Calcutta, 1816

The bamboo shutters, pulled tight against the monsoon
winds, trapped the stench of cigars and unwashed bodies in
the crowded tavern. Orange lamplight flickered through the
silvery haze, casting shadows over the room.

Jagger Remington eyed the man seated across from him at the
table. He wished the man would go away. Conversation was
not on his list of things to do tonight. He wanted nothing
more than to get drunk and bed a willing wench or two,
preferably in that order. Still, he owed this man more than
he could ever repay. He had to listen to what the man had
to say, even if it did concern the odious subject of
matrimony.

He downed his brandy, then called for another.

The tavern maid sauntered over and refilled his glass.

She slowly circled her tongue around her full, sensuous
lips. “Need anything else?”

Her blatant invitation teased a reluctant smile out of
Jagger, despite his foul mood. For reasons he did not
understand, women seemed to find his black hair and blue

eyes wildly attractive, so much so that they rarely seemed
to notice the hideous scar that marred the left half of his
face. He fingered the jagged flesh beneath his eye, a grim
reminder of the past he had left behind, the promises he
had yet to keep.

The tavern maid crossed her arms on the knife-scarred
tabletop. Flashing him a saucy smile, she leaned toward
Jagger until the scooped neckline of her smock gaped open,
giving him a tantalizing view of her big breasts bulging
out of her stays. Honey-blond hair curled around her face.
Sea-green eyes opened and closed seductively. He was about
to suggest they head to his room when the tavern keep, who
was as big as a bear and looked just as mean, growled her
name in a tone that clearly bespoke ownership.

Jagger grinned. “Just leave the bottle.”

She shrugged her shoulders and strolled away, her hips
swaying flirtatiously as she walked toward her man.

The slurred voices of drunken soldiers and sailors mingled
with sultry laughter as a kaleidoscope of painted whores
circled the room, plying their trade. All the while, the
man sitting with Jagger droned on and on about the benefits
Jagger would gain in a match with the man’s sister.

“How on earth did you ever find me?” Jagger asked when the
man finally paused for breath.

Stephen Treneham, the fourth Earl of Hallowell, crushed his
handkerchief in his fist, then mopped the sweat from his
brow. He glared at Jagger. “What difference does it make? I
have followed you through the backwaters and malarial
swamps of this godforsaken region for nigh unto a year
now.”

The earl’s voice trembled with anger, but Jagger refused to
rise to the bait. He would explain himself to no one, not
even to Stephen, whom he had once loved like a father.

The space between them filled with a charged silence,
broken only by the incessant chatter of voices in the
taproom and the drumming of Stephen’s fingertips on the
table.

Murky lamplight played over the earl’s bony hand. Jagger
was amazed at how much the man had aged since the last time
he had seen him. Gone was the full head of blond hair,
replaced by thin, silver strands combed from ear to ear.
Harsh lines cut into the flesh around his mouth, as if he
never smiled, and his sagging cheeks were flushed from the
heat.

His eyes were the same as Jagger remembered, though—
vibrant blue and burning with determination as he pointed
at the legal documents spread out on the table. “With no
entail attached to that estate, once you sign the papers,
it’s as good as yours. Granted, I have made no recent
improvements, but you know as well as I what that property
is worth. Why, there is a fortune just in timber on that
estate!”

Jagger couldn’t mask the momentary interest that no doubt
flashed across his face. The fact that Stephen noticed, as
evidenced by his satisfied smile, goaded him into
irrational anger. “I am not for sale.”

Stephen shrugged. “Nor am I buying. I am merely making a
settlement upon my sister.”

“She is agreeable to this?”

“She signed the papers, did she not?”

Jagger picked up the documents. Her signature was at the
bottom of each page, a graceful, flowing sweep across the
paper. It was the most bewildering aspect of this ludicrous
scheme. Why would she agree to wed a man she had never met?

“I didn’t even know you had a sister.”

Stephen snorted. “Why would you? You have been gone from
England for what, fifteen years now without a word?” His
voice had grown louder with each word he had spoken until
he finally bellowed, “Did you never think to let me know
you were alive?”

The accusation rang through the room. Conversations stopped
as the drunkards around them turned to stare.

Jagger clenched his fist but said nothing. He could never
explain the anguish he had suffered over his exile from
England. Nor did he want to. He would return when he was
ready. When the time was right. Then he would have his
revenge.

“Did not my mother mention my letters?” Jagger asked,
pinching the bridge of his nose. He had written to her as
often as he could and had provided for her maintenance, but
he’d never invited her to join him. Given her delicate
health and the drastically reduced life span of a European
in India, he had not thought she would survive.

“I’ve not spoken with her,” Stephen said in a voice so low,
Jagger had to strain to hear him. “Not since the
arrangements were finalized and she retired to the
country.”

Stephen cleared his throat, waved his hand. “Never mind. It
does not matter. Sophie is my stepsister. From my father’s
third marriage. There is no blood between us, but I would
see her safely settled before I die. In truth, I should
have seen to it long ago. So, what do you say?”

Jagger laughed. “You honestly expect me to do this thing?”

“Why not? I admit it’s a bit out of the ordinary way.”

“That’s a mile short of nowhere,” Jagger drawled.

“But I see nothing wrong with it,” Stephen continued as if
Jagger hadn’t spoken. “That is, of course, unless you are
already engaged?”

Jagger shook his head. He tossed back his brandy, relishing
the warmth as the smooth liqueur slid down his throat.

Stephen smiled. “Then I see no reason not to proceed. What
say you?”

“I say you have gone daft, man. I have no need of a wife.”

“Why not? Every man needs a wife. If for no other reason
than to care for him in his old age.”

“Nonsense.” Jagger poured himself another bumper of
brandy. “You cannot be more than fifty. I am certain there
are any number of nubile, young maidens eager to wed a man
of your station, regardless of your years.”

“No.” Stephen stared into his drink. A hint of despair
crept into his voice. “I loved a woman once . . .”

Wretchedly uncomfortable at the mournful expression on the
man’s face, Jagger shifted on his seat. Romantic drivel, he
thought harshly. He had never met a woman who inspired
anything more in him than momentary lust, and that was
easily assuaged by a night spent in carnal bliss.

Stephen drew a shuddering breath. “But she was lost to me,
so I did my duty and married another.”

He leveled his piercing gaze on Jagger. “When everything is
said and done, duty is all we have. Unfortunately, my wife
died in childbirth along with the babe. Now the title will
go to my brother, but I need to see to Sophie’s future. I
need to know she is safe.”

“Why me?” Jagger asked bluntly. “There must be a dozen or
more eager young bucks vying for your sister’s hand. Choose
one of them.”