Anne Barbour

*Lord Simon Talent

*Marcus Crowne, the Viscount Stedford, Simon’s friend

Jane Burch, cousin to

Winifred Timburton

Gerard Burch, Jane’s brother

Harry Bridgeworth, Gerard’s friend

Charles Drummond, the Earl of Wye, Simon’s friend

*Lady Felicity Talent, Simon’s sister

*Amabelle, Lady Teague, Simon’s aunt

Sir James Beemish, Harry’s uncle

Lady Hermione Stickleford, a visitor at Selworth

Gertrude, Lady Wimpole, Lady Hermione’s mother

*Jared Talent, the Marquess of Chamford, Simon’s brother

*Diana, Lady Talent, Jared’s wife

*appeared in an earlier novel,
A Pressing Engagement

It was coming up on three o’clock in the morning, and the usual tumult reigned in Le Cochon d’Or. Card games were underway in dark corners, some boisterous and contentious, others silent and intense. The gleam of dice flashed in other shadowy nooks, and throughout the premises, painted denizens of the demimonde circled for prey, their shopworn charms lavishly exposed in cheap satins and grimy lace. The noisy clink of tankards and glasses provided a background for their peregrinations, as waiters scurried to ply their already sodden patrons with various potent beverages.

The clientele of the Gold Pig was a mixed lot. The nobility of several countries rubbed shoulders with the dregs of Parisian society, for the establishments of the Palais Royale catered to all, the only requirement being a taste for the sordid and the money to pay for it. Thus, the gentleman who entered at that moment seemed oddly out of place.

He was tall and slender and impeccably garbed in correct evening wear, but it was not his appearance that set him apart from those already availing themselves of the Gold Pig’s dubious hospitality. It was, perhaps, the clean line of his jaw and the quiet but undeniable air of strength in his gaze that distinguished him from the bleary-eyed habitués seated at the sticky tables scattered about the room.

Two thickset men dressed in workmen’s garb eyed him speculatively as he strode into the room, but settled back immediately into their chairs, recalled to prudence by the tautly muscled frame evident beneath the gentleman’s elegant exterior.

He remained for a moment in the doorway, surveying the crowd, before his attention was caught by a small altercation at a table in a far corner.

“Lord,” he whispered, “I might have known. There he is.”

Pausing only to murmur a courteous, softly spoken refusal to the hopeful tart who had approached him upon his entrance, he moved toward the disturbance, at the center of which was a thin, foppish young man, more than somewhat the worse for drink. His shrill voice was raised in whining uncertainty to a burly fellow who loomed over him menacingly.

“I tell you, Villedon, I paid!” the fop squealed in execrable French. “I paid her full price and then some, and if she told you any different, the slut is lying! Forty sous I gave her—and I bought her dinner and wine, too.”

“You mewling little weasel,” growled the other man. “Lisette is one of my best girls, and to me she does not lie. It is you who speak false.” He raised a boulder-like fist, and the fop cringed.

The gentleman sighed, and having reached the perimeter of the dispute, placed his hand on the young man’s sleeve.

“Wilfred—” he began, and the young man swung about.

“Simon! Good God, what are you doing here?” he cried. “By all that’s holy, I’m glad you’ve come.” He jerked a thumb toward the other combatant. “This merde de tete is trying to chouse me out of ten louis.” He straightened with a pitiful assumption of authority and turned to face his accuser. “You had best be on your way, Villedon. Your little charade has been amusing, but unproductive,” he concluded with a cocky smile.

Enraged, the huge man advanced with both fists upraised, and Wilfred dodged behind his protector. “Simon!” he shrieked. “Do something! He’s going to kill me!”

Unperturbed, the gentleman faced the man named Villedon, also called Le Sanglier—the Wild Boar. “Monsieur, we seem to be party to a misunderstanding here, but I’m sure—

“There is no misunderstanding,” snarled Le Sanglier, his broad face black with anger. “This sniveling belette has cheated me for the last time. He will pay what he owes me or I will separate his ugly head from his scrawny neck.”

Emboldened, Wilfred waved a finger in Villedon’s face. “I owe you nothing, you fat pig!”

The folly of this course of action was proved almost immediately as Villedon drew a murderous-looking knife from beneath his coat.

Undaunted, Wilfred sneered at his foe. “If I were you, you slimy toad, I’d be very careful how you go about threatening honest citizens.”

As Villedon gestured meaningfully with the knife, Wilfred once more leaped to safety. “Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?”

Exasperated, the gentleman turned to glare at the fop. “Wilfred, for God’s sake, this is not the time to—”

“I do not care if your grand friend is the King of Prussia,” Villedon growled. “No one speaks to me thus, particularly you, English, who are of a stupidity unbelievable.”

In rapid, fluent idiomatic French, the gentleman spoke to Villedon. “Monsieur, you must see that battling with this canaille is beneath your dignity. I do not doubt that you are in the right, and that poor Wilfred does indeed owe you. As he says, however, he is my friend, and I shall pay his debt.”

At this, Villedon subsided somewhat, and although he retained the knife in his hand, his expression lightened minimally.

“Fifty sous,” he said, “and the little English weasel does not go near Lisette again.”

“You are being more than reasonable, monsieur,” replied the gentleman smoothly. “It shall be as you say.”

He withdrew his purse from his waistcoat, only to be stayed by an indignant Wilfred.

“Simon! You can’t mean to pay the fellow off.” Once more, he moved drunkenly in front of Simon to wave his fingers in Villedon’s face. “How dare the likes of you demand money from my friend. We shall have you up on charges. We’ll—”

“Wilfred, shut up,” said the gentleman harshly. To Villedon, he said quickly, “Please pay him no mind, he is not himself tonight. As you have observed, he is not very bright, and—”

“I am not very bright! Hah!” Wilfred waggled his fingers again. “It is you who is of a stupidity incroyable, you great ape. I’ve been tupping Lisette for weeks on the sly with you none the wiser. What do you think about that?”

Instantly, Le Sanglier lunged forward with an unintelligible howl. In that moment, it seemed to Simon that time halted, and seconds passed with interminable slowness. He grasped Villedon’s arm and with surprising strength, began to force the assailant backward. At the same time, Wilfred uttered a piercing scream and tried to scurry once more behind his friend. Stumbling, he fell against Simon, breaking his grip on Villedon’s arm, which swept forward in a murderous arc, directly toward Simon’s breast. Wilfred, still struggling to retain his balance, fell forward into its path. The next moment the knife found its mark in Wilfred’s brandy-soaked shirtfront.

In the frozen instant that followed, Wilfred gazed down in astonishment at the brightly blossoming stain, before collapsing in his friend’s arms. Villedon’s eyes widened in realization of what he had done, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he bowled his way to the door through the paralyzed crowd, vanishing into the night.

“Wilfred,” whispered the gentleman in horror, cradling the younger man in his arms. “My God! Wilfred!”

Wilfred’s face rapidly took on the unmistakably grayish hue of death but, oddly, a faint smile curved his weak mouth.

“I think I’m for it, Simon,” he gasped faintly.

“No,” said Simon soothingly. “Look, someone has gone for a doctor, and in—”

Wilfred raised his hand in a trembling gesture of negation.

“No, I’ve done it this time, and it’s probably all to the good, considering.” He shifted in an effort to look into Simon’s face, and a groan escaped his bloodless lips. “You’ll take care of... of everything, won’t you, old boy?”

Simon nodded, at a loss for words, and with an obvious effort, Wilfred continued. “You’re the best friend a man ever had, Simon. Y’saved my bacon for me—before. I’ll never forget that.” He grimaced, but in the next moment, the smile had returned, widening as a thought struck him. “By God, I saved your life tonight, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” answered Simon softly. “Yes, you did, Wilf. You put yourself in between Villedon and me.” If Simon recalled that the younger man had stumbled into the path of the knife through his own clumsiness, none of this showed on his impassive features.

“So now . . .” Wilfred’s voice was growing weaker, “... you are in debt to me, are you not?”

“Of course, Wilfred, but try not to talk. The doctor—

“Bother the doctor. By the time he gets here, I’ll have cocked up my toes. Listen, Simon,” he grated, brushing ineffectually at the trickle of blood that appeared at the corner of his mouth, “do you remember the matter we were speaking of?”

“The … ? Oh. Oh yes, of course, but—

“I know you don’t like the idea, but now that you’re in my debt, you have no choice. Do you?” he added, feebly clutching at Simon’s coat. “Promise me you’ll do as I ask.”

“Wilfred, I can’t. You must see that.”

“Yes, you can.” The young man coughed weakly. “Simon, I’m dying here—-swimming in my life’s blood, for God’s sake! You can’t deny a man his last wish! I... I’m your friend!”

Simon hesitated as Wilfred’s eyes closed, his lashes a dirty smear against his white face. They fluttered open again, gazing with bleary anguish into Simon’s countenance.

“Simon, I beg you. I know I did not do right by her, and you—you must make it up. You must.”

Wilfred’s head lolled back and his breathing subsided into harsh gasps of pain. Simon placed his hand beneath the young man’s head, his own gaze falling beneath the agony in the other’s.

There was a moment’s silence as Wilfred held his friend’s gaze, until at last Simon whispered, “All right, Wilfred. I’ll do it.”

Wilfred was panting now with the effort it took to breathe, but at this, he started eagerly. His bloodless fingers plucked at Simon’s waistcoat. “You promise?” he whispered.

Simon bent his head toward his young friend. “I promise, Wilf. Word of honor. I’ll do all that you asked.”

Satisfied, Wilfred turned a radiant smile on Simon. “Thank you, old fellow.” The smile fell from his lips suddenly, to be replaced by another painful spasm. His blood, which had been spilling with ghastly steadiness, soaked Simon’s coat and pooled onto the floor.

“Looks like it’s time, then.” A rasping laugh shuddered through him, causing a froth of blood to bubble around his mouth. “Must say I prefer going this way than the other. If you---“

But the sentence was never finished. Wilfred jerked in one last spasm. His hand clutched Simon’s, and his tortured breathing stilled.

Oblivious to the shocked exclamations of the onlookers that surrounded him, Simon knelt on the filthy floor for a long moment, the young man’s still form cradled in his arm. At last, he uttered a long, shuddering sigh, and with infinite tenderness, laid his burden on the floor. He reached with gentle fingers to tousle Wilfred’s mouse-colored hair.

“Dear Lord, Wilfred,” he murmured softly. “You unconscionable little bounder, you’ve really landed me in the suds this time.”

“Full of vexation come I, with complaint...”
—-A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
I, i.

I don’t want to be here. I do not want to be here. I do not, by God, want to be here!

The words trooped wearily through Lord Simon Talent’s mind in a litany that had repeated itself endlessly over the last day and a half. He gazed out through the window of his elegant traveling coach, but the beautiful landscape of Hampshire, with its rolling green downs and grassy valleys failed to soothe. His fingers raked through hair the color of mahogany, and his chocolate-brown eyes sparked as he dwelled on the injustice that had been done him.

“For Lord’s sake, Simon, that’s the hundredth time you’ve said that in the last hour.”

Simon started, not realizing that he had spoken aloud, and he gazed sourly at the young man who sprawled across the seat opposite him in the elegant carriage. Marcus Crowne, the Viscount Stedford provided a startling contrast to Simon’s compact elegance, being very tall and composed mostly of angles. His curling, light blond hair and snub-nosed features were counted part of his charm, putting most observers in mind of a mischievous schoolboy, despite the fact that he was three and twenty. At the moment, however, the young man’s insouciant grin produced nothing more than a surge of irritation in Simon.

“Oh, put a sock in it, Marc,” he growled. “You’re not the one being sent on a fool’s errand.”

Marcus lifted his brows. “Good God, you’re on your way to claim an estate that was virtually handed to you. I’d hardly call that a fool’s errand.”