Chapter 1

      When two gentlemen are closely related by blood, they do not usually address each other with formality. In this case, however, the gentlemen in question were first cousins once removed, the younger had come from nowhere to inherit a title and fortune that the older had assumed would be his, and their relationship had been formally announced moments after they had come within a sword slice of killing one another.

      Hence, it was not surprising that relations between the two were somewhat strained. Which is why Reginald Davenport, notorious rake, gambler, and womanizer, known in some circles as “the Despair of the Davenports,” greeted his noble cousin with a terse, “Good day, Wargrave.”

      The Earl of Wargrave rose to his feet behind the massive walnut desk and offered his hand. “Good day. I’m glad you were able to come by.”

      After a brief, hard handshake, Reggie took the indicated chair and stretched out his long legs. “I make it a point to obey summons from the head of the family,” he drawled. “Particularly when that person pays my allowance.”

      Wargrave’s mouth tightened slightly as he sat again, a fact that pleased Reggie. Among the earl’s many irritating virtues was his calm, good nature. Equally irritating was his politeness. Rather than issue a summons, the earl left the time and place of meeting to his cousin, implying a willingness to transact family business in a tavern if that was the older man’s choice.

      While giving Wargrave credit for that willingness, Reggie had no objection to calling at the family mansion in Half Moon Street to see what changes had been wrought. He had to admit, rather reluctantly, that the changes were all for the better. In his uncle’s day, this study had been a dark, poky room designed to intimidate callers. Now it was bright, airy, and quietly masculine, with leather chairs and an air of settled comfort. The new owners had good taste.

      Since he could find nothing to criticize in his surroundings, Reggie turned his observant gaze to his host. Whenever they chanced to meet, he looked hopefully for signs that the new earl was running to fat, turned snobbish, decked out in green stripes and gold watch fobs, or showing other signs of decadence, arrogance, or vulgarity. Alas, he was always disappointed. Richard Davenport continued to be well dressed in a discreet and gentlemanly way, he retained his trim soldier’s figure, and he treated everyone he met, from prince to scullery maid, with the same well-bred courtesy.

      Nor did he have a decent temper. Reggie had tried his best, but he was seldom able to provoke his cousin into anything more than infinitesimal signs of irritation. Sometimes it was hard to believe the blasted fellow was really a Davenport. Reggie himself was the epitome of the breed, very tall, very dark, with cool blue eyes and a long face that seemed more designed for sneers than smiles.

      In contrast, his cousin was of only average height with medium brown hair, hazel eyes, and an open, pleasant countenance. However, the young earl was the best swordsman Reggie had ever seen, and Reggie had never liked him better than on the occasion when Wargrave had lost his temper and demonstrated that fact.

      The earl interrupted Reggie’s musings, saying, “Your allowance was one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.”

      So he was going to cut his scapegrace cousin off with a shilling. Well, it was not unexpected. Reggie wondered what kind