September 1817

The news ran like wildfire through the exclusive men's clubs that lined fashionable St. James's Street, London.

"I say, Longworth," the Earl of West said to Viscount Longworth, as he came up to the latter in the dining room of Brooks's. "Have you heard? Cheviot went and put a bullet in his brain."

Viscount Longworth put down his glass of burgundy so abruptly that it spilled on the white damask tablecloth. "You don't mean it!"

West nodded his bald head solemnly. "I just heard the news from Lowry. He had it from his valet, who is a friend of Cheviot's valet."

The viscount scowled at the deep red stain his wine had made on the tablecloth. "Damme, but that's a shock."

He was referring to the suicide, not the stain.

The Earl of West carefully lowered his considerable bulk into the chair across from his friend.

"It is, of course," he said. "One suspected he was all to pieces, but I didn't know it was that bad."

"I heard he lost over a hundred thousand guineas at Watier's the other night," the viscount said darkly, lifting his eyes from the tablecloth.

"Over a hundred thousand?"

For a man who was notoriously under the hatches, a hundred thousand was an enormous sum of money.

The viscount picked up his wineglass again and took a long swallow. "That's what finished him, I expect. He probably didn't have the ready to pay up."

The two men regarded each other somberly.

"So he put a bullet in his brain and left the mess for his son to sort out," West said.

"Looks that way, don't it?" the viscount returned.

The earl grunted.

The viscount looked more cheerful. "Well, what shall we have to eat, West?" he said, changing the subject. "They tell me the mutton is rather good today."

It was over a week before the news of the Duke of Cheviot's death reached his eldest son. Colonel Anthony Selbourne, Earl of Alnwick, was in Paris, where for several years he had been attached to the staff of the Duke of Wellington. He had just returned to his house after spending a few hours at the salon of one of Paris's leading hostesses when his butler met him with the news that his aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Linford, had arrived from England and were presently ensconced in his drawing room.

For a brief moment, the earl's perfectly drawn brows drew together. Then his face regained its normally serene expression, and he said in his soft voice, "Thank you, Fanton."

The butler bowed, received the earl's hat and gloves, and then stood for a moment, watching as the slender young man crossed the hall to the drawing room. He opened the door, went inside, and closed the door behind him.

The butler signaled to a footman to relieve him of the earl's belongings, and then went about his business.

Inside the drawing room, sitting side by side on a pair of gilt Louis XV chairs, the earl found his Aunt Frances and her husband.

"My dear aunt," the earl said with his charming smile. "What a delightful surprise. I did not know you were in Paris."

He crossed the room to kiss her cheek.

He looked at Lord Linford in surprise as that gentleman rose to his feet and sketched a bow.

"Anthony," Lady Linford said, regarding her nephew with bright hazel eyes. "You never change -- except perhaps to grow more beautiful."

"Sit down, my boy," her husband said, dismissing such feminine nonsense with a wave of his hand. "I am afraid we are here as the bearers of bad news."

In silence, the earl turned one of the Louis XV chairs to face his aunt and uncle, and sat down.

"Anthony," Lady Linford said, "your father is dead."

For a long moment, the earl maintained his silence. When finally he spoke it was in a voice tinged with irony. "Are you expecting an expression of grief from me?"

"No." Lady Linford sighed. "I can assure you that I have not come all this way merely to bring news that I know can only be welcome to you. It is much worse, Anthony. I'm afraid that your father killed himself."

The earl's light gray-green eyes widened with shock.

Lady Linford looked at her lap.

"What happened?" said the earl, who for a week now had actually been the duke.

Lady Linford looked up and hesitated.

Lord Linford said bluntly, "He went home one night and put a bullet in his brain, my boy. His valet found him in the morning."

Slowly and deliberately, Lord Linford extracted a paper from the inside pocket of his black mourning coat. He extended the envelope to the duke.

"He left this for you."

The duke took the envelope and stared at it for a long, silent moment. Then he ripped it open and took out the single piece of paper it contained.

The only sound in the room was the ticking of the great gold clock on the marble mantelpiece.

When finally the duke looked up, the slightly unfocused look in his eyes was the only sign he gave that what he had been reading was not just a courtesy note.

"What did he say, Anthony?" Lady Linford asked sharply.

Wordlessly, the duke handed her the note. Holding it so that her husband could see it as well, she read:

My dear Anthony. Sorry to take the coward's way out, but I fear I just can't face the debacle I've made of my finances. I leave it to you to bail the family out. I have no doubt that you will.

"How bad is it?" the duke asked tensely.

"Only you will be able to discover the full extent of the damages, my boy," Lord Linford said. "What pushed Cheviot over the edge was losing over a hundred thousand guineas at Watier's. I gather he didn't have the money to pay the debt."

He handed the missive back to the duke, who took it with fingers that were not completely steady. "A hundred thousand guineas!" he said.

"Most of it to Branford."

"Dear God," the duke said.

"Yes," returned his uncle.

The duke drew a long, deep breath. "What of my brothers?"

Lady Linford noted that he did not ask about his stepmother.

"They are in shock, of course," she replied. "I doubt if either Lawrence or Patrick knew the extent of your father's debts." She hesitated, then added, "The duchess is... very upset."

The duke's mouth curled with faint irony.

Lord Linford spoke next. "Your aunt and I thought you should hear this news from someone in the family, Anthony. Unfortunately, it will be common knowledge in Paris soon enough." The earl looked grim. "As far as I am concerned, it has already enlivened far too many conversations in London."

The duke briefly shut his eyes.

"I have thought about this very deeply, Anthony, and there is only one thing to be done," the countess said with convincing authority. "You must marry an heiress."

The duke looked at his aunt and his finely cut nostrils quivered. "Have you any candidates to offer me, Aunt?"

"Not yet, but I will have," she replied. Her strong face looked very determined. "Believe me, by the time you have wound up your affairs in Paris and are ready to come home, I will have found you a suitable wife."

"Dear God." The Linfords could see the pallor that lay beneath the duke's pale golden tan. He put a hand to his brow and shook his head as if to clear it.

"It is very bad, there can be no doubt about that," Lord Linford said bracingly. "But there is one thing at least in which I agree with your father. If anyone can bail the family out of this dismal situation, Anthony, you are the man."