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nearly a year after his death, an event he had
    noticed more because it had interfered with his hunting plans than because of any great sense of loss. But
    eleven months after his long-neglected spouse had succumbed to the lung fever, he managed to break his
    own neck in a fall when his newest jumper failed to clear a fence.
    Marcus was at work in the fields with his men the morning the vicar came to tell him that his father was
    dead. He had been studying the effectiveness of the modifications he had recently made in a new reaping
    machine.
    He still recalled the curiously detached sensation he had experienced whole he listened to the vicar
    murmur words of condolence.
    A year earlier he had wept alone after his mother's death. But on the morning of his father's demise he
    could not summon a single tear.
    His principal emotion beneath the sense of detachment had been a brief, senseless anger.
    He had not understood the reason for the inner rage, so he had quickly buried it somewhere deep inside
    himself. He had never allowed it to resurface.
    Young Bennet seemed virtually oblivious to his father's absence. He'd focused all his attention and
    affection on the one person who was a true constant in his life, his older brother Marcus.
    Marcus pushed the-memories aside and watched Bennet wander over to the breakfast table.
    "Harry and I got bored inScotland," Bennet offered. "We decided to return toLondonfor the Season."
    "I see." Marcus spread jam on a slice of toast. "I thought you had declared the Season a dead bore."
    "Yes, well, that was last year." "Of course."
    Last year Bennet had been barely nineteen. He'd just come down fromOxford, full of a young man's
    enthusiasm for politics and poetry. He had been disdainful of the frivolousness of the Season. Marcus had
    gotten him into a club populated by other young men who were passionate about the new poets and the
    latest political theories. Bennet had seemed content.
    Marcus had been quietly pleased to see that his brother was not the type to he swept off his feet by the
    superficial entertainments of the ton.
    Oxfordhad done its job. Marcus had not sent Bennet toOxfordfor an education. On the contrary, he had
    seen to his brother's schooling at home with the assistance of an excellent tutor and his own
    ever-expanding library.
    A young man did not go off to eitherCambridgeorOxfordin order to study. He went there to obtain a
    social polish and to mingle with the young men with whom he would later do business for the rest of his
    life. He went there to form friendships with the scions of the best families, families from which he would
    eventually select a suitable wife.
    Marcus had been determined that his brother would not he like him, a naive, rough-edged country squire
    who knew nothing of the world beyond life on a farm.
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    Marcus had paid a high price for his own lack of worldliness. He did not want Bennet to suffer the same
    fate. A man needed to shed his illusions and dreams as quickly as possible if he was to avoid becoming a
    victim in this life.
    Marcus took a large bite of his toast. "Where did you go last night?"
    "He and I both went to our club," Bennet said vaguely. "Then Harry suggested that we drop in on a few
    of the more interesting soirees."
    "Which ones?"
    "I don't remember precisely. The Broadmore hall, for one, I believe. And I think we stopped briefly at
    the Fosters' levee.
    "Did you enjoy yourself?"
    Bennet met Marcus's eyes for an instant and then his gaze slid away. He shrugged. "You could say that'
    "
    "Bennet, I've had enough of this evasiveness. If something is wrong, tell me."
    "Nothing is wrong." Bennet glowered at him. "At least not with me."
    "What the devil is that supposed to mean?"
    "Very well, Marcus, I shall be blunt. I understand you made a spectacle of yourself last night."
    "A spectacle?"
    "Hell and damnation. They say you carried your new paramour out of the