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than I am, obviously. I’d gladly meet him on the field, and if he survives, I just might call him out. However, I can’t countenance killing an uncon scious man, no matter how much he deserves it, so I sup pose our first order of business is getting him home and some medical attention. If you’ll just open the door for me, we’ll be on our way.”
    Call him out? Madeline was startled by the lethal ve hemence of Luke’s tone, not to mention the grim expression on his fine-boned face, but too distraught to address it.
    Though Fitch was portly, he was much shorter, and Luke heaved his lordship’s body over his shoulder with what seemed like little exertion.
    “He’s bleeding on your jacket,” Madeline whispered, leaning limply against the desk.
    “I have more clothing.”
    “I ...”
    Lifting Lord Fitch’s plump posterior in the air, Luke looked at her, his brows elevated in sardonic question. “Just help me get this horse’s arse out of here, then have a glass of wine and forget it all happened.”
    How easy he made it all sound.
    “Luke,” she started in protest, for truly, though she wanted his help, she hadn’t counted on him shouldering the entire problem.
    “Open the door. I’m going to take care of everything. You needn’t give it another thought.” His voice was full of quiet, purposeful promise and completely unlike his usual flippant tone.
    She moved to comply, preceding him through the quiet town house, helping with opening doors. When he slipped out the servant’s exit, she watched his shrouded figure disappear into the darkened alley, only to hear the rattle of wheels a few moments later.
    If locking the door was effective, she didn’t know—not as effortlessly as Viscount Altea had accessed her house—but she did it anyway. Then she wandered back to Colin’s study. The ghastly stain on the rug wasn’t going to be dealt with easily, and she supposed the whole thing would have to be discarded.
    And how to explain it . . .
    Nosebleed , she pondered, wandering over to stare at the horrible spot, wishing she’d wake up and find it all a nightmare. Could she claim Lord Fitch had a dreadful nosebleed and had ruined the carpet?
    Maybe. Until the selfsame lord told the true story. While she was glad she hadn’t actually killed him, she wasn’t all that delighted he was still going to be able to torment her. Madeline stood there, trying to imag ine the rumors that would surface if Fitch spread the word that she’d invited him to come to her home, and twisted the reason why. He’d been smart enough to not actually blackmail her, so no real crime had been com mitted except some repugnant comments. All he had to do was deny he had the journal and accuse her of attacking him without cause.
    The facts were the facts. If he’d been spiteful and sly before, he’d be tenfold worse now if he recovered.
    If.
    She took in a shuddering breath, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. Luke had sworn he’d take care of it.
    That was another matter entirely.
    Of all people, she’d called on Luke Daudet, the no torious and sinful Viscount Altea, sending her footman haring first to his club, and then apparently to one of the most shameful gaming halls in England.
    Which was worse? Held captive by Lord Fitch’s mali cious amusement, or being beholden to Luke?
    She wasn’t sure, but certainly counted this as one of the worst evenings of her life.

Chapter Three

     
     
     
    “A ny thoughts?”
    Michael Hepburn, the Marquess of Longhaven, gazed at his companion across the breakfast table. Luke smeared jam on a piece of toast, his brows lifted in question, his pose seemingly casual, but Michael wasn’t fooled. He said, “Well, for one, any time you write down words you’d prefer others besides the intended recipient not see, you take a chance something exactly like this might happen. I burn all private correspondence.”
    “I feel certain you do.” It was a dry observation. “I agree also that