“What sorts of things?” Those ridiculous words danced out of his mouth before he could tell himself that she was stringing him like a sea bass on a fishing line, slowly reeling him in, and he, fool that he was, was leaping toward her hand. He was an idiot. Grab the reins, grab the reins. “No, forget that, be quiet.”

“But you’re interested, aren’t you, James? You want to know what young ladies who are leaning toward debauchery like to do. Admit it.”

He was an idiot, an idiot she was reeling in without a single snag in her line. “All right, tell me.”

She came up close, dangerous since he was perfectly ready to wring her neck, and whispered, “I heard it said that Juliette likes to perform lascivious parts in plays. Like Aristophanes’s Lysistrada, you know, that Greek play where the women tell the men that they won’t-”

He stared down at that face he knew so well he could close his eyes and set his fingertips roving over it and know exactly what he was seeing. The part of him that was still the sea bass being reeled in, said, “How do you know about this?”

She leaned even closer, not touching him. “I overheard some girls talking about it in the ladies’ withdrawing room last night. And since I am interested in Devlin Monroe and the different sorts of things he prefers, I spoke to Miss Lorimer and told her I could perform too, particularly characters of great moral flexibility. She said that was her favorite sort of character as well. She told me that good people were boring, that stepping off the road just a bit was exhilarating. What would happen when she stepped off that road?” Corrie stepped closer. He could feel her breath on his cheek. “I thought about soiling the hem of my gown, and after that first big step, why then, mayhap losing the pins in my hair. What do you think, James?”

The fishing line snapped. James grabbed her shoulders and shook her. He wanted to beat her, but that wouldn’t happen, at least not here in her uncle’s drawing room. Mayhap the next time they were both home, he could take her back to that rock, then he might jerk those breeches of hers down her hips and-“Listen to me, Corrie. I’ve really had enough of this. You might consider forgetting Aristophanes and what those women in his play did, which of course you can’t begin to understand, despite all your talk about moral flexibility. You might consider also forgetting Juliette Lorimer and her plays. You wouldn’t want to perform in a play like that. You wouldn’t want to step off the road and soil the hem of your gown.”

“Why not?”

“You will not, and that’s the end to the matter. Now, I absolutely insist that you forget Devlin Monroe. You will write him a note explaining that you won’t be seeing him again. Do you understand me?”

“You’re shouting, James. I like Devlin; he’s the heir to a dukedom. Goodness, he’s already an earl.”

“Enough!”

“You’re only the heir to an earldom.” She leaned close again. “Is it possible that Juliette wants your money?”

It was too much. He finally pulled free of the fishing line. He roared, “If I see you with Devlin Monroe, I will beat you!”

She sneered, a full-bodied, insolent, utterly gratifying sneer. To further enrage him, she crossed her arms over her chest and began to whistle.

He got hold of himself. He said not another word. He turned on his heel and almost ran down Aunt Maybella on his way out of the drawing room.

“James? Jason?”

“I am Jason, ma’am, and forgive me, but I must go.”

“Well, I-good-bye, dear boy.”

Aunt Maybella walked into the drawing room, saw her niece standing by the front windows, her forehead against the glass. “Whatever was Jason doing here?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

IT WAS EARLY, barely seven o’clock in the morning. Douglas and James were riding toward Hyde Park, comfortable silence between them, each buried in his own thoughts.

It was a cloudy morning, the early fog yet to burn off.

They turned onto Rotten Row and immediately set Bad Boy and Garth into a gallop. Wind whipped against their faces, making their eyes tear.

“Henry VIII would like this,” Douglas shouted.

“Aye, he’d like it until he saw someone riding toward him, then he’d attack.”

When at last Douglas reined in Garth, he was laughing, exhilarated, ready to consign all the worry about assassins to Hades.

James pulled in beside him, patting Bad Boy’s neck, telling him what a great, fast fellow he was. Bad Boy butted his head against Garth’s. Garth tried to bite Bad Boy’s neck. Both father and son were busy for several minutes separating them.

James was laughing when he turned to his father. Suddenly the laugh died in his throat. He saw a flash of silver glinting off a spear of early morning sun that had broken through the clouds.

He threw himself at his father, hurtling both of them to the ground as a shot rang out, obscenely loud in the quiet morning air.

James flattened himself over his father even as he tried to pull his gun from his jacket pocket. Another shot-a clod of earth flew up, not six inches from Douglas’s head.

“Dammit, James, get off me!” Douglas managed to twist and wrap his arms around his son’s waist. He literally lifted him off and rolled him onto his back, flattening himself on top of him.

Another shot, then another, and Douglas wrapped his arms around his son’s head to protect him. But these shots weren’t close, probably because Bad Boy and Garth were rearing and whinnying, breaking the assassin’s line of sight. “Father, please, let me up.”

Douglas grunted and rolled over onto his back, then came up to his feet and offered James a hand. They fanned the area with their guns, but saw no one. Suddenly, Garth, maddened, started to run. Douglas calmly whistled, bringing him back, Bad Boy was long gone. He stopped close, head down, blowing hard, lipping at Douglas’s hand.

“James, it’s all right now.”

James slowly turned to face his father. “You must teach me how to call Bad Boy.”

Douglas had tried to teach James to whistle for his horse, but James simply never got the hang of a nice ear-splitting whistle, which is what was needed to get any horse’s attention. “I’ll teach you,” he said.

“Father, they were after you, not me. You tried to protect me.”

“Of course I’d protect you,” Douglas said simply. “You’re my son.”

“And you’re my father, dammit.” He fiddled with his gun a moment. “I think I’ll go check those bushes where I saw that glint of silver.”

“The damned fellow’s long gone,” Douglas said as he brushed himself off. His shoulder hurt where James had landed on him. He held his derringer loosely in his hand and walked with his son, who was also carrying a gun, this one big and ugly, a dueling pistol out of Douglas’s library, over to the thick bushes beside the riding trail.

“Nothing,” James said, and cursed. Douglas smiled. “Damnation, the bastard is gone. You can see where he was waiting-the smashed bushes. This isn’t what-”

Douglas suddenly raised his derringer and fired. They heard a yell, then nothing. Douglas was off, James running after him. They came out of the narrow band of trees in time to see a man riding a horse out of the south gate of the park, blood streaming down his arm.

“Too bad,” Douglas said. “I’d hoped to get him through the head.”

“A small target,” James said, so relieved, so surprised, that his heart was near to pounding out of his chest. His father was gently rubbing his thumb over the shiny silver derringer. “Actually, I’m surprised I even hit him. A bullet from six feet is a good range for this derringer and this was a good twenty feet.”

“Oh, God, that was too close, far too close. Father, do you swear you’re all right?”