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Struggling to maintain his balance, searing pain evident in his face, Logan released her arm. Esme pivoted, one open palm cracking his nose while her left knee caught him square in the testicles. Logan fell to his knees, blood spurting from his nose, instinctively clutching his groin.
    Esme turned her back to him, the shocked faces of the serving women allowing her some small measure of satisfaction. “Solar-plexus, instep, nose, groin—all you need to do is ‘SING’ if some fool makes unwanted advances.”
    Logan shot out one leg, the sweep kick she had used to bring Lord Jameson down the evening before now doing the same to her. Logan learnt fast. She fell back against him, finding herself in his arms as he prevented her from hitting the floor.
    “Never turn your back on your opponent while he still draws breath,” Logan added, his sardonic tone at odds with his bloody nose. He pulled her to her feet, dismissing the servants’ tittering as they went off to regale the rest of the staff with this latest episode between the lord of the manor and his erstwhile lady.
    “Lord Davenport met his match in this one,” Betsy commented, her voice loud, sending the servants into peals of laughter that echoed back down the long hallway.
    Logan scowled at the sound. “I do not recall such entertainment scheduled on the cards for this day, Miss Tyme.” He headed towards the winding staircase, Esme trailing after him.
    “I had to do something.” Esme turned her face up to him. “Thank you for sending Lord Jameson away with just a flesh wound.”
    Logan grimaced. “He is no gentleman. Now all know him for the drunken coward he is—”
    “—And your honour remains intact,” Esme finished. She sighed. “You need a doctor to look at your nose.”
    Logan stopped outside his bedroom door, one eyebrow raised. “Yes.”
    Esme blushed, realising he sought some privacy to nurse the wounds she had inflicted.
    Logan hesitated before he slipped into the quiet of his bedchamber. “Does honour hold so little value in your world?”
    “Well, in some circles, this maybe would have been settled via something we call a drive-by…” Esme’s voice trailed off. She knew Logan was in no mood for her cryptic references to events meaning nothing to him.
    “I…may I go for a ride? I understand women sometimes ride in breeches? I’d fall off a side-saddle.”
    Esme watched as Logan smiled, the smile turning into a grimace as obvious pain crossed his handsome features. “One hour,” he said and, sending Esme to explore the library while he readied himself, he called for his valet to fetch the surgeon.

    Byron sauntered into Logan’s room as the surgeon departed. “God’s teeth, I saw no injury to yourself!” Byron watched the swelling and bruises rising under Logan’s aquamarine eyes.
    “Esme, not Lord Jameson. I am assured no bones are broken, but I believe only because she pulled her punch,” Logan said, his tone rueful. He smiled in spite of the shooting pain his nose caused him, recalling Esme’s woebegone tone when he had left her—so out of character for the woman who had brought him to his knees.
    Logan shook his head. “She is a wonder.”

    Byron laughed. “Ah, yes, my man hinted at some impropriety with our time-traveller in the ballroom this morning. He failed to note the willing subject of her lesson in defence was you.” Bryon touched Logan’s face, laughing harder. “I see she displays herself to advantage. What next?”
    Logan picked up his riding crop, swatting Byron’s hand away. “We ride.” Catching Byron’s sharp look at his words, Logan flushed.
    Byron burst into laughter again.
    Logan flicked the whip at him. “Say naught else, or I will meet you with arms in the morning, day after next.”
    Byron laughed all the harder, Logan pretending to ignore him as the two men descended the stairs and headed outside, where Logan called for their mounts.
    Jeremy arrived from the stables for a second time that