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Hear me out.”
    Against her better judgment, Genie sat again, clutching her reticule as if the paltry contents could bash in the earl’s skull if he turned dangerous.
    “I am rich,” he began as if his apparel, to say nothing of the funds he had already expended on her behalf, did not proclaim his wealth and his generosity. “And I am titled. It means naught to me except that I will have entree to all levels of society. As my wife you will be welcomed also.”
    If not welcomed, his countess would be tolerated, Genie knew, for such was the power of an earldom and money.
    “I do not know if I can make your son heir to the earldom. Too many people will know the circumstances of your previous marriage and the dates.”
    “I might have a daughter,” Genie put in, for the sake of argument in this absurd conversation.
    “No, your child is a son.”
    Both the crow and Genie shook their heads. The irrational man believed he could read the stars, or whatever addled, impossible notion it was that made him so confident.
    He was going on, as if there were nothing unusual about predicting births or proposing marriage to lost widows. “Someone would be sure to contest such an effort, although I believe he is legally my son if I am married to his mother at the time of his birth and I acknowledge him as mine. I will have to look into the law. Either way, he can bear my name with whatever authority it carries. I shall settle a goodly sum on him, and on you, of course. You would be left a wealthy widow this time, and soon.”
    “Soon?” The attics-to-let earl was not consulting any crystal ball, but again he sounded certain. She had seen him lifting the wounded soldiers, staying awake for hours with little sustenance or rest, yet she felt a pang at the thought of his weakness. “Have you a wasting disease, then?”
    “Yes. That is, no.”
    The crow gave a loud squawk. The earl glared at him, on the railing. “No, I am not ailing, but my time is measured, in all-too-short hours and weeks.” Reminded that his time was flying, he ordered the crow to fly, too, to keep looking.
    Which did not reassure Genie in the least of his soundness, his mental soundness, anyway. “Um, how old are you?”
    “In years or experience?” He turned and stared at her with his dark eyes, willing her to understand, knowing she could not. Now Ardeth was the one to shake his head. “I was one and thirty when I passed on—that is, when I passed my last birthday. It is enough that I am ancient in wisdom and I know marriage is the right thing for both of us.”
    “For both of us? I do not see how you can benefit.”
    “For one thing, I would gain the honor of a deed well-done, if only in my eyes. I could not leave a damsel unprotected, you see. That would be forsaking my vows.”
    “Are you a holy man, then?” That might explain his steadfast beliefs, Genie decided, and his selfless helping of the wounded soldiers when no other gentleman of his rank would attend to them. “I did not think such religious orders permitted marriage, though.”
    “I belong to neither cult nor congregation, yet my vows are no less sacred and binding.”
    “To whom? You made me no promises.”
    “To myself, like an oath of chivalry.”
    “Chivalry belongs in storybooks, with knights and white chargers.”
    “Black.”
    “Black?”
    “I always preferred black horses.”
    Now the conversation had gone totally beyond Genie’s control or comprehension. She stood again. “I will be all right. I have passage back to England—you heard the captain—and I shall find a solution on my own. You have been more than kind and have fulfilled any possible onus laid upon you by your, ah, code of honor.”
    He crossed his arms over his broad chest, an unmoving iron statue except for his black cape billowing behind him and a lock of dark hair lifting off his forehead. “No. Marriage is the only way of providing for your future.”
    Genie clucked her tongue. “Nonsense. You could