“Someday an irate husband is going to have you horse-whipped, Lennox,” Elphinstone muttered.

“Only if he’s not man enough to call me out,” Oz drawled. The viscount’s wife was a pretty little hussy; could he help it if she was in hot pursuit?

A sudden hush greeted Oz’s soft-spoken challenge.

The eyes of the crowd locked on Elphinstone, wondering if he’d respond, or more to the point, how he’d respond. Lennox was young and wild, his temper as easily provoked as his lust, and while he’d been screwing his way through the ranks of London’s fair beauties the last two years, he’d also had more than his share of duels.

With not so much as a bruise for his exertions.

Elphinstone finally growled something under his breath, his nostrils flaring, his narrowed gaze two pinpricks of anger. Then not inclined to end his life or be maimed, he scanned the breathless crowd. “You won’t see blood tonight on my account,” he spat. Turning back to Oz, he snarled, “I’ll raise you a thousand,” recklessly wagering his father’s money rather than stake his life.

Held breaths were released, a collective sigh of relief wafted round the table; Elphinstone wouldn’t have stood a chance at ten paces. Or even a hundred. Ask Buckley, who’d barely survived his recent ill-advised challenge.

Oz almost felt sorry for Elphinstone, who’d no more meet him on the dueling field than he’d satisfy his wife in bed or even know enough to be decent to her. Almost felt sorry. “I’ll raise you another thousand,” he gently said, the cards he was holding as near perfect as the law of averages allowed. What the hell; the ass doesn’t deserve my pity. “Make that two.”

Five minutes later, much richer and in a hurry, Oz was in the entrance hall and a flunkey was holding out his coat for him. “It’s still raining hard out there, sir.”

“That’s England,” Oz said with a smile, sliding his arms into the sleeves and shrugging into his grey overcoat.