Her parents’ marriage had been a love match, but Esther knew such unions were unusual in the better families—the titled families.

The world certainly expected her to be celibate, but what right had she to expect Percival would be celibate?

“Every right,” she assured the skunk. For the duration of one brief house party, he might have at least limited his attentions to her. She remained on her hassock, mentally lecturing herself for treasuring memories that clearly were of no moment to her lover.

The feel of his hands in her hair.

The sound of his voice in the darkness.

The feel of his body joined carefully and intimately with hers…

“Miss Himmelfarb.” Sir Jasper had opened the door so quietly, he was inside the room and had the door closed again before Esther noticed him standing under the stag. “Of all the ladies to find being private with the impecunious Mr. Adelman.”

Esther remained seated. If the only rank she could assert was that of lady, then assert it, she would. “Is he impecunious, or unlucky in his choice of games?”

“Touché, my lady.” He slouched closer, the dusty light making his face powder appear another artifact of zoological preservation. “Though it appears I’m the one in luck at the moment. I don’t hear Lady Zephora whining for her tea, and the word at breakfast was that the Lords Windham had gone off to revive themselves with some sophisticated sport in Town. Quimbey is out shooting hares, and here you are”—he came to a halt beside Esther’s hassock, which had the disagreeable result of putting his falls at her nose level—“all by yourself, at your leisure at last.”

His fingers brushed her chin, a hint of threat in his touch. Esther tried hard not to move, not to flinch. He wasn’t hurting her; he wasn’t even groping her.

But he was insulting her. For all Percival Windham might at that very moment be bathing with both of his mistresses, Lord Percy had not offered Esther insult, nor had he taken liberties beyond what she’d willingly shared.

Esther batted Sir Jasper’s hand aside so stoutly, she had the gratification of seeing surprise on his face as she rose, brushed past him, and left him to the company of creatures already dead, stuffed, mounted, and gathering dust.

Five years of making war on colonials had impressed upon Sir Jasper several important lessons—lessons not taught on the hallowed playing fields of Eton.

First, what counted was neither who had better form, nor who charmed the spectators, nor who looked better on a horse. What counted in any contest was who won.

Second, marching about in straight lines, forming up into squares, and keeping a bright red uniform spotless was so much lunacy when the enemy soldiers respected no rules, could melt into the woods like wraiths, and used any weapon at hand to advance their cause.

Third, a baronet’s succession was as important to the baronet as a duke’s might be to the duke.

With those verities in mind, Sir Jasper waited in the conservatory at teatime, knowing it to be Mr. Michael Adelman’s favorite place to avoid company.

“Are you considering a career in botany, Mr. Adelman?”

The younger fellow startled as Sir Jasper emerged from behind a thriving stand of some enormous cane plant.

“Sir Jasper. I enjoy the quiet here. I assume you do as well, so I’ll leave you to it.”

Not so fast, pup. “Before you scamper off to the charms of our fair companions, might I enquire as to when you’ll be redeeming your vowels?”

Mr. Adelman was dark haired, handsome by any standard, and smooth cheeked. Not a scar to be seen on his physiognomy, which Sir Jasper told himself he did not hold against the fellow. That such a one should be welcome to share closets and whispered confidences with Esther Windham, however, was not to be borne.

Adelman drew himself up, though he was no taller than Sir Jasper. “One doesn’t typically carry large sums about to social gatherings, sir.”

“Precisely.” Sir Jasper withdrew a gold watch and flipped it open. “But when said entertainments are of several weeks duration, one can certainly send to his man of business for a bank draft.” He glanced up from the watch, flicking it shut and dropping it back into his pocket. “You do have a man of business?”

Adelman positively flushed with indignation. “Had I known you were so precipitous in collecting social debts, I would have already notified him.” Adelman brushed back the skirt of his coat and hooked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket, a lovely pose—casual, cocky, and designed to flaunt excellent tailoring. “Do you rule out the possibility that I will regain my losses?”

“Indeed, I do.” Sir Jasper offered his snuffbox, an elegant accessory of gold and onyx. “The play to be had in such genteel surrounds has palled. Name a date, Mr. Adelman, and I’ll have my man of business attend yours at the location of your choice.”

Adelman had no natural talent for dissembling. This was what made him a bad card player, but also what caused Sir Jasper an unwanted stirring of pity. Dueling was good sport when a man was a crack shot, but Adelman was only a couple of years down from university, a plain mister, and apparently of some value to Esther Himmelfarb.

While resistance from a worthy female was all part of the game, her outright antipathy would be a nuisance under intimate circumstances.

“I will offer you a compromise, Mr. Adelman. Either produce the coin you owe me by the first of the week, or I will appropriate from you something I consider to be of equal or greater value.”

Sir Jasper whiffed a pinch of snuff into his left nostril, while Adelman looked away.

“The first of the week is too soon.”

“The first of the week is three days from now. You have all the time in the world to procure the means. I would, however, advise you to avoid the gambling offered by our hostess.”

“I am not unlucky—” Adelman puffed up like a peacock.

“No, you are unaware, which can be remedied. The ladies cheat, you see, and the gentlemen—your charming self included—overimbibe, and thus the odds are not at all what you think they are. I bid you a pleasant day and will expect remuneration within seventy-two hours.”

Sir Jasper sauntered off, content with the exchange. Watching Adelman fidget away the next two days, then hare away at the crack of dawn three mornings hence, would be entertaining—and God knew entertainment was in short supply at this gathering—and it would leave Esther Himmelfarb without her preferred swain.

All in all, a productive little chat.

His Grace the Duke of Quimbey was tall, rangy, had kind blue eyes, a nice laugh, and was not one for standing on ceremony. That he was twice Charlotte’s age was of no moment. No unmarried duke was too old, too stout, too much given to the company of opera dancers, or even too impoverished for an ambitious, well-dowered girl to discount as a marital prospect.

As Charlotte let herself into the small chamber under the eaves, she assured herself Quimbey was also not too enamored of Esther Himmelfarb. His Grace had attached himself to the lady’s side since the Windham menfolk had departed the day before, and no amount of flirting, teasing, or scheming had dislodged him.

“But one well-placed billet-doux ought to shine a very different light on the perfect Miss Esther Himmelfarb.”

At the very least, such a note, when made public, would get the girl sent home in disgrace, leaving her betters with a clearer field upon which to pursue and divide up the marital spoils in the final week of the house party. Since appropriating the note from its intended means of delivery, Charlotte had spent a day weighing options and making plans, and those plans, oddly enough, brought her to a chamber so unprepossessing as to rouse a niggling sense of guilt regarding her schemes.