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an appointment with the executor of his distant cousin's will. Biltmore was the attorney—blast it, “solicitor”—from whom he'd first received the summons to England. Brand had dozens of plans for refurbishing the Caruthers ancestral estate when he walked into Biltmore’s office. Until the terms of dear old Cousin Mortimer's will were read to him.
           “Now, as I was saying”—the solicitor returned his eyes to the page—“the taxes are due by midyear, as are the rents—”
           “But the rents are ten thousand pounds less than the taxes and other debts owed.”
           The solicitor enumerated the precise amounts, adding dryly, “You are quite astute with figures, m'lord.”
           Brand fought the urge to laugh insanely. “This is a jest of cosmic proportions—you do realize that, don't you? Of course not. I lost my family's home in Kentucky because I couldn't pay back taxes.”
           “Well, you need have no fear of that. As a peer of Her Majesty's realm, you are heir to an estate which cannot be sold or broken up in any way. The laws of primogeniture hold Rushcroft Hall and its lands in perpetuity for the direct line of male descendants of the Caruthers family.”
           “So I can sit and rot on the land but I can't sell it. Just watch it fall down around my ears. And what of the taxes and debts?”
           The solicitor shrugged. “Most of the peerage is in arrears on taxes. Since you have no other properties to secure, there's nothing the county warden can seize in lieu of payment.”
           Thinking of his horses, Brand started to sweat. This could turn out even worse than he had just imagined. He'd had to sell a splendid colt for less than its worth just to pay for his and Sin's passage to England; but he'd never dreamed that, once he claimed the title, there would be no money. What if the government or his creditors took Reiver and his broodmares? He would have no way of earning a cent...pence. Stranded in bloody old England, panhandling with the beggars in Whitechapel!
           With visions of himself and Sin sneaking the horses aboard some lug bound for France in the dark of night, he barely registered the solicitor's droning voice at first. But the word “marriage” finally penetrated the miasma surrounding him. “What did you say?”
           “I said,” Biltmore reiterated disdainfully, “if you were to wed a woman of means from amongst the carriage folk, her dowry might solve your pecuniary difficulties.”
           “You mean marry for money?” The words left a sour taste in his mouth as visions of Reba Cunningham flashed through his mind. “If so exalted a person as a peer of Her Majesty's realm were to do so,” Brand replied, parroting the solicitor's pompous diction, “why not wed a peeress?” Was there such a word as peeress? Damned if he knew. These people didn't even speak English!
           Biltmore looked down his nose again. “Everyone is aware that the late baron was without means and deeply in debt. So, for that matter, are many of the peerage. But there are ever so many men in trade who have plump pockets and want nothing so much as to marry their daughters into the aristocracy. You would be well advised to take advantage of that fact.”
           The solicitor's manner indicated quite clearly that he believed the crass American's blood was far enough removed from blue that sullying it by wedding a commoner should be no great sacrifice. Brand wanted to choke the life out of him.
           In this case, he resisted the urge. Sin was not present to rescue him from the hangman's noose. “Save your advice. This American usurper is not for sale.”
           “As you wish, m'lord.” Biltmore' s expression oozed an irritating combination of disdain and pity.
           Brand turned on his heel and quit the office, wondering if they did indeed hang peers of Her Majesty's