James, fascinated, said, “Wherever did you hear that?”

Corrie stepped closer, went up on her tiptoes, and whispered, “Daisy Winbourne told me she’d heard more than a score of mothers and daughters alike wailing about it in the ladies’ withdrawing room. Daisy’s brother even mentioned there was going to be a bet soon at White’s.”

He paled. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her face. “In White’s Betting Book?”

“Evidently so. Soon now. Everyone wants to see you with her one more time before a wager is set. You know, see how besotted you look. Do you intend to marry her, James?”

“Damnation, of course not. I don’t even know the damned girl.”

Corrie smiled hugely.

“What is this? You don’t like her?”

“Certainly not,” Corrie said, and drew on her gloves. “Why ever would I like her?” She began whistling as she turned and walked out of the breakfast room.

He called out, the devil prodding and poking at him, “However, I will dance with her tomorrow evening at the Lanscombe ball. Then we’ll see, won’t we?”

She wasn’t about to let him see the smile fall off her face.

That evening, James presented his paper on witnessing the silver cascade phenomena on Titan, Saturn’s major ring, at the monthly Royal Astronomical Society meeting. There were thirty gentlemen present, star dabblers all, several of them who would believe to their dying breaths that the Earth was the center of the universe, that heretic Galileo be damned. There were two ladies present, both wives of men delivering papers, and both of them stared at James until all he wanted to do was finish his paper and make for the door. James’s paper was well received, primarily because it was short, although he knew most members believed he was too young to understand what he was seeing. He was offered two invitations by the wives, ostensibly to dine with their husbands as well.

He was back at the Sherbrooke town house by ten o’clock to see his father’s library filled with friends, all of them sober as prisoners in the dock, cursing the air blue with outrage, demanding to be the one to kill the bastard after the earl.

“We have to find out who they are first,” Jason said. “As I said, the only man’s name we have is Georges Cadoudal, but when he died a while ago, he supposedly wasn’t my father’s enemy. Father is in France trying to discover if Cadoudal had children. It could be revenge, but again, since my father and Cadoudal weren’t enemies, it doesn’t make much sense.”

“Children, particularly male children, can get all sorts of notions, Jason. If the father is dead, then it has to be the children.”

“We’ll see. Now, we have no other leads. Just keep your ears open for that name and any others you might discover.”

James smiled to see his brother writing in a small notebook, doubtless the assignments he’d passed out. Jason was logical and he was smart. James knew that he’d assigned the proper man to the proper task.

By midnight, every young man in the room had a sense of purpose. They were going to save the earl of Northcliffe, become heroes in the process, and earn his undying gratitude.

As the brothers walked upstairs to bed, James said, “However did you come up with so many different assignments?”

“Not all that many since I assigned them in pairs. Johnny Blair, for example, knows most of the French in London since he’s engaged to a Frog’s daughter. Johnny is discreet as long as he’s not drinking, and Horace Mickelby will keep him sober and alert. Reddy Montblanc, who’s nearly blind in one eye, is nevertheless one of the best trackers in England. He and Charles Cranmer will check the area where the assassin tried to shoot Father. And on it goes.

“As for us, two nights from now, that French captain should be here. We’ll see him ourselves. How did your talk to the society go?”

“Short and to the point, and I could see that all the old graybeards in the group wanted to pat me on the head. I wonder if Father and Mother are in Paris yet.”

“They should be soon, if they’re not already. As Father said, he has many friends there. Someone must know something or have heard something. There must be people who knew Cadoudal, and they’ll know about any family. I hope Mother isn’t speaking French.”

“She really tries,” James said, and laughed.

“She’s lucky we’re not living in the last century, with the advent of the Hanoverian kings. Can you imagine her trying to learn German?”

IT WAS A balmy night for the first of October, but since Remie Willicombe’s mother had told him it would rain by midnight, James wore a heavier coat.

He didn’t particularly wish to go to the Lanscombe ball on Putnam Square, but he’d promised Miss Lorimer that he would come by, though he had no intention of staying. He had no intention of ending up in White’s Betting Book either. One dance with Miss Lorimer, no more.

Jason announced he was going with friends to one of his clubs, making James poke his brother and ask him why Miss McCrae hadn’t requested his presence this evening. Jason had looked at him, frowning, and said he understood that Lady Arbuckle wasn’t feeling well and Judith had stayed home to attend her.

The twins were meeting at White’s at midnight to go to the docks, to the Crooked Cat Tavern, where the French captain was said to frequent.

When James finally saw Miss Lorimer, he had to admit she looked amazingly lovely, all in lilac, her huge sleeves included, which stuck a good six inches out from her arms, the material stiffened by wooden rods, his mother had told him, and wasn’t that ingenious?

The lilac silk skirts fanned out around her, at least six petticoats keeping them afloat. Her hair was in a knot on the back of her head with a score of little ringlets falling over her forehead and cascading over her ears, like the silver particles of Titan.

He saw Corrie then, standing with her aunt across the ballroom, her gown a luminous white, the style simple, his father’s hand visible in every lovely fold and drape, and he was quite pleased until he reached her breasts, and frowned. Too prominently displayed, he thought, and surely her Aunt Maybella should say something to her. It wasn’t appropriate for an eighteen-year-old young lady.

Perhaps he’d help her improve her dancing after he’d kept his promise to Miss Lorimer. Certainly that would dilute the gossip, unless everyone knew that Corrie was like a sister to him, then dancing a waltz with her wouldn’t count.

So Miss Lorimer had decided to marry him, had she? More likely her mother’s choice, James thought cynically, as he made his way slowly toward her.

He discovered quickly enough that everyone had heard about the attempts on his father’s life.

All his father’s friends stopped him, questioned him, and raised their brows when he repeated yet again that his mother and father had gone to Brighton because his mother wasn’t well, which sounded more stupid each time he repeated it.

“Alexandra has never been sick a day in her life,” said Lord Ponsonby, “except when she had to lie down a moment to birth you and your brother, and she wasn’t really sick, now was she?”

He agreed that no, sir, she wasn’t really sick then, and wanted desperately to flee.

“Humph,” said Lord Ponsonby. “Did you say Brighton, James? Something’s fishy here, my boy, the sort of fishy that makes me realize what a bad liar you are. Your father now-an excellent liar-would stare you right in the eye.”

James cursed under his breath. He was going to throw his brother over the balcony when he got home.

Miss Lorimer, at last, was in his sights. She was looking at him over her mother’s shoulder, eyes glittering. No, he thought, more than that. Assessing.