"I am only saying that Lady Maitland has turned to me in an effort to stop grieving for her husband."

"And because she desires you," Rafe said with a faint, twisted smile.

"I am certain that you are as aware as I am of the in-advisability of acting on such an emotion."

"And I assure you that if I lectured Imogen on the subject, it would make no difference to her determination to seduce you," Rafe said. Even he could hear the raw raggedness in his voice. "Dammit!"

"Yes," his brother said, his eyes amused.

"Don't look at me like that. I'm not quite brokenhearted."

"Just a bit touched," Gabe said after a moment's consideration.

"Not even."

"Overcome by bashfulness, are we?" Gabe said, suddenly finding that he was enormously enjoying the role of younger brother.

Rafe glared at him balefully from beneath lowered brows.

"You'll have to go in my stead."

"What?"

"Tomorrow night. Stick on the mustache, cloak, etc."

"Don't be an ass!"

"Would you rather that she is humiliated by my rejection? Because while I would not want to spurn her, I am not—"

"Not what?" Rafe said fiercely.

"Not interested."

"Rubbish. There's no man alive that wouldn't be interested in Imogen."

"I don't wish to marry her."

Rafe's eyes visibly darkened. "Then—" he stopped.

Gabe stood up. "Bring a carriage to the orchard gate at nine o'clock tomorrow night."

"I won't."

Gabe paused at the door. "If you don't," he said gently, "Imogen will wait for me. I imagine that she will be humiliated by my nonappearance. I suppose you could comfort her."

Rafe just stared at him, eyes narrowed and chilly. He was remembering all those stories of Cain and Abel and just how much sense they made.

"Oh," Gabe said, reaching into his pocket. "I forgot this." A long black mustache flew through the air and landed on Rafe's bed like a limp mouse skin. "Just in case you decide to spare your ward the humiliation. Nine o'clock at the orchard gate. You are taking her to Sil-chester to see a singer from London, by the way. I think her name is Cristobel."

"Cristobel?" Rafe said, his eyes narrowing. "Are you quite certain?"

Gabe shrugged. "I saw something nailed to a tree. The woman likely has all the skill of a caterwauling cat."

"You're a professor of divinity, and you promised to take my ward to see Cristobel?"

"Imogen is not a child," Gabe said, opening the door.

"If you allowed yourself to see Imogen as a woman rather than someone fit to play with toys, she might truly surprise you." The door closed quietly behind him.

Chapter 18

A Chapter of Intelligent Conversation About Intelligent Subjects

Gillian Pythian-Adams had been seated in the library for two hours, painstakingly copying out actors' parts from The Man of Mode. At the moment she was copying out Mrs. Loveit's part so that it could be sent to Miss Loretta Hawes. As she wrote, Gillian was trying to memorize the part; surely the stage manager of a theatrical event should know all the lines better than the actors.

"I know he is a devil," Gillian murmured to herself. What a stupid line that was. If the man was a devil—and every indication was that Dorimant was just that—then Mrs. Loveit should spurn him, not waft around the stage sighing that she must love him, be he never so wicked.

Wicked men were to be detested. Especially the wicked kind like Dorimant, who had obviously dallied with half the women in London.

Dorimant was rather like Mr. Spenser, to tell the truth. Mr. Spenser looked innocent as an angel—a divinity professor!—while in truth he was importing his mistress into the household. Because that was the conclusion Gillian had drawn about Mr. Spenser's suspicious interest in Miss Hawes's welfare. At the same time, there was Imogen, and her ambitions for Mr. Spenser's further acquaintance. Yes, perhaps she should switch Mr. Spenser to Dorimant and make the duke play Medley.

It was all rather depressing, for some reason. Of course Imogen was so beautiful that Mr. Spenser would succumb to her wiles.

Mrs. Loveit was complaining about all the odious fools in London. Well, she, Gillian, knew about fools. After all, she'd been engaged to Draven Maitland, hadn't she?

"Excuse me," came a deep voice.

She jerked her head up. "Oh!"

"I merely wondered if you would like some assistance." How could he be so devilish when he looked so blameless?

"That is very kind of you," she said. "But as you can see, I have only one copy of The Man of Mode, and I am afraid that only one person can use the book at a time."

Mr. Spenser moved closer to the table and looked down at her. He had a lovely square jaw. Not that Gillian was noticing in particular. "If I sat next to you," he suggested, "I could copy out a part at the same time."

"Oh, no—" Gillian said, but he was already pulling a chair close to her and drawing a scroll toward him.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Act Two," she said weakly. "Mrs. Loveit."

"Shall I do Dorimant's part?" he asked, glancing over her sheet. "We can add his earlier lines at another time."

"I won't be able to write with you so close to my arm, Mr. Spenser," she protested. He smelled like soap and the outdoors.

He politely moved his chair to the right. "In that case, why don't you read Mrs. Loveit's lines aloud, and I'll write down the lines?"

Gillian smiled weakly at him. "All right. I'll start with Dorimant's entrance. Is this the constancy you vowed?"

"Is that Mrs. Loveit?" His eyebrows were delicious when they pulled together with that little pang of bewilderment.

"Yes," Gillian said with a gulp. "Of course it is. And then Dorimant says: Constancy at my years! 'tis not a virtue in season; you might as well expect the fruit the autumn ripens i' the spring."

"A charming fellow," Gabe said as his pen scratched across the foolscap.

"Like all men," Gillian said before she thought.

"You think that constancy is in short supply in my sex? That an honorable man is, in fact, as rare as autumn fruit in the spring?"

Gillian hesitated a moment and then nodded. Normally she didn't share her opinions with males, but surely Mr. Spenser was the exception. He could have no interest in her, what with his Loretta and Imogen, and Lord only knows who else.

"A harsh judgment," Mr. Spenser said, sounding genuinely perplexed.

"I hardly think so," Gillian said. "This play and its hero is only one of many celebrations of the rakish hero. Is a rake, a man like Dorimant, anything to venerate or to adore? Dorimant abandons Mrs. Loveit, flirts with Belinda, and courts Harriet. What sort of man is he to admire?"

"Why on earth did you chose the play? I have always found it a paltry bit of entertainment, as I said at the time."

"But the only suggestion you came up with was translated from ancient Greek," Gillian said, nettled. "We have no skills for solemn tragedy; this company will be hard put to perform a comedy."