The ensuing scandal had sent George Devereux into exiled disgrace, disowned by his family, forced in his dishonor to relinquish the family name for himself and his children. It had driven his young wife, the mother of his children, to seek her own lonely death in an isolated convent in France. And, finally, its bitter legacy of disillusion and depression had driven George years later to follow in his wife's footsteps and take his own life.

And his children would be avenged.

The power of that conviction jolted Sebastian back to a recollection of the part he must play. Brooding in somber anger at his own table was not consonant with that part. "I think I've taken enough losses for one night," he said, yawning, pushing back his chair. "Gracemere, I'll have my revenge next time…"

The earl gathered up his cards and smiled. "It'll be my pleasure, Davenport."

"Have you played often with Gracemere?" Viscount Middleton asked, standing in the narrow passage with Sebastian after the earl's departure. He looked a little uncomfortable.

"No, I understand he's only just come to town." Sebastian drew his friend back to the parlor with the inducement of a particularly fine cognac. "How about you, Harry? How well do you know his play?"

"Devil a bit." Harry squinted into his cognac. He was a handsome young man, slightly built, with a relentlessly cheerful nature that Sebastian decided had its roots in the security of an assured fortune and the confidence of an unshakeable social position. It didn't make him any the less likable.

"Don't want to speak out of turn, dear fellow," Harry continued. "But, well, fact is, it's said he can be a bad man to play with." He peered again into his goblet and swirled the golden liquid. Then he gave Sebastian a cock-eyed look meant to be shrewd.

"Fact is, Sebastian, you're new to town and-well, just a word, you understand-don't mean to interfere."

Sebastian shook his head. "You're warning me off, Harry?"

Harry swallowed his cognac. "Gracemere's a gamester with pockets to let. You wouldn't be the first pigeon-" He stopped and coughed awkwardly. It wasn't the thing to imply that one's friends could be taken in.

"Don't worry, Harry," Sebastian said. "I wasn't born yesterday."

"No… no, didn't mean to imply any such thing. Just thought, if you weren't aware… maybe you should, well, you know…"

"Yes, I know, and I appreciate the word." Sebastian flung a friendly arm around Harry's shoulder.

"So, you'll have a care?" Harry persisted, doggedly pursuing the path of friendship's duty. "A word to the wise."

"The wise has taken the word," Sebastian assured him with a smile. "I'm not such a gull as Gracemere might think me. Remember that, Harry."

Harry frowned, trying to absorb this, but it was too much for his befuddled brain and he soon took himself home.

Sebastian himself went to bed and allowed his mind to roam over pleasanter matters. A pair of shy blue eyes, a snub nose, a soft mouth, hovered in the air above his pillow as it did most nights these days-ever since he'd made die acquaintance of Harriet Moreton. He smiled to himself in the darkness. If he'd been asked before, he'd have said an ingenue in her first season wouldn't be able to hold his attention for five minutes. But Harriet was different. He didn't know why, she just was. She was soft and yielding and he wanted to keep her safe and untouched and…

Hell and the devil! He laughed softly at himself. What would Ju say if she could hear him? He must ask her to call on Harriet's mother. It would set a seal to his hitherto unmarked pursuit of Miss Moreton.

"Well, I've found my pigeon, ripe for the plucking," Gracemere declared, draining his port glass with a smile of satisfaction. "I won seven hundred guineas from him tonight." He pulled his cravat loose. "And he didn't seem in the least perturbed by it."

"I wonder where those two come from?" Agnes stretched out on the coverlet of the poster bed, greedily watching the earl disrobe, her eyes narrowed with anticipation. "No one seems to know, but of course where Marcus Devlin chooses to marry, who should question antecedents? A Carrington would hardly make a mismatch."

"Oh, you know what these hybrid continental families are like. They're always rich and studded with old baronies and such like." He threw off his shirt.

"So long as the gull will suit your purpose, that's all that matters." Agnes picked up a pair of scissors from the bedside table and absently pared a loose fingernail.

"Our purpose," the earl corrected gently. "But for my own purpose, I've a mind to cultivate Lady Carrington." He pushed off his knee britches and kicked them into a corner. "It will certainly annoy Marcus."

"Haven't you caused him sufficient annoyance?"

Bernard's laugh was as mirthless as his smile. "I still have a score to settle, my dear. One of these days I'll see his pride in the dust." His mouth took a vicious twist.

"Tell me what happened that morning when he ran you to earth in the inn with Martha?" She wondered if perhaps this time he would tell her, but as always the earl's face closed, all expression wiped clean away.

"That lies between Carrington and myself." He put one knee on the bed.

Agnes ran a hand over his thigh. She accepted that despite all that lay between them, all that they shared, and all the years in which they'd shared it, that morning at the inn was one incident Bernard would never discuss. He had disappeared from circulation for a month after it had happened, and when he'd returned to Society with his bride, he'd seemed to be his usual self, but she had detected a new twist to his darkness, one that he still carried deep in his soul.

"So you intend to amuse yourself with coquettish Judith?" Her fingers tiptoed into his groin. "You seemed to enjoy dancing with her the other evening."

The earl's mouth curved in the travesty of a smile as he brought his other knee onto the bed. "I am going to see Marcus Devlin's damnable pride humbled, trampled in the dust, my dear. And Judith is going to help me do it. If, of course, you've no objections?" he added with an ironic rise of an eyebrow.

Agnes laughed, touching his mouth with a fingertip. "Oh, are you going to seduce her, my love? I have no objections. On the contrary, I shall enjoy every minute of it." She laughed again, a low, husky throb of amusement and desire. "Come to me, love, I've been waiting this age for you."

For a moment he ignored the plea, looking down into her face, a glitter of cruelty in his eyes that matched the gleam in hers. He knew how aroused she became at the prospect of making serious mischief. It promised a long and exciting night. He came down on the bed, his mouth moving over hers.

"But you must be careful that dallying with Carrington's wife doesn't jeopardize your chances with the little Moreton chit," Lady Barret murmured against his lips, her hand stroking his back. "A fortune of thirty thousand pounds mustn't be sneezed away, my own."

"No," he agreed. "Particularly when we both have such expensive tastes." He ran his tongue over her lips. "Such very well-matched, expensive tastes, my sweet."

Judith picked up the delicate white marble pawn, caressing it for a second before moving it to queen four. She shot Marcus a mischievous grin, seeing his puzzlement. It was not a customary opening. She hugged her drawn-up knees, feeling the heat of the fire on her right cheek.

"What the devil does that mean?" Marcus demanded.

"If you make the same countermove, it becomes the queen's gambit," she said. "It's not very common, but it can make for an interesting game."

"And what if I don't?"

"Well, you have to, really. It's Black's only logical move. It's what happens next that starts the fun."

Marcus stretched his legs in front of him and leaned back against a footstool. They were both sitting on the floor, and Marcus wore only a shirt and britches; his coat, cravat, stockings, and shoes were scattered around the room.