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“You may be right—perhaps my brain is still a bit addled from the hot Jamaican sun. One can only hope the fresh air of England may bring me to my senses,” he conceded, bowing slightly to Tretherford.

“Come Freddy, join me in a hand. If you gentlemen would excuse us—” He took Freddy’s arm to lead him away.

“Justin, how can you swallow Tretherford’s insult? I’d have called him out in an instant!”

“And after you had killed the noddy, you would be forced to flee the country and live in exile. No thank you, Freddy. I have just spent a year out of England and am devilishly glad to have returned.”

“I concede all that. But, still, Justin?—”

“Really Freddy, Tretherford is not good ton and not worthy of consideration. However did he become a member?” he asked as they crossed the room.

“Cousin of the Marquis of Alwinly, I believe, and he’s such a nice fellow no one questioned him. Think the marchioness pushed him to it—nasty woman that. Tretherford’s some cousin or other.”

“Hmm, that explains it,” St. Ryne declared, sitting down and gesturing to Freddy to join him. “But tell me more about Monweithe and his two daughters. I admit I am intrigued.” He signaled for the waiter to bring another glass, then turned again to Freddy.

“Not much to say,” Freddy said. “He introduced the two at the beginning of the season, and La Belle Helene has been the jewel of my heart ever since. Would you believe it? I’ve taken to writing poetry about her, she has that kind of an effect on a fellow.”

“What about the other,” St. Ryne asked, as he poured a glass of port for Freddy, “I think you called her Elizabeth?” He glanced up briefly. “Is she ill-favored?”

Freddy scowled, creating deep furrows in his fair forehead.

“Not in looks, quite lovely I guess, if you like ’em dark.

Though she don’t do much to fix herself up.

Got the strangest eyes in a female, though.

Kind of gold-like,” he mused, “and when she gets her temper up, they’re like fire to sear a fellow’s soul. ”

St. Ryne laughed shortly. “You have indeed turned poetic. If she is not plain or ugly, what would you call her?” he asked with studied casualness, setting his wineglass down on a small octagonal table between them. “A shrew, perhaps?”

Freddy slapped his knee delightedly. “Stab me, that’s it exactly,” he said eagerly. “The Shrew of London, that’s what they call her!”

“Tell me, since my curiosity is aroused, how might I meet this termagant?” St. Ryne asked, leaning back negligently in his chair. His eyes glinted through the lashes of his lazily hooded eyes, and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Meet her? Stab me why you’d want to do that. All the fellows make a practice to steer clear of that one!”

“But I am not all the fellows and, as your… ah… friend pointed out, I have been out of the country for a good while in a climate that does not leave one with a well-ordered mind,” St. Ryne reminded him softly, a smile ghosting his lips.

Freddy shook his head. “You don’t know what you’d be getting yourself into.”

“Leave that to me.”

Freddy fidgeted in his chair. “All right. She’ll probably be at Amblethorp's rout tonight. Her father makes her go everywhere with Helene, though they don’t care for each other much. Not that Helene would ever say anything.” He sighed. “She’s so good.”

“Undoubtedly,” St. Ryne murmured leaning back in his chair, his hands forming a steeple of his fingers as he gazed off into the distance.

The germ of an idea grew in his mind. It would enable him to fulfill his familial obligations and put a spoke in his mother’s wheel.

Across the room Branstoke was motioning to the waiter, and a small crowd had gathered around him.

Young Stanley came running up to Freddy, his round cheeks flushed and his eyes glinting with excitement.

“Freddy! Freddy! Branstoke’s called for the betting book! He’s betting 1,000 pounds that Elizabeth Monweithe will be wed before the year is out! Tretherford, Farley, and the others are all taking him up on it! Come on!”

Freddy jumped out of his chair. “What? Egad, what manner of whimsy is this? The fellow’s gone mad!” he cried, as he hurried after Stanley.

St. Ryne raised an eyebrow, a sardonic smile curling his lips as he looked toward Branstoke.

That gentleman noted his attention and bowed slightly in his direction before he was recalled to those clustered about him.

So, it appeared one Sir James Rudger Branstoke was a sapient gentleman behind his languid airs, St. Ryne thought grimly.

Did he hope to flush out a Petruchio to do them service?

Mayhap it behooved him to cultivate his acquaintance.

He lightly drummed his fingertips on the arm of the chair for a moment, then rose leisurely, and picking up his wineglass, sauntered toward the boisterous crowd surrounding Branstoke, all clamoring to bet against him with rude jests flying at the Lady Elizabeth’s expense. He frowned for a moment.

“St. Ryne?” someone called out, “What about you? How do you bet?”

His brow cleared and he smiled laconically. “Why, I agree with Sir James,” he said, saluting that gentleman with his glass. “She will be wed before the year is out.”

“Justin!” Freddy exclaimed, grabbing his coat sleeve. ‘You don’t even know her yet. How can you bet? Best not do so till you see what I’ve been telling you is true.”

St. Ryne gently removed himself from Freddy’s clasp.

“Call it a sporting bet, or intuition, if you will,” he suggested.

Bending over, he signed his name with a flourish, fleetingly considering that signing Petruchio would be more apropos.

When he finished, he glanced up to find Branstoke regarding him closely, a slight smile playing upon his lips.

Meeting St. Ryne’s eyes, Branstoke raised his wineglass in a salute.

“To Kate,” he said softly.

Justin Harth, the Viscount St. Ryne, met his gaze steadily as he tossed off the remainder of his glass of wine.