had anyone close to me die. Death is making a nuisance of itself around you.”

Her smile was a bit awkward, difficult to bring forth now that the memories were bombarding her. Alice had escaped into her books while Selena had bolted into marriage one year to the day after they died as her means of leaving the awfulness behind. Not that her route had been left entirely up to her—her siblings had needed her to make that sacrifice in order to ensure their world returned to being as right as possible. “So it seems. If you’re a wise man, you’ll keep our association short and to the point.”

“I don’t know that anyone has ever accused me of being wise as I tend to place more value in having fun. We’ll play billiards, shall we? Get us back into a more jovial mood. I can teach you the basics.”

“I’m not here to learn to play billiards. I’m here—”

“To be bedded. Yes, I know. You are of a singular purpose, aren’t you?”

Because time was of the essence. “Mr. Trewlove—”

“I can ready you for bedding while I teach you to play.” He leaned in, bringing the scent of fine scotch with him. “The thrusting of the stick to hit the ball isn’t that different from other thrusting. Holding off just a bit can create an anticipation that will make what follows all the better. We’ll play one game, keeping the scoring as simple as possible. Eight points. For the remainder of our night together, the loser will fulfill all of the winner’s deepest desires.”