interest in marriage. “Think of the title,” Lord Wyndham had exhorted him on many an occasion. “When I am gone, and you stick your spoon in the wall, I want your son, not Daniel’s—fine boy that he is—to be the one stepping into your shoes. You need to marry, boy, and present me with grandchildren. It is your duty.” His father had winked at him. “Pleasant one, too.”
When the alluring Lady Catherine had crossed his path a few months later, to please his father, Julian had offered for her. Their wedding had been the most anticipated social affair of the Season of 1795. As he and his new bride had driven away from the reception, Lord Wyndham had fairly rubbed his hands together in glee at the thought of the grandchildren that were sure to be soon forthcoming from the union.
Except, he had thought wrong, Julian recalled grimly. Catherine was not eager for children and Julian discovered almost immediately that behind that beautiful face lived a spoiled and petulant child. Before many months had passed they were openly sniping with each other, and before they were married a year, except for necessity, were seldom seen in each other’s company. Neither one of them had been happy, he admitted, and Catherine had probably found him as boring, insipid and infuriating as he had found her. But they had hobbled along together for a few years, like many other couples in their position, and might still be yoked together if Catherine, pregnant and hating every moment of it, had not been killed in a carriage accident. Julian sighed at the memory.
Despite the fact that the marriage had been a mistake, he had never wished Catherine dead and her sudden death had stunned him. He had felt both guilt and grief and it had been years before he could think of her and the unborn child without an anguished pang. It had all happened over six years ago, but Julian would not have been honest if he had not admitted to himself that with every passing year his determination never to marry again had grown. Let Charles or Raoul step into my shoes, he thought sourly, I’ll be damned if I tie myself to another woman simply to oblige the family!
He was scowling by the time he walked into Boodle’s. Unaware of the fierce expression on his face, he was startled when his friend Mr. Talcott accosted him in the grand salon and demanded, “By Jove, but don’t you look glimflashy this evening! And with hunting season just started!” He studied Julian’s face. “I’ll wager that stepmother of yours has put you out of sorts.” Talcott’s usually merry blue eyes became thoughtful. “She’s a taking little thing, won’t deny it, but think she’d drive me mad.”
Julian laughed, his dark mood vanishing. Clapping Talcott on the back, he said, “Very astute of you. Now come join me in a drink, and tell me that you have decided to accept my invitation to stay at Wyndham Hall.”
They had just started to leave the grand salon when Julian caught sight of a slim blond man. His expression grim, he asked, “Since when has Boodle’s started letting any ragtag bobtail join its ranks?”
Talcott looked startled, then, following Julian’s gaze, he stiffened. “Tynedale! He is pushing his luck, isn’t he? Surely not even he would dare—” Catching sight of the burly man who stood to Tynedale’s left, he muttered, “Well, that explains it—he must have prevailed upon Braithwaite to sponsor him.”
Julian started forward, but Talcott grabbed his shoulder and jerked him into a nearby small alcove. “Don’t be a fool!” he hissed. “You’ve already fought one duel with him—and won. Leave it be. Challenging him again is not going to bring young Daniel back.”
Julian’s gaze never left Tynedale’s handsome form. “He killed him,” he snarled, “as surely as he had held the pistol to the boy’s head himself. You know it.”
“I agree,” Talcott said quietly. “Tynedale ruined Daniel, but Daniel is not the first green ’un to fall into the hands of an unscrupulous scoundrel like Tynedale and lose his fortune at the gaming table. Nor is he the first to kill himself rather than face what he had done—and he will not be the last.”
Julian glared at his friend, his expression one of anguished fury. “I remember the day when Daniel was born and his father asked me if I would be willing to be Daniel’s guardian if something ever happened to him.” He sighed. “We were both half-drunk, celebrating his son’s birth and neither one of us ever thought that the need would arise. Why should it? John was only twenty-two and I wasn’t even of age—not yet eighteen. Who could have guessed?” Julian looked down, his thoughts far away. “Who could have guessed,” he said in a low tone, “that my cousin would be murdered when his son was not quite eleven years old? That I would actually become Daniel’s guardian?” One hand clenched into a formidable fist. “John trusted me to keep his son safe, not only from a rakehell like his own brother but safely away from any other danger that might cross the boy’s path.” His voice bitter, he added, “I was so busy making certain that his uncle Charles did not corrupt Daniel that I failed to protect him from the likes of Tynedale.”
“Daniel was not,” Talcott said bluntly, “your ward when Tynedale fleeced him and he killed himself.” His voice urgent, he added, “I know that you loved Daniel’s father, I know that John was your favorite cousin and I know that you were shattered when he was killed. But none of it was your fault! Not John’s murder, or Daniel’s suicide. My God, man! You weren’t even in England when Tynedale got his hooks into the boy. You were off playing spy for Whitehall.” His fingers tightened on Julian’s shoulder. “You have nothing to blame yourself for—let it go.” When Julian appeared unmoved, Talcott said quietly, “You bested him in the duel this spring and scarred that pretty face of his—and do not forget, you have the means to ruin him…Won’t that be revenge enough?”
Julian suddenly smiled, like a big predator in anticipation of an easy kill. “How kind of you to remind me. For a moment just now, I had forgotten that.” He studied Tynedale. “I suspect that he has learned by this time that I am the holder of all his vowels. He must be rather desperate, wondering when I shall demand payment—and he knows that I shall allow him no extensions.” Julian looked thoughtful. “I had thought that I could take pleasure in watching him twist in the wind before demanding payment, but I find that I have changed my mind. I shall call upon him tomorrow.” He smiled again, not a nice smile. “Come,” he said, “let us forget about Tynedale for the evening. I find myself in need of a drink. Shall we go?”
Ordinarily Nell’s evening would have consisted of an early dinner with Sir Edward and then quiet hours spent reading in the library. During her rare trips to London, she tended to visit bookstores and museums and had never cared much for the giddy round of balls, soirees and such. But since she had reluctantly accepted an invitation to one of the last balls of the Little Season at Lord and Lady Ellingsons’, her evening that night did not follow routine.
The Ellingsons were old friends of her father’s, one of the reasons she had consented to attend—that, and his kindly badgering—and he happily escorted her to the ball.
Once Sir Edward had seen her settled amongst several female friends, and Lord Ellingson had completed his most pressing duties as host, the two men had toddled off to the card room. It was several hours later when Sir Edward finally ambled out to the main room looking for Nell.
It took him a while to find her—she was half-hidden in a quiet corner, deep in conversation with a golden-haired gentleman. Recognizing Lord Tynedale, he frowned. What the devil was that fellow doing here? Then he remembered: Tynedale was related to Lady Ellingson. Lord Ellingson had complained to him often enough of having to entertain the bounder just to keep his wife in charity with him. She doted on him. Most women did.
Eyeing the exquisite form attired in a dark blue formfitting jacket and black knee breeches, his linen starched and glistening white, Sir Edward had to give him credit for his appearance. With thick, curly blond hair and femininely lashed blue eyes, he made a handsome sight. His features were aristocratic, from the chiseled nose to the sculpted jaw, and he possessed a winning smile and a practiced grace. Despite the clear signs of dissipation on his face and a narrow scar across one cheek, considering all his charms, it wasn’t surprising that women tended to be taken in by his manner and even thought the scar rather dashing. On the point of marching to his daughter’s side and routing a man he plainly labeled a loose-fish, Sir