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excuse me for a moment, won’t you?”
    As Sarah’s guests stepped aside to clear a path, John walked out into the hallway. Sir Everett Carpenter, an older man, stood weaving unsteadily near the front door. Titus had his hand on the man’s arm, as if he were prepared to physically eject him from the house. The party guests gathered around the dining room and drawing room doorways, avidly watching the confrontation.
    â€œYes, Sir Everett, what can I do for you?” John asked, nodding for Titus to take a step back.
    Sir Everett’s face beneath his balding pate was flushed from drink—John could almost smell the fumes of the man’s breath from where he stood—but his eyes burned with intensity. “I want my wife back. I want you to release her.”
    John lifted an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand what you mean.” He searched his mind. “I don’t remember having had the honor of meeting your wife, let alone holding her in some way from which she needs to be released .”
    â€œYou lie!” Sir Everett cried, and raised the hand he’d been hiding inside his coat. He pointed a small pistol squarely at John. Their audience pulled back from the doors with a collective gasp of surprise.
    â€œYou danced with my wife at Lady Cogswell’srout a week ago last Tuesday,” Sir Everett accused. “Since that day she thinks of nothing but you.”
    Conscious that the man could blow off his head at any moment and was endangering the lives of those around them, John calmly brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his dark superfine jacket before repeating politely, “I am sorry, Sir Everett, but I don’t remember having the pleasure of meeting her.”
    â€œShe writes you every day. She goes to the park hoping to see you, hoping you will notice her, and when you don’t, when you ride past without so much as a nod in her direction, she is broken-hearted. She no longer speaks to me. She’s unhappy. I’m unhappy.” His hand holding the pistol shook as he declared, “Tonight she told me she’s leaving me.”
    John started walking toward the man, his steps measured and deliberate. “I’m sorry she is unhappy. But she belongs with her husband.”
    Sir Everett nodded. “That’s what I told her; but she won’t listen to me. The only way I can have her back is if you are dead!”
    John heard a movement behind him and knew Peterson was coming forward in his defense. Keeping his gaze locked on Sir Everett’s, John held up his hand, a signal for Peterson to stay back. “Let us go outside, sir, and talk this over as gentlemen.”
    Sir Everett shook his head sadly. “I won’t. You would kill me. I’m afraid I have no choice, Lord Craige, but to shoot you dead.”
    John stopped. The man was bloody mad. “Then shoot and be damned,” he said softly.
    Beads of sweat broke out on Sir Everett’s forehead. John focused on the bore of the dueling pistol. He resumed walking toward Sir Everett.
    â€œI will shoot,” the man said, his voice shrill. John didn’t stop.
    Sir Everett moved back, his knees practically knocking together in fright, and John thought the game was won, until the pistol went off.
    The heat of the bullet whizzed past his cheek, searing his skin. It smashed safely into the clock standing against the wall behind John.
    For one long heartbeat, the two men started at each other in surprise. The incredible control John exercised over himself warred with his very real anger at almost having had his head blown off.
    Sir Everett dropped the smoking pistol. It hit the wood floor with a dull thud. “You don’t understand,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “If you had a wife, you’d understand.”
    The corners of John’s mouth turned down cynically. “Oh, but you’re wrong, sir. I do have a wife, and I