John’s Wood, ten miles outside of London The Height of the Season, June 1856 “Even if you did win your wager, how in God’s name do you expect me to fulfill the requirements?” Alexander, Viscount Thorpe, asked in disgust. “My great-aunt’s attic is a warren filled to overflowing with my ancestors’ detritus.” Across the gaming table Hugh St. James lifted eyes as dark blue as his sister’s to meet Alex’s. Hugh was drunk, disastrously drunk, yet he still managed to invest his slurred words with a jeer. “I’m sure we’ll find something suitable.” Marcus Penworthy and Tom Davidson, having long since bowed out of the current game, traded anxious glances. Even the servant, whose sole duty was to keep their glasses filled with their host’s best claret, could not keep the concern from his expression. This was not going to end well. The viscount had always been constitutionally incapable of backing down from a challenge, and Hugh St. James kept hurling taunts at him.
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