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expressed. His face turned deathly pale and he started to shuffle backward, but John stalked him with easy grace. “I’ve met every debt of honor in my life,” he said tightly.
    The crowd of people who had spilled into the hallway after the first confrontation quickly stepped back again. But Peterson moved protectively in front of Everett, who was already being escorted out the door by Titus. “No one would ever say you are without honor, John—no one. Now, come, let us go and find a drink.”
    In answer, John looked to Applegate. “What does he mean by that, William?”
    Applegate’s ruddy cheeks turned ruddier. “It’s unimportant.”
    John knew better. He rarely gambled; it was one vice that didn’t tempt him. But it tempted Applegate, and John had assumed his spendthrift friend’s debts, which he turned over to his uncle, Louis Barron, who also served as his man of business.
    Nor was Applegate the only man John supported. He provided the living for a motley assortment of ex-soldiers who’d fought with him on the Peninsula, men who’d made sacrifices in the service of their country and then been abandoned. He also loaned generous amounts to his new tonnish friends, including Prinny and Brummell, both of whom were far too extravagant for their own pockets. Recently, in the past week or so, certain friends had cautioned John to keep a better accounting of his money, but he hadn’t placed much significance in their warnings, attributing them to well-intentioned meddling. Now he wondered….
    Peterson clapped a hand on his shoulder and changed the subject. “This wife of yours must be a paragon, to put up with you. You must tell us everything about her. Come.”
    John turned away from Applegate, making a mental note to discuss the unpaid gambling debts. Or perhaps it would be better to go directly to Louis, who had handled John’s affairs since the day he’d purchased his commission.
    Sarah signaled for the musicians to resume playing. A servant appeared at John’s side with a tray of champagne glasses. John took one before saying, “What is it you wish to know?”
    â€œWell, let’s start with her name,” Peterson said.
    â€œYes, her name,” Prinny and Applegate echoed in unison.
    John took a sip of champagne before replying succinctly, “I don’t recall.”
    His response left his friends in open-mouthed surprise, which quickly turned into laughter. Johndidn’t laugh. He considered himself a very private man, and his marriage was not a subject he wished to discuss with anyone. Not even Peterson.
    His wife. Lady Craige, mistress of Craige Castle. Other than the short notes he wrote her twice a year, one at Christmas, the other in the spring, around the time of their anniversary, he rarely thought of her. Louis handled all of the financial details between them. Louis probably remembered his wife’s name.
    Mallory .
    That was her name. And with the name came memories of an ornately carved bed and a young girl, her eyes wide with fear….
    John lightly touched the scar on his thumb.
    Sarah interrupted his thoughts by taking hold of his arm. She rubbed her breasts against him. “You were very brave, my love, and a touch insane. Sir Everett seems a mad man.” Her green eyes smoldered with desire.
    John stifled a yawn and wished he could go home. Unfortunately, Prinny had cornered Peterson and was giving the officer his opinions concerning Wellington’s handling of the war. John would have to think of a clever way to extricate Peterson from such a conversation…and then he had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was staring at him.
    Slowly he turned. There, in the open front door, stood a young woman dressed in serviceable brown cambric and a plain straw bonnet. She held her reticule in front of her with both glovedhands, her tight grip suggesting she feared someone would snatch it from