Riverdale frowned at him. “What weapons will you choose?” he asked. “The choice will be yours since you are the challenged rather than the challenger. I can remember that you were tolerably handy with a fencing foil in your senior year at school. I have heard it said that Uxbury is a crack shot with a pistol. How good are you?”

“Tolerable,” Avery said, withdrawing his snuffbox from a pocket and taking a pinch while Riverdale waited impatiently for him to continue. “I would hate to put a bullet between his eyes, however, and cause a fuss. I would hate even more to shoot into the air and then have to stare down the barrel of his pistol. Swords draw blood, and blood is notoriously difficult to wash out of shirts, or so my valet informs me. Swords also make holes in shirts. No, no, my weapon of choice must be the body, unencumbered by any additional weapon that may cause holes or an excess of blood. Though nosebleeds can be messy, of course.”

“You will choose a fistfight?” Riverdale looked incredulous. “Until someone is down and unconscious? It will be a slaughter, Netherby. You had better let me take your place. I was part of that scene too last evening and am actually related to both Camille and Anastasia. I am quite handy with my fives even though I do not get to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing saloon as often as I could wish.”

“It is a second I am in search of,” Avery told him, “not a first. If you are unwilling, I shall have to ask someone else, but that would be tiresome.”

“It will be a slaughter,” Riverdale said again.

“I hope not,” Avery said thoughtfully. “I hope I will have better control of myself than to cause him lasting bodily harm, though it will be tempting. I do not like the man.”

Riverdale laughed shortly, though he did not sound amused. “At least you will still be alive at the end of it,” he said. “I will see to that.”

“Will you?” Avery got to his feet. “I am much obliged to you, Riverdale. I would rather the whole matter be kept private. One hates to be ostentatious about such things. Besides, one would not wish to draw more attention than necessary to the two ladies.”

“Camille and Anastasia?” the earl said. “I shall try to persuade Walling to urge discretion upon Uxbury, though it may be difficult. Uxbury may well want an audience, especially when he knows you have chosen fists.”

“Bodies,” Avery said, correcting him gently. “Fists are just one small weapon of the body and not always very effective—they shorten the hands. Do your best, Riverdale. I will not take any more of your time—Cousin Althea may be bored with her books already. You will keep me informed, I daresay.”

“I will,” Riverdale promised before accompanying Avery to the door.

This was all very tiresome, Avery thought as he moved off down the street and touched the brim of his hat to a lady who was walking with her maid in the opposite direction. He was very tempted to call upon Uxbury and settle the matter here and now. But Uxbury had chosen to be idiotic and issue a formal challenge, and proper gentlemanly protocol must now be followed.

Avery very much hoped, however, that the whole matter could be kept quiet. The thought that he might be seen as the champion of the honor of either Camille or Anna—or both—was shudderingly awful. It would ruin his reputation for effete indolence. But what was one to do when a fellow mortal chose to be an ass? One could not simply invite him to desist. Actually, one could, but it would be so much wasted breath.

Sometimes life could be quite bothersome.

* * *

Anna was standing in the window of the drawing room the following afternoon, gazing down at the street. Her family would be arriving soon with news and views—about the ball, about her triumphs and disasters, though she hoped the latter was singular rather than plural, about where she would go from here in her progress from being Anna Snow to becoming Lady Anastasia Westcott. It was hard not to be feeling a little despondent, though she knew she should be ecstatic with gratitude to the fates or whatever it was that had made all her dreams come true in such an abundant way. If only her sisters were here, sitting in the room behind her, or standing on either side of her, their arms linked through hers, everything would be different. But there would still be their mother, out there somewhere in the cold. And there would still be Harry, facing all the dangers and privations of war. And there would still be blanks in her history.

And who had ever said life could end up happily ever after the way fiction sometimes did? She gave her head a shake.

Elizabeth was still upstairs changing. The butler was to inform any other callers that she was not receiving today. There would be no repetition of yesterday, though there had been two more bouquets this morning, one of them clutched in the hand of a young gentleman who had stammered out a marriage proposal or at least the intention of a marriage proposal. He had actually asked to which gentleman he must apply for permission to ask for her hand. Anna had looked at Elizabeth, and Elizabeth had looked at Anna and suggested that the young man might wish to have a word with her brother, the Earl of Riverdale.

It would have been simpler and perhaps kinder for Anna to have said no, but how could she when he had not actually asked the question?

Her eyes focused upon the Duke of Netherby, who was walking along the street in the direction of the house. He was not escorting Aunt Louise today, then, but he was definitely coming here. After he had disappeared inside the door below, she waited for him to be announced.

He paused on the threshold of the drawing room and grasped the handle of his quizzing glass as he looked around, his expression somewhat pained. “I am the first to arrive?” he said. “How very lowering. It would almost suggest an eagerness to see you, Anna. And you are alone? No Cousin Elizabeth to chaperone you? No saucy maid to laugh at my wit?”