Easing down into her chair at the mahogany table where she'd sat yesterday, Splendor tried not to glance too obviously over her spectacle rims. She had created a buzz that could be tasted on the air like roasted chestnuts. It wasn't every day a contestant was challenged to a duel. So it was no wonder that the second she sailed through the doors into this den that oozed men, their cigars, brandy, and traces of cologne, heads swiveled in her direction. So long as there were no further scenes, these heads were very welcome, though.
That conversation he'd had with the two women in the carriage, whoever they were, appeared to have completely cowed Stillmore. A saint could not have demonstrated a more agreeable temperament on the short stroll through the park. He had even commented on the clump
