Armand burst into the room where Shayles was staying, Alex and Malcolm right behind him, Maxwell bringing up the rear.

“Now, if I were a disgusting shite of an excuse for a man that had crawled up out of Hell, where would I stash a letter?” Malcolm asked with a dark grumble. He headed straight for the wardrobe, throwing open the doors and yanking Shayles’s clothes from the shelves.

“So much for subtlety,” Alex said, sending Armand a wary look.

Armand returned the look with equal leeriness. Instead of helping Malcolm search the wardrobe or going with Alex to rifle through the bureau, he cut straight across the room and pulled aside the curtains to peer outside. Lavinia was out there somewhere in the company of a fiend. He should be by her side, protecting her, not upsetting Shayles’s things to prove a point.

Not that he’d been much good at protecting her so far. He let out an impatient breath and leaned as far as he could to one side to get the best view of the part of the garden he’d seen Lavinia and Shayles head off into. In the short week of their marriage, Armand had disappointed his young wife more times than he cared to count, and there seemed to be no end in sight. A bride was supposed to glow with love, to float on air at the blessedness of her situation. Armand couldn’t shake the heartbroken look Lavinia had given him earlier in the hall. Even when he was trying to do something right for her, it went all wrong.

“Don’t just stand there, Armand,” Malcolm called across the room as he upended a small purse and shook it, sending coins and bills scattering across the pile of clothes at his feet. “Help us.”

Armand turned away from the window, anxiety gnawing at his gut. “I was keeping an eye out for Shayles,” he half-lied.

“Is he out there?” Alex asked, glancing over his shoulder from the bureau.

“Somewhere.” Armand rubbed a hand over his face, walking to the bed and pushing the covers back to check under the mattress.

“And your wife?” Alex asked on.

Armand frowned, thrusting his hand under the mattress. “She probably hates me at this point.”

Malcolm huffed a humorless laugh and continued his search. Alex turned away from the bureau. “There’s hardly been time for her to come to love or hate you,” he said.

“No thanks to you lot,” Armand muttered. Guilt instantly bit at him and he stood. “No, it wasn’t your fault.”

Alex fixed him with a flat look. “What did you do to that poor girl that puts you at fault?”

“I married her,” Armand said. “She didn’t want to marry at all, to anyone. She told me so. She wanted to live an independent life.”

Alex crossed his arms. “It never would have happened. You’ve seen her mother. That woman was hell-bent on marrying her daughter off to a titled gentleman. Her father isn’t much better. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been someone else, someone worse.”

There was a ring of truth to Alex’s words. “Miller told her I was planning to go to India.”

Malcolm snorted as he grabbed a pair of Shayles’s shoes from the wardrobe and shook them before dropping them on the pile. “You were never going to India.”

“The offer has been made, and it still stands,” Armand said with a scowl. “And what are you doing with that mess? Shayles clearly doesn’t have the letter in this room.”

“I want him to know we mean business,” Malcolm said. “Unlike you.”

“I would have gone to India,” Armand argued. “I want to keep practicing medicine.”

“Then why aren’t you?” Alex asked. “Other than helping Marigold last summer—for which we are endlessly grateful, by the way—and patching me up after I fell for Shayles’s trap, you haven’t so much as diagnosed a head cold or put a plaster on a cut.”

“That’s not true,” Armand said, avoiding his friends’ eyes. He marched back to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lavinia. “Besides, you two and Peter have kept me up to my eyeballs in parliamentary papers and Liberal Party strategy sessions. When would I even have time to see patients?”

“You could have told us to bugger off at any time,” Malcolm said, abandoning the mess he’d created in front of Shayles’s wardrobe to join Armand and Alex by the window. “Not that we would have.”

Armand sent him a peevish look. “Which proves my point.” He leaned to the side, straining to see more of the garden through the window. “The worst part of it all is, Lavinia said something to me yesterday that struck more of a chord than I wanted it to.”

“What? That you’re a sullen git who can’t change direction when your path turns?” Malcolm asked.

Armand pushed away from the window, glaring at his friend. “You know, Malcolm, you have a mistaken idea of what it means to be a good friend.”

“I speak the truth as I see it, when I see it,” Malcolm said without the least hint of remorse. “The truth is hard, and so must I be. We have too much at stake. The women we love, and have loved, have too much at stake for you to waffle your way through this critical time. Basil saw the truth once I pounded it into him, and so should you.”

“Malcolm, you need a woman in your bed,” Alex said with a shake of his head.

“I do, but that’s not up for discussion at the moment,” Malcolm answered the jab without missing a beat.

“Besides which,” Armand sighed. “He’s right.”

Malcolm broke into a lop-sided grin. “At last! A modicum of sense.”

Armand pushed a hand through his hair. “As Lavinia sees it, by doing my duty as a peer, I could be healing the nation, even if I’m not treating individual patients.”

“It sounds like your wife has a way with words,” Alex said, smiling.

“I think my wife has a way with a lot of things that I’ve only begun to discover,” Armand admitted. “Only now she thinks I’m on the verge of leaving her for India and the chance to continue to practice medicine.”

“Are you leaving her?” Malcolm asked, one brow arched.

The answer wouldn’t push past Armand’s lips. The truth was staring him in the face, and he’d been resisting it with all his might. Not just in the past week, since Lavinia came into his life, but for the past five years, since the moment the court chose him over Mark Pearson, Lord Gatwick. He’d battled for years to escape the inescapable. He was Viscount Helm.

“No,” he admitted at last, blowing out a breath, every muscle in his body loosening. “I’m not going anywhere. I have an estate to run, a seat in Parliament to take up, and a wife to make happy, if I can.”

“Of course you can,” Malcolm said, stepping close enough to slap him on the back a little harder than was necessary. “All you have to know about keeping a woman happy is how to say ‘yes, dearest’, how to open your purse-strings, and how to bring her to orgasm three times a night.”

Armand stared at him. “Says the man who has been single for over fifteen years, and who can’t coax Katya into so much as a tickle, despite the fact that the two of you have been in love for decades.”

“Do you want a blackened eye, Pearson?” Malcolm growled at him. “Because I’ve worked up quite a bit of energy during this search, and I’m in the mood to break some bones.”

“Then by all means, don’t let me stop you.”

Armand, Malcolm, and Alex all whipped to the door as Shayles spoke. Maxwell was nowhere in sight, which meant Shayles could saunter into the room without anyone stopping him. Gatwick stood just behind him, looking extremely put out.

“I’d ask what you three are doing in my guest room,” Shayles went on with a casual wave of his hand and a brief frown for the pile of his clothes on the floor, “but even a child would know the reason for it.”

A bitter sort of embarrassment sent heat rushing to Armand’s face. Only fools got caught bickering while searching an enemy’s room for something they knew probably wasn’t there.

“You’ll hand that letter over or you’ll see worse,” Malcolm said, taking a few threatening steps toward Shayles.

“My, my. You are ferocious for a man who is clearly in the wrong. Wouldn’t you say so, Gatwick?” Shayles barely glanced over his shoulder at his friend.

“What a ridiculous mess,” Gatwick said, glancing to the pile of clothes and sniffing.

“I’ll say it is,” Shayles went on. “Is this the sort of hospitality all your guests receive, Pearson?”

“Where is my wife?” Armand demanded, in no mood to play Shayles’s games.

Shayles made a sour face. “You mean that unresponsive wad of soggy milquetoast in last year’s fashion cast-offs?” The representation of Lavinia was so inaccurate that Armand blinked instead of answering. What had happened out in the garden to give Shayles that impression? “I’m surprised you haven’t left for India already. You know you want to.”

Only after Armand recovered from the initial discord of Shayles’s words did he growl, “What did you do to her?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Shayles turned to Gatwick. “Who would want to do anything with a bland little nobody like that?”

“Enough of the insults,” Alex snapped. “Where is the letter?”

Armand was grateful to his friend for redirecting the conversation, but he wanted nothing more than to barge past Shayles and Gatwick to go find Lavinia and make sure she was all right.

Shayles had other plans. “The letter is where it will stay.” He reached into his coat and pulled the letter out of whatever concealed pocket it’d been in. “Really, gentlemen.” He clicked his tongue. “Did you think I’d leave something this valuable unattended?”

“If you truly intended to bring down Gladstone’s new government before this next session begins, you’d have already taken it to the press,” Alex said.

“You are correct,” Shayles said, tucking the letter away and strolling over to peek casually out the window. “So. How far are you willing to go to get this juicy morsel back?”

“We will not extend any sort of legal protection to your club,” Malcolm answered for them all.

“It’s a pity,” Shayles sighed. “And here I was willing to negotiate.”

The hair on the back of Armand’s neck stood up. “Negotiate for what?” he asked.

“We don’t negotiate with the devil,” Malcolm snapped.

Shayles broke into a beaming smile. “I’m so pleased you think of me in such glowing terms, Malcolm. Perhaps our friendship could be salvaged after all.”

“You are not now and never were my friend,” Malcolm fumed.

“That’s not how I remember it, eh Gatwick?” Shayles glanced over his shoulder to Gatwick, who merely hummed in reply.

“Games are getting us nowhere.” Alex took charge once again. “We refuse to give your club any sort of immunity.”

“Then I refuse to hand over the letter,” Shayles said with a shrug. “And I refuse to sit by and let you pass a load of ridiculous laws that will give women ideas of rising above the place they’re intended to be.”

“You can’t hold back the tide of progress forever,” Alex said.

“No?” Shayles sent him a smug grin. “Watch me.” Before any of them could argue or protest, Shayles hurried on. “I don’t want to be stuck in this morass any more than you do. I want resolution, and I want it soon.”

“Then give us the letter,” Malcolm insisted.

Shayles sneered at him. “You’re a bore. I’m not simply going to hand over the single greatest bargaining chip you lot have ever handed me. But,” he raised a hand to stop anyone from interrupting, “I will give you a chance to win it back from me.”

Armand instantly sensed a trap. His whole world had devolved into traps, it seemed. “What do you propose?” he asked in wary tones, rubbing a hand over his face.

Shayles shrugged and tapped a finger to his chin, pacing behind Armand and his friends like a lion circling his prey. “We could incorporate the letter into a scavenger hunt, like the one your charming mother-in-law organized for your wife’s guests just now. Or I could risk it in a game of cards, provided you were willing to bet something of equal value.”

Armand scowled. Shayles was toying with them by offering ridiculous suggestions. “We know what you’re after, Shayles, and you’re not getting it.”

“You haven’t heard all of my ideas yet,” he said, pivoting to a stop next to the pile of his clothes.

“We have no interest in your ideas,” Alex said. “Only in getting our letter back.”

“We could go to the press first,” Malcolm blurted, glancing from Alex to Armand. “We could circulate the idea that a counterfeit letter has been sent about, maligning the Liberal Party with false accusations of collusion.”

Shayles’s smug grin faltered. “They’d print the contents of this letter anyhow.” He rested his hand over his chest. “Any whiff of corruption would damage your credibility, even if you sought a way to counter it.”

“Not if we drag your name into print with it,” Malcolm said. “You’ve already got a black mark because of your association with Turpin and Denbigh. Could you survive another?”

“Would your government survive a scandal?” Shayles asked in return, then answered with, “No, we’re gentlemen. We must resolve this like gentlemen, with a gentlemen’s game.”

“I’m not playing games with anything this important,” Alex said. “Malcolm, draft a letter to The Times immediately.”

“Or,” Shayles said, stepping into Malcolm’s path before he could take two steps, “Both sides could risk everything on one game.”

Armand sighed, done with the whole thing. “Just tell us what you’re thinking, Shayles.”

For a moment, Armand had the impression that Shayles’s mind was elsewhere, that his chief bargaining chip was his outstanding arrogance. Then the man’s expression lit with inspiration. “We’ll play for it,” he said, “but not cards. No, something much grander is needed for a prize like this.”

“Such as?” Alex asked.

Shayles glanced out the window and nodded. “Cricket. Devon is full of cricket pitches and cricket players. You form your team and I’ll form mine. It will be like medieval contests where knights on both sides assembled to play for the honor of their lords.”

“You would play a cricket match for the fate of a letter you value so much that you’re keeping it tucked in your jacket pocket?” Alex asked with a flat stare.

“Why not?” Shayles grinned, but there was something desperate in the expression now. “It’s a house party, after all. Fun and games are the natural order of things.”

“He’s only saying that now because he knows the letter will be worth nothing if we act,” Malcolm said.

“And you would forgo the chance to best me in this or any sort of game on the odd chance that you can salvage your reputation with conflicting news stories?” Shayles asked.

“He has a point,” Gatwick said. The fact that Shayles’s toady would speak at all shocked everyone in the room into silence. He shrugged, ignoring their stares, and went on. “Whether a second letter is drafted to counteract the effects of the first, a scandal will break. It may not bring down your new government, but it could erode public confidence. If you wish to avoid that, I suggest you take Shayles up on his offer. It’s just cricket, after all.”

Armand studied Gatwick with narrowed eyes, suddenly trying to recall what he knew about his cousin other than that he spent most of his time in Shayles’s pocket. He was a peer thanks to a title that had come down from his mother’s side, but rarely took up his seat in the House of Lords. As far as Armand knew, he cared more about art than politics. He had no reason to help Alex or Malcolm, or any of them, but Armand wasn’t sure he cared as much as Shayles about destroying the Liberal Party.

“A cricket match,” Armand said aloud, attempting to wrap his mind around the odd situation. “And the winning team gets the letter.”

“Precisely,” Shayles said.

“Who would play?” Alex asked.

“Whomever both sides could manage to recruit for the match by, say, tomorrow?” Shayles suggested.

“That doesn’t leave us much time,” Malcolm said.

“Which means it doesn’t leave much time for cheating,” Alex added, glaring at Shayles.

“How dare you suggest I would do such a thing?” Shayles said with false offense.

“Because we know you?” Malcolm offered.

“Do you?” The spark in Shayles’s eyes said he’d rig the ball, stack the field, and command the weather if it would give him an advantage. He shook his head, brushing away the protest. “Is it settled then, gentlemen? Cricket, tomorrow, say, fifty overs?” Shayles asked.

“I know several men in the village who are quite good,” Armand murmured to his friends.

“This is a ridiculous idea,” Alex sighed. “I don’t trust him at all.” He stared hard at Shayles.

“How could I possibly twist this situation to my advantage with so little time to do so?” Shayles asked.

He had a point. Nothing about the situation seemed right, but as far as Armand could see, they could either continue to run around in circles, getting nothing done and damaging everyone’s cause, or they could do the ridiculous, play cricket, and hope to get the letter away from Shayles without the press getting a hint of any inappropriate activity.

“I think we should do it,” he said at last, turning to his friends. “We should at least try.”

Malcolm and Alex remained silent, at least until Malcolm blew out a breath and threw his hands up. “Fine. Do whatever you want to do.” He pivoted back to Shayles. “Actually, I’m looking forward to having a cricket bat in my hands around you.”

“It sounds like you’re decided, then,” Shayles said, meeting Malcolm’s threat with an oily smile.

“We are,” Alex sighed at last. “Tomorrow, starting at ten in the morning, we play cricket for that damned letter.”