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brother had married and produced a son, Dunstan was no longer heir to an earldom or the entailed estate he’d thought would someday be his. He must find his own land and his own place in the world. He couldn’t expect Drogo to support him for a lifetime.
    His brother had paid Dunstan’s way through school, provided for his illegitimate son, and loaned him enough to keep Celia in style. After Celia’s death, Drogo had paid the debts she’d left behind. He’d even offered to take on the expense of investigating Celia’s murder, but Dunstan had insisted that responsibility must be his. Until his name was cleared, there was little sense in wasting money on improving his boggy land.
    Voices at the door intruded on his musings, prompting him to retreat into the shadows.
    â€œThe man should be hanged,” a deep voice uttered in vicious tones. “We hang paupers for stealing bread. It’s no wonder the lower classes don’t trust their betters if they perceive us as getting away with murder .”
    â€œThere’s no evidence on which to try him,” a calmer voice said. “There’s no call for Ives to shove him in our faces, though. The man hasn’t the political sense of a squirrel.”
    A flame flickered, and the aroma of a rich cigar drifted through the air. Dunstan cursed beneath his breath and considered his choices. Leaping off a balcony onto a flagstone terrace would either crack every bone in his body or split every stone in the terrace.
    The first voice grunted. “Ives doesn’t give a fig for politics. Shoving his criminal of a brother down our throats will ruin him.”
    â€œPolite society has standards,” the second voice agreed. “Ives have always been a ramshackle lot, at any account. Shut them all out, keep them away from our daughters, and the world will be a better place.”
    The smug satisfaction in the lout’s voice decided the matter. Dunstan had no doubt that Drogo could fight his own battles, and that his witch of a wife could hex the entire city if she were so inclined, but Dunstan wouldn’t allow the taint of his reputation to harm his younger brothers, either the legitimate or the illegitimate ones. With no titles or wealth, they would have to fight the painful battle for survival with several handicaps. Dunstan refused to add one more.
    With what he considered to be remarkable aplomb, he stepped into the light pouring through the glass doors. Towering over the elegantly bewigged and silk-coated gentlemen who stood frozen at the balustrade, Dunstan plucked the cigar from the speaker’s mouth, dropped the lighted tobacco on the man’s silver-buckled shoe, and mashed it with his massive foot.
    â€œPolite society might consider adopting Ives standards,” Dunstan said in his most courteous tone. “We crush stupidity and ignorance when they stand in the way.” With one last grind of his heel on lordly toes, Dunstan stalked off.
    ***
    â€œLeila, Leila—hurry! I think your Ives has murdered someone!”
    Leila stiffened as Christina pushed through the crowd of suitors surrounding her. Trusting her sister’s ability to detect strong auras, she didn’t doubt there was a problem. She was merely annoyed that she didn’t possess the ability to see it herself.
    Hearing the commotion near the balcony doors, she directed her steps toward the gathering crowd.
    â€œI say, let us hang Ives from the ramparts!” the younger son of an aging roué announced gaily, following in Leila’s wake, as did his fellows. “It’s not done, murdering a guest of Lady Leila’s.”
    â€œLord John, you…” Have the wits of a gander , she refrained from saying. She hadn’t climbed this far in society by insulting those who had helped put her there. “Go find Drogo, will you? He’ll listen to you.” Appeal to the young man’s pride. He had too much of it, but she