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"If I win, you will sell the Hall to me."

"Sell!" The earl made as if to rise from his chair. "Even I am not such a dastard as to make you pay for what will rightfully be yours anyway when I shuffle off this mortal coil. Consider it yours."

Adrian shook his head. "I am making you a business proposition, Father. It is the only way I can, in good conscience, permit it to be done."

The earl thought for several moments. "Very well, if it must be as you say, I imagine that you need for me to name a price."

Adrian's fingers tightened around the small frame.

"It will, naturally, have to be a goodly sum, considering the value of such a fine estate."

"Naturally."

"I cannot think of where you might get that kind of blunt," persisted his father.

"I'm well aware of how paltry an inheritance was left to you by your grandfather.

" He hesitated for a fraction. "Just as I well know that you have never frequented the gaming establishments or other even less savory hells where money might be made.

And however plump in the pocket Hylton is, I doubt his daughter's dowry will cover such a large expense. "

A cynical smile played on the viscount's lips.

"Not gaming, no. But I'm afraid I have been engaged in another pursuit that would be considered by many a far worse vice for a gentleman, though I've been quite discreet about it.

Suffice it to say that I think I shall manage to meet your terms, so long as they are not unduly high. "

The earl looked as if to say more, then bit off the words and began to drum his fingers on the table.

"Well, then if you insist, here is what I propose," he said after a lengthy pause.

"If you win at Hertford's game, you will redeem not only Woolsey Hall but all the other vowels in his possession.

They are, I regret to say, considerable.

And by all rights, they will belong to you for the victory?—"

"I don't want them?—"

It was Chittenden's turn to interrupt. "I have a modicum of pride, too," he said with some emotion. "If you will not accept Woolsey Hall from me outright, then I certainly won't allow you to wipe the slate clean of my debts. So, we are at a stalemate. Unless you agree to the terms I suggest."

"Which are?"

"You may return my vowels to me in exchange for the Hall."

"An even trade?" Adrian rubbed at his jaw as he considered his father's suggestion.

"Think of it as the business proposal you wish it to be. You will be paid for your efforts, that's all. It is a reasonable solution."

The viscount replaced the picture on the mantel and resumed his pacing.

"And fair, more than fair. To me, at least," continued his father. "Perhaps I might find the sense to take better care of my holdings," he added softly. "You would be doing me a great favor, Adrian, though I have little right to expect it. What say you? Do we have a deal?"

Adrian's breath came out in a harried sigh. "I suppose we do."

"Well, at least I feel I have made one good bargain in my life."

"That has yet to be decided," cautioned the viscount.

He made another turn, then stopped to take up the poker and give the dying embers a good jab.

"So what is it to be?" he asked dryly. "Sabers at dawn?

Pistols at twenty paces? You still have not told me just what I must do to win this damn wager. "

"Oh, nothing so dangerous as that," replied the earl with forced heartiness. "Actually you are to play a round of golf. At St. Andrews."

"Golf! Hell's teeth, I've never played golf!" exclaimed Adrian. "And what the devil is a 'round' of it?"

"Dunno. But it's a game that involves hitting a ball with a stick—how difficult can that be?" reasoned his father. "You're a dab hand at cricket. You'll master it in a trice."

Adrian muttered something under his breath.

Chittenden couldn't repress a twitch of his lips. "Did my high stickler of a son just say what I thought he said?"

"Never mind." He had a mind to take a swat at the nearest object with the poker, regardless of whether it was round or not. "When, may I ask, is this event scheduled to take place?"

"In little more than a month's time."

The oath that followed was even more scathing than the first.

"St. Andrews is accorded to be a very civilized sort of town. University and all that, you know."

The viscount stalked to the sideboard to retrieve his hat and gloves. "Ah, well, then I should have no trouble finding a book on the bloody rules."

"Where are you rushing off to?"

"To check myself into Bedlam. Where no doubt I belong."

"Adrian, if you wish to reconsider?—"

"Just a little gallows humor, Father, though it appears I may well be strung up before this is over.

Hertford has spent most every summer of his life in Scotland.

I imagine he is an expert at whatever this game of golf entails, else he wouldn't have made the wager.

Still, it looks as if I shall have to give it a shot, if I am to have any chance of keeping Woolsey Hall. "

Tucking his walking stick under his arm, Adrian started for the door.

"Hell's teeth, the timing could not be worse for certain of my other endeavors.

" He sighed. "However, there is nothing to be done about it now.

I suppose I had better consider heading north as soon as possible if I am to entertain any hope of success. You had better wish me... well."

He chose to avoid the word luck, as he felt even less in charity with the word than usual..

" Golf!" exclaimed Rafael.

Adrian nodded glumly. "My sentiments exactly.

" He picked up a heavy leather cricket ball from his desk and hefted it from palm to palm.

"How difficult can that be?" he repeated, mimicking his father's throaty tones with some asperity.

"Easy for the old fellow to say." He tossed the ball high into the air, casually catching it with one hand as it came down. "Any idea how big a golf ball is?"

"Rather smaller than that."

"Hmmph."

"And stuffed with feathers, I believe."

Another snort sounded, followed by something that sounded suspiciously like a curse. "A sport for the birds," he muttered. "What sort of bat is used?"

"Club," corrected Rafael. "And there are more than one."

Adrian pulled a face. "The devil you say. Why?"

"It depends where the ball is lying."

The viscount's head jerked around just as the cricket ball began its descent. It caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder, then slipped through his fingers and bounced across the polished parquet. "You're joking. It's not moving? It just sits on the ground?"

"That's right."

"So you can just step up to it and give it a thwack?"

"Something like that."

Adrian stooped to retrieve the errant cricket ball. "How difficult can that be?" He resumed his game of catch. "So perhaps there is hope yet. After all, I have keen eye and steady hand."

His friend gave a dry chuckle. "Trust me, Adrian, it’s not quite as simple as it may sound. There’s some technique involved. And strategy."

"Oh, come now, Rafe, don't wax melodramatic. We are talking of striking a ball, not of Wellesley maneuvering his troops on the field of battle."

"We are talking of putting a ball in a hole—a rather small hole—in the face of the same sort of hazards that can flummox the best of generals—such as wind, rain, trees, ditches and the like.

And you must do it with fewer strokes than your opponent.

" Rafael poured himself a glass of sherry.

"Sounds suspiciously like a war to me." After a sip he added, "You know what competition is like.

When the stakes are sufficiently high enough, it can turn the playing field into a real battleground. "

Adrian pursed his lips and frowned. "It sounds as if you have actually played the game."

"Remember the trip I took with Bowmont last summer to visit his family in Kelso? Well, his father is an avid player. He actually has several holes laid out along an old Roman viaduct that crosses their lands along the River Teviot."

"Roxburghe plays golf?"

"Quite well I am told, though I'm scarcely one to judge. I took my hacks at it and felt rather foolish most of the time. Jamie, though, shares the Duke's enthusiasm and when we traveled up the coast, we stopped at St. Andrews for a few days so he could play the course there."

Rafe pulled a sour face at the memory. "Can't say I enjoyed it much. Every evening over our claret I had to listen to him either rave about a glorious shot he made or moan about some unfair twist of luck that had caused the ball to bounce askew."

The cricket ball bounced against the wood paneling with a resounding crack. "The devil take it, Rafe, what am I to do if the cursed game is truly so difficult to master? I have only a month's time before I stand to lose Woolsey Hall."

The glint of humor in Rafael's eyes died away, replaced by a flare of sympathy. "I think Jamie is still in Town," he said after mulling it over for a bit. "Perhaps we should pay him a visit. After all, he is well acquainted with the town and many of the locals, so he might have an idea."

Adrian looked dubious, but as he had nothing better to suggest, they took themselves off.

It took several hours to trace the Marquess of Bowmont's movements from a small dinner party with friends to the theatre to one of the rooms at White's.

He was seated in a comfortable chair reading a newspaper, a decanter of rich burgundy by his side.

At Rafael's greeting, he looked up from the pages.

"Rafe, how delightful to see you. What brings you to England?"

"I brought some military dispatches from Portugal to the generals at Horse Guards. I'll be here for several months while my cousin prepares to take up his commission in the Royal Dragoons, and then we'll be sailing for the Peninsula to serve with Wellesley's forces."