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“What point?”

“You.” He lifted his brows. “And Millie.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Neville scoffed. “Besides, you owe me, not the other way around. I didn’t have to volunteer to serve as your second in case Harbury accepted your challenge, especially since your challenge was to my own cousin.”

“Please,” Asquith sarcastically replied. “You only came because you were afraid of the damage his actions could do to your family name. We both knew Harbury wouldn’t agree to a duel. He just needed a little nudge to act.”

Neville folded his arms. “Yes, well, that’s beside the point.”

Blackwell reached into his pocket and drew out a pen knife. “Asquith, your fob chain, if you will.”

Hesitantly, Asquith handed over the chain. Then, he and Neville watched as Blackwell cut a string off the tassel.

“Hey!” Asquith exclaimed.

“Frayed,” Blackwell said apologetically. “Been driving me mad all night. Do have a word with your valet.”

Asquith scowled down at the tassel. “He’s likely to want a word with me, thanks to you.”

Blackwell turned away. When he turned back, he held out his fist, which contained three lengths of gold string.

“I have cut the string into three parts. One piece is shorter than the other two. Time to take lots, gentlemen. The person who pulls the smallest string from my hand must keep watch over Millicent Wainwright, either until the Season’s end, or until she is properly betrothed, whichever comes first. Neville, as you seemed the most concerned, you go… begin.”

Asquith pursed his lips. Yet another one of Blackwell’s bets.

Still, maybe—his gaze fell upon Neville—this could provide the impetus Neville lacked.

Asquith shrugged. “I’m willing to abide by the result. And I’m willing to lend my flintlock to the poor sod who draws the smallest string.”

“None of us would turn a pistol on a lady!”

Asquith snorted. “What if the lady drew first? Millie is a crack shot, you know.”

Neville’s head snapped first in Asquith’s direction, then, in Blackwell’s. “Very well,” Neville finally said.

Neville reached for one of the tassels in Blackwell’s fist. A second later, he drew a string less than a half inch long.

“Well,” Blackwell said, “there’s no point in continuing. Clearly, you’ve drawn the shortest string.”

“If you’ll excuse me,”—Neville stared at the tiny slash of gold between his thumb and forefinger—“I will see to my duty.”

“What do you intend to do?” Blackwell asked.

“Ask her to dance.” Neville glanced up. “Of course.”

He turned on his heel and headed in Millie’s direction.

“Seems he’s fallen hard, too,” Asquith mused.

“And he has no idea.” Blackwell chuckled. “This should be entertaining.”

“I’m just glad he drew the short thread,” Asquith said. “I’ve enough on my hands with... other matters.”

“There was never any danger of him drawing the larger.”

“What do you mean?”

Blackwell shrugged. “All three lengths were the same size.”