Robert bounded into his carriage and gave his driver the Williams Street address. “Make it quick,” he ordered.

His loud knocking finally awakened a sleepy French maid, who opened the door and discreetly denied any knowledge of Lord Fielding. “Fetch your mistress to me at once,” Robert ordered her impatiently. “I haven’t much time.” The maid cast a quick look beyond him, saw the crest upon his coach, hesitated, and then went upstairs.

After another long wait, a lovely brunette wrapped in a filmy dressing gown came down the stairs. “What on earth is amiss, Lord Collingwood?” Sybil asked.

“Is Jason here?” Robert demanded.

Sybil nodded immediately.

“Tell him Crowley and Wiltshire are dueling over Victoria at dawn in the grove at Crowley’s place,” Robert told her.

Jason stretched out his hand as Sybil sat down beside him on the bed. With his eyes closed, his hand sought and found the opening of her gown, stroking seductively up her bare thigh. “Come back to bed,” he invited huskily. “I have need of you again.”

A wistful smile touched her eyes as she stroked his bronzed shoulder. “You don’t ‘need’ anyone, Jason,” she whispered sadly. “You never have.”

A low, sensuous chuckle rumbled in Jason’s chest as he rolled onto his back and swiftly pulled her down on top of his naked, aroused body. “If that isn’t need, what do you call it?”

“That isn’t what I meant by ‘need,’ and you know it,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his warm lips. “Don’t,” she said hastily as his knowledgeable hands pulled her to him. “You haven’t time. Collingwood is here. He said to tell you Crowley and Wiltshire are going to duel at dawn at Crowley’s place.”

Jason’s green eyes opened, their expression alert but not overly concerned.

“They’re dueling over Victoria,” she added.

In an instant Jason was a flurry of efficient motion, thrusting her aside, lunging out of bed, and swiftly pulling on his pants and boots. Cursing savagely under his breath, he jerked on his shirt. “What time is it?” he said shortly, glancing toward the window.

“About an hour before dawn.”

He nodded, leaned down and pressed a brief, apologetic kiss on her brow, and then left, the sound of his boots echoing sharply against the polished wood floor.

The sky was already lightening when Jason finally located the grove on the Crowley estate and spotted the two duelists standing beneath the shadowy oaks. Fifty yards to the left of the pair, the physician’s black carriage was pulled up ominously beneath another tree, a horse tied at its rear. Jason dug his heels savagely into his mount, sending the black stallion flying down the grassy knoll, its hooves throwing huge clumps of wet sod high into the air.

He skidded to a halt near the combatants and hurtled out of the saddle, running. “What the hell is going on here!” he demanded of Crowley when he reached his side, then he whirled around in surprise as the Marquis de Salle stepped out of the shadows twenty yards away and positioned himself next to young Wiltshire. “What are you doing here, de Salle?” Jason said angrily. “You, at least, should have more sense than these two puppies.”

“I’m doing the same thing you are,” de Salle drawled with a faint grin, “but without much success, as you’ll soon discover.”

“Crowley fired at me,” Wiltshire burst out accusingly. His face was twisted with angry surprise, and his words were slurred from the liquor he had consumed to bolster his courage. “Crowley din—didn't delope like a gen—gentleman. Now, I’m going to shoot him.”

“I didn’t fire at you,” Crowley boomed furiously from beside Jason. “If I had, I’d have hit you.”

“You didn't aim in—in the air,” Wiltshire yelled back. “You aren—aren’t a gentleman. You deserve to die, and I’m gonna shoot you!” Wiltshire’s arm shook as he raised it and leveled the pistol at his opponent, and then everything happened at once. The gun exploded just as the Marquis de Salle sprang forward and tried to knock it out of Wiltshire’s hand and as Jason dived at Crowley, sending the rigid boy sprawling to the ground. The ball whined past Jason’s ear as he fell, ricocheted off the trunk of the tree, and ripped across his upper arm.

After a stunned moment, Jason slowly sat up, his expression incredulous. He put his hand to the fiery pain in his arm and then stared at the blood that covered his fingers with an expression of almost comical disbelief.

The physician, the Marquis de Salle, and young Wiltshire all ran forward. “Here, let me have a look at that arm,” Dr. Worthing said, waving the others aside and squatting down on his heels.

Dr. Worthing ripped Jason’s shirt open and young Wiltshire emitted a strangled groan when he saw the blood running from Jason’s wound. “Oh, God!” he wailed. “Lord Fielding, I never meant—”

“Shut up!” Dr. Worthing bit out. “Someone hand me that whiskey in my case.” To Jason he said, “It’s only a flesh wound, Jason, but it’s fairly deep. I’ll have to clean it and stitch it.” He took the bottle of whiskey that the Marquis de Salle handed him, and glanced apologetically at Jason. “This is going to burn like the fires of Hades.”

Jason nodded and clenched his teeth, and the physician swiftly upended the bottle, drenching the torn flesh with the fiery alcohol. Then he handed the bottle to Jason. “If I were you, Jason, I’d drink the rest of this. You’re going to need plenty of stitches.”

“I didn’t shoot him,” Wiltshire burst out in an attempt to avoid giving Lord Fielding, the legendary duelist, the satisfaction he had every right to demand at a later date. Four pairs of eyes looked at him in disgust. “I didn’t!” Wiltshire argued desperately. “It was the tree that made it happen. I shot at the tree, and the ball hit the tree, then it hit Lord Fielding.”

Jason raised his dark, glittering eyes to his terrified assailant and said in an ominous voice, “If you’re very lucky, Wiltshire, you’ll be able to stay out of my sight until I’m too old to horsewhip you.”

Wiltshire backed away, turned on his heel, and started running. Jason turned his head, impaling the other petrified duelist on his gaze. “Crowley,” he warned softly, “your presence offends me.”

Crowley turned and fled to his horse.

When they had galloped away, Jason raised the whiskey bottle and took a long swallow, gasping as Dr. Worthing’s threaded needle pierced his swollen flesh, pulling it tightly, joining flesh to flesh, then piercing again. Holding the bottle out to de Salle, he said dryly, “I regret the lack of a suitable glass; however, if you would care to join me, help yourself.”