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his fault, I suppose. His mother has taught him to do so from the cradle. She never forgave my father for running off with my mother and thereby soiling the family name for all eternity. When I came into the title last year instead of her precious Jeremy, she nearly keeled over with apoplexy."
    "I am well aware of your family history. Be careful, Angelstone. I swear there was murder in Fleetwood's expression just now."
    "Calm yourself, Sutton. Your imagination is running riot."
    "I'm not so certain. I have the distinct impression that if Jeremy Fleetwood could find a way to do you in without making himself look guilty in the process, he wouldn't hesitate a minute." Garrick smiled suddenly. "There's a solution to your dilemma, you know."
    "And that is?"
    "Do your duty by your title, man. Get yourself a wife and then get yourself an heir as quickly as possible. Once the title is secure for another generation on your side of the family, the Fleetwoods will cease praying for your demise. If you have an heir, there would no longer be any point in hoping you'll kick the bucket."
    "I congratulate you on your pragmatic approach to the situation," Sebastian said. "Perhaps I shall give your notion some consideration."
    Garrick gave him a sharp, inquiring look. "What's this? Don't tell me you've finally decided to be sensible."
    "I have been told that at my age a man should begin to demon­strate the qualities of wisdom and responsibility, Sutton."
    Garrick shook his head again. "You truly are in an odd mood tonight."
    "Yes. Perhaps you'd better convey my apologies to young Mer-ryweather before I change my mind."
    Sebastian ignored the gossip that swept through the
ton
the following afternoon as the haut monde learned of his apology to Trevor Merryweather. Instead of making himself available to the curi­ous in his club or retreating to the privacy of his library, he took himself off to keep an appointment at a certain coffeehouse near the docks.
    Whistlecroft's message had reached Sebastian just as he had sat down to a leisurely late breakfast. The note had been short and to the point. Whistlecroft's messages generally were brief, as the Bow Street Runner did not read or write with any great skill.
    Sir,
    There be a matter of interest I wish to discuss with you. If it be agreeable with you, I suggest the usual place at three.
    Yrs. W.
    At three o'clock Sebastian walked into the coffeehouse and found Whistlecroft waiting for him in his customary booth. The Runner raised his mug in greeting. Sebastian went forward to join him.
    Whistlecroft was a heavyset man with a florid, bewhiskered face and shrewd little eyes. The purple veins in his nose bespoke a fond­ness for gin and he seemed to have a perpetual cold during the winter months. He always wore a grimy scarf around his neck and snuffled a great deal.
    "Good afternoon, yer lordship. I see ye got my message."
    "I trust this matter will prove more amusing than the last, Whistle­croft." Sebastian sat down in the booth across from the Runner. "I am in the mood for something a bit more challenging."
    "Yer too good at this sort o‘ thing, that's yer problem." Whistle­croft grinned, displaying several gaps in his teeth. "Well, I got a new one that should interest ye. Same arrangement as before? I collect the reward from the suitably grateful party what hired me?"
    "The reward and the credit, Whistlecroft. Neither are of any use to me."
    "Must be nice to be rich," Whistlecroft said with a sigh. "And have a fancy title into the bargain. Don't mind tellin‘ ye, I still don't under­stand why ye take such an interest in these little affairs."
    Sebastian signaled for coffee. "I've explained that before, Whistle­croft. You provide me with an amusing hobby. Every man needs a hobby, don't you agree?"
    "I wouldn't know about that, yer lordship. Ain't never had time for no hobby. Too busy trying to keep food on the table for me and mine."
    Sebastian smiled coolly. "I trust you and yours are