William continued, tone maddeningly casual. “If I attempt to button up like this, I’ll either maim myself or split the seams. The damned thing won’t bend—unless I’d like to sing treble for the rest of my days.”
He waved a hand toward the whores on the bed. “I must have my release before I face the old bastard. Just ten minutes. Perhaps twelve. Be a sport and wait outside, will you?”
Andrew opened his mouth, then closed it again. His nostrils flared.
“I’ll take Maggie,” William added generously. “She’s already warmed up.”
Andrew turned without a word and stormed off down the corridor, his steps echoing furiously against the polished floorboards.
William grinned, pulling Maggie toward him by the waist.
“Well, darling,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “seems I’ve got time for one more farewell.”
* * *
The mist hung low over Primrose Hill, gray as ash, curling around the boots of the men who had come to settle a matter of pride and honor before breakfast.
London’s dawn offered no warmth—only dampness, a mournful chill in the bones, and the sour smell of wet earth. It soaked through gloves and greatcoats alike. The grass squelched underfoot. Above, the sky was a smudged palette of lead.
The Earl of Hawthorne stood stiffly, his face pale with fury, powdered wig sitting absurdly on his head like a relic from a more dignified era. His jaw was clenched, but his hands trembled—not from fear, but rage. He looked less like a nobleman and more like a man unraveling. His second, Sir Thomas Weatherby, lingered behind him, uneasy.
“I beg you, my lord,” Weatherby whispered urgently. “He may be an irredeemable rake, but Blackmeer is the finest shot in London. Do not die for this.”
The Earl’s nostrils flared. “I will not raise his bastard as my heir.”
“He has denied it. Repeatedly.”
“He was seen leaving my house. Twice. At night. And my wife—” his voice cracked with bitter conviction—“my wife has not conceived in six years. Now her womb quickens?”
Weatherby hesitated. “That proves nothing, my lord. You know it. Why must you assume—”
“Because one of my own servants saw him, clear as day—or rather, clear as night—slipping out the side gate. Who else would dare such a thing?”
A sudden sound of footsteps in the grass interrupted them. Both men turned.
Lord Blackmeer, arrived with his coat unbuttoned, hair tousled by wind and sin. Andrew Colville followed a few paces behind, somber and dignified. Blackmeer, by contrast, lookedevery inch the libertine: silk cravat askew, boots muddied from God-knew-where, a hint of perfume still clinging to his clothes—something floral and vulgar, the sort favored by women of ill repute. A pistol hung lazily in one hand. His gray-blue eyes were bloodshot, but bright.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he drawled, surveying the scene with a lopsided grin. “Lovely weather for dying, wouldn’t you say?”
The Earl recoiled in disgust. “You reek of whores and brandy.”
Blackmeer smiled. “You have quite the nose, my lord. It’s true—I came here straight from Miss Nadia’s. Took the edge off with a fine creature named Maggie. She sends her regards.”
Weatherby closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience from the heavens.
Hawthorne was apoplectic. “You dare to jest?”
“I’m not jesting,” Blackmeer said coolly. “I’m merely honest. But I’ll be honest about something else, too. I’ve no qualms about killing you, Lord Hawthorne. Yet if I do, you’ll die never knowing who fathered your wife’s child. Because it wasn’t me.”
“You lie.”
Colville, the picture of restraint where Blackmeer was not, felt compelled to defend his friend. “He’s many things, my lord,” he said evenly, “but a liar is not among them. I swear it on my honor.”
“If it were true, I’d admit it. God knows my reputation can’t get any worse. But your lady wife, for all I know, has been faithful to you.”
“Then why—”
“I was at your house, yes. But your wife wasn’t the reason.”
