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disappear, presumed dead or never to return, leaving Isaiah with the far-less-comfortable-for-Isaiah Miles for an heir. Lyon, victim, perhaps, of the unfortunate legendary curse: once per generation, an Eversea and a Redmond were allegedly destined to fall in love with each other.
    Doubtless Isaiah wondered if he harbored any similarly fatal romantic flaws.
    Suddenly, unbidden and vivid, came the image of a homely gray cloak hanging from a peg in the pub. Miles inhaled sharply.
    “Love,” he declared with quiet and absolute conviction, “of the sort you’re suggesting, is absurd. I don’t need love in order to marry.”
    Isaiah regarded his second son, the shadow of a frown touching his forehead. His mouth parted, stayed parted briefly. He seemed in a state of indecision about what next to say.
    But then he nodded crisply and said, “Very good.” As though this were a meeting of the Mercury Club and the two of them had just put the notion of love to the vote.
    “May I ask if you have anyone in particular in mind, sir?” Because now Miles was curious, and knowing his father, Isaiah most certainly did.
    “Georgina Mossgate, Lady Rutland, is a lovely girl, and she has been invited to the party.” His father didn’t even pretend to issue this statement casually.
    “Hmmph.” The name surprised Miles because he’d known the Mossgates for most of his life. Her father, Rutland, was an avid amateur naturalist and had taken to corresponding with him. But what did he know about Georgina? As a child she’d worn a long braid; as an adult, she invariably wore her pale hair wound into a coil so perfectly symmetrical it reminded him whimsically of a henge. He’d once conversed with her about the ants of Sussex and their habits, about which she knew a surprising amount, and her gray eyes had been soft and attentive and alert, and never once moved from his face. She had a quiet but not retiring way about her, and her bosom—Miles never failed to take note of a bosom—was remarkable. He approved of the way she’d turned into a woman; he’d danced with her more than a few times over the years; she intrigued him not at all.
    This struck him, suddenly, as a very peaceful and desirable quality in a wife.
    “And as you know, I’ve wanted Rutland as a member of the Mercury Club for years now.”
    It took Miles less than a tick of the clock to know precisely where this conversation was heading. The neatness of the solution was exhilarating, brilliant, cynical, and utterly typical of his father.
    In short: he and his father would both get what they wanted most.
    His heart thumped. He revealed nothing. He simply waited for his father to spell it out.
    Isaiah wasted no time. “If you and Georgina were to wed, Rutland will at last consent to become a member of the Mercury Club. And with Rutland’s support and extraordinary resources, I’m convinced it will be a simple and swift enough thing to persuade the group to finance your voyage to…” He frowned faintly.
    “Lacao, Father,” Miles said calmly. By now, most people in England knew the name of the place he’d written about so extensively. Not his bloody father, however.
    “Yes. Lacao.” His father never asked about the place. Isaiah had always been more comfortable with what to him were the infinitely more compatible and practical sensibilities of Lyon, who had the making of money in his blood. There was money in writing and talking about Lacao, and Miles had become modestly independently wealthy as a result of it. But the making of money had been rather inadvertent and serendipitous and beside the point.
    He stayed silent.
    “You’re amenable to the match, then?” Isaiah said finally.
    “I’m amenable.” He saw no reason to object.
    “Very good,” his father said crisply again. “Georgina will be in attendance this fortnight at the invitation of your mother, and was expected to arrive this evening. Your mother has arranged various entertainments for the