“Are you sure?” Insolence shone from Jake’s eyes.

“Are you her messenger boy, then?”

Jake’s fist curled. “Do you want to be knocked down in your own entry?”

“You could try.” Duckworthy was hovering at the back of the entry, gaping at the two of them. Giles looked to his butler. “Has the traveling coach been brought around?”

“Yes, my lord. Your trunk is strapped to the back. Your valet is just packing a few last necessities.”

“Perhaps you’re not the fool I thought,” Jake allowed. “She’s at my house. You might as well come with me. Your coach can follow more slowly. I’m in a chaise with a good team, and can be home by tonight.”

Giles froze. “Is Yasmin ill?” His heart twisted. “Is something wrong with her?”

“No,” Jake said. “Though given your patent disregard for her well-being, I’m surprised you give a damn.”

The Earl of Lilford had never impulsively attacked any man other than Hippolyte Charles, even those who infuriated him in the House of Lords. His sister was the impetuous one in the family; he considered himself a measured, thoughtful, boring man.

Now his mind turned black with rage. He launched himself at Addison without a thought more than the wish to do grave injury, to knock that smirk off the American’s face. His fist rounded into the man’s cheekbone at the same moment that Jake’s fist caught him in the chest. The force of blows rocked them both back. But rather than square up for another round, the American started laughing, deep peals of laughter coming from his chest.

Giles dropped his hands. The man was cracked. “Where the hell is my valet!” Giles barked at Duckworthy.

The butler scurried through the green baize door at the back of the entry.

“I’ll take it that you do give a damn,” Jake said, gingerly feeling around his eyes. “Damn it, you’ve given me a black eye.”

“She’s my fiancée,” Giles snarled.

“My wife and I exchange letters daily when I’m away,” Jake said.

Giles felt a torrent of rage followed by bitter shame. Yasmin didn’t care to write him back. She didn’t love him the way Cleo did her husband. The feeling backed up in his throat like sour milk. “My fiancée is not comfortable writing in the English language,” he managed.

Addison straightened up. “You are ignoring her letters because they’re written in her mother tongue? You plan to marry her, you pigheaded man. Bloody well learn French!”

Giles’s chest tightened as if steel bands were around it. “She doesn’t write to me in French either,” he said curtly.

“The devil she doesn’t! She’s stayed up at night writing letters to you. Don’t try to feed me a cock-and-bull story about not receiving them, because one of my grooms brought a letter to this very door and gave it to your butler.”

Shock swept through Giles. He literally couldn’t understand the words at first, his mind picking through them and trying to put them into reasonable sense. “She didn’t.”