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your mother, my sister—well, your mother is as proud as you, lad. And Henrietta . . .” He shrugged expressively, unable to complete the sentence.
    â€œAnd Henrietta is George’s widow,” Luke said quietly, his fan still.
    â€œAye.” Lord Quinn sighed. “You have begun badly, lad, leasing this house instead of taking up residence at Harndon House. ’Twill be thought strange that you live here while your mother, brother and sister are there.”
    â€œYou forget, my dear,” Luke said, looking keenly at his uncle from beneath half-lowered eyelids, “that I care not one fig for what people think.”
    â€œAye, ’tis so.” Lord Quinn drained his glass. “But you have not even called on them.”
    Luke sat down at last, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. He set down his fan and withdrew an enameled, jeweled snuffbox from a pocket. He set a pinch of snuff on the back of one hand and proceeded unhurriedly to sniff it up each nostril before replying.
    â€œNo,” he said, “I have not waited upon them yet, my dear. Perhaps I will do so tomorrow or the next day. Perhaps not.”
    â€œAnd yet you came home,” his uncle reminded him.
    â€œI came to England,” the duke said. “To London. Perhaps I came out of curiosity, Theo, to find how it has changed in ten years. Perhaps I grew restless and bored in Paris. Perhaps I have grown tired of Angélique. Though she has followed me here. Did you know?”
    â€œThe Marquise d’Étienne?” Lord Quinn asked. “Sometimes known as the most beautiful woman in France?”
    â€œNone other,” Luke said. “And I would have to agree with public opinion. But she has been my mistress for almost six months. I usually make three the upper limit. Mistresses are not easy to shed after three months. They become possessive.”
    Lord Quinn chuckled.
    â€œOf course,” his nephew said, “everyone knows that you have kept the same mistress for ten years or more, Theo.”
    â€œFifteen,” his uncle said. “And she is not possessive, Luke. She still refuses to marry me whenever conscience prompts me to broach the subject of matrimony.”
    â€œA paragon,” Luke said.
    â€œYou will return to Bowden?” his uncle asked casually.
    â€œYou would make a masterful conspirator, my dear,” his nephew said. “First one small step and then another until your victim has finally done all you set out to persuade him to do. No, not Bowden. I have no wish to return there. I have no love for the place.”
    â€œAnd yet,” his uncle reminded him, “’tis yours, Luke. Many people there depend upon you, and word has it that ’tis not being run as well as it might. Rents are high and wages are low and cottages are falling into disrepair.”
    The Duke of Harndon fanned his face again and looked at Lord Quinn with keen eyes. “I was called a murderer ten years ago,” he said. “By my own family, Theo. I was twenty years old and as naive as—well, complete the simile for yourself. What is as incredibly naive as I was at the age of twenty? I was forced to flee and all my abject, pleading letters were returned to me. I was cut off without a penny. I made my own way in life without help from any of my family, except you. Am I now to go back to make everything right for them?”
    His uncle smiled, but it was a gentle smile, without any of the humor he had shown earlier. “In a word, yes, my lad,” he said. “And you know it too. You are here, are you not?”
    The duke inclined his head to acknowledge the hit but made no reply.
    â€œWhat you really ought to do,” Lord Quinn said, “is take a wife, Luke. ’Twould be easier for you to return, perhaps, if you were married, and ’tis time you set about producing heirs.”
    His nephew’s stare had become icy and haughty. “I have an