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" Y ou did what ?" exclaimed the viscount.

"I'll not have it, my own son ringing a peal over my head." His father’s voice was querulous, its tone wound even tighter by the amount of port the earl had already consumed.

He reached for the bottle as he spoke, but Adrian knocked it from his hand. The glass shattered on hitting the floor, spreading a dark stain the color of newly spilled blood across the unswept wood.

Both men watched it begin to meander toward the threadbare Aubusson carpet beneath the desk.

"Now look what you've made me do,” cried the earl. "That floorcovering was purchased by by your grandfather and now it will be ruined."

"Ruined? You dare talk of Linsley heritage as if it actually meant anything to you?

" Adrian knelt down and removed a handkerchief from his pocket.

"Shall I remind you that until six months ago, this carpet graced the library of Hadley Hall, until you lost that estate to Strickley at the roulette table—or was it faro? "

With a ragged sigh he set to blotting up the sticky liquid. "I am heartily sick of always having to clean up after you, Father."

To the viscount's surprise, his father didn’t react with the usual show of indignation at having his judgment questioned. Instead, he collapsed in a nearby chair, his lower lip trembling.

"I have stood by while the family fortune carefully built up by our forebearers has been bled dry by your profligate habits, voicing only the most moderate suggestions as to how to keep things from utter ruin," continued Adrian.

"And on more than one occasion it has been the savings from my own prudent investments that have bailed you out of the River Tick—at no small cost to several.

.. projects that meant a great deal to me. "

The Earl of Chittenden hung his head.

"In return, you made me a solemn promise.

" Adrian couldn't help but raise his voice several notches.

"You promised never to wager the Hall on your cursed games, Father.

That you chose to throw away your money and the rest of your considerable lands was not something I begrudged, as long as you left Woolsey Hall untouched.

But now that you have broken that pledge and lost it all on the turn of a card?—"

"But I didn't," whispered the earl.

The viscount's lips compressed in contempt. "Ah, forgive me—was it the rattle of the dice instead?" he said with cutting sarcasm. "You may find such nuances of some importance, but I do not?—"

"Not dice either. Adrian, I didn't break my promise.” A cough. “Not exactly."

"Bloody hell, I care as little for your play with semantics as for your other games, Father! The cold fact is that Woolsey Hall is lost?—"

"But it isn't! N-not yet."

The viscount turned to stare at him. "What is that supposed to mean? You just were telling me how you wagered it to the Marquess of Hertford in some desperate attempt to recoup yet another round of losses."

The earl brought his hand to his brow. "I did, but it’s not what you think. The Hall is not yet lost. It is pledged, not on a game of chance, but rather one of... skill."

Adrian's eyes pressed close. "Good Lord. And what skills do you imagine you possess, other than becoming foxed in the blink of an eye or frittering away a fortune?"

"None."

The answer was barely audible and the viscount couldn't help but catch the welling of tears in his father's eyes before the earl bent to take his head between his hands. For some reason, it shook him more than he cared to admit.

"God knows, I have been a sad failure as the head of this family, and an even worse hand at being a parent.

" The earl's frail fingers raked through his graying hair.

"The only thing of any real value I have done is to... produce you. But even for that I fear I deserve little credit, for you quite obviously didn’t inherit your good sense or excellent character from me. "

Adrian found his anger slowly evaporating, just like the spill on the floor. Instead, his father's admissions filled him with an aching sadness.

"I can hardly blame you for holding me in disgust," the earl went on in a shaky voice. "I've given you precious little reason to think otherwise. If you want to know the truth, I think even worse of myself than you do."

He looked up, remorse etched on his still handsome features.

"I've tried. God help me, I've tried to act with some restraint.

I don't know why I am just not capable of behaving in a rational manner.

But there it is. This time, perhaps it would be best to let me suffer the consequences of my own foolish actions.

Surely I cannot be much more of a disgrace to you than I already am, no matter what the tattlemongers choose to say about me refusing to honor a bet. "

The viscount gave a harried sigh and began to pace before the meager fire. "I've managed to pull you out of the suds before, so I imagine I’ll be able to figure out something this time around as well."

His mouth quirked upward in spite of the situation.

"Indeed, there is another rather important reason I would prefer to avoid any egregious scandal at the moment.

You see, I have just become betrothed and would rather not give my intended's father reason to cry off.

He was skeptical enough of the connection without creating further cause for concern. "

His father essayed a real smile through his guilt. "Why, I wish you happy, m'boy. And hope that you don't make as much a hash of it as I have done. But you won't. Too much common sense in that bonebox of yours. May I ask who the lucky lady is?"

"Lady Honoria Dunster."

"Hylton's chit? A Diamond of the First Water," he said with frank approval.

"Real diamonds are rare in our little world of paste and false sparkle.

And all the more precious for it. No doubt she brings a plump dowry as well, though it seems to me the lady is making quite the best of the match.

" He cleared his throat. "Have you set a date? "

"Not as yet, but it is my understanding that the family wishes to wait at least until the Little Season."

The earl looked vastly relieved. "So, ah, there is no reason why you cannot... travel in the next few months?"

The smile, however faint, disappeared from Adrian's face. "And why would I want to do that?"

"Well, you see, there is the matter of the, er, test of skill with Hertford. As luck would have it, it is to take place in Scotland?—"

"Scotland?"

"Er, yes." Out of habit, Chittenden reached for the bottle that was no longer there, then a sheepish expression stole over his features as his hand fell back to his side. "And it's—well, it's rather important that you be there."

Adrian felt a stirring of unease. "I think you had best explain just exactly what it is you have wagered, Father."

There were several moments of silence as the earl tugged at a corner of his waistcoat. "No doubt I was a greater idiot than usual to sit down at the gaming table with the damn fellow, who never seems to have a run of bad luck?—"

"Hah! Luck indeed! An experienced gamester such as you should know enough to suspect it is more than luck."

The Earl paled. "You think he... cheats?"

"I have no proof of it, but I have heard enough about his so-called luck that I should never be tempted to engage in any sort of dealing with the fellow."

There was a moment of awkward silence as Chittenden shifted in his chair. "Well, as to that..." He swallowed hard several times before going on. "I'm afraid that it is you who is pledged to meet him... in a sporting match."

" Me !"

The earl winced at the volume of the yelp, then gave a nod.

"You must be a candidate for Bedlam, to think I would ever be a willing participant in any of your wagers!

" Adrian began to pace the floor, restraining the urge to kick each piece of furniture that he passed.

After a moment, his brows furrowed in consternation as he considered his father's words.

"And even if I was, I cannot quite understand why Hertford would offer such a challenge.

As you noted, he rarely engages in any endeavor where the odds are not stacked in his favor. "

He drew a deep breath and went on in a low voice, as if to himself. "It doesn't make sense. Surely he must be aware that I am accorded to be more than adequate with a pistol or the ribbons or my fives."

He paused by the mantel and picked up a small miniature framed in silver.

Staring at the earnest young face depicted there, it struck him that even as a child he had felt the weight of the world on his small shoulders.

The only times he had felt truly as carefree as a boy was romping through the stately rooms of the Hall or running through its magnificent grounds.

Aside from the solitary dreams that had flowered there, he had, for the most part, had precious little to smile about.

Well, it was certainly not going to begin now, he thought with some resignation.

Though resentment and anger still welled within his breast, it was tempered by a grudging forgiveness for the past. It was impossible to feel hate, only a pinch of sadness at a life that must, at bottom, be as empty as the glass that stood by the trembling fingers.

The earl's gaze was focused on the small painting as well. "You were always the strong one, Adrian, even as a lad," he whispered, a tentative smile ghosting over his lips. "I’ve always been so proud of you, though I could rarely express it."

He bowed his head. "I'm sorry. I had no right to entangle you in a snare of my own making. Perhaps I can convince Hertford to reconsider and accept another hand of cards. This time, I swear I shall come to thetable sober and be on guard for any?—"

"No!"

Chittenden fell silent.

"If Woolsey Hall is at stake, I prefer to trust to my own skills to wrest it free from Hertford's grasp. But on one condition, Father."

"Only name it."