Ralston made his way to the large antechamber off the foyer, where one was always able to find a willing distraction. He entered in search of a political debate that would keep him occupied, only to discover the room virtually empty, with the exception of a small game of cards. Seated at the card table was Oxford, along with two others. They were disheveled enough for Ralston to know that the trio had likely been at the table all night.

Disgusted by the sight of Oxford’s irresponsible gambling habits, and with no interest in being pulled into conversation by the group, Ralston made to exit the room as quickly and silently as he’d entered. Before he could, however, he was discovered.

“Ralston, old chap. Come and play a trick with us,” Oxford called out jovially.

Ralston paused, devising a plan to best ignore the invitation, when the baron added, “Now is the time for you to win against, me, Ralston, for soon your pockets will be considerably lighter.” The words, laden with meaning and followed by a round of amused noise from the table, brought Ralston around to face Oxford.

Ralston’s expression steeled as he approached the table. From Oxford’s ruddy-cheeked and sunken-eyed look, it was clear that he was deep in his cups. Ralston spoke blandly, indicating the piles of winnings that sat in front of the baron’s companions. “It appears that my pockets are in no danger of being lightened today, Oxford.”

Oxford scowled at Ralston before remembering why he’d called the baron over to begin with. “Yes, well, I shall have plenty of money to gamble away soon enough…” He paused, swallowing back a moment of indigestion. “You see, I’m planning to be engaged before week’s end.”

Ignoring the overwhelming premonition that coursed through him, Ralston tried to appear casual when he said, “To whom?”

Oxford pointed a long, pasty finger at Ralston and crowed triumphantly. “To Calpurnia Hartwell, of course! You had better count out that”—his body wavered in its seat—“thousand pounds.”

The words sent a wave of heat through Ralston, which was followed quickly by a serious desire to put his fist into Oxford’s smug face. It was only by pure strength of character that Ralston remained calm, and said, “You think you’ve got her, eh?”

Oxford flashed a toothy grin that made him look like an imbecile. “Oh, I’ve got her, all right. She was putty in my hands at the Royal Academy yesterday.” He winked at his friends baldly.

Ralston stiffened at the words—so blatant a lie. His fists clenched at his sides, and energy pulsed through him, desperate for release, preferably in the form of tearing Oxford limb from limb.

Oxford failed to sense the tension in Ralston’s corded muscles, instead pushing further. “I shall visit her tomorrow and get the proposal business out of the way. Then probably get the girl compromised by week’s end to make sure that Allendale will have no choice but to welcome me into the family—though he’ll likely thank me for taking on his dusty old sister with a substantial marriage settlement.”

The idea of Oxford laying a finger upon Callie sent Ralston over the edge. In mere seconds, he had lifted the baron from his seat at the card table as though he weighed no more than a child. The motion startled Oxford’s friends from their chairs, which went flying backward as the men scrambled to distance themselves from a fight with Ralston.

As Oxford dangled from his hands, Ralston could smell the fear on the weaker man, and the cowardice fed his disgust. When he spoke, the words were a growl. “Lady Calpurnia Hartwell is a thousand times better than you. You don’t deserve to breathe her air.”

Releasing Oxford, Ralston felt an acute sense of masculine satisfaction at the other man’s immediate and ungraceful collapse into his chair. With an arrogant look that rivaled that of any king, Ralston added, “I wagered a thousand pounds that she won’t have you, and I stand by it. In fact, I am so certain of it…I’ll double the bet here and now.”

Ralston watched, noticing the slight tremble in the baron’s hands as Oxford adjusted the sleeves of his topcoat, and said, “After your boorish behavior, Ralston, I shall enjoy lightening your coffers even more.”

Ralston spun on his heel and left the room, saying nothing, telling himself that his behavior had been in defense of a lady to whom he was greatly indebted.

It was easier to convince himself of that reasoning than to consider the emotions that still roiled at the idea of Callie’s becoming a baroness.

Callie pushed open the door to Madame Hebert’s shop on Bond Street later that afternoon, eager to be done with what was certain to be another excruciating part of her day. After Ralston had stormed from the house, Callie had cried for several long minutes before receiving word that the dressmaker had completed work on the gown that she had commissioned, as well as on several pieces of Juliana’s new wardrobe.

Taking the message as a sign that she could not while away the day feeling sorry for herself, Callie had prepared for an afternoon at the dressmaker’s, an outing that held only slightly more appeal than a funeral. Nevertheless, she was in dire need of a distraction, and the French modiste was guaranteed to provide just the thing.

She’d convinced Mariana to join her for the afternoon, and the younger Hartwell sister had left Allendale House ahead of Callie to retrieve Juliana, who would spend much of the afternoon in fittings for her own dresses. Callie would have ordinarily joined the other girls, but she simply couldn’t bear the thought of meeting Ralston again today—however unlikely an event that might be—and so, here she was, standing just inside the door to the dressmaker’s salon, waiting for someone to acknowledge her presence.