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stifled a groan. His ill-considered affair with the wealthy matron was coming back to bite him on the arse. The lady had been very generous, but it was the hardest work he'd ever done with his breeches round his ankles.
    “Um, Lady—I mean, Leticia, well, I...” He groped for the right words as a drowning man might clutch at flotsam. “I'm to be married.”
    There! He'd grasped a promising straw.
    “Oh, I know,” she said brightly, leaning forward to pat his knee. “And I wish you much joy, Bert. Marriage is a wonderful thing. I loved all my husbands, you know. In my way.”'
    “Then, what...”
    Leticia giggled like a much younger woman. “Oh, this is the fun part. Don't you just love the chase?”
    His brow furrowed in puzzlement.
    “Don't be coy, my dear,” she said. “Your impending nuptials needn't impinge upon us. I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.”
    “Good God! I believe you are offering me carte blanche .” Eddleton reached for indignation and found a shred still buried deep in his soul. He sheltered behind it like an invisible shield as he stood. “Madam, you have mistaken me for another sort of man altogether. I must ask you to leave.”
    Her smile faded. “Very well, if that's the way you want it.” Lady Darvish rose and strode to the doorway. Then she stopped and looked back at him, a feline smile lifting her lips. “But we aren't finished yet, Bert. You are a young man in a great deal of debt.”
    “My financial state is none of your concern.”
    “That's where you're wrong,” she said, with an arch of her painted brow. “You see, I bought your vowels. All of them.”
    Eddleton felt himself blanch white as paper. His creditors had sold his IOUs to Lady Darvish.
    “You owe me a considerable sum. A staggering sum, actually. I imagine that's something you'd rather your fu ture father-in-law not discover,” Leticia said, as she adjusted her bonnet, making sure the dead pigeon faced forward. “But don't fret, dearie. One way or another, we'll work out a repayment plan. I expect I'll see you at Lord Hartwell's ball tonight. Everyone who's anyone will be there. I'll save a waltz for you. Perhaps several of them. Good day, Bert.”
    Eddleton sank back into his chair. He never thought he'd envy a dead man, but he was sick with resentment toward the four already-dead Berts.
    He might even trade places with the pigeon.
     
     

Chapter Six
     
     
    Night fell over the city, a heavy black mantle. The few stars that managed to pierce the gloom glittered like shards of glass, hard-edged and cold. Ian Michael was still wearing the footman's powder blue knee breeches and frock coat when he helped Tom Peckham hitch up the beautifully matched ebony mares to Lord Somerville's elegant brougham. In the yellow light of the lantern, Tom cast a sideways glance at Ian.
    “Where's Charlie?”
    “I'm filling in for him,” Ian said. “He's a touch under the weather.”
    What Charlie was actually under was a pile of hay. Ian had shelled out tuppence for some gin. A one-penny tot was enough to lay most men low, and Charlie had no head for drink at all. The footman was peacefully snoring off his snootful in the loft above the snug stable.
    “Any sign of his lordship?” Ian asked.
    Tom shook his head.
    “Then maybe Lady Sybil won't be off to the ball.” Ian swatted one of the mares on the rump. She startled, but moved into the traces with an irritated whicker. “Surely milady won't go without proper escort.”
    “No chance of that.” Tom jerked his head toward the back door of the manor house. Edward, the other footman, was heading toward them. “Willful as that young lady is, I suspect she figures we're all the escort she needs. Glad she'll be spoken for after this night. Reckon a husband will settle her proper.”
    “I doubt it,” Ian said, knowing they were talking about two different young ladies. But Jane and Sybil shared more than a father and a disturbingly similar face.