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Few women could resist Leopold when he decided to play the gallant. Faith, however, seemed impervious to his charm, for which Constantine was far gladder than logic could explain.

A frown tugging his eyebrows together, he observed her hasty departure.

Grasping her skirts in one hand, she nimbly climbed the stairs, the lanterns’ glow casting ribbons of fire in her hair. Face slightly pinched, she looked neither to the left nor the right but made straight for the French windows.

“Leo?” After a swift glance around to ensure no one overheard him, Constantine stepped nearer and murmured, “Miss Roth and I aren’t really betrothed.”

Chuckling, Leo threw an arm across Constantine’s shoulders.

“I know, Con. But for the benefit of the guests yonder”—he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder—“and our least favorite cousin, whom I spied lurking in the shrubberies outside the garden, eavesdropping on you and Miss Roth, I played along.”

Of course, Martin would spy on Constantine and Faith, the miscreant. “He better direct his snooping elsewhere, or I’ll be obliged to realign his nose.”

“You’d be doing him a favor.” Leopold skewed his mouth sideways. “I vow, every time I see Martin, he’s become more offensive, though I cannot conceive how that is possible.”

Constantine nodded as he fell into step beside his brother. “It may be time for Mother and Father to put aside familial loyalty and shun him like the miserable bounder he is.”

“That will make him even more resentful and spiteful, but I believe you are right.” Leopold rubbed his chin. “I don’t trust him.”

“Neither do I.” Constantine smiled at Howerton and Charlotte as they strolled the terrace, eyes only for each other. “His coveting the duchy has reached an unhealthy fixation. I intend to have a word with Father regarding my concerns.”

Leo waggled his eyebrows. “What say you, we raid Father’s best Scotch like we used to, Con?”

He’d always been the incorrigible brother.

“I wouldn’t mind a finger’s worth,” Constantine conceded, changing directions and striding away from the milling guests. Paralleling the terrace, Constantine and his brother headed for the study.

“I like your Miss Roth, nevertheless. She’s smart and capable of actually conversing.” Leopold elbowed Constantine in the side, giving him a teasing grin. “Is she really your scrivener? I’d love to hear how that came about.”

“Shh,” Constantine warned, with an apprehensive glance around.

No one was near enough to hear Leopold, but still. One could never be too careful. In truth, Constantine should never have permitted this ruse. Lies always required more lies. He feared the repercussions from this betrothal farce might be far worse than the initial gossip.

And Faith was the person with the most to lose.

“I’ll tell you, Leo, but when we’re assured of privacy.”

In short order, they slipped inside the study through a side door. The draperies had been drawn, and no fire crackled in the hearth. A turned-down brass oil lamp with a hand-painted globe shade burned low on a mahogany table in the center of the room, casting shadows into the dim corners.

Leopold puffed out a loud sigh as he lifted the stopper from the cut crystal decanter.

“Mother says there will be close to a hundred guests staying the week, and at least another hundred are expected for the ball.”

“That many?” Constantine rested his hip on the edge of the desk.

All the more trying for Faith.

Had it only been last night that he’d penned the short note to her in this room, basically asking her to be a cooperative prisoner?

“Aye.” Grimacing, Leo poured a dram into two tumblers. He glanced up through hooded eyelids. “That is why I stay away. I cannot abide these crowds. All of the falderol and posturing.”

What Leopold couldn’t abide was the gaggle of women he attracted—like moths to the proverbial flame—each hoping she might catch his eye and become his bride. Each coveting the position of Duchess of Landrith.

“You could invent a faux betrothed too,” Constantine quipped, accepting the glass his brother extended. “Claim your affianced is somewhere on the other side of England or, better yet, out of the country. Then you’d be free to enjoy yourself.”

Leo took a swallow, and Constantine did the same. The liquor burned a path to his belly. Unlike most of polite society, he rarely imbibed in spirits stronger than wine. And most especially, he hadn’t since the debacle where he’d stupidly bet he would hire a female amanuensis. Just to prove he wasn’t a stodgy, antiquated boor.

An ironic smile teased the corners of his mouth.