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certainly should not have left you there!”
    “No. The earl’s. Not his fault.”
    Athena patted his hand, and let Roma come up to lick it, so Troy would not notice the wetness from her falling tears. “Of course not. Why, I am beginning to think that he might have saved your life, you crunch. You might have bled to death if Lord Marden had not been there, and been so capable. We already owe him a vast debt of gratitude, so hurry and get well so that we can go home. His lordship has done enough.”
    *
    Ian did not know what more he could do. If he could send for a magician or a witch doctor or a Hindi healer, he would do it. Anything. Now that he thought of it, hadn’t Lord Abernathy called in an herbalist when his wife was ailing? Perhaps… No, Lady Abernathy had died. And if all the efforts of all the learned doctors in London could not cure the poor king, what good were they?
    For that matter, what good was he, sitting in his morning room, contemplating uneaten platters of ham and kippers and kidneys? But he could not bear to see the boy lying so corpse-like on the bed, nor watch the girl trying to hold back her tears. He could not even look at the surly mongrel licking young Renslow’s cheek to wake him up. Damnation, now he had to feel guilty over disturbing a deaf dog. Between his housekeeper, his valet, and scores of other servants, though, to say nothing of Miss Renslow and her own physician, everything that was possible to do was being done. Ian had nothing to do but wish the day undone.
    Or wish he had never been born. No, that was going too far. If Ian had not been born, Paige would have chosen another of his wife’s lovers to challenge, and that poor blighter might be dead now at the rotter’s early-firing hand. Or else young Renslow might have bled to death, if the chap had an older carriage or slower horses.
    If nothing else, Ian vehemently wished he had never met Lady Paige, or met her that time in the gazebo in her back garden. Or the maze at Richmond. The Dark Walk at Vauxhall. Lud, he’d lived a sorry life. And now he might have nipped a promising one in the bud.
    Damnation, wallowing in guilt and self-pity was not going to help the boy. Ian gave himself a mental shake and then reached for a rasher of bacon. And a slice of toast, a dollop of jam, and a serving of his chef’s excellent steak and kidney pie.
    “Gads,” his friend Carswell said as he strolled, unannounced, into the breakfast room, “how can you eat at such a time? All I could do was swallow a bite of eggs.”
    Ian put down his fork, no longer hungry. He gestured toward the pots of coffee and tea, and the decanters of more potent beverages. “Help yourself, and tell me your news. Am I to be taken up by the magistrate?”
    “Not unless you’ve been tupping his wife, too.” Carswell sat opposite Ian at the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. He added cream and sugar, then reached for a sweet roll, a lamb chop, and the plate of kippers.
    Ian raised an eyebrow, but did not question his elegant friend’s supposedly delicate constitution. He picked up his own fork again, like a good host.
    “How is the boy, then?” Carswell asked between mouthfuls.
    “As well as can be expected, they tell me, although it is too soon to be optimistic. The quacks warn of fevers and congestions and lasting debilities.”
    “Ah, but I have some welcome news. Paige has left town.”
    “What, already?”
    Carswell nodded while he chewed. He swallowed and said, “He had a carriage waiting at his house, all packed and ready. It appears he always intended to shoot early, and shoot to kill. No other explanation for his confidence. Not with his aim.”
    “He hated me that much? Odd, I never did anything to him, except bed his wife, of course. More coffee?”
    “Thank you. According to Philpott, the loose screw was awash in debts. Shooting you was a handy excuse for outrunning the moneylenders’ heavy-handed collectors, without seeming to renege