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easily understand how a young woman such as Chloe Ramirez had been so taken with the man.
    Without Gareth's natural charm or Lady Elizabeth’s sunny temperament to influence the gathering, they were all at the mercy of Elizabeth's husband, the dark count. The count was a good fellow, a trifle too serious for his own good, but he was not one to stand on formality. He allowed those close to him, including Jack, to call him by his Christian name instead of his title. It was an equitable gesture, as Donovan Beaumont, Count Rochembeau, was born and raised in America and gained his title by default, through the death of a distant French relation.
    Jack tried to appear interested in Donovan’s conversation, but he didn’t give two shillings about horse breeding. He was a seaman. Horses were useful for riding or pulling wagons. That was the extent of his interest in the creatures.
    Donovan and Lord Greystowe were going on about the damned creatures as if they were magical. As they were the high-ranking nobles at table, none dared speak over them or change the topic, despite the listing interest of their assembled guests. The two men were partners in a new breeding venture so they tended to wax poetic about animals that swatted flies with their tails and dropped mountains of shit in the road for an unwary traveler to step in.
    The men successfully crossed wild Irish ponies with fine Arabian lines. Their new breed, the Connemara Pony, was catching the attention of horsemen in both Europe and America. They were making a steep profit, never mind that both were already bloody stinking rich, without this added industry to enlarge their coffers. The pair were discussing a grand exhibition they were planning in Ireland while the rest of the dining party sat bored and distracted around them.
    As Gareth's empty chair was to Jack's left, between himself and Lady Greystowe at the end of the table, Jack looked to his right. Mr. Duchamp, the thin, grim steward who had the demeanor of a grave-digger, was carefully prying the bones from his plate of steamed cod as if he were absorbed in an elaborate dissection. Jack could not stand the fellow, and could not think of a thing he wished to say to Mr. Duchamp.
    Jack looked to the other end of the table, at his friend, the count.
    Donovan noticed his questioning look. “You’ve seen them in action, Jack. And you are a gambling man. What do you think of our Connemara Ponies entering the races this year?”
    Jack set his wine down with careful fingers and looked to his host. “I've sworn off gambling. Haven't you heard?”
    Donovan and Lord Greystowe exchanged an odd glance. Clearly they found his lack of interest in their endeavor to produce a new breed of horseflesh distressing.
    “Never mind,” Donovan muttered when Jack didn’t sink into raptures over a horse.
    “How is my lady?” Jack was more interested in hearing about the countess and the new baby than talking about horse-flesh.  “Cherie has a baby sister. You are to be congratulated, my friend, another beauty to grace your home.” Jack smiled and lifted his glass as he looked about the table at the two women gathered there. “And you do seem to have a vast collection of lovelies, don’t you, my lord? A toast to the beauty and grace surrounding us.” 
    After they all drank to his toast, Lady Greystowe took up the conversation where it had lagged.  “Sure, and now that our men are finished boring us all to tears with talk of their new breed, may I ask you a few questions, Captain Rawlings?”
    “Of course, my lady.” He gave her a charming smile.
    Lady Greystowe had auburn hair that possessed such a deep cast of crimson it was as if rich mahogany wood had been coated with blood. The affect was stunning. She had pale skin and bright, intelligent blue eyes.
    “Let me assume my sister-in-law’s role as hostess and welcome you properly to our table. It is a pleasure to see you again, Captain Rawlings. I’ve heard intriguing