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there at all.
    In
his mind, he saw a face. His sister’s face, scowling at him again. She pointed
a long finger at him. The scene from earlier today came back to him, playing
its theater across his addled mind.
    “Pray
tell me what is wrong this time, Daniel. Sylvia Hargrove is pretty, the
daughter of an earl, and her uncle is a Belgian duke. She can trace her family
all the way back to Henry VII.”
    Kit
rolled his eyes. They’d had this conversation before, in different times and
locations. He wiped the corner of his mouth and threw down his napkin on the
mahogany dining table.
    “What
do I care? Her father could be the Prince of Wales and I still would not marry
her. Is lineage all that matters to you? The ugliest horse in Christendom would
be fine with you if she could prove she was descended from Charlemagne.”
    Frederick
laughed. Isabella’s icy stare made her husband choke on his brandy. Sometimes
he wondered if Freddy ever regretted his decision to take Isabella to wife. Her
obstinacy had only worsened after becoming a duchess.
    This
visit was a mistake. He’d thought that he could just come and spend a weekend
with his family and see the new stud Freddy had bought.
    Kit
continued. “I will not marry her. And do not think I will reconsider that other
one. What was her name? The mousy-haired girl with twisted teeth who thinks
that whist is the tool of the devil.”
    His
sister pointed a finger at him. “Well, in your case it is. If you put as much
time into your duties as you do in your gaming hells, I would not have to worry
about you.”
    It
was an old point. Because she was the eldest, she saw fit to inform him of how
he should conduct his affairs. At times it was endearing, as their parents had
died when he was thirteen and she was eighteen. But now, he’d had enough.
    “I
am over thirty years old, Bella, not some ignorant boy fresh out of the
schoolroom. I can choose my own wife.”
    She
fixed her dark green gaze at him. “Then act as your age dictates. You are
wasting your life with cards and women. And, let me not even start on the…the… boxing . ‘ Tis bad enough you sponsor those thick-headed hooligans,
but then you have to compete with them, too? A marquess consorting with the
dregs of London, letting them maul and maim you for sport . ” She shivered and shook her head.
    She stared him down and her mouth went sour. “And despite
my repeated insistence, you continue to involve my husband in your debauchery.”
    “Freddy is a grown man. I see no need to coddle and
shepherd him like a five year old.”
    Besides,
Kit was bloody proud of the boxing. He competed with the best—in private
clubs, open fields, alleyways and everything in between. He knew how to jab,
knew how to weave and duck, and he knew how to win. He earned respect not for
being a marquess, but for outwitting his opponents.
    Bella
forgot that a third of his fortune was made from his fists and his instinct at
gambling. He never bet what he couldn’t lose, but he rarely backed down from a
bet he could win. It was all about strategy, sizing up the opponent, knowing
what he could afford to lose—and how badly his opponent wanted to keep
it.
    “What
I do with my time is none of your affair. You are a duchess. Do you not have
affairs of your own? Instead of worrying about me, you should see to your own
household.” He nodded at Freddy, who was fond of boxing and cards himself.
    “Danny,
you will waste your life. Waste everything that our father gave us. If you
merely boxed at the club or in the privacy of your home as any decent gentleman
does, that would be fine. But you compete in illegal matches. For goodness
sake, you bribed a magistrate last month!”
    Of
course he had. He needed to be sure that the authorities didn’t break up the
match. Public boxing was still a punishable offence, despite his efforts to
have the laws changed.
    “You
put your energy into such trivial things. Do you not care about your good name?
Would