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surprising vigor.
    “I haven’t seen you since that nasty business of stolen art pieces from the Duke of Davenford’s collection.” Leaning forward as if to conspire but in a voice that shook all four corners of the room, he commented, “I knew it was the footman all the time! What have you been up to these days? You look like you’ve shed a few pounds.”
    That’s what a hospital stay will do for you , Garren inwardly muttered, but outwardly he retorted, “I’ve been doing some traveling on the continent.” He used the same untruth as he had earlier in the library. Unnoticed by Lord Langless, he signaled Nyle to save him from his lordship’s eardrum-splitting vocals and any further talk of the Davenford theft, a case he had been secretly involved in as a Royal Guardian.
    Comprehending, Nyle quickly complied. Before Lord Langless could roar another word, he introduced Garren to Lord Avery Flemington while strategically guiding Lord Langless over to the vicar, who was a frequent dinner guest at the manor and had more tolerance for his lordship’s blaring vocals, being slightly deaf in one ear.
    “I seem to recall seeing you give an exhibition bout in Bristol, Flemington. Very impressive. Your opponent never saw that left hook coming,” Garren praised, drawing a modest grin from the pugilist.
    “That was well over a year ago. I don’t know if I’d be as sharp now as I was then.” Avery laughed. “Although I do try to stay fit with multiple forms of exercise.” A brief conversation on the subject of boxing and fitness ensued before Nyle returned and took Garren to meet some of the others, including Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, the Marquis Calder Brightington. Leaving his last suspect, Viscount Radley Simon-North, yet to be identified.
    Mr. Sandler Leedworthy, he found, was knee deep explaining the many uses of camphor oil to a yawning Marquis Calder Brightington, who appeared grateful for the interruption. “Marquis Brightington, didn’t you attend Lord Flemington’s exhibition bout in Bristol last year?” Garren queried.
    “Bristol? Hmmm . . .” the Marquis pondered. “I was there along with Viscount Simon-North, but not for Lord Flemington’s exhibition. We were there at my cousin’s house party and stayed a fortnight.”
    “My mistake,” Garren said, noting that Leedworthy made no mention of the fact that he also had been in Bristol at that time, supposedly attending a lecture at a local college.
    Using his height to his advantage, Garren searched over the heads of those gathered until his gaze fell on Thora. She was dressed in a soft blue gown, her hair swept upward and plaited to form a crown atop her head, and through which a golden cord was intertwined. She was standing next to one of the room’s marble columns, looking very much like a Grecian goddess to be worshiped, and talking to a tall, fair-haired gentleman.
    “I was hoping to have a word with Somerville’s sister, but it seems her attention has already been captured” Garren said aloud. And, as he expected, the man with Thora was quickly identified.
    “That’s the ever-charming, raffish Viscount Radley Simon-North with our hostess,” Sandler Leedworthy provided.
    Garren detected a hint of resentment in the scholar’s voice.
    When Garren’s gaze returned to the couple, his own resentment rose. Viscount Radley Simon-North leaned far too close to their hostess. Without having met the man, Garren instantly disliked him. His animosity could have stemmed from that the fact that Viscount Radley Simon-North was one of the four men on his list, or that he was the type of man whose good looks made it effortless for him to enchant a female of any age. Or was it the way the Viscount gazed seductively into Thora’s eyes?
    Like some wild animal protecting its own, Garren had an urge to pounce on the man and bloody his smiling face. Controlling this inexplicable feral reaction, he acknowledged Thora with a casual nod and soon found that his gaze