Blanchard, predictably, choked on his wine.

Hasselthorpe watched him, a faint smile playing around his mouth. They sat at his dining table, the ladies having retired to the sitting room for their tea. Soon they’d have to join them, and he’d have to put up with Adriana and her incredibly foolish conversation. His wife of twenty-some years had been regarded as a great beauty when she’d come out, and the years had done very little to dim her lovely form. Unfortunately, they’d done nothing to brighten her mind, either. Adriana was the one emotional decision he’d made in a life of calculated gamesmanship, and he’d been paying for it ever since.

“He was brave enough,” Blanchard muttered grudgingly. “Got my niece off the street at the risk of his own life. But the feller thought he was fighting Indians.”

Lister stirred. “Indians? What, the savages in the Colonies?”

“That’s what he was raving about,” Blanchard said. He looked from Hasselthorpe to Lister, his eyes calculating. “I think he’s mad.”

“Mad,” Hasselthorpe murmured. “And if he’s mad, he certainly can’t gain the title. Is that what you plan?”

Blanchard jerked a single nod.

“That’s not bad,” Hasselthorpe said. “And it saves you from having to kill the man, too.”

“Are you insinuating that I was behind the attempt on Lord Hope’s life?” Blanchard sputtered.

“Not at all,” Hasselthorpe said smoothly. He was aware that Lister watched them under hooded eyes. “Just pointing out a fact. One that every intelligent man in London will be thinking—no doubt including Lord Hope himself.”

“Damn your eyes,” Blanchard whispered. His face had gone white.

Lister laughed. “Don’t worry yourself over it, my lord. After all, the gunman missed. Thus, it hardly matters who tried to kill the lost Lord Hope.”

Hasselthorpe raised his glass to his lips, murmuring softly, “Not unless they try again.”

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND gentlemen,” Beatrice announced a day later as she and Lottie strolled about the vast warehouse showroom of Godfrey and Sons furniture makers. She squinted in disapproval at several gentlemen across the room who seemed to be vying for the attentions of a pretty redheaded girl by demonstrating who could lift a heavy-looking stuffed chair above their head the highest. “I cannot understand why Lord Hope kissed me yesterday and then accused me of kissing him.”

“Gentlemen are an enigma,” Lottie replied gravely.

“They are.” Beatrice hesitated, then said quietly, “He seemed… confused during the shooting incident.”

Lottie glanced at her. “Confused?”

Beatrice grimaced. “He was talking about Indians and forming a line of defense.”

“Good Lord.” Lottie looked troubled. “Did he know where he was?”

“I don’t know.” Beatrice frowned, remembering those minutes huddled next to the carriage. Her heart had stopped when she’d realized that Lord Hope was about to run into the open to go to Henry the footman. “I… I don’t think so.”

“But that’s madness,” Lottie whispered in horror.

“I know,” Beatrice murmured. “And I’m afraid that Uncle Reggie will use it against Lord Hope to keep the title.”

Lottie looked at her. “But if he is mad… Bea, dear, surely it’s better that he not inherit the title?”

“The matter is more complicated than that.” Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment. “Lord Hope seems perfectly fine—if hostile—most of the time. Should a man be deprived of his title because of one moment of confusion?”

Lottie cocked her head, looking skeptical.

Beatrice hurried on. “And there’s more to consider. If Lord Hope attains the title, he might take his vote in parliament and cast it for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”

“I’m as much in favor of Mr. Wheaton’s bill as you,” Lottie said, “but I don’t know if I want it passed at your expense.”

“If it was just me, I don’t think I’d mind,” Beatrice said. “I know it would be hard to live in reduced circumstances in the country after being in London all these years, but I think it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s Uncle Reggie I worry about. I’m truly afraid that losing the earldom might kill him.” She pressed her hand to her chest to ease the ache there.

“There is no way for everyone to win, is there?” Lottie said somberly.

“I’m afraid not,” Beatrice replied. They strolled in silence for a moment before she said, “The whole thing was terrible, Lottie. Poor Henry was quite soaked in his own blood, Uncle Reggie was shouting, the servants were in an uproar, and Lord Hope was striding about with a dueling pistol, looking like he wanted to kill someone. Then, two hours later, he says I kissed him when clearly he kissed me. And until that point, I didn’t even think he liked me.”

Lottie cleared her throat delicately. “Well, to be absolutely correct, he doesn’t have to like you to want to kiss you.”

Beatrice looked at her, appalled.

“I’m sorry, but there it is.” Lottie shrugged and then said entirely too innocently, “Of course, generally speaking, the lady does like the gentleman when they kiss.”

Beatrice pressed her lips together, though she knew her face was warming.

Lottie cleared her throat. “Do you? Like Lord Hope, that is?”

“How could I like him?” Beatrice asked. “He’s surly and sarcastic and quite possibly mad.”

“And yet you kissed him,” Lottie reminded her.

“He kissed me,” Beatrice said automatically. “It’s just that he has such an intense way of looking at one, as if I’m the only other human in the world. He’s so full of passion.”

Lottie raised her eyebrows.

“I’m explaining it badly,” Beatrice said. She thought a moment. “It’s as if the only music one had ever heard was a penny whistle. One would probably think it was quite all right, that music was a rather nice thing but nothing very special. But what if one then attended one of Mr. Handel’s symphonies? Do you see? It would be overwhelming, beautiful and strange and complex, and so utterly compelling.”

“I think I understand,” Lottie murmured. Her brows knit.

Across the room, one of the gentlemen misjudged the chair’s weight and dropped it. The chair smashed to the ground, the other gentlemen doubled over in laughter, and the young lady’s chaperone escorted her from the showroom, scolding her all the way. The proprietor hurried over to the scene of his wrecked merchandise.

Beatrice shook her head. “I’ll never understand men.”

“Listen, dear,” Lottie said. “Do you know what my husband did this morning?”

“No.” Beatrice shook her head. “But I don’t really—”

“I’ll tell you,” Lottie said without regard for her friend’s answer. “He came down to breakfast, ate three eggs, half a gammon steak, four pieces of toast, and a pot of tea.”

Beatrice blinked. “That seems like quite a lot of food.”

Lottie waved her hand irritably. “His usual breakfast.”

“Oh.” Beatrice frowned. “Then why—?”

“He said not a word to me the entire time! Instead, he busied himself reading his correspondence and muttering over the scandal sheets. And mark this—he left the room without bidding me good-bye. And when he came back in a minute later, do you know what he did?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“He walked to the sideboard, picked up another piece of toast, and strode right by me again without speaking!”

“Ah.” Beatrice winced. “Perhaps he had important business on his mind.”

Lottie arched one eyebrow. “Or perhaps he’s simply a fool.”

Beatrice wasn’t certain what to say to that, so for a moment she was silent. Both ladies perambulated slowly through the crowded room and stopped with silent consensus before a side table entirely covered in gilded putti.

“That,” Lottie said with consideration, “is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“’Tis, isn’t it? It’s almost as if the maker had a morbid dislike of side tables.” Beatrice tilted her head, examining the table. “I went to visit Jeremy yesterday.”

“How is he?”

“Not well.” She felt Lottie’s swift glance. “It’s very important that we pass Mr. Wheaton’s bill. The soldiers who would benefit from this bill are many—perhaps thousands of men, and some of those men served under Jeremy. He cares so passionately about the bill. I know that it would do him immeasurable good if the veterans got a better pension.”

“I’m sure it would, dear. I’m sure it would,” Lottie said gently.

“He simply . . .” Beatrice had to pause a moment and swallow before she could continue; then she said more steadily, “He simply needs a reason to… to live, Lottie. I worry for him, I do.”

“Of course you do.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Oates leave him in that room by himself for far too long at a time.” Beatrice shook her head. The Oateses’ reaction to their son’s horrific injuries when he returned home had long been a source of concern for her. “They’ve given up on him, I think.”

“I’m sorry, dear.”

“They looked at him when he returned,” Beatrice whispered, “and it was as if he were already dead. As if he meant nothing to them unless he was entirely whole and well. They’ve now turned to Jeremy’s brother, Alfred, and treat him as if he is the heir instead of Jeremy.”

Beatrice looked at her friend, and this time she couldn’t keep the tears from swimming in her eyes. “And that horrible Frances Cunningham! I still get angry when I think how she threw him over when he returned. It’s so shameful.”

“Pity, isn’t it, that no one condemned her for her heartlessness,” Lottie said thoughtfully. “But then he had lost his legs and wasn’t expected to live.”

“She could’ve at least waited until he was out of the sickroom,” Beatrice muttered darkly. “And she’s married now. Did you know? To a baronet.”

“A fat, old baronet,” Lottie said with satisfaction. “Or so I’ve heard. Perhaps she got her just deserts after all.”

“Humph.” Beatrice stared a moment at the putti. The one on the corner of the table nearest her looked remarkably like a fat old man with digestive troubles. Perhaps Frances Cunningham had gotten what she’d deserved. “But you understand, don’t you, how important it is that this bill is passed now—not a year or two hence?”

“Yes, I do.” Lottie linked her arm with Beatrice’s, and they began to stroll again. “You are so good. Much better than me.”

“You want this bill passed as well.”

“But my interest is theoretical.” A faint smile curved Lottie’s wide mouth. “I think it only just that men who have served for years in sometimes deplorable conditions have a fair compensation. You, dear Beatrice, believe with a passion. You feel for those wretched creatures, almost as much as you feel for Jeremy.”

“Perhaps,” Beatrice said. “But in the end, it’s Jeremy that I feel the most for.”

“Exactly. Which is why I am so concerned.”

“Whatever about?”

Lottie halted and took her hands. “I don’t want you to be disappointed . . .”

Beatrice turned her face to the side, but even so, she could not escape the end of Lottie’s sentence.

“. . . if the bill is not passed in time.”