Knox paused. His gaze flicked over Margot. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason, sir. Except that Fonteneau boasts some of the finest medieval architecture in all of England. If you’d like, my estate agent might show you about.”

Putnam poured more wine down his throat. He was perspiring now.

“I think we should go,” Knox said.

“Please, Knox?” Margot asked sweetly. “We’ll go, I promise we will, but allow me a bit of a laugh and a game with Lord Putnam first.”

“Joseph, show Mr. Armstrong to Mr. Cavanaugh’s office, will you?” Lord Putnam said. “Mr. Cavanaugh will be more than happy to show you about the abbey.”

“Well,” Knox said, feigning uncertainty. “I suppose I might have a quick look. And then, darling, we really must be on our way and leave Putnam to his work.”

“We will,” she agreed sweetly.

Margot watched the butler escort Knox out of the room, then turned her most winsome smile to Putnam. “At last,” she said, relieved. “My brothers are like vultures, watching every move I make. And they certainly don’t care for me to wager on card games, so thank you for that.”

“No?” Putnam asked, assessing her.

“Oh no,” she said with a gay laugh. “They claim I’ve already lost too much of the family fortune.”

Putnam smiled slowly. He poured more wine, then gestured to a table in the middle of the room. “Allow me to help you lose a bit more, Lady Mackenzie.”

He pushed the papers and books off the table and let them fall to the ground. As they sat down to play, Margot really had no plan other than to allow Putnam to win by making some poorly placed bets. She reasoned that he would gain confidence so that when the time was right, she might make a very large wager. One that freed Arran. Her deal with the devil, so to speak. Admittedly, her only real hope of winning that wager was if he drank himself into unconsciousness.

But surprisingly, it proved very difficult to lose to Putnam. He was so fearful of losing that he seemed to agonize over every decision. He drank through one bottle of wine, then another, and sank deeper and deeper into his cups, moaning at each loss as if he were physically ill.

Margot began to take pity on him, especially when he insisted they go again every time he lost. Lord Putnam was a galleon, sailing straight into the rocks. And when that ship wrecked, she would have her husband back.

* * *

IT HAD BEEN an hour or so since Arran heard voices. But this time, the voices belonged to men, their low conversation punctuated by their strolling footfalls. Arran had paused in his pacing and stood as still as he could to listen. He’d determined they were walking away from him, and one of them was thanking the other for the tour. Tour of what?