LITMIR.BIZ

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to all that was rational, his friend seemed deliriously happy contemplating the loss of his freedom.

      A hasty betrothal might not solve all his problems, but it would be a start. The matchmaking mamas were getting much too clever, and at least this way his wife would be of his own choosing, and not the result of waking up one morning with a giggling debutante tucked up beside him in his bed, her mother ready to burst in—with witnesses—to cry, “You cad! We post the banns yet today!”

      Which would seem silly and self-serving to consider...except for the fact that one ambitious damsel had already made it all the way into the bedchamber in his hotel suite before Ames could scoop her up and deposit her back in the lobby, where her infuriated mama grabbed her by the ear and harangued her incompetence, presumably all the way back to her coach.

      Yes, he would take himself off the market. Only then would he be able to concentrate on the rest of it.

      “Did you read this? I only saw it this morning, so maybe you haven’t yet had the pleasure,” Darby Travers, also Viscount Nailbourne when he chose to impress, asked, tearing himself away from the printed page in order to wave the chapbook at him.

      “Yes, I’ve read it. The perpetrator—I won’t call him author—was kind enough to send me an early copy when I was in town last week. For God’s sake, Darby, put it down.”

      “Not quite yet. It’s obvious you’re going to wrest the fair maiden from a fate worse than death, hero that you are. Just let me read the ending.”

      “All right, since it’s unfortunately important. Go on. Damn, Darby—I didn’t say for you to read it aloud.”

      But the viscount continued in his pleasant baritone, now heavily laden with amused emphasis.

      “The most Beauteous and Grateful young lady, her name always to be a mystery, her Cornflower Blue Eyes awash in Diamond-Bright tears, turned to our Modest and Abashed Hero and, quite to his Astonished Surprise, flung her soft round body straight at his chest, so that he was Without Recourse save to Hold Her Close as He could feel the Frantic Beating of her Virgin Heart, the rapid rise and fall of her Perfect Bosoms, as she extolled his Virtues, his immense Bravery and indeed, Overcome by her Emotions, she cried out in Near Ecstasy as she grasped his strong shoulders, claiming the world could safely rest on their Broad Expanse, just as her fate had so lately done, and Never Fear for her honor, that which she then so Earnestly Offered Him.”

      “It’s even worse than I remember,” Cooper grumbled. “And did the man never hear about the glories of a period? You almost ran out of breath there, Darby, unless you were being ‘overcome by your emotions.’”

      “A little of both, I believe. You lucky dog, you.” Darby struggled to turn the last page of the cheaply made chapbook, and frowned.

      “Coming soon, Volume Three: The Further Adventures and Exploits of Baron Cooper McGinley Townsend, Hero, Wherein All Is Revealed as to His Character and Private Nature, Whether Be He Devil or Saint.”

      He looked up at his friend. “That’s it? There’s nothing more? My God, Coop, and with all the ripping retorts that have come rushing into my head reluctantly pushed to one side, this isn’t good. Anyone with a drop of imagination would think you took advantage of her virtue, and Lord knows what the ton lacks in intelligence it more than makes up for in lurid imagination.”

      “I’m aware of that, yes, thank you.” Coop stripped off the abused neck cloth and tossed it to Sergeant Major Ames, who had been his aide-de-camp during the final defeat of Bonaparte at Waterloo, and who could now lay claim to being the most burly, most foulmouthed and most sartorially bankrupt valet in all of England.

      “Man needs his digits hacked off, that’s what he needs,” Ames said, tossing a new neck cloth Coop’s way. “And then stuffed up his arse.”

      “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Ames,” Darby drawled as he stepped forward and snatched the fresh linen out of midair. “He’s usually bearably adequate, but clearly he’s overset at the moment. Here, Coop, let me do it for you, or else we’ll be spending the remainder of our lives here in your dressing room.”

      Two tall, handsome but very different men were now reflected in the mirror. Coop could have been the angel, with his blond good looks, and Darby the dark-haired devil, somehow made even more attractive with the black satin eye patch covering his left eye.

      “Ames meant my anonymous good friend,” Coop pointed out, grinning as he raised his chin and allowed Darby to position the neck cloth around his raised shirt points. “And he was being kind, if not civil. It’s quite another part of the scribbler’s anatomy Ames truly has designs on, don’t you, Ames?”

      “First have to find them, my lord, and I doubt the rascal has the least trouble fitting into his breeches, if you take my meaning.”

      “Give me that before you choke me,” Coop said, grabbing one end of the linen strip as Darby’s bark of laughter blasted in his ear. “I returned to the city for assistance from my friends, and not only is Gabe gone to his estate, but he left you behind, which is less than helpful in any circumstance. I’ve got enough going upside down in my life as it is, and you have all the makings of a menace.”

      “I’d be bereft, did I not choose to take that as a compliment. But please, a menace that can tie the Waterfall with his eyes—pardon me, eye—closed. Very well, make your own mess. We’ll even name it. The Hero’s Knot. Good choice, Sergeant Major, wouldn’t you say, because I think he’s fashioned a noose.”

      “You’re quite the wit, Darby,” Cooper said as Ames helped him into his jacket. “I don’t know how you ever stop laughing. You really think this whole thing is hilariously funny, don’t you?” he asked as Darby replaced his handkerchief after lifting the black patch over his left eye and dabbing at a nonexistent tear of amusement.

      “In most cases, no, I suppose not, but to see the calm, never-ruffled Cooper so flummoxed? Yes, I admit to enjoying myself. Really, is it so very terrible, Sobersides, being cast in the role of a hero? Damsels must be sighing and swooning over their hot chocolate all over Mayfair right now, their tiny pink toes curling in delight. I repeat, you lucky dog.”

      Coop and Ames exchanged glances, and the valet retrieved a folded sheet of paper from the desk in the bedchamber Coop occupied at the Pulteney Hotel. “This arrived earlier, shoved under the door just as messages are in all inferior novels. Take it down to the lobby with you, read it and decide for yourself. I’ll just say a quick good-morning to my mother and join you there shortly.”

      “Am I going to be amused?” Darby asked, sliding the paper inside his jacket. “Never mind, I can see I’m not. And does it explain the neck cloth, and your jolly good humor? I suppose so. Very well, ten minutes, or else I’ll be back.”

      With Darby out of the room, Coop picked up his silver-backed brushes and concentrated on taming his thick thatch of annoyingly unruly dark blond hair, or

      ...his Glorious Crown of sun-Kissed locks reminiscent of a Veritable Halo of Goodness even while he ran his long, straight fingers through the Mass as he stepped over the Broken Body of the Wretched Attacker and shyly smiled at the Unknown Damsel he’d Rescued from a Fate Worse Than Death.

      Fate worse than death. Just what Darby had said in jest. It only went to prove anyone could write a chapbook—as long as one didn’t bother stretching his imagination beyond the trite and prurient. “Oh, God, now I’m poking sticks at one of my best friends.” Cooper sighed as he put down the brushes and spoke to the air. “‘Is it so terrible being cast in the role of a hero?’ Darby, my friend, you have no idea.”

      Admittedly, at first it hadn’t been that awful. He’d served his country not once, but twice, donning the colors again after being invalided back to England in 1814 with his friends Darby, Gabriel and Jeremiah Rigby, baronet. He’d gone on to become quite the celebrity after a small yet fierce battle just outside Quatre Bras, just before Wellington’s final victory at Waterloo.

      The world would never know the full truth of what had transpired that

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