Charles glowered. "She did nothing whatsoever objectionable. She is an innocent with charming manners and a sweet temper. Grayley simply walked up to me in my club last night and made a totally uncalled-for slur on her character."
Devlin looked at Simon. "Grayley said she was just another countrified lightskirt who had probably been to bed with every farmer in Yorkshire."
Simon raised his brows at that. "A bit extreme."
"It was a damn deliberate provocation," Charles announced, slamming his fist down on the arm of the chair.
"Yes, it was. Grayley is looking for fresh blood, apparently."
"What do you mean?" Devlin asked.
"Grayley is one of those rare individuals who actually enjoys the thrill of terrifying his opponent on the dueling field." Simon's mouth hardened. "He is a crack shot who derives a certain excitement from the whole process. He is always careful to choose victims he knows are not good marksmen. But his reputation has spread and he has difficulty these days finding anyone foolish enough to meet him. When he does manage to force a challenge, most men are wise enough to have their seconds convey abject apologies."
"I shall not send apologies," Charles vowed. "I would sooner die on the field of honor than allow Maryann's honor to be impugned."
Simon gave him a considering look. "I believe you actually mean that."
"Do not bother to try to talk me out of this meeting, sir. I have taken a vow."
"I see." Simon drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the mantel. "Very well, then, Devlin and I will act as your seconds. Come along, Dev."
Devlin looked at him. "Where are we going?"
"Why, to meet with Grayley, of course. There are all sorts of small details that must be worked out."
"But we already know when and where the meeting is to be held," Devlin said.
Simon shook his head, feeling a hundred years older than these young cubs. Broderick Faringdon had much to answer for, he reflected. "You have a great deal to learn and, unfortunately, it begins to look as though I shall have to be the one to instruct you."
Simon and Devlin sat in the darkened carriage and watched the front door of the club until it opened at last to reveal Grayley. His eyes on his quarry, Simon tapped the roof of the carriage with his walking stick. As instructed, the coachman drew the hired vehicle directly up in front of Grayley.
Grayley, a pinched-faced, thin-lipped man with restless, predatory eyes, bounded inside. He flung himself into the seat before he noticed that the carriage was already occupied.
"Good evening, Grayley." Simon tapped the roof once more and the coachman set the vehicle in motion.
"What the bloody hell is this all about?" Grayley demanded, scowling first at Devlin and then at Simon.
"Faringdon and I will be acting as Charles Faringdon's seconds," Simon said. "We came to settle a few minor points."
"You should be talking to my seconds, Barton and Evingly."
"I think you will take a personal interest in these details." Simon smiled without any humor. "And I do not believe you will want Barton and Evingly to know about them."
Grayley sneered. "You've come to offer apologies on Faringdon's behalf?"
"Of course not. I understand you grossly insulted the lady in question," Simon said. "You are the one who must offer apologies."
Grayley narrowed his eyes. "Now, why would I do that, pray tell?"
"Because if you do not," Simon explained gently, "then Faringdon, here, and I will be forced to put it about that your business investments will soon be taking a very serious downturn and you will not be able to meet your considerable financial obligations, let alone your gaming vowels."
Grayley went still. "Damn you, Blade, are you threatening me?"
"Yes, I believe I am. I understand you have invested rather heavily in a certain trading venture in which I am also involved."
"What of it? I stand to make a fortune."
"That will be highly unlikely if I decide the risk is not worth the candle and decide to sell off my shares tomorrow. Word will get around town by noon that the deal has gone bad. If I pull out, everyone else will want out at once. The market for the shares will disappear and you, along with the other investors, will lose everything you have put into the project."
Grayley stared at him. "Good God. You would ruin me and the others."
"Very likely."
"For the sake of a Faringdon?" Grayley asked in utter disbelief. "I heard you had no love for any of that clan."
"Which is why you felt it safe to challenge one of them, I understand. But there you have it. Fate takes odd twists now and again. Shall I convey your apologies to Charles Faringdon and explain that it was all a misunderstanding?"
Grayley was silent for a long moment. "Those who call you a cold-blooded bastard are right to do so, Blade."
Simon shrugged, glancing idly out the carriage. The hour was late but the street was filled with carriages carrying the elegant members of the ton to and fro on their endless round of parties. "Well, Grayley? Surely you can look for easier meat elsewhere?"
"Damn you, Blade."
"Come, man," Simon said softly. "You do not need to prove your marksmanship on the Faringdon boy. Find some other victim."
"You will go too far one of these days, Blade."
"Possibly."
Grayley's mouth thinned. He rapped on the roof to signal the coachman to halt. When the carriage stopped, he opened the door and climbed down. "Convey my apologies to your brother," he said curtly to Devlin. "There will be no dawn meeting."
Grayley stepped back and slammed the door. The carriage clattered off down the street. Devlin looked at Blade with something approaching hero worship in his eyes.
"I say, that was astounding. You actually got Grayley to cry off the entire affair. I have never heard of such a thing."
"I do not expect to find myself with a similar task at any time in the future," Simon said bluntly. "Is that quite clear?"
"Yes, sir. Very clear." Devlin was exuberant now. "Dashed clever of you, though. The man withdrew from the duel simply because you implied his investments would suffer."
Simon shook his head over such naivete. "Faringdon, it is time you and your brother learned that real power is based on money and information. Armed with those two things, a man can accomplish a great deal more than he can with a dueling pistol or a deck of cards."
"And if a man lacks the blunt?" Devlin asked shrewdly.
"Then he must concentrate on obtaining the information. With a sufficient amount of that resource, he will soon find the other."
"I shall remember that," Devlin said quietly. He was silent for a moment and then his mood lightened once more. "By the bye, Charles and I have been wondering if you would show us that fascinating fighting technique you used on us that day in your library. Would it be too much to ask?"
"I suppose I could demonstrate it for you. The thing I do not entirely understand," Simon said reflectively, "is how I came to be in this situation in the first place."
Devlin grinned the charming Faringdon grin. "You mean rescuing Charles and showing us a trick or two about how to be going on in the world? I expect it is all Emily's fault."
"You are correct, of course. It is all her fault."
"She is the one person on the face of the earth who does not think you are a cold-blooded devil, you know," Devlin said.
"Emily's tendency toward the romantical is occasionally awkward."
"I know," Devlin said, not without sympathy. "One always hates to disillusion her."