Grayley went still. "Damn you, Blade, are you threatening me?"

"Yes, I believe I am. I understand you have invested rather heavily in a certain trading venture in which I am also involved."

"What of it? I stand to make a fortune."

"That will be highly unlikely if I decide the risk is not worth the candle and decide to sell off my shares tomorrow. Word will get around town by noon that the deal has gone bad. If I pull out, everyone else will want out at once. The market for the shares will disappear and you, along with the other investors, will lose everything you have put into the project."

Grayley stared at him. "Good God. You would ruin me and the others."

"Very likely."

"For the sake of a Faringdon?" Grayley asked in utter disbelief. "I heard you had no love for any of that clan."

"Which is why you felt it safe to challenge one of them, I understand. But there you have it. Fate takes odd twists now and again. Shall I convey your apologies to Charles Faringdon and explain that it was all a misunderstanding?"

Grayley was silent for a long moment. "Those who call you a cold-blooded bastard are right to do so, Blade."

Simon shrugged, glancing idly out the carriage. The hour was late but the street was filled with carriages carrying the elegant members of the ton to and fro on their endless round of parties. "Well, Grayley? Surely you can look for easier meat elsewhere?"

"Damn you, Blade."

"Come, man," Simon said softly. "You do not need to prove your marksmanship on the Faringdon boy. Find some other victim."

"You will go too far one of these days, Blade."

"Possibly."

Grayley's mouth thinned. He rapped on the roof to signal the coachman to halt. When the carriage stopped, he opened the door and climbed down. "Convey my apologies to your brother," he said curtly to Devlin. "There will be no dawn meeting."

Grayley stepped back and slammed the door. The carriage clattered off down the street. Devlin looked at Blade with something approaching hero worship in his eyes.

"I say, that was astounding. You actually got Grayley to cry off the entire affair. I have never heard of such a thing."

"I do not expect to find myself with a similar task at any time in the future," Simon said bluntly. "Is that quite clear?"

"Yes, sir. Very clear." Devlin was exuberant now. "Dashed clever of you, though. The man withdrew from the duel simply because you implied his investments would suffer."

Simon shook his head over such naivete. "Faringdon, it is time you and your brother learned that real power is based on money and information. Armed with those two things, a man can accomplish a great deal more than he can with a dueling pistol or a deck of cards."

"And if a man lacks the blunt?" Devlin asked shrewdly.

"Then he must concentrate on obtaining the information. With a sufficient amount of that resource, he will soon find the other."

"I shall remember that," Devlin said quietly. He was silent for a moment and then his mood lightened once more. "By the bye, Charles and I have been wondering if you would show us that fascinating fighting technique you used on us that day in your library. Would it be too much to ask?"

"I suppose I could demonstrate it for you. The thing I do not entirely understand," Simon said reflectively, "is how I came to be in this situation in the first place."

Devlin grinned the charming Faringdon grin. "You mean rescuing Charles and showing us a trick or two about how to be going on in the world? I expect it is all Emily's fault."

"You are correct, of course. It is all her fault."

"She is the one person on the face of the earth who does not think you are a cold-blooded devil, you know," Devlin said.

"Emily's tendency toward the romantical is occasionally awkward."

"I know," Devlin said, not without sympathy. "One always hates to disillusion her."

Chapter 15

Emily stopped pacing her bedchamber at the sound of carriage wheels on the street outside. She flew to the window when she realized the vehicle was coming to a halt in front of the townhouse. She pushed the heavy drapes aside just in time to see Simon alight. His caped greatcoat swung around his boots as he started up the steps. Hastily she shoved open the window and peered down.

"Simon," she called softly. "Are you all right? Is everything settled?"

Simon glanced up and said in a distinctly irritable voice, "For God's sake, woman, get back inside and close the window. Whatever will the neighbors think?" He went on up the steps.

Everything must have been settled in a reasonable fashion, Emily decided cheerfully as she yanked the window closed. Things could not be all that bad if Simon was worrying about the neighbors.

She was getting to understand his moods quite well, Emily told herself happily. She tapped her slippered foot on the carpet and waited for the sound of footsteps in the upstairs hall. Her communication with her husband in the metaphysical realm was definitely growing stronger every day. A direct result, no doubt, of their improved communication on the physical plane.

She heard his step in the hall and hurried over to the connecting door. But just as she started to open it she heard Higson's voice and realized the loyal bulldog of a valet had waited up for his master.

Dismayed at the delay, Emily silently eased the door shut and resumed her pacing until she heard Higson being dismissed for the night.

She rushed straight back to the connecting door and threw it open.

Simon was sitting in the shadows near the window, a glass of brandy in his hand. He was wearing his black satin dressing gown. There was a single candle burning on the table near the bed. His dark hair was tousled and in the faint glow of the flame his face looked as if it had been carved from the side of a mountain. He glanced up as Emily came into the room, his golden eyes glinting strangely.

"Ah, my reckless, impulsive, troublesome little wife. I imagine you are bursting with curiosity."

"Oh, yes, Simon. I have been waiting in agony for the past few hours." Emily dropped into the chair across from his and studied him carefully. "Is all well?"

"The matter is settled, if that is what you mean," Simon said coolly. "There will be no duel." He took another swallow of brandy and contemplated the glass. "But I am not certain if all is well."

A fresh uneasiness gripped Emily as she sensed that his mood was growing odder by the moment. "What is wrong, my lord?"

"Wrong?" He turned the brandy glass between his palms and rested his head against the back of the chair. "That is difficult to explain, my dear."

She peered at him more closely through her spectacles. "Simon, you are not hurt, are you?" she demanded in some alarm.

"Not a drop of blood was shed."

"Thank God." Emily grinned suddenly. "No, it is you I have to thank for fixing the matter, not God, and I am well aware of it. I am very grateful to you for resolving the situation, Simon."

"Are you?" He took another sip of brandy.

Emily bit her lip. "You are in a rather strange mood, my lord."

"Now, I wonder why that should be," he mused. "It has been a perfectly normal evening, has it not? Nothing untoward or unusual has occurred. Just the routine sort of thing. I find my wife promenading the Dark Walk at Vauxhall at midnight seeking an appointment with a member of the criminal class. I let myself get talked into rescuing a damn Faringdon from his own foolishness. I am obliged to put a potentially profitable investment at risk in order to scare off one of the most vicious young bloods of the ton. And I come home to discover my lady wife hanging out the window, calling down to me like a hoyden."

Emily sighed. "Somehow my life's little adventures always sound much worse when you describe them."