“Piquet favors those with a vivid memory,” the Earl of Chatteris said, to no one in particular.

Lord Hugh Prentice didn’t hear him; he was too far away, over at the table by the window, and more pertinently, he was somewhat drunk. But had Hugh heard Chatteris’s remark—and had he not been intoxicated—he would have thought:

That is why I play piquet.

He would not have said it out loud. Hugh had never been the sort to speak merely for the sake of making his voice heard. But he would have thought it. And his expression would have changed. One corner of his lips would have twitched, and his right eyebrow might have arched—just the barest hint of a movement, but still, enough for a careful observer to think him smug.

Although the truth was, London society was quite devoid of careful observers.

Except for Hugh.

Hugh Prentice noticed everything. And he remembered it all, too. He could, if he wished, recite all of Romeo and Juliet, word for word. Hamlet, too. Julius Caesar he could not do, but that was only because he had never taken the time to read it.

It was a rare enough talent that Hugh had been disciplined for cheating six times during his first two months at Eton. He soon realized that his life was made infinitely easier if he purposefully flubbed a question or two on his examinations. It wasn’t that he minded the accusations of cheating so much—he knew he hadn’t cheated, and he didn’t much care what anyone else thought of it—but it was such a bother, getting hauled up before his teachers and being forced to stand there and regurgitate information until they were satisfied of his innocence.

Where his memory really came in handy, though, was cards. As the younger son of the Marquess of Ramsgate, Hugh knew that he was due to inherit precisely nothing. Younger sons were expected to join the army, the clergy, or the ranks of fortune hunters. As Hugh lacked the temperament for any of these pursuits, he would have to find some other means of support. And gambling was so very easy when one had the ability to recall every card played—in order—for an entire evening.

What had become difficult was finding gentlemen willing to play—Hugh’s remarkable skill at piquet had become the stuff of legend—but if young men were drunk enough, they always tried their hand. Everyone wanted to be the man to beat Hugh Prentice at cards.

The problem was that this evening, Hugh had also drunk “enough.” It wasn’t a common occurrence; he’d never been comfortable with the loss of control that flowed from a bottle of wine. But he’d been out and about with friends, and they’d gone to a somewhat salty tavern, where the pints were large, the crowd was loud, and the women uncommonly buxom.

By the time they’d reached their club and pulled out a deck of cards, Daniel Smythe-Smith, who had recently come into his title as the Earl of Winstead, was well in his cups. He was offering vivid descriptions of the maid he’d just tupped, Charles Dunwoody was vowing to go back to the tavern to improve upon Daniel’s performance, and even Marcus Holroyd—the young Earl of Chatteris, who had always been a bit more serious than the others—was laughing so hard he nearly tipped over his chair.

Hugh had preferred his barmaid to Daniel’s—a little less fleshy; a little more lithe—but he just grinned when pressed for the details. He remembered every inch of her, of course, but he never kissed and told.

“Going to beat you this time, Prentice!” Daniel boasted. He leaned sloppily against the table, his signature grin nearly blinding the rest of them. He’d always been the charmer of the group.

“For the love of God, Daniel,” Marcus groaned, “not again.”

“No, no, I can do it.” Daniel wagged a finger in the air, laughing when the motion made him lose his balance. “I can do it this time.”

“He can!” Charles Dunwoody exclaimed. “I know he can!”

No one bothered to comment. Even sober, Charles Dunwoody seemed to know a lot of things that were untrue.

“No, no, I can,” Daniel insisted, “because you”—he wagged a finger in Hugh’s general direction—“have had a lot to drink.”

“Not as much as you have,” Marcus pointed out, but he hiccupped when he said it.

“I counted,” Daniel said triumphantly. “He had more.”

“I had the most,” Dunwoody boasted.

“Then you definitely should play,” Daniel said.

A game was struck, and wine was served, and everyone was having a grand time until—

Daniel won.

Hugh blinked, staring at the cards on the table.

“I won,” Daniel said, with not inconsiderable awe. “Will you look at that?”

Hugh ran through the deck in his mind, ignoring the fact that some of the cards were uncharacteristically fuzzy.

“I won,” Daniel said again, this time to Marcus, his longtime closest friend.

“No,” Hugh said, mostly to himself. It wasn’t possible. It just wasn’t possible. He never lost at cards. At night, when he was trying to sleep, when he was trying not to listen, his mind could bring up every card he’d played that day. That week, even.

“I’m not even sure how I did it,” Daniel said. “It was the king, but then it was the seven, and I...”

“It was the ace,” Hugh snapped, unable to listen to another moment of his idiocy.

“Hmmm.” Daniel blinked. “Maybe it was.”

“God,” Hugh cried out. “Somebody shut him up.” He needed quiet. He needed to focus and remember the cards. If he could just do that, this would all go away. It was like the time he’d come home late with Freddie, and their father had already been waiting with—

No no no. That was something different. This was cards. Piquet. He never lost. It was the one thing, the only thing, he could count on.

Dunwoody scratched his head and looked at the cards, counting out loud. “I think he—”

“Winstead, you bloody cheat!” Hugh yelled, the words pouring unbidden from his throat. He didn’t know where they’d come from, or what had prompted him to say them, but once out, they filled the air, sizzling violently above the table.

Hugh began to shake.

“No,” Daniel said. Just that. Just no, with an unsteady hand and a confused expression. Baffled, like—

But Hugh wouldn’t think of that. He couldn’t think of that, so instead he lurched to his feet, upending the table as he clung to the one thing he knew was true, which was that he never lost at cards.

“I didn’t cheat,” Daniel said, blinking rapidly. He turned to Marcus. “I don’t cheat.”

But he had to have cheated. Hugh flipped through the cards in his mind again, ignoring the fact that the jack of clubs was wielding an actual club, and he was chasing after the ten, which was drinking wine out of a glass much like the one currently shattered at his feet....

Hugh started yelling. He had no idea what he was saying, just that Daniel had cheated, and the queen of hearts had stumbled, and 42 times 306 was always 12,852, not that he had any idea what that had to do with anything, but there was wine all over the floor now, and the cards were everywhere, and Daniel was just standing there, shaking his head, saying, “What is he talking about?”

“There is no way you could have had the ace,” Hugh hissed. The ace had been after the jack, which had been next to the ten...

“But I did,” Daniel said with a shrug. And a burp.

“You couldn’t,” Hugh shot back, stumbling for balance. “I know every card in the deck.”

Daniel looked down at the cards. Hugh did, too, at the queen of diamonds, madeira dripping from her neck like blood.

“Remarkable,” Daniel murmured. He looked straight at Hugh. “I won. Fancy that.”

Was he mocking him? Was Daniel Smythe-Smith, the oh-so venerable Earl of Winstead, mocking him?

“I will have satisfaction,” Hugh growled.

Daniel’s head snapped up in surprise. “What?”

“Name your seconds.”

“Are you challenging me to a duel?” Daniel turned incredulously to Marcus. “I think he’s challenging me to a duel.”

“Daniel, shut up.” Marcus groaned—Marcus, who suddenly looked far more sober than the rest of them.

But Daniel waved him off, then said, “Hugh, don’t be an ass.”

Hugh didn’t think. He lunged. Daniel jumped to the side, but not fast enough, and both men went down. One of the table legs jammed into Hugh’s hip, but he barely felt it. He pounded Daniel—one, two, three, four—until two sets of hands pulled him back, up and off, barely restraining him as he spat, “You’re a bloody cheat.”

Because he knew this. And Winstead had mocked him.

“You’re an idiot,” Daniel replied, shaking blood from his face.

“I will have my satisfaction.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Daniel hissed. “I will have satisfaction.”

“The Patch of Green?” Hugh said coolly.

“At dawn.”

There was a hushed silence as everyone waited for either man to come to his senses.

But they didn’t. Of course they didn’t.

Hugh smiled. He couldn’t imagine why he had anything to smile about, but he felt it slinking along his face nonetheless. And when he looked at Daniel Smythe-Smith, he saw another man’s face.

“So be it.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Charles Dunwoody said, grimacing as he finished his inspection of Hugh’s gun.

Hugh didn’t bother to reply. His head hurt too much.

“I mean, I believe you that he was cheating. He’d have to be, because, well, it’s you, and you always win. Don’t know how you manage it, but you do.”

Hugh barely moved his head, but his eyes traveled a slow arc toward Dunwoody’s face. Was Dunwoody accusing him of cheating now?

“I think it’s the maths,” Dunwoody went on, oblivious to Hugh’s sardonic expression. “You always were freakishly good at it...”

Pleasant. Always so very pleasant to be called a freak.

“... and I know you never cheated at maths. Heaven knows we quizzed you enough at school.” Dunwoody looked up with a frown. “How do you do that?”

Hugh gave him a flat stare. “You’re asking me now?”

“Oh. No. No, of course not.” Dunwoody cleared his throat and backed up a step. Marcus Holroyd was heading their way, presumably in an attempt to put a halt to the duel. Hugh watched as Marcus’s boots ate up the damp grass. His left stride was longer than his right, although not by much. It would probably take him fifteen more steps to reach them, sixteen if he was feeling ornery and wanted to butt up into their space.

But this was Marcus. He’d stop at fifteen.

Marcus and Dunwoody exchanged guns for inspection. Hugh stood by next to the surgeon, who was just full of useful information.

“Right here,” the surgeon said, smacking his upper thigh. “I’ve seen it happen. Femoral artery. You bleed like a pig.”

Hugh said nothing. He wasn’t going to actually shoot Daniel. He’d had a few hours to calm down, and while he was still livid, he saw no reason to try to kill him.

“But if you just want something really painful,” the surgeon continued, “you can’t go wrong with the hand or foot. The bones are easy to break, and there are a hell of a lot of nerves. Plus you won’t kill him. Too far from anything important.”

Hugh was very good at ignoring people, but even he couldn’t hold out against this. “The hand’s not important?”

The surgeon rolled his tongue over his teeth, then made a sucking noise, presumably to dislodge some rancid piece of food. He shrugged. “It’s not the heart.”

He had a point, which needled. Hugh hated when annoying people had valid points. Still, if the surgeon had any sense, he’d shut the bloody hell up.

“Just don’t go for the head,” the surgeon said with a shudder. “No one wants that, and I’m not just talking about the poor sod who’s taken the bullet. There’ll be brains everywhere, faces shot open. Shoots the funeral straight to hell.”

“This is your choice of surgeon?” Marcus asked.

Hugh jerked his head toward Dunwoody. “He found him.”

“I’m a barber,” the surgeon said defensively.

Marcus shook his head and walked back to Daniel.

“Gentlemen at your ready!”

Hugh wasn’t sure who had called out the order. Someone who’d found out about the duel and wanted bragging rights, most probably. There weren’t many sentences in London more coveted than “I saw it myself.”

“Take aim!”

Hugh lifted his arm and aimed. Three inches to the right of Daniel’s shoulder.

“One!”

Good God, he’d forgot about the counting.

“Two!”

His chest clenched. The counting. The yelling. It was the one time that numbers became the enemy. His father’s voice, hoarse in his triumph, and Hugh, trying not to hear...

“Three!”

Hugh flinched.

And he pulled the trigger.

“Yaaaaooooowwwww!”

Hugh looked at Daniel in surprise.

“Bloody hell, you shot me!” Daniel yelled. He clutched his shoulder, his rumpled white shirt already oozing with red.

“What?” Hugh said to himself. “No.” He’d aimed to the side. Not far to the side, but he was a good shot, an excellent shot.

“Oh, Christ,” the surgeon muttered, and he took off along the side of the field at a run.

“You shot him,” Dunwoody gasped. “Why’d you do that?”

Hugh had no words. Daniel was hurt, perhaps even mortally, and he’d done it. He had done it. No one had forced him. And even now, as Daniel raised his bloody arm—his literally bloody arm—

Hugh screamed as he felt his leg tearing into pieces.

Why had he thought he’d hear the shot before he felt it? He knew how it worked. If Sir Isaac Newton was correct, sound traveled at a rate of 979 feet per second. Hugh was standing about twenty yards from Daniel, which meant that the bullet would have had to travel...

He thought. And thought.

He couldn’t work out the answer.

“Hugh! Hugh!” came Dunwoody’s frantic voice. “Hugh, are you all right?”

Hugh looked up at Charles Dunwoody’s blurry face. If he was looking up, then he must be on the ground. He blinked, trying to set his world back into focus. Was he still drunk? He’d had a staggering amount of alcohol the night before, both before and after the altercation with Daniel.

No, he wasn’t drunk. At least not very much. He had been shot. Or at least, he thought he’d been shot. It had felt as if he’d taken a bullet, but it didn’t really hurt so much any longer. Still, it would explain why he was lying on the ground.

He swallowed, trying to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe? Hadn’t he been shot in the leg? If he’d been shot. He still wasn’t sure that was what had happened.

“Oh, dear God,” came a new voice. Marcus Holroyd, breathing hard. His face was ashen.

“Put pressure on it!” the surgeon barked. “And watch out for that bone.”

Hugh tried to speak.

“A tourniquet,” someone said. “Should we tie a tourniquet?”

“Bring me my bag!” the surgeon yelled.

Hugh tried to speak again.

“Don’t spend your energy,” Marcus said, taking his hand.

“But don’t fall asleep!” Dunwoody added frantically. “Keep your eyes open.”

“The thigh,” Hugh croaked.

“What?”

“Tell the surgeon...” Hugh paused, gasping for breath. “The thigh. Bleeding like a pig.”

“What is he talking about?” Marcus asked.

“I— I—” Dunwoody was trying to say something, but it kept catching in his throat.

“What?” Marcus demanded.

Hugh looked over at Dunwoody. He looked ill.

“I believe he’s trying to make a joke,” Dunwoody said.

“God,” Marcus swore harshly, turning back to Hugh with an expression that Hugh found difficult to interpret. “You stupid, contrary... A joke. You’re making a joke.”

“Don’t cry,” Hugh said, because it looked like he might.

“Tie it tighter,” someone said, and Hugh felt something yanking on his leg, then squeezing it, hard, and then Marcus was saying, “You’d best stay baaaaaaack...”

And that was it.

When Hugh opened his eyes, it was dark. And he was in a bed. Had an entire day passed? Or more? The duel had been at dawn. The sky had still been pink.

“Hugh?”

Freddie? What was Freddie doing here? He couldn’t remember the last time his brother had stepped foot in their father’s house. Hugh wanted to say his name, wanted to tell him how happy he was to see him, but his throat was unbelievably dry.

“Don’t try to talk,” Freddie said. He leaned forward, his familiar blond head coming into the arc of the candlelight. They’d always looked alike, more than most brothers. Freddie was a little shorter, a little slighter, and a little blonder, but they had the same green eyes set in the same angular face. And the same smile.

When they smiled.

“Let me get you some water,” Freddie said. Carefully, he put a spoon to Hugh’s lips, dribbling the liquid into his mouth.

“More,” Hugh croaked. There had been nothing left to swallow. Every drop had just soaked into his parched tongue.

Freddie gave him a few more spoonfuls, then said, “Let’s wait a bit. I don’t want to give you too much at once.”

Hugh nodded. He didn’t know why, but he nodded.

“Does it hurt?”

It did, but Hugh had the strange sensation that it hadn’t hurt quite so much until Freddie asked about it.

“It’s still there, you know,” Freddie said, motioning toward the foot of the bed. “Your leg.”

Of course it was still there. It hurt like bloody hell. Where else would it be?

“Sometimes men feel pain even after they lose a limb,” Freddie said in a nervous rush. “Phantom pain, it’s called. I read about it, I don’t know when. Some time ago.”

Then it was probably true. Freddie’s memory was almost as good as Hugh’s, and his tastes had always run toward the biological sciences. When they were children, Freddie had practically lived outside, digging in the dirt, collecting his specimens. Hugh had tagged along after him a few times, but he’d been bored out of his skull.

Hugh had quickly discovered that one’s interest in beetles did not increase with the number of beetles located. The same went for frogs.

“Father’s downstairs,” Freddie said.

Hugh closed his eyes. It was the closest he could manage to a nod.

“I should get him.” Said without conviction.

“Don’t.”

A minute or so went by, and Freddie said, “Here, have a bit more water. You lost a great deal of blood. It will be why you feel so weak.”

Hugh took a few more spoonfuls. It hurt to swallow.

“Your leg is broken, too. The femur. The doctor set it, but he said the bone was splintered.” Freddie cleared his throat. “You’re going to be stuck here for quite some time, I’m afraid. The femur is the largest bone in the human body. It’s going to take several months to heal.”

Freddie was lying. Hugh could hear it in his voice. Which meant that it was going to take quite a bit longer than a few months to heal. Or maybe it wouldn’t heal at all. Maybe he was crippled.

Wouldn’t that be funny.

“What day is it?” Hugh rasped.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” Freddie answered, correctly interpreting the question.

“Three days,” Hugh echoed. Good Lord.

“I arrived yesterday. Corville notified me.”

Hugh nodded. It figured their butler would be the one to let Freddie know his brother had nearly died. “What about Daniel?” Hugh asked.

“Lord Winstead?” Freddie swallowed. “He’s gone.”

Hugh’s eyes flew open.

“No, no, not dead gone,” Freddie quickly said. “His shoulder was injured, but he’ll be fine. He’s just left England is all. Father tried to have him arrested, but you weren’t dead yet—”

Yet. Funny.

“—and then, well, I don’t know what Father said to him. He came to see you the day after it happened. I wasn’t here, but Corville told me Winstead tried to apologize. Father wasn’t having... well, you know Father.” Freddie swallowed and cleared his throat. “I think Lord Winstead went to France.”

“He should come back,” Hugh said hoarsely. It wasn’t Daniel’s fault. He hadn’t been the one to call for the duel.

“Yes, well, you can take that up with Father,” Freddie said uncomfortably. “He’s been talking about hunting him down.”

“In France?”

“I didn’t try to reason with him.”

“No, of course not.” Because who reasoned with a madman?

“They thought you might die,” Freddie explained.

“I see.” And that was the awful part. Hugh did see.

The Marquess of Ramsgate did not get to choose his heir; primogeniture would force him to give Freddie the title, the lands, the fortune, pretty much anything that wasn’t nailed down by entail. But if Lord Ramsgate could have chosen, they all knew he would have chosen Hugh.

Freddie was twenty-seven and had not yet married. Hugh was holding out hope that he might yet do so, but he knew there was no woman in the world who would catch Freddie’s eye. He accepted this about his brother. He didn’t understand it, but he accepted it. He just wished Freddie would understand that he could still get married and do his duty and take all this bloody pressure off Hugh. Surely there were plenty of women who would be thrilled to have their husbands out of their beds once the nursery was sufficiently populated.

Hugh’s father, however, was so disgusted he’d told Freddie not to bother with a bride. The title might have to reside with Freddie for a few years, but as far as Lord Ramsgate was planning, it ought to end up with Hugh or his children.

Not that he ever seemed to hold Hugh in much affection, either.

Lord Ramsgate was not the only nobleman who saw no reason to care for his children equally. Hugh would be better for Ramsgate, and thus Hugh was better, period.

Because they all knew that the marquess loved Ramsgate, Hugh, and Freddie in precisely that order.

And probably Freddie not at all.

“Would you like laudanum?” Freddie asked abruptly. “The doctor said we could give you some if you woke up.”

If. Even less funny than the yet.

Hugh gave a nod and allowed his older brother to help him into something approaching a sitting position. “God, that’s foul,” he said, handing the cup back to Freddie once he’d downed the contents.

Freddie sniffed the dregs. “Alcohol,” he confirmed. “The morphine is dissolved in it.”

“Just what I need,” Hugh muttered. “More alcohol.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hugh just shook his head.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Freddie said in a tone that forced Hugh to notice that he had not sat back down after pouring the laudanum. “I’ll ask Corville to tell Father. I’d rather not, you know, if I don’t have to...”

“Of course,” Hugh said. The world was a better place when Freddie avoided their father. The world was a better place when Hugh avoided him as well, but someone had to interact with the old bastard on occasion, and they both knew it had to be he. That Freddie had come here, to their old home in St. James’s, was a testament of his love for Hugh.

“I will see you tomorrow,” Freddie said, pausing at the door.

“You don’t have to,” Hugh told him.

Freddie swallowed, and he looked away. “Perhaps the next day, then.”

Or the next. Hugh wouldn’t blame him if he never came back.

Freddie must have instructed the butler to wait before notifying their father of the change in Hugh’s condition, because nearly a full day went by before Lord Ramsgate blustered into the room.

“You’re awake,” he barked.

It was remarkable how much that sounded like an accusation.

“You bloody stupid idiot,” Ramsgate hissed. “Nearly getting yourself killed. And for what? For what?”

“I’m delighted to see you, too, Father,” Hugh replied. He was sitting up now, his splinted leg thrust forward like a log. He was quite certain he sounded better than he felt, but with the Marquess of Ramsgate, one must never show weakness.

He’d learned that early on.

His father gave him a disgusted look but otherwise ignored the sarcasm. “You could have died.”

“So I understand.”

“Do you think this is funny?” the marquess snapped.

“As a matter of fact,” Hugh replied, “I do not.”

“You know what would have happened if you died.”

Hugh smiled blandly. “I’ve pondered it, to be sure, but does anyone really know what happens after we die?”

God, but it was enjoyable to watch his father’s face bulge and turn red. Just so long as he didn’t start to spit.

“Do you take nothing seriously?” the marquess demanded.

“I take many things seriously, but not this.”

Lord Ramsgate sucked in his breath, his entire body shaking with rage. “We both know your brother will never marry.”

“Oh, is that what this is all about?” Hugh did his best imitation of surprise.

“I will not have Ramsgate pass from this family!”

Hugh followed this outburst with a perfectly timed pause, then said, “Oh come now, Cousin Robert isn’t so bad. They even let him back into Oxford. Well, the first time.”

“Is that what this is?” the marquess spat. “You’re trying to kill yourself just to vex me?”

“I would imagine I could vex you with significantly less effort than that. And with a far more pleasant outcome for myself.”

“If you want to be rid of me, you know what you have to do,” Lord Ramsgate said.

“Kill you?”

“You damned—”

“If I’d known it would be so easy, I really would have—”

“Just marry some fool girl and give me an heir!” his father roared.

“All things being equal,” Hugh said with devastating calm, “I’d rather she not be a fool.”

His father shook with fury, and a full minute passed before he was able to speak. “I need to know that Ramsgate will remain in the family.”

“I never said I wouldn’t marry,” Hugh said, although why he felt the need to say even this much he had no idea. “But I’m not going to do so on your schedule. Besides, I’m not your heir.”

“Frederick—”

“Might still marry,” Hugh cut in, each syllable hard and clipped.

But his father just snorted and headed for the door.

“Oh, Father,” Hugh called out before he could leave. “Will you send word to Lord Winstead’s family that he may safely return to Britain?”

“Of course not. He can rot in hell for all I care. Or France.” The marquess gave a grim chuckle. “It’s much the same place, in my opinion.”

“There is no reason why he should not be allowed to return,” Hugh said with more patience than he would have thought himself capable. “As we have both noted, he did not kill me.”

“He shot you.”

“I shot him first.”

“In the shoulder.”

Hugh clenched his teeth. Arguing with his father had always been exhausting, and he was far overdue for his laudanum. “It was my fault,” he bit out.

“I don’t care,” the marquess said. “He left on his own two feet. You’re a cripple who may not even be able to sire children now.”

Hugh felt his eyes grow wide with alarm. He had been shot in the leg. The leg.

“Didn’t think of that, did you?” his father taunted. “That bullet hit an artery. It’s a miracle you didn’t bleed to death. The doctor thinks your leg got enough blood to survive, but God only knows about the rest of you.” He yanked the door open and tossed his last statement over his shoulder. “Winstead has ruined my life. I can bloody well ruin his.”

The full extent of Hugh’s injuries would not become known for several months. His femur healed. Somewhat.

His muscle slowly knit back together. What was left of it.

On the bright side, all signs pointed toward his still being able to father a child.

Not that he wanted to. Or perhaps more to the point, not that he’d been presented with an opportunity.

But when his father inquired... or, rather, demanded... or, rather, yanked off the bedsheets in the presence of some German doctor Hugh would not have wanted to come across in a dark alley...

Hugh pulled the covers right back up, feigned mortal embarrassment, and let his father think he’d been irreparably damaged.

And the whole time, throughout the entire excruciating recuperation, Hugh was confined to his father’s house, trapped in bed, and forced to endure daily ministrations from a nurse whose special brand of care brought to mind Attila the Hun.

She looked like him, too. Or at least she had a face that Hugh imagined would be at home on Attila. The truth was, the comparison wasn’t very complimentary.

To Attila.

But Attila the nurse, however rough and crude she might be, was still preferable to Hugh’s father, who came by every day at four in the afternoon, brandy in hand (just one; none for Hugh), with the latest news on his hunt for Daniel Smythe-Smith.

And every day, at four-oh-one in the afternoon, Hugh asked his father to stop.

Just stop.

But of course he didn’t. Lord Ramsgate vowed to hunt Daniel until one of them was dead.

Eventually Hugh was well enough to leave Ramsgate House. He didn’t have much money—just his gambling winnings from back when he gambled—but he had enough to hire a valet and take a small apartment in The Albany, which was well known as the premier building in London for gentlemen of exceptional birth and unexceptional fortune.

He taught himself to walk again. He needed a cane for any real distance, but he could make it the length of a ballroom on his own two feet.

Not that he visited ballrooms.

He learned to live with pain, the constant ache of a badly set bone, the pulsing throb of a twisted muscle.

And he forced himself to visit his father, to try to reason with him, to tell him to stop hunting Daniel Smythe-Smith. But nothing worked. His father clung to his fury with pinched white fingers. He would never have a grandson now, he fumed, and it was all the fault of the Earl of Winstead.

It did not matter when Hugh pointed out that Freddie was healthy and could still surprise them and get married. Lots of men who would rather have remained unwed took wives. The marquess just spat. He literally spat on the floor and said that even if Freddie took a bride, he would never manage to sire a son. And if he did—if by some miracle he did—it wouldn’t be any child worthy of their name.

No, it was Winstead’s fault. Hugh was supposed to have provided the Ramsgate heir, and now look at him. He was a useless cripple. Who probably couldn’t sire a son, either.

Lord Ramsgate would never forgive Daniel Smythe-Smith, the once dashing and popular Earl of Winstead. Never.

And Hugh, whose one constant in life had been his ability to look at a problem from all angles and sort out the most logical solution, had no idea what to do. More than once he’d thought about getting married himself, but despite the fact that he seemed to be in working order, there was always the chance that the bullet had indeed done him some damage. Plus, he thought as he looked down at the ruin of his leg, what woman would have him?

And then one day, something sparked in his memory—a fleeting moment from that conversation with Freddie, right after the duel.

Freddie had said that he hadn’t tried to reason with the marquess, and Hugh had said, “Of course not,” and then he’d thought, Because who reasons with a madman?

He finally knew the answer.

Only another madman.