Lucien glowered. "You're making mountains out of molehills, cousin."

"Am I?" The duke raised an eyebrow. "Read this." He drew a broadsheet out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across. "That story on the front has been providing entertaining gossip in every coffeehouse in town. Remarkable likeness, I think. The artist has a fine eye for caricature."

Lucien read the story, his scowl deepening. The artist's caricature of himself was as lewd and suggestive as the scurrilous description of an incident in the Lady Chapel involving a nobleman and an altar boy at St. Paul's Cathedral.

"Who wrote this?" He hurled the sheet to the floor. "I'll have his ears pinned to the pillory."

"Certainly. If you want everyone to know who you are," the duke observed, bending to pick up the sheet. He shook his head, marveling, "It really is a remarkably good likeness. A stroke of genius."

Lucien tore savagely at his thumbnail with his teeth. "A plague on him! Just let me find out who he is, and I'll run him through."

"Not, I trust, in the back," Tarquin said, his voice mild but his eyes snapping contempt.

Lucien flushed a dark, mottled crimson. "That never happened."

"Of course not," Tarquin said in silken tones. "Never let it be said that an Edgecombe would put his sword into a man's back."

Lucien sprang to his feet. "Accuse me of that again, Redmayne, and I'll meet you at Barnes Common."

"No, I don't think so," Tarquin responded, his lip curling. "I've no intention of committing murder."

"You think you could-"

"Yes!" the duke interrupted, his voice now sharp and penetrating. "Yes, I would kill you, Lucien, with swords or pistols, and you know it. Now, stop sparring with me and sit down."

Lucien flung himself into the chair again and spat a piece of thumbnail onto the carpet.

"I lost interest long ago in trying to persuade you to choose another way of life," Tarquin said. "You are a vicious reprobate and a pederast, but I'll not have you bringing public dishonor on the family name. Which is what will happen if the parent of some other altar boy decides to bring charges against you. Take a wife and be discreet. The rumors and the scandals will die immediately." He tapped the broadsheet with a finger.

Lucien's eyes narrowed. "You're not foolin' me, Redmayne. You wouldn't give a damn if they hanged me, except for the blot on the family escutcheon." He smiled, looking very pleased with himself as if he'd just successfully performed a complex intellectual exercise.

"So?" Tarquin raised an eyebrow.

"So… why should I do what you want, cousin?"

"Because I'll make it worth your while."

A crafty gleam appeared now in Lucien's pale-brown eyes. "Oh, really? Do go on, dear boy."

"I'll take your creditors off your back," the duke said. "And I'll keep you in funds. In exchange you will marry a woman of my choosing, and you will both reside under this roof. That shouldn't trouble you, since Edgecombe House is in such disrepair at the present, and it will relieve you of the burden of maintaining a household."

"A woman of your choosing!" Lucien stared at him. "Why can't I choose my own?"

"Because no one remotely suitable would take you."

Lucien scowled again. "And just whom do you have in mind? Some ancient antidote, I suppose. A spinster who'll take anything."

"You flatter yourself," the duke said dryly. "No woman, however desperate, would willingly agree to be shackled to you, Edgecombe. The woman I have in mind will do my bidding. It is as simple as that. You don't need to concern yourself about her. You will have separate quarters and you will leave her strictly alone in private. In public, of course, you will be seen to have a young wife of good breeding. It should provide you with a satisfactory public facade."

Lucien stared at him. "Do your bidding! Gad, Tarquin, what kind of devil are you? What hold do you have over this woman to compel her in such a matter?"

"That's no concern of yours."

Lucien stood up and went to refill his glass at the sideboard. He tossed the contents down his throat and refilled the glass. "All my expenses… all my debts…?" he queried.

"All of them."

"And you'll not be prating at me every minute?"

"I have no interest in your affairs."

"Well, well." He sipped his brandy. "I never thought to see the day the Duke of Redmayne begged me for a favor."

Tarquin's expression didn't alter.

"I have very expensive habits," Lucien mused. He glanced slyly at the duke, who again showed no reaction. "I've been known to drop ten thousand guineas at faro in an evening." Again no reaction. "Of course, you're rich as Croesus, we all know that. I daresay you can afford to support me. I wouldn't like to bankrupt you, cousin." He grinned.

"You won't."

"And this woman…? When do I see her?"

"At the altar."

"Oh, that's going too far, Tarquin! You expect me to trot along to church like the veritable lamb to the slaughter without so much as a peek at the woman?"

"Yes."

"And what does she say about it? Doesn't she want to see her bridegroom?"

"It doesn't matter what she wants."

Lucien took a turn around the room. He hated it when his cousin offered him only these flat responses. It made him feel like a schoolboy. But ther. again… the thought of Tarquin's funding Lucien's lifestyle despite his unconcealed contempt and loathing brought a smile to the viscount's lips. Tarquin would squirm at every bank draft he signed, but he wouldn't go back on his word. And he had set no limits on Lucien's expenditure.

And to live here, in the lap of well-ordered luxury. His own house barely ran at all. He could rarely keep servants beyond a month. Something always happened to send them racing for the door without even asking for a character. But here he could indulge himself to his heart's content, live as wild and reckless as he pleased, all at his cousin's expense.

It was a delicious thought. In exchange he simply had to go through the motions of a marriage ceremony to some unknown woman. He'd never have to have anything to do with her. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

"Very well, dear boy, I daresay I could oblige you in this."

"You overwhelm me, Edgecombe." Tarquin rose to his feet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another appointment."

"Go to it, dear fellow, go to it. I'll just sip a little more of this excellent cognac." He rubbed his hands. "You have such a magnificent cellar, I can hardly wait to sample it… Oh, Quentin, my dear…" He turned at the opening of the door and greeted his cousin with a flourishing bow. "Guess what. I'm to take a wife… settle down and become respectable. What d'you think of that, eh?"

Quentin shot his half brother a look more in sorrow than in anger. "So you are proceeding with this, Tarquin."

"I am."

"And my wife and I will be taking up residence under Tarquin's roof," Lucien continued. "More suitable for the young lady… more comfortable. So you'll be seeing a lot of us, my dear Quentin."

Quentin sighed heavily. "How delightful."

"How un-Christian of you to sound so doubtful," scolded Lucien, upending the decanter into his glass. "Seems to be empty." He pulled the bell rope.

"Good day, Lucien." Abruptly Tarquin strode to the door. "Quentin, did you wish to see me?"

"No," his brother said. "It would only be a waste of breath."

"My poor brother!" Tarquin smiled and patted his shoulder. "Don't despair of me. This is not going to turn out as badly as you think."

"I wish I could believe that." Quentin turned to follow Tarquin from the library. Lucien's chuckle rang unpleasantly in his ears.

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"Last Friday, you say?" Joshua Bute pulled his left ear, regarding his customer with a benign attention that belied his shrewd, cunning calculations.