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An intake of breath whooshed through their audience: That insult was a shootable offense. A gentleman’s honor was too valuable a concern to withstand such a slight.
Prescott looked uncertain. “For the sake of my wife, I—”
“Oh, sod your bloody wife!”
Everyone fell quiet. Half of London fell quiet. First Prescott went very white, then he went very red. He began to tussle with his glove.
“Your Grace, you will not speak of my wife thus.”
“What will you do about it, Prescott?” Leo taunted him. “Write a letter to the editor ofThe Times?”
Prescott pulled off his glove and flapped it in the air between them. One flaccid finger slapped Leo’s chin. They both stared at it, surprised.
But, having launched his challenge, Prescott committed. “Name your second, Dammerton.”
Leo’s rage subsided. “A duel. Nice. Thank you. I would very much like the opportunity to shoot you.” He laughed roughly. “You deserve it, for ruining an innocent with your—”
“She’s no innocent. I wrote nothing but the truth from my wife. I am only glad she herself never saw such sordid filth.”
Leo cocked his head. “If Mrs. Prescott never saw the artwork, then how did she know of it?”
“She wouldn’t say, only that she heard of the drawings from someone else.”
A fresh ribbon of rage waved inside him. “So, you ruined her based on rumor alone.”
He had assumed Mrs. Prescott had seen the drawings herself, or Juno had confided in her. But if Mrs. Prescott had learned of the drawings from someone else…
He spun around. A small crowd had gathered to watch. A larger crowd had gathered to find out what the small crowd was watching.
Leo raised his voice to address them all. “Anyone know where I might find my fair brother, Tristan St. Blaise? Think before you speak, for I mean to kill him. Who’d like to watch?”
* * *
A duke stalkingthrough the streets on a mission to murder his own half-brother was exactly the sort of entertainment London was in the mood for.
Leo had attracted something of an entourage by the time he stormed into the gaming hell in Covent Garden where St. Blaise was rumored to be.
Rumor was right.
St. Blaise lolled at a gaming table, cards in hand, looking slightly drunk and eminently punchable. Leo shoved through the other men and grabbed his brother by his lapels. Playing cards fluttered madly. He hauled him away from the table and up against a wall.
The confused hubbub of excited chatter faded into silence.
“Polly dearest!” St. Blaise said. “I’m very happy to see you too. What have I done to deserve such brotherly affection?”
“Why did you do it?” he hissed.
“Do what? There are so many possibilities to choose from.”
Leo didn’t dare speak her name. “Why reveal her secrets and ruin her?”
“I say, you are in a state, aren’t you?” A half-smile twisted St. Blaise’s lips. A sly, calculating look entered his eyes. “The gentlemen of London have been waiting a long time for this. Shall we see what happens next?”
An alert sounded somewhere in Leo’s brain. He ignored it.
St. Blaise craned his neck to bring his face close. “How about I marry her?” he offered softly, on a brandy-scented breath. “You’ll have to give me lots of money, but we’ll leave England. And if she’s pregnant with your whelp, I’ll raise the child.”
Leo shoved him back against the wall. “She trusted you. What did she ever do to you?”
