Dex Champion was more than annoyed. He’d done as much himself in pursuit of a woman; he knew full well what Jamie was doing.

Speaking quietly so others couldn’t hear, Jamie was appealing to the elderly man’s benevolence. “Would you mind if I took your place and we found you another? My cousin Sofia wants to grill me on everything that’s transpired in my life while I was abroad. You know women,” he added in collective male lament. “She’s already asked a dozen questions on the way upstairs.”

Half-turned in his chair, Lord Airlie offered a commiserating smile. “Pesky ones, I don’t doubt.”

Jamie grimaced. “I’m planning on drinking my dinner.” The man had the look of a country squire, stout and red-faced from drink and outdoor sport; he was sure to understand.

Airlie guffawed. “Can’t live with ’em and can’t live without’em—eh?”

Dex couldn’t help but hear that ringing declaration, the comment bringing knowing smiles to many of the male guests and alternately, pursed lips to the women.

Jamie didn’t respond.

“Very diplomatic, my boy,” Airlie jovially remarked, pushing his chair back and coming to his feet at the same time Jamie summoned his host with a lift of his hand. “But I’m thirty years’ married with three daughters, bless their souls, and I know for a fact that womenfolk chatter like magpies. No offense, Miss Eastleigh,” the squire bluffly added with a wink for Sofia, who was watching the proceedings with suppressed fury.

She could forgive Airlie; country gentlemen of his generation weren’t likely to change their views on women. But Blackwood, damn him, should know better than to treat her like chattel. He had absolutely no jurisdiction over her life. None. What’s this? Fitz was coming over and actually smiling. Turncoat!

After explaining the situation to the duke, Jamie watched Lord Airlie being led away before sliding into the vacated chair. Leaning forward, he reached past Sofia and put out his hand to the sandy-haired man on her right who was glaring at him. “Blackwood,” he pleasantly said. “Cousin Sofia and I used to spend summers together as children,” he added, perjuring himself without qualm.

Dex took Jamie’s outstretched hand, his good humor instantly restored on learning he likely didn’t have a rival. “Wharton. A pleasure.”

“I’m off to Scotland tomorrow to do some fishing, so Cousin Sofia and I don’t have much time to exchange family gossip.” An explanation for his actions. As for his mention of fishing, he intended to engage Wharton’s interest and in so doing, obstruct Sofia’s flirtation.

“Salmon or saltwater?”

“Salmon. I might do some hunting, too. I’ve heard game birds are in good supply this year.”

“According to my gamekeeper, the numbers are better than he’s seen in years.”

“My gamekeeper is in ecstasy,” Jamie pleasantly said. “I’m getting telegrams every other day. Do you prefer hunting woodcock or grouse?”

At which point Sofia became largely invisible, with talk of coverts and gillies, of birds and shotguns, salmon and mountain streams capturing center stage. Midway through a discussion of Holland and Holland’s custom-made guns, Jamie ordered whiskey from a footman.

Several drinks later, when the merits of each man’s gun collection had been thoroughly dissected, Jamie smoothly shifted the topic of conversation. “Have you heard whether there’s a date set for the polo match in Warsaw? Last word mentioned early July.”

“The Uhlans are still waiting to hear from the Russians. You play?”

“A little. You?”

At which point, Sofia could have slid under the table and Dex wouldn’t have noticed. Instant male rapport ensued, and using an idiom particular to the sport, the men analyzed every venue for polo from Argentina to India, comparing, contrasting, and evaluating the game with considerable laughter, congeniality, and several more glasses of whiskey. Occasionally an allusion to a woman they both knew gave rise to some incomprehensible reference that served to further irritate Sofia. The name Countess Minton in particular caught her ear—although she shouldn’t care in the least.

And normally she wouldn’t. But under the circumstances perhaps she was allowed a pettish tantrum or two. After all, her life had been thrown into complete turmoil—worse—imperiled. Furthermore, she was unaccustomed to being totally ignored, and needless to say, the baron’s suave deceit was an outrage!

He was treating her as if she were a nonentity!

A favor she’d be more than willing to return, for she wanted no part of this grand conspiracy. She wanted her life back—a very satisfying life in every aspect—professionally, socially, personally. So while the two men went on about bloody polo as if it were the most glorious invention since the dawn of time, she began to apply herself to a scheme of her own—which entailed disappearing from Groveland House and London—alone.

Only when dessert had been cleared away and the ladies were beginning to rise from the table did Dex finally take notice of Sofia. “Darling, please forgive my inattention. But Blackwood’s played polo in every corner of the globe,” he cheerfully added as if that sterling fact exonerated his neglect. Taking her hand, he lifted it and kissed her fingertips. “I’ll make it up to you after tea, I promise,” he murmured, his smile warm and intimate.

“Unfortunately,” Jamie interrupted, “I must steal Cousin Sofia away before tea. Uncle Douglas is expecting us tonight and it’s getting late.” Jamie’s tone was apologetic. “You know how old men get crotchety when they’re made to stay up past their bedtime. Why don’t we meet for drinks at Brooks’s tomorrow afternoon? I hear Tattersalls has some prime polo ponies coming on the block. I’d like your advice.”

Recalling his sole purpose in coming to dinner tonight, Dex tardily redressed his role of suitor. “Darling, must you go?” he softly queried, his heavy-lidded gaze adoring. “I’m sure we can think of some reasonable excuse for your uncle.”

Sofia hesitated; Wharton would be easier to evade.

“I’m afraid Cousin Sofia does have to go,” Jamie crisply interposed, his goodwill stretched to the limit after an hour of worthless conversation with Wharton. “You don’t want to arouse Uncle Douglas’s ire, cousin dear,” he said, his voice amiable, his gaze unblinkingly chilly. “Remember the last time you did, he threatened to cut you out of his will.” Jamie turned to smile at Dex. “A perennial threat—still, who wants to risk losing a fortune?”

Dare she make a scene? Sofia wondered.

If so, what would Blackwood do?

What he did was come to his feet, pull out Sofia’s chair, unceremoniously haul her to her feet, and nod at Wharton. “I’ll see you at two tomorrow.”

With a lesser capacity for alcohol than his companion, Dex was incapable of quick thinking. “Very well, at two,” he said, for lack of a better answer.

Quickly propelling Sofia away with a hand at her waist, Jamie pushed her in the direction of their hosts. “That went rather well,” he said, taking her hand out of prudence. “I didn’t have to resort to a sparring match.”

“You still might—with me,” Sofia muttered, trying to jerk her hand away.

He shrugged. “They’re your friends, not mine.”

Christ, he didn’t care if she kicked up a row, she realized, abandoning her futile exertions.

“Sensible girl,” he murmured.

“Damn bastard,” she hissed.

“Whatever you say.”

His indifference was bloody monumental. Thoroughly piqued at his imperious calm, at her inability to retaliate against his physical strength, in time-honored female fashion, she resorted to verbal attack. “You certainly charmed and captivated Dex during dinner,” she jibed. “I wasn’t sure who he’d prefer tonight—you or me?”

Jamie smiled faintly. “Since polo’s his addiction, I think I had an edge.”

Did nothing prick his damnable composure? “You’re a cold-blooded brute.”

“So I’ve been told,” he placidly said. “Now don’t be troublesome, or any more troublesome than you’ve already been.” He gave her a warning glance as they approached Fitz and Rosalind. “I’m more than willing to carry you out of here.”

“Fitz might not let you.”

“I doubt he’s armed.”

“Armed!”

“Always.” He might have been saying, I like sugar in my tea, so innocuous was his tone. “Look,” he said, a touch of exasperation in his voice, “I understand your frustration. I wish we had other choices, but we don’t. As a matter of fact, I’d prefer being anywhere but here”—he shot her a glance—“with you. Now, let me do the explaining,” he gruffly added as they reached their hosts.

Waiting on the margins of the group surrounding the Grovelands until he was able to catch the duke’s eye, Jamie nodded in the direction of the door and said, “Could I have a moment of your time?”

A look passed between husband and wife before Rosalind turned to Sofia. “You’re not going, are you?”

Jamie’s grip tightened on Sofia’s hand.

“I’m afraid so. I have an early appointment tomorrow.”

Something in Sofia’s voice signaled her unease, as did the fact that Blackwood hadn’t released her hand. Turning to the guests clustered around her, the duchess offered them a polite smile. “Tea and sherry is being served next door, ladies. As for you gentlemen, I see the port and cigars are on the table. If you’ll excuse Fitz and me for a few minutes.”

The Grovelands, Jamie, and Sofia had almost reached the door to the hallway when Oz caught up with them. “Am I missing something?” he cheerfully asked and without waiting for an answer, strode past them, opened the door, and waved them through. Shutting the door behind him, he took note of Sofia’s restive stance, of Blackwood’s grip on her hand, and lightly touching the holster concealed beneath his evening jacket, he held Jamie’s gaze. “Does anyone need my assistance?”

Jamie frowned. “And if I said no?”

“A gentleman would respect your wishes. However,” Oz lazily replied, “I’m not a gentleman, I’m a nobleman.”

As Jamie shifted in his stance, Fitz quickly held up his hand. “Please, not here. We can discuss this in the library.”

The library at Groveland House was world renowned, much of the collection predating the Palladian mansion, and as the group entered the large chamber, the scent of history and old leather bindings pervaded the air. The jewel of the collection gleamed atop its carved pedestal in the center of the room, the eighth-century depiction of the Annunciation in the Lindisfarne Gospel lit from above. The gold leaf painstakingly applied by monks to the glory of God fairly glowed in the subdued light and gave everyone momentary pause.

“If the ladies would care to sit near the windows,” Fitz said, breaking the silence, “I’ll pour drinks for anyone who wishes.”

With the circumstances anything but social, everyone demurred. Once the ladies were seated and the men were standing with the windows to their back, Fitz called on Jamie. “You have the floor, Blackwood. Don’t scowl, Sofie. He’ll be less—”

“Don’t you dare say less emotional,” Sofia muttered.

“I was going to say Blackwood will be less likely to overlook the details. Apparently there’s some problem. You’ve not been yourself since you returned from your interview with Ernst. Obviously, something’s wrong.”

“If I may,” Jamie said with time an issue. He briefly and emotionlessly explained the reasons that had brought him to London and Groveland House. “So you see, Prince Ernst and Miss Eastleigh must be protected until Von Welden is no longer a threat. And the sooner we leave London the better.”

His recital was greeted by a stunned silence.

“I’m not altogether sure I have to leave London,” Sofia said into the hush. “I’d prefer not, although apparently”—she scowled at Jamie—“my wishes are irrelevant.”

“Don’t disregard the extent of your danger, Sofie,” the duke counseled. “Von Welden has a very unpleasant reputation. Even here. It would be prudent to err on the side of caution.” He turned to Jamie. “If you like, you could make use of my country homes on your way north. Several are close to your route. My staffs are discreet.”

“Allow me to offer accommodations as well,” Oz remarked. “The security on my estates is substantial should your troopers like to rest.” Oz had been poisoned the previous year, barely survived, and as a result, was vigilant. “Fitz and I can telegraph ahead so you’ll be assured of a warm welcome.”

“Whether we stop overnight or not depends on Miss Eastleigh’s stamina,” Jamie politely replied, a measured contradiction, however, apparent in his tone.

“I’d prefer stopping overnight,” Sofia said, taking satisfaction in the clenching of Jamie’s jaw.

“Why don’t I go along?” Oz volunteered. “I could use a little excitement.” And a referee might be useful with the two principals at daggers drawn.

Sofia gave him a quelling look. “I doubt Isolde would agree.”

Oz grinned. “She’s persuadable.”

“Not on this.” Rosalind and Oz’s wife had become good friends after his marriage, and while Isolde was indulgent to her volatile, devil-may-care husband—up to a point—Rosalind rather thought cutthroat killers would qualify as that limit. “Nor would I be persuadable on this issue,” she firmly added, directing a sharp glance at her husband.

“My troopers are well trained,” Jamie assured everyone. “We’ll be in excellent hands. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve stayed much too long already.”

“He means I insisted on finishing dinner,” Sofia sardonically noted. “I didn’t see any point in generating unnecessary gossip.”

“I agree,” Rosalind kindly observed. “Should anyone ask, we’ll explain that you’re in the country painting. You do often enough it won’t cause comment.”

“And tonight, we’ll simply say that you ran off with Blackwood.” Oz grinned. “That, too, is common enough to cause no comment.”

Sofia sniffed. “Very amusing for a man with your past.” “I’m reformed.”

“Perhaps I shall be someday as well.”

Jamie broke into the conversation. “If you don’t mind, Miss Eastleigh, we should be on our way.” He moved toward her chair.

“I do mind of course, not that it matters in the least,” she lightly said with a smile for her friends. “I’m at this man’s mercy.”

The cost of his restraint could be glimpsed in the slight flare of his nostrils, although Jamie chose not to reply to her flippancy. “I’ll send word once Miss Eastleigh is safe in the Highlands.” Offering his hand to Sofia, he helped her to her feet.

“In case I don’t see you again, remember me fondly,” Sofia airily proclaimed over her shoulder as she and Jamie walked away.

Checking his stride, Jamie turned back. “Miss Eastleigh is in no danger,” he said. “You have my word.”

Moments later, as the library door closed, Fitz blew out a breath. “I’m not sure who’s at whose mercy,” he said with a faint smile. “Sofia’s damned uncooperative tonight.”

Rosalind frowned. “She has reason.”

“Under the circumstances, my dear, she’d do well to listen to Blackwood.”

“I wouldn’t worry about Blackwood,” Oz drawled. “If he can handle Dex, he can deal with Sofie. You saw him at dinner. Wharton was fit to be tied at first, but before long the men were chums. And we all know how difficult Wharton can be when he’s not wooing a lady.” Dex had a reputation for being confrontational, particularly on the polo field.

“I suppose it helps that Blackwood’s been dealing with a demanding patron for years,” Fitz pointed out.

Rosalind smiled. “Like father, like daughter then. I wonder if the prince can actually convince Sofie to accept her title.”

“More pressing is the question of whether she’ll survive to accept it. I still think we should have gone with them, Fitz,” Oz muttered.

“Sofie’s in good hands. Blackwood’s saved Ernst from assassination countless times.”

Oz sighed. “You’re right. Still.”

“Don’t even think it,” Rosalind warned.

Oz grinned. “You can’t stop me from doing that.” He loved his wife and daughter, but that didn’t mean he’d been tamed or that his wild nature was entirely subdued. “It won’t hurt to put my men on alert for Von Welden or his crew. We’d be doing Sofie a good turn if we stopped them in London.”

“Tell him no, Fitz. For heaven’s sake, Oz,” Rosalind protested, “don’t even talk about entering this dangerous game.”

“You’re right, of course,” Oz mildly replied. “I think I’ll have some port and a cigar and contemplate the pleasures of life.”

“Indeed. We should get back to our guests,” Fitz concurred, but as the men were leaving the room, Rosalind in advance of them, he gave Oz a warning glance. “Don’t take too many risks. But if you should need my help”—Fitz grinned—“just let me know.”