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short, crisp, dark curls the latter needed only the horns, thought Beth, to make devilish exactly the right word. Even she had heard of Verderan’s wicked ways and she had no desire to become acquainted. As for Sir Marius, who knows what the man would take it into his mind to say next?
    She would have to have words with Jane about this sort of thing and demand more suitable companions. The Reverend Mortimer Kyle would have been an unalarming partner, for example, for he was a quiet, studious gentleman. Or even his brother, Captain Frederick Kyle. He was a high-spirited young man making the most of a brief furlough from the Peninsula but Beth felt able to handle that type.
    She wouldn’t have minded, even, being set between the Duke of Tyne and his heir, the Marquess of Chelmly. Despite their high rank the former was obviously just a man in poor health, and the latter was a quiet, sober gentleman. When introduced before dinner Beth had received the impression that he was in some ways a limited man lacking a quick intellect and a sense of humor, but both kind and conscientious.
    For this meal, at least, she was fixed between a rake and a teasing colossus and she had to talk to one of them. To her surprise she found she would rather address the rake. What to say, though? An infallible way to open a conversation was to ask the gentleman about himself, but she doubted there was much about Mr. Verderan she cared to know. She took a long drink from the claret in her glass and turned to him.
    “You are an old friend of Lord Randal’s, I believe, Mr. Verderan.”
    She didn’t know what she had been expecting but the rake turned to her with a polite smile. “Yes, Mrs. Hawley. We were at Eton together. And Christ Church.”
    She was struck by the fact that though the two men were presumably the same age, Lord Randal’s looks still had something of boyish smoothness about them while Mr. Verderan’s were thoroughly matured. The price of dissipation? She forced herself to stop thinking in such an intimate way. His features were no business of hers. “School friendships are often the longest lasting,” she commented.
    “Please, Mrs. Hawley,” he drawled with a quite charming smile. “Spare me a dissertation on the innocence of youth.”
    Beth felt a little flutter inside and reminded herself that a gazetted rake must have some attractive features. She commanded herself to be wary but her nerves made her retort tartly, “I can’t say innocence was the word which sprang to mind.”
    As soon as the words were out she looked at him in alarm, wondering if she would get a set-down but he was laughing. “Don’t worry, dear lady. I am delightfully happy being wicked, you see, so I’m not likely to bite when it’s spoken of.”
    Sophie addressed them across the table. “I don’t think you truly can be wicked then, Verderan. Mortimer is always preaching that wickedness is certain to lead to misery. What is it, Mortimer? ‘There’s no peace for the wicked’?”
    Her brother, seated on the far side of Verderan, was obviously uncomfortable with calling across the table but replied, “‘There is no peace, saith the Lord, unto the wicked,’ Isaiah 48:22. Mind your manners, Sophie.”
    “Who on earth would want peace?” asked Verderan of no one in particular.
    Sophie wrinkled her nose at her brother. “At least I attend to your sermons now and then, Tim.”
    “If you took them to heart, I’d be more gratified,” he retorted.
    Sophie was about to respond to this sibling taunt, but Randal turned her head and laid a finger on her lips to hush her. “Behave yourself,” he said with a smile.
    “Behave yourself, behave yourself!” Sophie hissed. “That’s all you ever say to me these days.”
    Silence fell and the whole table turned to listen.
    Randal looked at his betrothed, unperturbed. “Do you know that the hippopotamus bleeds itself?” he said.
    “What?” Sophie gaped.
    “If it has overindulged on grass,” said