“All the other properties east of Berkeley Square have been purchased, but with Mrs. St. Vincent standing in your way, your ninety thousand is at risk. The very mulish lady has asserted that she has no intention of ever selling. She told me your grace may go to Hades for all she cares.”

“She did, did she? You spoke to her?” As a rule, Hutchinson didn’t take part in purchase negotiations. He employed twenty barristers to take care of such matters.

“I had to.” Hutchinson leaned forward over his paunch to underscore his vexation. “The troublesome female had flatly refused five of our offers. And I’d sent my very best men.” The barrister picked up a gold filigreed letter opener, held it between his fingertips, and gazed at it for a moment, pursed lipped. Then he looked up, met the duke’s languid gaze, and said ruefully, “You might as well hear it from me first, Your Grace. Apparently Mrs. St. Vincent disapproves of-I believe her words were ‘Odious, prodigal scoundrels who think their titles and wealth give them carte blanche in the world.’ ”

The duke looked amused. “It seems the lady is of a socialist bent.”

“I rather think her remark was of a more personal nature.” Groveland’s reputation for prodigality and dissipation was well known.

“She isn’t the first woman to disapprove of me,” the duke casually returned, his indifference to censure a marked trait. “But a female who’s not susceptible to your bank drafts”-a note of drollery colored his words-“now that’s a first, isn’t it, Hutchinson?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Groveland’s female entanglements occasionally required the barrister’s intercession to amiably end an affair. And to date, bank drafts had always proved effective.

“So what now?” A soft, unruffled query. In the duke’s experience, the world generally bent to his will. It wasn’t hubris, just a recognition of reality. He was illustriously titled, the bearer of an enormous fortune, and for what it was worth-in matters of seduction more than anything-blessed with the Montagu dark good looks.