Prologue
He always knew he was wicked.
Despite the fact that the Sterling children were of the
very same parentage and grew up in the very same household,
they were, in point of fact, all quite different.
His elder brother Sebastian was the responsible one,
steadfast and dependable, studious and thoughtful and ever
proper. His baby sister Julianna was possessed of a sweet,
bubbly nature.
But Justin . . . He was every bit his mother's son.
Ah, yes, he was the most like his mother, not only in
resemblance—he had inherited the crystal clarity of eyes
that shimmered like the finest of emeralds, the exquisite
artistry of features that were in perfect balance, her fine
dark hair—but in . . . well, other ways as well. Indeed, he
was convinced, in every way . . .
He still remembered those first few years after Mama ran
off with her lover. Mama had many lovers, he suspected. Of
course it was one of those things that no one talked about
openly, but it was discussed in hushed, quiet whispers. And
despite the fact that he wasn't bookish, Justin was a
precocious little boy who absorbed every last word of the
servants' gossip—the dark glances that signaled their pity
over the way the marchioness had abandoned her three
children—perhaps it was a good thing she'd died!—leaving
them in the care of their father, a man who gave every
impression he was at odds with the world at large. After
all, it wasn't as if Papa liked anyone. Not Sebastian. Not
even sweet, adorable Julianna, whom everyone loved. And
especially not unruly Justin.
His tutors pronounced him hopeless. Undisciplined and
disruptive. Inattentive and unruly. He didn't excel at his
studies like studious Sebastian. From the time he was very
young, he was well aware it was a good thing Sebastian had
been born first—Justin knew he'd have made a horrible
Marquess of Thurston once Papa was gone. Somehow, he was
always doing things he shouldn't. Thinking things he
shouldn't. Saying things that were perhaps better left
unsaid . . . especially to Papa. Little wonder that he was
ever at odds with his father. He couldn't sit still for
hours at a time. He squirmed and fidgeted in his chair. He
stared out the window and heartily wished himself elsewhere.
Justin disliked his studies from the very first day he'd
joined his brother in the schoolroom. One day he simply
decided he'd had enough. After the noonday meal, he slipped
out of the schoolroom without telling anyone. Perhaps he
should have expected that their tutor Mr. Rutherford would
immediately tattle to Papa when he failed to return to the
schoolroom. Perhaps he had.
He was never quite sure he'd expected that Papa would deign
to remove himself from his study.
Of course, to an eight-year-old boy, it was vastly amusing
to see everyone searching for him. Perched high in the
branches of a tree in the orchard, Justin peered down while
the servants ran frantically to the stables, and all about
the grounds of Thurston Hall. He snickered when Papa paced
to and fro before the tree. But all at once Papa
paused . . . and looked up.
That the marquess was not pleased with his second son was
evident in the sizzle of his father's gaze.
"Why aren't you in the schoolroom?" demanded the marquess.
"Because I'm here," retorted the little boy. "Is it not
obvious?"
"Come down here now, you vile little wretch!"
The little boy stopped tittering. His jaw firmed. Green
eyes flashed. "No," he said. His father's hands balled into
fists. "Come down this instant, I say!"
His father's rage did naught but inspire the little lad's
mutiny. Stretching out a thin arm, he caught the knobby
branch above. Higher he climbed, too caught up in the
moment to hear the creak beneath his foot. Exultant now, he
glanced down through twirling leaves at his father's
upturned countenance.
The branch gave way. Justin tried to break his fall and
landed hard upon his wrist. He heard the snap as fire
stabbed through him—a hot, sizzling streak like a dozen
knives resounding in every part of him. For one paralyzing
instant he couldn't move. He couldn't even breathe. The
pain was so intense he thought he might lose consciousness.
At last he rolled to his back. His father stood over him,
his features dark and livid. The marquess bent low. "On
your feet!" he ordered. Curling his fingers roughly around
the lad's other arm, he hauled his son upright.
At his side, Justin's wrist was cocked at an odd angle from
his hand. It throbbed so abominably he wanted to retch.
Bravely he swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He
clenched his jaw against the pain and glared at his father.
"Don't!" came his father's familiar bark. "Don't!"
"Don't what?" The boy's calm did naught but infuriate the
marquess.
"Don't look at me like that!"
"Like what?"
"The way she did!"
Something was rising inside the little boy, a festering
resentment, a twisted swirl of emotion he couldn't control—
nor did he want to. In that moment, he hated his father.
Hated him for the harsh control he exerted over his brother
Sebastian. Hated him for the way he turned a blind eye to
little Julianna. He didn't care if Papa took the birch to
his backside.
He hated his father . . . as he sensed his father hated him.
"Who?" he inquired icily. "Do you mean Mama?"
Sheer rage flamed in his father's eyes. "Shut up, boy! Shut
up!"
He struck the boy hard across the face.
The blow felled Justin to the ground once more. This time
he shot upright of his own power. Through glittering green
eyes, he regarded his father. "I won't!" he cried. "She
didn't like you any better than I do, Papa, any better than
Sebastian . . . or anyone, for what matter! Perhaps that's
why she left!"
The marquess snapped. "How dare you speak to me so! Wicked,
that's what you are, boy. Wicked!"
Vile curses spewed from his lips.
It wasn't the first time his father had called him names—it
wasn't to be the last either. Names that . . . well, names
that he'd never confided to anyone, not even Sebastian.
All the while the lad proudly stood his ground. He never
flinched—never even blinked—though every word pummeled his
heart, his very soul. When at last a heavy silence
descended, he merely tipped his chin.
"I trust, sir, that you are finished?"
Disdain dripped from his tone, a frigidity that should have
been far beyond his years, far beyond his experience. A
snarl twisting his lips, the marquess drew back his fist
once more.
Suddenly Sebastian was there. He thrust his way between
them. "Papa, stop!" cried the eldest. "Look at Justin's
wrist. . . there's something dreadfully wrong!"
And indeed, there was.
A physician was summoned. Inside the house, Justin lay on
his bed. The physician cocked a brow.
"'Tis broken," he announced. "I believe I can set the bone
back into place, lad, but I must be honest. It's going to
hurt like the very devil. So if you feel the need to
howl . . . "
The marquess hovered directly behind the physician.
Justin's gaze collided with his father's. There was a lump
the size of an apple in his throat. His eyes burned . . .
his father's image wavered, then righted into focus.
It was then he glimpsed his father's satisfied little sneer
and he realized . . . his father expected him to cower and
wail and weep. His mouth compressed. Mother hadn't.
Sebastian didn't. And he wouldn't.
Sebastian squeezed his shoulder. "Justin," came his
whisper, "do you hear? It's all right if you—"
"It is not," the boy refuted fiercely. His gaze locked with
his father's. "I won't cry. I will never cry!"
The physician gave a nod and stepped over him.
There was a sickly crack as the bone slipped back into
place. Justin's thin body jerked. His back arched off the
bed. The thin fingers of his free hand wound into the
sheets. When it was done, he lay white-faced and panting.
But he did not cry. No hint of sound whatsoever passed his
lips . . .
The marquess gave a snort of disgust. Without a word, he
turned and stalked from the chamber.
Wicked
As often as he could, whenever he could, the marquess
taunted his second son. He shouted it. He screamed it. He
whispered it, when no one else was about.
Not once, in all the years of his youth, did Justin
Sterling chance to glimpse his father's chest swell at his
accomplishments or his eyes shine with pride.
He was well aware there was little point in trying. The
marquess held his son in disdain.
Time marched on, and the spindly-legged boy grew tall and
straight and handsome. His attendance at Eton was marred by
numerous incidents and letters to the marquess. His
father's disapproval multiplied, in perfect parallel with
Justin's defiance.
Ah, yes, his mother had put the blight on the family name,
while he was the bane of it. His deeds were atrocious, his
behavior appalling. If it displeased his father, it pleased
him.
And he reveled in it.
He drank. He gambled. He whored. And if his father knew it,
well, all the better.
One warm June night, the summer of his seventeenth year, he
stumbled into the house just before dawn. He'd just spent a
very pleasurable evening with a bottle of port and the
miller's daughter, and the combination had left him deuced
exhausted. Faith, but the girl was creative in ways he'd
never expected. Ah, but she had a talent with her mouth
that—
"Where the devil have you been?"
The marquess barred his path.
A slow smile curled Justin's lips. "What, my lord, you wish
an account of the night's activities?" He didn't bother
with a form of address. He'd stopped calling him Papa years
ago. Now he wouldn't even deign to call him Father to his
face.
He gestured grandly toward the door of his father's study,
which stood ajar. "Perhaps we should be seated. This could
take some time, for the evening's entertainment was
interesting, shall we say. I give you fair warning, though,
it's altogether possible you may be shocked—"
"Cease!" hissed the marquess. "I've no intention of
listening to your filth!" His gaze raked Justin from head
to toe. "Christ, you're drunk, aren't you?"
In the face of his father's sneer, Justin executed a
courtly bow, as courtly as he could manage given his sotted
state. "An astute observation."
His father's lip curled in disgust. "God, but I wish you'd
leave. I wish you'd leave and never return!"
Justin's mocking smile remained. "All the reason to remain."
The marquess clenched his fists. "By God, I could make you.
I have the power to make certain you never show your face
here again!"
"Ah, but what would that say to the world? You drove Mother
away, while you threw me out. But you needn't put up with
me but a while longer. I'm off to Cambridge at the end of
summer, remember?"
"And I shall be glad, for every day you are here is a
living hell!"
Justin inclined his head. "A sentiment, I daresay, I return
in full measure."
"Look at you, so drunk you can hardly stand!" the marquess
burst out. "And you reek of cheap perfume! God, but you are
so very much your mother's brat! She shamed me, the witch!
She shamed my good name, as you shame me! And all these
years I've had to look at you, staring back at me with her
eyes, with her smile. Reminding me what she did, what she
was—a whore who would spread her legs for any man who would
have her. And you are no better. Your blood is tainted," he
raged, "as she was tainted. No decent woman will ever have
you, boy No decent woman will ever want you!"
Justin's eyes glittered. In that instant, he wanted only to
strike out, to strike back, to wound his father as he had
wounded him.
"If Mama was such a whore," he stated cuttingly, "how then
do you know your children are not your own—"
All at once Justin broke off. He stared hard at his father.
"Sweet Christ," he whispered, the words but a breath. "You
don't, do you?"
The marquess made no answer. The silence was suddenly
stifling.
Justin's mouth twisted. "Oh, but that's rich! The Marquess
of Thurston . . . abandoned by his wife, killed with her
lover on her way to France . . . and forever saddled with
her children! And he must ever wonder if any of them are
his own! And of course you couldn't foist us off on anyone
else, could you? You had to claim us, because you just
didn't know."
The marquess was livid. "Shut up, boy."
Justin began to laugh. And once started, he couldn't seem
to stop . . .
"Shut up!" roared the marquess. Malice glittered in his
eyes. He took a threatening step forward.
Suddenly everything changed. The marquess made a choking
sound. His eyes bulged. He clawed at his cravat . . . and
slumped to the floor.
Justin couldn't tear his gaze from his father's figure,
lying prone on the polished marble floor. For one
horrifying instant, he couldn't move.
Then sanity returned and he rushed to his father's side,
falling to his knees. He stretched out a tentative
hand. "Father?" he whispered.
The marquess stared toward the ceiling, through sightless
eyes.
Justin began to shake. A horrible, sickly sensation seized
hold of him. He lurched upright. And then he was running,
running toward his chamber, as if the devil himself were at
his heels . . .
The marquess was dead. Dead.
Justin would never tell anyone about what transpired this
night between the two of them. He would keep it a secret
locked deep in his being. No one would ever know that he
had been present . . . that he had killed his father.
Chapter 1
London, 1817
The atmosphere at White's was not particularly different
than any other evening. A number of well-dressed gentlemen
circled the hazard table. The air was thick with the
pungent smell of brandy and cigars. His long frame
stretched out in a green velvet chair, Justin Sterling idly
scanned the day's newspaper, as if he hadn't a care in the
world—and indeed he did not. His long legs crossed at the
ankle, his pose was one of redolent ease.
"Upon my soul!" intruded a mocking voice. "So you've at
last deigned to grace us with your presence again!"
Justin glanced over the top of the paper, his green eyes
meeting those of his friend Gideon.
Gideon eyed the empty chair beside him. "May I sit?"
"What, you're asking?" Justin laid aside the newspaper.
Gideon was a man known for doing what he pleased, when he
pleased and where he pleased—a man after Justin's own
heart, to be sure.
"Well," Gideon said, "given the beastly frame of mind you
were in when you departed the country, "I thought I'd
better."
It was true. Even his sister-in-law Devon had commented on
his wretched mood before he'd left. Why, it was so, Justin
didn't know. He didn't lack for companionship, neither
female nor familial. He had anything he could possibly want
at his disposal. Indeed, what more could a man possibly
want?
He didn't know. That was the crux of it.
To that end, he'd decided three months earlier that a
change of scenery was in order, so he'd removed himself to
the Continent. To Paris, Rome, Vienna . . . He'd traveled
to his heart's content, indulged himself to his heart's
content.
Now he was back.
And he was no more content than before.
Justin reached for his brandy. "And greetings to you, too,"
he murmured dryly.
"Oh, all right then. I daresay, you are looking singularly
well." Gideon eyed the perfect fit of snug wool across his
shoulders. "Must be your tailor. Weston, I presume?"
Justin inclined his head. Weston was the premier—and most
expensive—tailor in the city. "You presume correctly."
Nearby came a raucous burst of laughter.
"Two thousand pounds to the man who can take her!"
Justin glanced over just as Sir Ashton Bentley executed a
wobbly bow. Justin was not surprised; Bentley's
predilection for drink somehow always managed to surpass
his tolerance.
"Raise the stakes and make it worthwhile," boomed another
fellow.
The voices came from a group of men, gathered just a few
paces away from White's bay window where Beau and his
cronies usually gathered, though they were absent this
night. It appeared the discussion was growing quite
animated.
There was a loud guffaw. "No one's seen her muff or likely
to, lest it be on her wedding night!"
"She'll never consent to a bedding before marriage!" hooted
another. "Ask Bentley!"
"Ha! It damn well won't take marriage, or even an offer to
make her mine. She'll be green-gowned by the end of the
season or my name isn't Charles Brentwood!"
Another man chortled. "Her? Tumbled on the grass? Not
bloody likely."
"Two thousand says I can mow her down!" boasted Patrick
McElroy, second son of a Scottish earl. "And her husband,
should she ever deign to choose one from the buffoons
courting her, will never know he wasn't the first!"
"And just how will we know the deed has been done?" came
the inevitable inquiry. "To lay claim to it is one thing,
to succeed is quite another."
Indeed, Justin's mind had been pondering that very point.
"He's right," came the shout. "We'll need proof!"
"A trophy!" someone cheered. "We need a trophy!"
"A lock of hair ought to do the trick! There's not a soul
in England with hair the color of flame!"
No doubt it was some young debutante who had captured their
fancy. Trust the Scotsman McElroy to be vulgar. And
Brentwood had no finesse when it came to the fairer sex.
Justin almost felt sorry for the poor chit, whoever she was.
Justin's gaze hadn't left the group. "A randy lot, it would
seem," he murmured to Gideon. "But I confess to an
abounding curiosity . . . Who is this woman with whom
they're so fascinated?"
Gideon offered a mocking smile. "Who else? The
Unattainable."
"The what?"
"Not what, but who. You've been gone too long, my friend.
Since she turned down three offers of marriage in a
fortnight—Bentley among them—she's become known as The
Unattainable. She's quite famously in vogue, you know. The
toast of the Season thus far."
Justin's gaze lifted heavenward. "Just what London needs.
Another drab, boring, insipid debutante."
"Not precisely a debutante. She's almost one-and-twenty,
though I don't believe she's ever had a formal coming-out.
And she's hardly insipid." Gideon erupted into
laughter. "Ah, but that is the last word I should use to
describe The Unattainable."
"And what word would you use to describe her?"
Justin lifted his glass to his lips, while Gideon pursed
his lips. "Hmmm. Do you know, one simply will not do! She's
truly quite delectable, but—oh, how shall I say this? She
is not a woman of convention, yet she's all the rage. She
is most certainly never boring, and she's hardly drab. I
don't believe I've yet to see her dressed in white. And her
hair is indeed the color of flame." He nodded toward the
group. "A fitting trophy indeed."
"She hardly sounds the usual diamond of the first water."
"And she's not the usual debutante. But perhaps that's the
lure. She is a woman of . . . how shall I put this? A woman
of statuesque proportions." Gideon gave a dramatic
sigh. "She has all the grace of a fish out of water. And
she cannot dance to save her soul."
A perfectly arched black brow climbed high. Justin lowered
his glass to stare at Gideon incredulously. He pretended a
shudder of distaste. "The chit is a giant, a bumbler,
nearly on the shelf, yet she's entertained three proposals?"
"Quite so," Gideon affirmed lightly, "and not even a
fortune to commend her."
"My God, have all the men in Town gone mad?"
Gideon laughed softly. "Yes. Mad is what they are. Mad
about her. Mad for her. I should estimate . . . oh, perhaps
half are ensnared. Enamored. Entranced, falling at her feet
and declaring themselves instantly in love with her. The
other half are here at White's—" Gideon waved a hand "—
seeking to slip beneath her skirts, as you can hear."
Ever the cynic, Justin quirked a brow. "You sound quite
besotted yourself," he observed. "Have you fallen beneath
her spell too?"
A laugh was Gideon's only response. But almost ere the
sound emerged from his lips, Gideon's eyes slid away for a
fraction of a second. Justin had known him too long and too
well to see what Gideon chose to hide. Justin gazed at him,
in truth no less than shocked. Gideon was hardly the sort
to embarrass easily.
"Never tell me," he drawled, "that you were among the
buffoons paying court to her."
Judging from his glower, Gideon did not take kindly to his
jibe.
Justin couldn't resist teasing. "Set you in your place, did
she?"
"Don't be so damned smug," Gideon snapped.
Justin took a sip of port. "Why, I wouldn't dream of it."
He contemplated the brew, his mind stirring. He was not
fond of red-haired females, and for good reason. They put
him in mind of—
"You're looking vastly annoyed, Justin. What is it?"
"If you must know, I was just thinking about a female who
gave me a set-down some years ago."
"What, you?"
Oh, but the incident playing in his mind was not one he
cared to remember. She'd dealt quite a blow to his pride;
granted, it had been a bit inflated at the time. Why the
girl had singled him out for her mischief, he had no idea.
Of course Sebastian persisted in reminding him of the
minx's little scheme whenever he could. Child or no, he'd
never quite forgotten—or forgiven!—that wild little
hoyden's attempt to demean him.
He offered a tight smile. "Let it suffice to say that
perhaps we're not so dashing as we think, either of us." He
didn't divulge that the female had been a mere child. God
knew Gideon would have gloated to no end.
He steered the conversation back to the subject at
hand. "She must be quite something, this chit known as The
Unattainable, to send you sniffing about her skirts—and you
one of the most notorious rakes in Town."
"Oh, but I do believe that honor is solely yours." Gideon
had regained his aplomb and proved himself fully up to
par. "However, if you think you would fare better, perhaps
you should put yourself into the running." He nodded toward
the group where The Unattainable was still being discussed—
and in ever more bawdy terms.
Before Justin could answer, Bentley's voice rang out
again. "Three thousand pounds to the man who succeeds in
deflowering The Unattainable!"
"Ah," said Gideon. "The stakes are rising."
Justin gave a shake of his head. "Good God, Bentley's
drunk. Someone should get him out of here before he goes
back to the hazard table and loses the very clothes on his
back."
"Who is in?" There was a flash of hands, five in all—
McElroy, Brentwood, Lester Drummond, William Hardaway—a lad
barely out of the schoolroom!—and Gregory Fitzroy.
"'Tis done," came the shout. "Three thousand pounds any man
among the five of us who claims The Unattainable!"
There was a raucous cheer, a flash of bank notes, and a
footman was sent scurrying for the betting book. Justin was
hardly shocked by the subject of the wager, for when it
came to the matter of wagers, nothing was sacred here at
White's—or any of the gentlemen's clubs, for that matter.
They were rakes, one and all, he decided with more than a
hint of self-derision, and he and Gideon perhaps the worst
of the lot.
Yet almost in spite of himself, Justin found himself
pondering what it was about The Unattainable that everyone
found so captivating.
His gaze returned to Gideon. It was disconcerting to
discover Gideon's eyes already locked on his face. Justin
wasn't certain he liked the flare of amusement in Gideon's
gaze.
He knew it for certain when Gideon tipped his head to the
side.
"Intrigued, are we, Justin?"
Justin shrugged.
Gideon's laughter rang out. "Admit it. We've known each
other too long. You are, if not by the fact that the sum is
a significant one, then because of the fact that my
interest was once piqued by The Unattainable."
An elegant black brow arose. "She must be a veritable ice
maiden to resist the likes of you."
Gideon neither confirmed nor denied it. Instead his eyes
glinted. "If that is indeed the case, no doubt you think
you can thaw her."
"I am not inclined to try," Justin said baldly.
"I confess, you disappoint me—" Gideon affected shock "—
you, the man with innumerable conquests. By God, you've
gone and gotten almost . . . dare I say it? Almost
respectable. You—" came his drawling complaint "—are
growing into a dullard."
Now that was laughable.
He was a devil inside, and everyone knew it . . . everyone
except, perhaps, his brother Sebastian, who liked to remind
him of his occasional lapses into respectability. The way
he'd ventured into several business dealings and profited
quite fortuitously, for one. Too, he'd left the family
townhouse two years earlier and leased his own just prior
to Sebastian's marriage. Those were, he supposed, the
trappings of respectability.
A pleasant haze had begun to surround him, for he was well
into his third glass of port. Nonetheless, his smile was
rather tight. "Don't bother baiting me, Gideon," he said
amicably.
Gideon gestured toward the group still gathered around the
betting book. "Then why aren't you leading the way?"
Justin was abruptly irritated. "She sounds positively
ghastly, for one. For another, no doubt she's a paragon of
virtue—"
"Ah, without question! Did I not mention she's the daughter
of a vicar?"
Justin's mind stirred. A vicar's daughter . . . hair the
color of flame. Once again, it put him in mind of . . . but
no. He dismissed the notion immediately. That could never
be.
"I am many things, but I am not a ravisher of innocent
females." He leveled on Gideon his most condescending
stare, the one that had set many a man to quailing in his
boots.
On Gideon, it had no such effect. Instead he erupted into
laughter. "Forgive me, but I know in truth you are a
ravisher of all things female."
"I detest redheads," Justin pronounced flatly. "And I have
a distinct aversion to virgins."
"What, do you mean to say you've never had a virgin?"
"I don't believe I have," Justin countered smoothly. "You
know my tastes run to sophisticates—in particular, pale,
delicate blondes."
"Do you doubt your abilities? A woman such as The
Unattainable shall require a gentle wooing. Just think, a
virgin, to make and mold as you please." Gideon gave an
exaggerated sigh. "Or perhaps, old man, you are afraid your
much-touted charm is waning?"
Justin merely offered a faint smile. They both knew
otherwise.
Gideon leaned forward. "I can see you require more
persuasion. No doubt to you Bentley's three thousand is a
paltry sum. So what say we make this more interesting?"
Justin's eyes narrowed. "What do you have in mind?"
Gideon's gaze never left his. "I propose we double the
stakes, a wager between the two of us. A private wager
between friends, if you will." He smiled. "I've often
wondered . . . what woman can resist the man touted as the
handsomest in all England? Does she exist? Six thousand
pounds says she does. Six thousand pounds says that woman
is The Unattainable."
Justin said nothing. To cold-bloodedly seduce a virgin, to
callously make her fall in love with him so that he
could . . .
God. That he could even consider it spoke to his character—
or lack thereof. Indeed, it only proved what he'd always
known . . .
He was beyond redemption.
He was wicked, and despite Sebastian's protestations
otherwise, he knew he'd never change.
"Six thousand pounds," Gideon added very deliberately. "And
worth every penny, I'll warrant. But there's one condition."
"And what is that?"
"She must be yours within the month."
A smile dallied about Justin's lips. "And what proof shall
you require?"
Gideon chuckled. "Oh, I daresay I shall know when and if
the chit falls for you."
He was drunk, Justin decided hazily, perhaps as drunk as
that fool Bentley, or he wouldn't even give the idea a
second thought.
But he was a man who could resist neither a dare nor a
challenge—and Gideon knew it.
There had been many women in his life, Justin reflected
blackly. Having reached the age of nine-and-twenty, thus
far no woman had ever captured his interest for more than a
matter of weeks. He was like his mother in that regard.
In all truth, what was one more?
And if everything that had been said about The Unattainable
was true . . . If nothing else, it might prove an amusing
dalliance.
He met Gideon's keen stare. "You're aware," he
murmured, "that I rarely make a wager unless I stand to
win."
"What a boast! And yet I think perhaps it will be you
paying me. Remember, you've the rest of the hoard to fend
off." Gideon gestured to Brentwood and McElroy.
Justin pushed back his chair and got to his
feet. "Something tells me," he drawled with a lazy
smile, "that you know where this beacon of beauty can be
found."
Gideon's eyes gleamed. "I believe that would be the
Farthingale Ball."