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of Nance, you would have far too many duties to worry over missing a waltz or two.” He leaned forward to touch her cheek. “Even so, don’t turn away any of your other suitors until I’ve made my final decision. We can’t risk insulting anyone.”
    She nodded at him. At least he was smiling again. “Of course, Papa.”
     
    The bitter wind was up, howling through the narrow carriage paths dividing the mansions just beyond Mayfair. The air smelled like rain again, though there was a board up at White’s for those daring enough to wager on whether snow would fall this June. The Marquis of Dansbury had gambled on a full six inches, expecting to lose, but he was beginning to change his mind. Icy weather it was, fitting for his pursuit of an Ice Queen.
    “Why do you think that is?”
    Jack blinked and looked up at the woman seated in the overstuffed chair opposite him. “Why do I think what is?”
    Antonia St. Gerard uncurled from the deep cushions and refilled her glass with brandy. “Why we never became lovers, Jack.”
    The marquis grinned and lowered his gaze to finish perusing the brittle newspaper in his hands. “Because we’re exactly alike. Two battling tarantulas. We’d kill one another before we ever finished spawning, or whatever it is that tarantulas do.”
    With a soft chuckle, Antonia curled up again, catlike. In the firelight, her brunette hair looked the color of burnished copper. It hung down her shoulder in a singlebraid, curling a little at the end. “It is the female spider who kills the male after mating, is it not?” she asked in a faint French accent.
    “Another splendid reason why I’ve not engaged in the process with you, my dear.” Jack glanced up again, amused, and went back to reading.
    “When you came calling, I didn’t know you intended to sit about in my drawing room. I thought you at least wanted to play cards. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered rising yet. I didn’t go to my chambers until after seven this morning, you know.”
    “You should keep more sensible hours.”
    “Ha,” she scoffed. “If you left here at a more sensible hour, I would. One would think you never sleep.”
    He pursed his lips, continuing to read. “I don’t.”
    Antonia gestured at the stacks of newspapers resting on either side of his chair. “Whatever are you looking for in those old things, anyway?”
    “You’re the only one I know who collects back issues of the London Times ,” Jack answered. “I’m looking for a death notice.”
    She shrugged, running her fingers along the rim of the glass. The fine crystal hummed an A-sharp in response. “One never knows what knowledge one may have use for later. Whose death notice?”
    “Elizabeth Benton. Lady Hamble.” He folded the paper, set it down on the stack to his left, and lifted the top issue from the even more substantial pile to his right. “No one could give me an exact date.”
    “Is this lady a relation to the handsome young man who joined us after the opera last evening?”
    “His mother.” Jack started to read again, then paused. Antonia was mercenary to the core and saw people only in terms of profit and power. Or so he had thought. Heregarded her for a moment, lifting one eyebrow. “‘ Handsome young man,’ Toni?”
    Antonia smiled and stretched, which did some very enticing things to the low front of her dressing gown. That sight made him wonder if it would be worth risking death or dismemberment to know her on a more intimate level. Occasionally, especially after he’d consumed several glasses of port, that question became a complicated one to answer. This morning, though, he happened to be almost completely sober and knew better than to indulge himself with her.
    “Handsome, yes. And wealthy as well, I assume,” she continued, “from the fact that you actually let him win a few quid from you. You never bother reeling them in unless they are exceptionally well heeled.”
    The marquis looked at her speculatively for