“Seems to me there was yet a third,” Wrothe put in. He was lounging to the side, looking highly entertained. “Wasn’t there a story going about, years ago, Beckham? Some lusty wench took after you in Almack’s.”

“No!” Gabriel exclaimed. “But this is remarkable. A man so fortunate as to have driven three ladies to the point of an indiscretion.”

“But here’s the question,” Algie said, slurring his words a bit. “Did the third gal have a pa, then? Well, I suppose we know she had a pa, but was he living?”

“Good point, my dear nephew,” Gabriel said. “A very good point. Lord Wrothe, do you remember the young lady’s name? Or”—he turned back to Beckham—“surely you must, my lord. Even though these events seem to happen to you with distressing regularity . . . still you must remember the ladies in question.”

Beckham shrugged. “All this questioning . . . so unpleasant, gentlemen. Am I expected to remember every coquette whom I’ve met in my years? Almack’s is full of dissipated fair ones.” He drained his champagne. “I really must retire to bed.”

“No, no,” Gabriel said gently. “There is no reason for flummery amongst ourselves, Lord Beckham. Do you or do you not remember the name of the third young lady whom you accused of making an unwanted advance?”

Beckham set his teeth.

“I’ve got it,” Wrothe said. “Her last name was Wodderspoon, though I’ll be damned if I can remember the rest of it.”

“Sir Patrick Wodderspoon,” Dewberry said, drawing his brows together. “Died years ago; we were at Eton together.”

“No pa,” Algie said mournfully. “She had no pa either.”

“Dear me,” Gabriel commented. “England seems to have suffered a rash of trollopy young ladies without fathers.”

“All right ,” Beckham snapped. He jerked his chin at the footman. “You. More champagne.”

There was silence as the wine gurgled into his cup. He drank, and looked up, a fugitive sort of courage burning in his eyes. “They wanted it anyhow,” he said. “They’re all nothing but cattle in fine clothing. Scratch the surface of a supposed lady and you find nothing more than a slattern, opening her legs to any spark of the first stare who happens by.”

“But you are no spark of the first stare. An obscure phrase, but clear enough,” Gabriel said. He turned and nodded to the footman. “Please fetch Berwick. Lord Beckham will be leaving shortly.”

“He could have done that to my Victoria,” Algie said, staring at Beckham with a kind of blurry horror. “She ain’t got no pa either. And then she’d have been ruined.”

“At this point it’s too late to help Miss Wodderspoon,” Dewberry said, folding his arms over his chest. “And Delia is married, snug and tight. But Miss Effie Starck—now that’s a problem. Because I would guess that the young men aren’t taking to her, not after your story.”

“He should marry her,” Algie said. “And he should promise on his word of honor that he’ll never do anything like this again.”

“He hasn’t got a word of honor,” Dewberry said, at the same moment that Wrothe said, “I doubt Miss Effie would take him. He’s too ugly, among other things.” He said it coolly, over the rim of his glass.

Another blotchy flush was rising up Beckham’s neck. He turned his back on Lord Wrothe and snapped a bow to Gabriel. “I ascertain that you’d like me to leave this moldering pile of bricks, Your Highness, and I will. Gladly.”

“Not just yet,” Gabriel said. “You will be leaving; my inestimable Berwick will help you along on your journey. But first . . . we really do have to discuss the question of making amends to Miss Effie Starck.”

Beckham’s titter had a virulent undertone to it now. “I’ll go out there and tell the pack of them, shall I? I’ll tell them that I had a kiss off the wench and she kissed like a dead fish, so I saved other men the trouble.”

Gabriel’s fist slammed into Beckham’s jaw. He flew backward, smashed into the edge of the billiard table, and caromed to the floor.

“Is he out?” Toloose asked, after Beckham didn’t stir.

“No,” Algie said, carefully pouring his champagne over the man’s face. “I think his eyelids are twitching.”

“Waste of good champagne,” Wrothe observed. “Though I want to congratulate you on your forbearance, Prince. I thought you were going to have at him when he ventured into barnyard talk.”

Gabriel walked over and hauled Beckham to his feet. The man blinked and swayed, but kept upright. “Do we need to have further conversation, Lord Beckham?”

“I’ll begad if you didn’t break my jaw,” Beckham said, putting a finger in his mouth to feel his teeth.

“Shall we practice what you are going to say about Miss Effie Starck?”

“I’ll tell them that the prince wanted me to clear the name of his little canary bird, shall I?”

Over he went again, this time sprawling on the billiard table itself.

“Don’t throw any champagne on him,” Toloose cried, alarmed. “You’ll ruin the felt!”

Algie pulled Beckham to a sitting position on the edge of the table. His eyelids fluttered, but then his head rolled over and he slumped back down on the table.

“Tiresome,” Gabriel observed, “but I believe that he is likely ready to tell the truth.” He turned to another footman. “Go to Lady Dagobert’s chambers. Give her my compliments and request that she attend me here, in the billiards room, on a matter of utmost urgency.”

Dewberry’s mouth fell open and Toloose laughed aloud.

A few minutes later Beckham blinked, gave a yelp, and sat up. “My tooth!” He spat a little blood and said, with something of a lisp, “You’ve taken out my tooth, you bloody foreign—” He stopped short, catching Gabriel’s eye.

“Lady Dagobert will arrive in a moment to hear your confession,” Gabriel told him. “Confession, so they say, is good for the soul. In your case, it is your only chance of keeping the rest of your teeth. Do you understand?”

“I can’t. You’re going to make me a pariah,” Beckham panted. “You don’t understand England, or the English.”

Algie reached over, picked up a yellowed tooth on the billiard table, and dropped it in Beckham’s hand. “Wouldn’t want you to leave this behind. Bit of a souvenir of your visit to the castle, one might say.”

“No one will invite me anywhere,” Beckham bleated. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me. I’ll have to rusticate.”

“For life,” Dewberry put in grimly.

“I’ll—I’ll marry the girl!” Beckham said, looking wildly from face to face. “That’s the best I can offer, and she’ll leap at the chance, you know she will. I’ll do it just to show what a gentleman I am because she—”

“Effie won’t want to marry you,” Gabriel stated. “Especially not with that big gaping hole where your tooth used to be. It makes you look like a degenerate, which is appropriate.”