Sophie raised her chin, refusing to apologize. “Your affections are engaged elsewhere, as are mine. That’s no way to begin a marriage.”

Lord Singleton began to pace, rubbing his chin in agitation. “You forget, Sophie, that this was never about sentimentality or love. Besides, I’ve already invested quite a bit in this bargain.”

“I’ll find a way to repay Papa’s debts,” she said.

Lord Singleton snorted. “I don’t see how you possibly could. He owes me a small fortune.”

Reese took a step forward and folded his arms across his chest. “Send me a detailed accounting of his debts. I’ll figure out a way to pay them—even if it means selling all my personal possessions.”

Singleton’s brows shot up. “Ah, you fancy yourself Miss Kendall’s knight in shining armor,” he said dryly. “How noble. But I’m afraid this arrangement is about more than money. I’ve spent the whole damned season courting Sophie and haven’t any more time to waste. I’m eager to establish myself in society and proceed with the business of producing an heir.”

Sophie shuddered. “I will not marry you. And I most certainly will not be your broodmare.”

“Oh, but I think you will,” Singleton drawled. “You forget that I have the means to ruin you and your friends.”

Sophie’s heart dropped like a stone tossed into the Thames.

Over by the desk, Mary sniffled. “What’s he talking about, Sophie?”

Before she could respond, Singleton said, “I have, in my possession, a journal that details the inner workings of a radical secret society of women and list the names of all its members—some of whom may be witches.”

Mary inhaled sharply. “You’re connected to The Debutante’s Revenge?”

Sophie’s fingers went numb. “I … I…”

Reese strode toward Charles, stood toe to toe with him, and clenched his fists. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Singleton. Miss Kendall does not own a journal.”

“Your loyalty would be impressive”—Charles flashed Reese a smug smile—“if it weren’t so pathetic. You’ve seen the journal with your own eyes, Warshire. In fact, I have it right—”

Sophie clutched the edge of the table beside her so that she wouldn’t launch herself at Charles and pummel him.

The marquess patted his chest with one hand, then the other, and his pompous expression turned to panic. “What the devil? How did you—” His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “The collision on the dance floor? Damn it, Warshire. You’re no better than a St. Giles pickpocket.”

Reese shrugged.

“I demand that you return the journal to me at once.” Lord Singleton’s mottled red nose was almost touching Reese’s, but he didn’t retreat an inch.

“I thought I was clear. There is no journal. And if there ever was…” Reese’s voice trailed off, and his gaze flicked to the fireplace.