"Bloody hell." Emily flounced on the seat, snapped her fan in annoyance, and then, with a small sigh, surrendered to the inevitable.

After a moment she smiled in relief. Everything would be all right now. The dragon was in charge.

Simon walked up the steps of the lodgings shared by the Faringdon twins with mixed emotions. He rapped on the door. It was opened almost at once by one of the twins, who stared at him in bemusement.

"I believe you are Devlin. Is that correct?" Simon asked laconically.

Devlin collected himself. "Yes, my lord. What the devil are you doing here, Blade?"

"An excellent question. One I am still asking myself, in fact. May I come in?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so." Devlin moved reluctantly back from the doorway.

"Thank you," Simon said dryly. He stepped into the room and tossed his hat, coat, and gloves to the manservant.

Charles Faringdon belatedly realized who had come calling and half rose from the chair near the fire.

"Blade. Why in God's name have you come at this hour?"

"Emily tells me you are to fight a duel with Grayley." Simon went to warm his hands in front of the fire.

Charles shot a scathing look at his twin. "I told you that you should never have brought her here today. Now she's gone and blathered the whole tale to him."

"I had to give her a chance to say farewell to you," Devlin protested. "I had no choice."

"You should never have said a damn thing. This is a private matter." Charles slumped back in the chair.

"I agree that it would have been far more convenient all the way around if you had simply arranged to get yourself killed." Simon told him. "But as you have involved Emily, I have no choice but to become involved."

"This is none of your affair," Charles muttered, staring broodingly into the flames.

"Ah, but it is. You have alarmed Emily and upset her greatly. I cannot allow that; therefore, I must do something about the situation." Simon pinned Charles with a grim look. "Now, suppose you tell me the whole story so that I can decide what needs to be done."

"It's a matter of honor," Charles growled, slanting Simon a sidelong glance. "A woman's honor."

"Since when have you become overly concerned about protecting a woman's honor?"

There was a deathly silence before Charles said slowly, "Devlin and I have done some thinking since that day you knocked us about in your library."

"Have you, indeed?" Simon gazed into the flames.

"He is right, sir," Devlin said quietly. "We have discussed the matter at length. You were correct. We should have called Ashbrook out after he ran off with our sister."

Simon considered that. "Strictly speaking, it was your father's task."

"Yes, well, whatever. It did not feel right to do nothing about it at the time but father said—" Devlin broke off abruptly, shrugging.

"Father said the damage was done and there was no sense getting killed over the matter," Charles finished quietly. "And Emily agreed. She claimed it was all her fault in the first place."

"Which it probably was, knowing Emily," Devlin said, picking up his brandy. "But Charles and I have decided that was neither here nor there. The least we could have done was to have thrashed Ashbrook."

"Yes." Simon studied the golden flames. He was beginning to see the problem. Apparently he had only himself to blame for this mess. "So an opportunity has come along to allow at least one of you to redeem yourself in your own eyes and you grabbed it. Who is the lady?"

"I cannot tell you that, sir," Charles said stiffly.

"I understand your reluctance, but I am afraid I must insist. I never make a move until I have all the information it is possible to obtain. And I hardly see that telling me matters a great deal at this juncture. After all, Grayley apparently knows and that is the main problem."

"He's right, Charles," Devlin said morosely. "Tell him."

"Maryann Matthews," Charles said.

Simon nodded. "A pleasant enough chit. Family comes from Yorkshire, I believe."

"Exactly, sir. I intend to marry her," Charles said somewhat defiantly.

Simon shrugged. "That is your affair. How did the girl come to get herself insulted?"

Charles glowered. "She did nothing whatsoever objectionable. She is an innocent with charming manners and a sweet temper. Grayley simply walked up to me in my club last night and made a totally uncalled-for slur on her character."

Devlin looked at Simon. "Grayley said she was just another countrified lightskirt who had probably been to bed with every farmer in Yorkshire."

Simon raised his brows at that. "A bit extreme."

"It was a damn deliberate provocation," Charles announced, slamming his fist down on the arm of the chair.

"Yes, it was. Grayley is looking for fresh blood, apparently."

"What do you mean?" Devlin asked.

"Grayley is one of those rare individuals who actually enjoys the thrill of terrifying his opponent on the dueling field." Simon's mouth hardened. "He is a crack shot who derives a certain excitement from the whole process. He is always careful to choose victims he knows are not good marksmen. But his reputation has spread and he has difficulty these days finding anyone foolish enough to meet him. When he does manage to force a challenge, most men are wise enough to have their seconds convey abject apologies."

"I shall not send apologies," Charles vowed. "I would sooner die on the field of honor than allow Maryann's honor to be impugned."

Simon gave him a considering look. "I believe you actually mean that."

"Do not bother to try to talk me out of this meeting, sir. I have taken a vow."

"I see." Simon drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the mantel. "Very well, then, Devlin and I will act as your seconds. Come along, Dev."

Devlin looked at him. "Where are we going?"

"Why, to meet with Grayley, of course. There are all sorts of small details that must be worked out."

"But we already know when and where the meeting is to be held," Devlin said.

Simon shook his head, feeling a hundred years older than these young cubs. Broderick Faringdon had much to answer for, he reflected. "You have a great deal to learn and, unfortunately, it begins to look as though I shall have to be the one to instruct you."

Simon and Devlin sat in the darkened carriage and watched the front door of the club until it opened at last to reveal Grayley. His eyes on his quarry, Simon tapped the roof of the carriage with his walking stick. As instructed, the coachman drew the hired vehicle directly up in front of Grayley.

Grayley, a pinched-faced, thin-lipped man with restless, predatory eyes, bounded inside. He flung himself into the seat before he noticed that the carriage was already occupied.

"Good evening, Grayley." Simon tapped the roof once more and the coachman set the vehicle in motion.

"What the bloody hell is this all about?" Grayley demanded, scowling first at Devlin and then at Simon.

"Faringdon and I will be acting as Charles Faringdon's seconds," Simon said. "We came to settle a few minor points."

"You should be talking to my seconds, Barton and Evingly."

"I think you will take a personal interest in these details." Simon smiled without any humor. "And I do not believe you will want Barton and Evingly to know about them."

Grayley sneered. "You've come to offer apologies on Faringdon's behalf?"

"Of course not. I understand you grossly insulted the lady in question," Simon said. "You are the one who must offer apologies."

Grayley narrowed his eyes. "Now, why would I do that, pray tell?"

"Because if you do not," Simon explained gently, "then Faringdon, here, and I will be forced to put it about that your business investments will soon be taking a very serious downturn and you will not be able to meet your considerable financial obligations, let alone your gaming vowels."