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fight to win.”
    The two men took their places and executed the ritual salute. Carrington was suddenly glad that Mark had chosen swords. Given Wainright’s emotional state, Mark might have been forced to kill him.
    The combatants were evenly matched, and tension built in the onlookers as the morning air rang with the clash of steel. The sun rose, burning away the fog. Back and forth the action moved, the thrust and parry continuing unabated for more than half an hour. But Carrington gradually relaxed. Their skills might match, but Mark had the greater stamina. Wainright’s guard was slipping. As Mark made a lightning move to his right, Wainright’s foot caught, throwing his sword wide. Mark’s point bit deeply into Wainright’s left shoulder, and Albright called a halt.
    Bridgeport murmured a few words to Wainright, stayed on the field long enough to hear the doctor proclaim that the wound was not serious, then joined Carrington in his carriage.
    “Let’s get out of here before someone happens by.”
    * * * *
    A week later, the Marquess of Carrington appeared in Bridgeport’s breakfast room while the earl was still at the table.
    “What brings you out so early?” Mark motioned to the sideboard.
    Richard filled a plate. “Wainright died last night.”
    “What!” Bridgeport signaled the footman to close the door behind him as he left.
    “His valet discovered him just before dinner. As soon as I heard the rumors, I roused the doctor. He swears that Wainright’s heart gave out, for all he was not yet forty. The shoulder injury was healing and showed no signs of infection.”
    “What rumors?” asked Mark, a piece of toast poised halfway to his mouth.
    “There are already whispers that you killed him,” admitted Richard. “All nonsense, of course. But Wainright’s valet went into hysterics and blurted out a twisted version of the duel, insisting that the wound was responsible for the death. Even if the doctor convinces the authorities otherwise, you will be questioned.”
    “Dear Lord.” Bridgeport bowed his head in grief and horror. “And I probably am responsible. He was noticeably flagging toward the end. The exertion may have been too much for him.”
    “Fustian!” exploded Richard. “There has never been a hint that he was not fit. If the fight had contributed anything, he would have died that night. You are in shock – and who can blame you? – but I hope you do not mention such a possibility to the authorities out of a misplaced sense of martyrdom.”
    “Do you really believe I would be that stupid?”
    Carrington sighed. “Of course not. I am in shock myself, or I would never have suggested such a thing. But I fear you are in for a rough week, my friend. I have an absurd feeling that there is more to this than meets the eye.”
    Mark could only agree. He spent the day adhering to his usual routine, knowing that any difference in his demeanor would increase the rumors. Either his sparring partner at Jackson’s knew nothing or he was hiding his curiosity well. White’s was not so congenial. He could see the awareness in everyone’s eyes, despite the friendly greetings. It was the worst experience of his life. He had suffered similar scrutiny in the past, of course – the scorn and laughter engendered by his various betrothals, the embarrassment he continued to endure from that cursed nickname, and the deliberate derision he had courted in his youth by establishing a reputation as a gamester – but never before had he fought a duel or been suspected of murder.
    He ignored the stares, calmly conversed with friends, and played several hands of whist. The buzz when he won increased his fury, for apparently rumor now suggested he was also a cheat, but his demeanor remained carefree. When he and Richard dropped by Manton’s, he was gratified to find that his aim remained as steady as ever, allowing him to break ten out of ten wafers.
    A runner awaited him at home. It was not a pleasant