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" H mmm, although you’re not usually moved by adagios and crescendos, it appears that last evening's musicale helped banish the recent flatness in your mood." Rafael picked up the newspaper and poured himself some tea.

Adrian ceased his cheerful humming and looked up from his sketchbook. "What? Oh, er, yes." He couldn't help but grin. "I suppose I am feeling a bit more in harmony with things, Rafe."

Indeed, even though the streets outside their residence were enveloped in an oppressive grey fog, he felt as though some weighty mantle had been lifted from his own spirits.

It made not a whit of sense, of course. His carefully chosen bride was about to elope with another man, he was on the brink of losing his beloved Woolsey Hall and the plans for the duke's gardens were still mere scribbles of ideas.

And yet, the coil of worry that had tied him in knots of late seemed to have unaccountably fallen away. Somehow, he found that he was almost looking forward to the challenges ahead.

His pencil hovered for a moment in mid-air as it suddenly occurred to him what else it was that he was looking forward to.

Another meeting with the deucedly distracting Miss Edwards. Her moods were nearly as quixotic as the Scottish weather, yet her intelligence and her passion overshadowed all her snappish words and hoydenish behavior. She intrigued him.

No, that was not entirely correct. He had to admit that what he was feeling was more than?—

"I take it your work is progressing well, then?" His friend had leaned over to glance at the rough drawings on the open page of the sketchbook.

Adrian pushed aside his musings. "Er, well, I must admit I am rather pleased with how everything is turning out so far."

"I'm glad to hear it." There was a faint rustling as Rafael turned to an article on latest news from the Continent. He read on for a bit, then slowly laid the newspaper aside when the humming began anew.

"Adrian, if I didn't know you better I would be sorely tempted to think you had been indulging in a wee nip of the local whisky before breakfast. It seems you are in remarkably good humor, given that along with everything else, you are set to finally match up with Hertford on the links tomorrow morning. "

The melody died away. "Well, now that the moment is at hand, there is precious little point in stewing over it. I shall just have to trust my newly acquired skills—and my caddie."

"How very sensible." With a slight shake of his head, Rafael resumed his reading. "And I must say, this odd cheerfulness is a distinct improvement over the moody scowls that have darkened your phiz since we crossed the border."

A comfortable silence descended over the breakfast table. It was only when the servant returned a while later with fresh tea that the clink of china and cheerful humming were interrupted by a discreet cough.

"Yes, McCabe?" said Rafael, when his friend didn't even look up from his work. The man bent down and whispered something. Rafael rose abruptly and followed him from the room. It was only a matter of minutes before he returned.

"Ahem." He cleared his throat loudly enough that Adrian stopped his sketching.

"Is something wrong, Rafe?" asked the viscount on taking one look at his friend's rigid countenance.

Rafael sucked in his breath. "I'm afraid I’ve just received some rather disturbing news."

"What do you mean, they are gone!" Philp laid his file aside and hurried over to the crowded racks. "The viscount's clubs are always put away in the same place, Tommy."

The lad pulled at a lock of the carrot-colored hair that spiked up from his brow. "I know werry well where them's supposed to be, Mr. Philp, but have a look fer yerself. I tell ye, they ain't there."

The master checked along the entire row, needing only a quick glance to verify that Adrian's set of golf clubs was indeed missing.

He continued on into the back room, and a deep frown slowly added another few wrinkles to his leathery face as he surveyed the small side door standing slightly ajar.

Closer inspection revealed that the iron hasp had been pried away from the weathered wood, allowing someone to steal into the Argyle Street shop during the night.

"Hmmm." Philp reached into his pocket to pull out his pipe.

"Why, the dastard!" Derrien had appeared at his elbow and was now peering at the damage.

"It appears we have done our job a little too well.

" He blew out another ring of smoke. "Alexander Cheape mentioned that he had overheard one of Hertford's cronies making inquiries of one of the lads as to the viscount's recent scores.

" His eyes strayed to the splintered boards and a wisp of a smile played at his lips.

"Apparently the numbers were not quite to his liking. "

"This is nothing to jest about, Hugh," muttered Derrien. "How is Lord Marquand going to play without his clubs? There is no time for you to fashion another set—the match is to begin tomorrow at eight in the morning."

"I am well aware of the seriousness of the situation."

She bit her lip, feeling a sudden surge of outrage. All of them had worked too hard to let such a cowardly deed ruin everything. The viscount simply couldn't be allowed to be beaten in this manner.

But it wasn’t just righteous anger over the golf match that was heating her blood.

She understood what Woolsey Hall meant to Lord Marquand, and how important it was to him to restore it to its former glory with his own hands.

And she was determined to see that he had a chance to fulfill his dream…

even though the thought of the viscount bringing a bride to his ancestral estate caused a lump to form in her throat.

Granted, it was not going to be Lady Honoria Dunster, but it would be someone equally beautiful and polished.

How could it not be, given his title and his position in Society?

Still, Derrien wanted more than anything to help him win back his home. Far from being the arrogant, jaded, selfish gentleman she had expected him to be, she had come to see him as a kindred soul.

A friend.

She bit her lip. Actually, she had come to see him as much more than that, despite all her previous resolve, and the utter hopelessness of her true feelings.

"Hugh," she said in a steely voice. "I have an idea."

"And what news is that?" Adrian's gaze had already returned to the page of his sketchbook.

"The devil take it, Adrian, this is deucedly hard.

" Rafael ran a finger around his collar.

"That was one of Hylton's servants at the door.

He had an extremely urgent message regarding.

.." His words trailed off in some confusion.

"Er, perhaps you should read the note that he brought.

" He hastily pushed the sealed missive across the polished pine table.

Adrian took it up and, after a cursory look at the handwriting, dropped it by his cup. He began to add some shading around the outlines of a fountain.

"Good Lord, Adrian!" sputtered his friend. "I really think you had better read the damn thing. I doubt you will be bursting into song when you have learned its contents."

The viscount looked up, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "On the contrary, Rafe. I am delighted that Honoria and Mr. Ferguson have found such happiness with each other. I imagine that by now, they are safely wed and finally free of all interference from her unbearable parents."

Rafael's jaw dropped in astonishment. "You know?"

"Yes. She told me last night."

"And you are not upset? Or angry at how all your carefully constructed plans have come crashing down like a house of cards?"

Adrian's smile became more pronounced. "Well, I suppose I have learned the foolishness of counting on cards to do one's bidding."

His friend shook his head. "Is there something bewitching in the Scottish air? Or has Hecate and her witchly cronies added some special potion to your tea? You hardly sound like the same fellow who left London with me."

"Perhaps I am not," he said softly, surprising himself as much as his friend.

Philp rubbed at his jaw. "You think it possible?"

Derrien gave a nod.

"Well, it's worth a try."

The two of them slipped out through the damaged door into the small alleyway behind the shop.

Making their way through the swirling fog, they followed one of the narrow cobbled streets down to the harbor.

The weather had caused a number of fishermen to delay their departure, so despite the early hour, the tavern next to the docks was nearly full.

"Wait here," ordered Philp as he turned to enter the place.

"But—" Derrien decided not to argue on seeing his expression.

After what seemed like an age. Philp finally reemerged from the smoky confines of the public room, two hulking fellows trailing in his wake.

"Willie Kidd, ye say, Hugh? Aye, I know where we're most likely ta find the scamp.

" One of the men flexed his bulging biceps as he spoke.

"Ye think he's mixed up in sommink havey-cavey with Lord Hertford?

" When Philp nodded, the man's broad mouth twisted in a ferocious frown.

"Then Angus and me will have it out of him, see if we don't."

"It's the clubs we want, Jock, not just his deadlights darkened," piped up Derrien. "Remember to give them the purse, Mr. Philp."

As the leather sack exchanged hands she went on.

"You find that coins will work even better than threats with Willie.

Use both, and I'm sure he can be convinced to tell us where the clubs are.

" She paused for a fraction. "Of course, they might have been tossed in the Bay, but I don't think so. Not yet."

"That's right smart of ye, Derry me lad," growled Jock. "I'd wager as well that the clubs haven't been destroyed, even if that's wot the marquess ordered. Willie would figger they're too valuable not to stow away for some future profit."