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part-ner—'acquainted
with every detail,' were your words, I think."
    "We've
been partners since November," he said. "He started the
mining operation earlier, not long after returning from the
Continent."
    The
fact was, Gordmor had returned from war to find his finances in
alarming disarray. He could not even afford the upkeep of his
Northumberland estate. His bailiff had advised him to explore the
Derbyshire property, and desperate, Gordy had drilled for coal.
    Alistair,
however, had no intention of disclosing his friend's personal affairs
to an inquisitive young lady—or anyone else for that matter.
    "I
see." Miss Oldridge lowered her gaze to her plate. "Then
you were both with the Duke of Wellington. But you're the one who's
famous. Even here, in the wilds of Derbyshire, everyone has heard of
you."
    Alistair's
face grew hot. He didn't know whether she referred to Waterloo or the
Episodes of Stupidity. Both matters were for the most part public
knowledge, unfortunately. He ought to be indifferent by now to the
spectacle of his past rearing its head, it happened so often. But he
wasn't indifferent, and he did wish the tales had not traveled quite
so far.
    "You
bear a strong resemblance to Lord Hargate," Mr. Oldridge said.
"He has a great many sons, has he not?"
    Relieved
at the turn of subject, Alistair admitted to having four brothers.
    "Some
will say that is not a great many," Mr. Oldridge said. "Our
unfortunate King has sired fifteen children."
    King
George III had been for some years completely insane, and thus unfit
to handle affairs of state. As a consequence, his eldest son—who,
while not insane, would not win any prizes for rational
behavior—currently reigned as Prince Regent.
    "One
might wish our unfortunate monarch had sired fewer children, of
better quality," Miss Oldridge said. "Lord and Lady Hargate
produced only five boys—yet two are paragons, and one is a
famous Waterloo hero. I daresay your younger brothers will prove
themselves equally remarkable as they mature."
    "You
seem to know a great deal about my family, Miss Oldridge,"
Alistair said.
    "As
does everyone in Derbyshire," she said. "Yours is one of
the county's oldest families. Your father is reputed to be the real
power in the House of Lords. Your older brothers have involved
themselves in several admirable causes. All the London papers
provided extensive accounts of your battlefield exploits, and the
local ones devoted oceans of ink to the subject. Even had I somehow
contrived to miss your name in print, I could not remain in
ignorance. For a time, you were mentioned in every letter I received
from friends and family members in London."
    Alistair
winced inwardly. He'd been involved in barely two days' fighting.
He'd been so raw it was a wonder he hadn't shot his own nose off. Why
the papers chose to lionize him was a mystery, and an infuriating one
at that.
    His
leg commenced a set of spasms. "That is old news," he said
in the chilling drawl that always ended discussion of the subject.
    "Not
hereabouts," Miss Oldridge said. "I recommend you prepare
to endure the admiration of the population."
    His
frigid tone affected her not a whit. Her cheerful one put him on the
alert.
    He
knew—better than many men, in fact—that a woman's speech
could be fraught with hidden meanings bearing no discernible
resemblance to the spoken words. He did not always know what a woman
meant, but he was usually aware that she meant more than she said,
and that the "more" was, more often than not, trouble.
    He
sensed trouble at present, was aware it might at any moment spring
out at him from the darkness of her mind, but couldn't perceive what
it was.
    What
he could perceive was her sad excuse for a coiffure coming apart. A
cluster of coppery curls had fallen out of the roll and dangled at
her neck. Atop her head, curls sprang out singly and in clumps. He
watched her push one long tendril out of her face and behind her ear.
    It
was a gesture a woman might make after