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examining the portrait of his grandmother that hung between the windows of the office. It was not a particularly good painting, most likely done by some journeyman artist the duchess felt sorry for, hence its place in the estate room. Kasey was not wondering about the artist, his motives, how much he was paid. He was wondering if the old lady would start chatting to him if Charles turned his head.
    He turned to face his cousin and attempted a smile. “I think I’ve been trotting too hard, that’s all.”
    “Quite. I thought you were looking a tad peaked,” Charles said, relieved. “Why don’t you take a rest? You haven’t had a holiday in ages, and there is that race meet at Epsom, of course. Or you might visit the hunting box in Scotland before the weather turns. You could even take one of your lady friends along for company.”
    Kasey was very much afraid the lady was no friend, and she’d be coming along, invited or not.
    Caswell found his brother in the billiards room. He took up a cue and waited his turn. “Evening, Junior—Jason,” he corrected, purposely trying to imbue a modicum of maturity so sadly lacking in the sprig. The chawbacon did not seem to have any sense of style or color either, rigged out as he was in yellow Cossack trousers, a puce waistcoat, with a spotted kerchief at his neck. “Aren’t you dressing for dinner?”
    “I am dressed, brother. I just don’t fancy being togged out as if I were going to a funeral, and the guest of honor there at that.”
    Lord Jason straightened up and untangled a quizzing glass from the chains and ribbons crisscrossing his narrow chest. Through it he surveyed his older brother, soberly dressed in blue-black superfine, with pristine white knee-smalls and neckpiece. The only dash of color came from a ruby glittering in the snowy folds of his cravat. Jason would have given a monkey to be able to tie such a perfect Waterfall. Hell, he’d have given his eyeteeth for Kasey’s broad shoulders and well-muscled legs.
    “Dreary,” he pronounced, without specifying whether he meant Kasey’s stark ensemble or his own spindle-shanked shortcomings. He picked up his cue stick again and returned to the game. “Speaking of dreary, I need to talk to you about m’finances. Chap can’t live on that pittance of an allowance, don’t you know.”
    “Jason, do you ever hear voices?”
    “Of course I do. Hearing you now, ain’t I? But if you mean to give me a bear-garden jaw about that Charlie and his box, I ain’t listening.”
    Kasey did not want to know about the unfortunate watchman, much less the state of his brother’s purse. “No, I mean voices when no one is around.”
    Jason missed his shot, then backed away from the table. “All the time. I usually hear them in an alley, saying that if I didn’t pay up someone named Three-Finger Fred would be introducing my ballocks to my eyeballs. That’s why I need an advance. I called at your place out by the gardens, but your man shut the door on me. Insolent blighter. You ought to dismiss him.”
    “I ought to give him a raise.” Kasey sighted down the green baize and neatly sent the ball into its pocket. As he walked to the other side of the table, he made one last try. “Forget about the voices. Do things ever come alive for you? You know, inanimate objects taking on a life of their own?”
    “Of course. Just last night the floor jumped up to hit me on the head, and I swear that footstool waltzed right into my path. For that matter, the aces always do the pips’ pavane straight into my opponents’ hands, which is why I need—”
    “Some other time,” Kasey said, handing Jason the cue stick before he left, shaking his head. The lady in the painting made more sense.
    * * * *
    “Do you think I am different, my dear?” The duke and Lady Phillida Granleigh were strolling between sets at Miss Georgina Leydon’s come-out ball.
    “Different how, Caswell? Are you parting your hair to the other side or some such?