LITMIR.BIZ

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is so déclassé,” Justin said, returning the snuffbox to his pocket. “It’s all in the measure, sir. That, and I’ve had my blacksmith line my nostrils with lead.”

      “I’d almost believe you. But enough banter. I’m due at the palace at three, to present myself to mine father, who please God isn’t ranting or drooling today. I’m about to make you a very happy man, Wilde.”

      “How interesting, Your Royal Highness. And here I am, under the impression that I am already happy. Perhaps you plan to make me ecstatic?”

      Prinny readjusted the covers around his ample belly. “There are times I think I’d rather make you mute. A pity we’re all now so modern and civilized. A well-maintained torture chamber was often a king’s only friend. How does one eat without a tongue, do you know?”

      “In very small bites, I’d imagine,” Justin said, mistrusting the gleam in the prince’s vivid blue eyes, and therefore prudently not pointing out that the man was still one live if hopelessly mad father away from the throne.

      “Your wife is dead these eight years or more, yes?”

      “I believe so, yes.” Now Justin was all attention, at least inwardly. “A date you might remember with more clarity than I, as I was already escaped to the Continent. But I’ve always wondered, sir. How does one go about disposing of a dead body at the bottom of the stairs? A terrible inconvenience at best, I would suppose. Did you have her hauled away, or just fold her up inside a cabinet while the party went on without her?”

      “You’re cold, Wilde. She was your wife. Granted, a little too free with her favors, but very beautiful. Exquisite, actually.”

      Justin remained silent. Yes, Sheila had been beautiful. On the outside. And he’d been young, and beauty had mattered to him very much. Even after Sheila had no longer mattered, he’d found himself involved in a duel to protect her nonexistent honor.

      “You don’t agree?”

      “I scarcely remember her face, sir. There may be a miniature somewhere. Would you like it?”

      “Cold. Cold. You make me almost regret what I am about to offer. A single service to put a period to your…accessibility. An end to your indebtedness. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

      Wilde lifted a hand to his face. And yawned. It was amazing what one could dare when one had moved beyond the ability to care.

      “I’ve found you a wife,” the Prince Regent stated baldly, his tone clearly implying that he was no longer amused by Justin’s antics.

      “Oh, I think not, sir. I’m not in the market for a wife.”

      “You’re also not in a cell, awaiting the hangman. Which one of those two alternatives do you choose?”

      Justin wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of his answer. Even though they both knew that answer.

      “Yes, quite. I will go on now. She is said to be the daughter of a war hero, unfortunately deceased. Allow it to be known only to you that this union is very important to the fellow who still most favors the ancient title of Holy Roman Emperor to that of—”

      “Francis of Austria,” Justin supplied tersely. “Father of Marie Louise, who was wife to Napoleon, until Francis convinced her to betray him. Nephew of the doomed Marie Antoinette, whom he refused to save from the guillotine because he saw no personal profit in it. The man turned his coat so often since ascending the throne it is something of a marvel that he didn’t end up hanged and gibbeted by Bonaparte—or us. So, this female I’m not going to marry is German? Austrian?”

      The prince shook his head. “Bohemian, although I’m assured that her mother, also unfortunately deceased, was English, and her late father a favorite at the court until his death on some battlefield.”

      Justin was careful to keep his expression blank, even as an event in his life he’d hoped long banished returned to slap at his composure. “I once visited a city in the region. Trebon. I did not enjoy my time there.”

      “No one but a fool enjoys being anywhere but England. Oh, but I know what you’re saying. You think perhaps she’s a Gypsy? Certainly not.”

      “They prefer Romany, sir. Never Gypsy. At any rate, if you were told the lady is Bohemian, even if only less than half of her, I believe I’d prefer being hanged in the morning, thank you.”

      “They’re a dirty people?” The prince’s face had taken on a rather haunted look, most probably thanks to a memory of his first sight of his now-estranged wife, Princess Caroline. It had been said that she harbored a decided dislike of soap and regular bathing.

      “No, sir. And I’m certain the female in question is thoroughly civilized. I momentarily overreacted to an unpleasant memory, no more than that.”

      “Please, don’t apologize. I believe I enjoy seeing the unflappable Justin Wilde even slightly discommoded. Trebon, was it? Nasty place? At any rate, this young woman, this—one moment.” He extracted a slip of paper from the pocket of his nightshirt, then read carefully: “‘Lady Magdaléna Evinka Nadeja Valentin.’ Foreign names are all so needlessly complicated, aren’t they? Give me a good Mary, or Elizabeth, or Anne. At any rate, this woman is in need of a husband.”

      “Disdainful as I am of repetition, I am not in need of a wife, sir.”

      “You’ll pardon me my rudeness, Wilde, but I cannot find it within me to be concerned in the slightest with what you believe you might need. I need—no, strike that. England needs a suitable, well-born husband for the woman, for reasons of trade and all of that nonsense. You are to consider this marriage a foregone conclusion. Any and all information you might need will be provided to you as you leave. And one more thing—marry her and we’re finished. You will no longer be obligated to me in any way. And, yes, before you are so bad-mannered as to ask, you will also find a signed letter from me stating that fact, along with all those pesky details such as the time of her arrival at Portsmouth, which I believe to be fairly imminent. Now, see if you can find your way out without saying something that makes me rethink my generosity. And send in somebody to clean up this mess.”

      Justin bowed, his jaw tight, and backed up three paces before turning to exit the overheated chamber. He might banter with the prince, he might even insult him, but there existed no way he could disobey him, not at the end of day, when such things mattered. And they both knew it.

      He had his hand resting on the latch before the prince spoke again. Justin didn’t know what the man would say, but he had known he would say something. There was, with the Prince Regent, always something else.

      “By the way, Wilde.”

      “Yes, sir?” he asked, not bothering to turn around. Christ, the man was so woefully predictable.

      “I may have forgotten to mention one other thing. Slipped my mind, I suppose. But, then, why else would I overlook your proven shortcomings as a husband for the lady in favor of your rather unique talents? You see, it would seem that someone wants your affianced bride dead. If any misfortune were to come to her, King Francis and I—indeed, England—would be quite displeased. You amuse me, Wilde, God only knows why. But my amusement has its limits. Now you may go.”

      THE HUSTLE AND BUSTLE of the Portsmouth seaport and the array of tall masts Justin could see from his bedchamber window had not altered considerably in the time it had taken him to bathe and dress; which, for a gentleman of the first stare like the Baron Wilde, was, coincidentally, considerable.

      He’d arrived in the town late the previous evening, having delayed departing London until he could be assured word had gotten back to the Prince Regent that it appeared Baron Wilde was flouting His Royal Majesty’s orders.

      After all, why should Prinny be allowed a peaceful slumber if he, the victim in this sad farce, was to be denied his?

      “Petty,” Justin muttered beneath his breath. “You are a petty, petty man. With a sore backside from being

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