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as an adult by his family. Bram had wanted to master every vice known to man, and if possible to invent several new ones. But King’s claws were difficult to avoid, and he’d experienced that, too.
    He shook himself as a waiter approached. Reminiscing left a sour taste in his mouth, and he made a point of never indulging in the practice in public. It had only been that damned conversation he’d overheard last night. The Earl of Abernathy and the Duke of Levonzy had more in common than even they probably realized.
    “Your preference, my lord?”
    Good God, he was still reminiscing. “The pheasant,” he said. “And a bottle of your best claret.”
    The waiter bowed. “Right away, my lord.”
    “What do you think of Vauxhall Gardens?” Lester asked, leaning forward on his elbows. “My father says it’s generally no place for gentlemen, but I heard that Prinny attends.”
    “I avoid it whenever possible. Unless your taste runs to penny-a-tumble doxies, I see little attraction.”
    The viscount’s brow furrowed. “Oh. But what about—”
    “How will your father settle your debts? Cosgrove’s not the only fellow you owe.” His own uncollected winnings amounted to only a few hundred quid; when Cosgrove began toying with a new pup, Bram tended to stand clear of the slaughter. But the blunt did give him a reason to ask the question.
    Lester made a dismissive gesture. “Seeing that he didn’t want me included, I reckon it’s nothing that concerns me.”
    “Just so.” Bram poured himself a glass of claret and took a drink. “Which soiree does your family attend next?”
    “We’re all to go to Clacton House tonight. Lady Clacton’s my mother’s aunt. Dull as stones, but Father will take a stick to me if I don’t attend.”
    Bloody hell. Lord and Lady Clacton. The two of them still powdered their damned hair. During a less-than-sober moment he’d made a vow once to fall on a sword before he ever attended one of their soirees. As soon as he returned home this afternoon, however, he would be sending over a belated acceptance to their invitation.
    As to why, precisely, he’d decided to make such a sacrifice, he couldn’t come up with a decent explanation even for himself. He had to be missing something in all this, though, and he hated letting a mystery pass by without solution. Even when he’d probably dislike the answer.

Chapter 3
    Rosamund Davies took her time choosing a gown and putting up her hair. She subscribed to the idea that a woman’s outer appearance served the same function as did a knight’s armor, and this evening she was definitely dressing for battle.
    “You look lovely, Lady Rose,” her maid said with an uncomfortable-looking smile.
    “Thank you, Martha. And I think I’d prefer to wear the pearls,” Rose answered, eyeing herself critically in the mirror. The faux emeralds complemented both her eyes and the light green and gray of her gown, but the pearls felt more…sophisticated. And this evening she at least wanted to appear intelligent and unruled by emotion, however scattered she felt.
    She’d always been the one to see to things, to make certain that the household ran smoothly and that thefamily showed itself as well as possible. Most of the time they more than likely weren’t even aware of what she contributed. Choosing the daily menu, overseeing the staff, approving household purchases. And now she felt as though she’d been kicked. After twenty years, she’d abruptly become valuable in their eyes—as a bargaining chip to settle a debt. And for the first time she had to wonder whether they were asking—no, demanding—too much of her.
    Her bedchamber door rattled. “Come along, Rose,” her mother called. “Your father doesn’t wish to be late.”
    They were already late, though she was the only one who knew that. Rosamund didn’t answer the summons, mostly because she wanted to see whether Lady Abernathy would dare step into the room. Considering that both of her