Tempted By The Roguish Lord. Mary Brendan

and Lance Harley. Of the trio, a dark visage with mocking sapphire eyes and a cruel mouth took the longest time to banish, but eventually she did fall into a dreamless slumber.

      * * *

      The Earl of Houndsmere’s manservant was under no illusion as to what his employer got up to when out carousing until dawn. Thus he found nothing unusual in coming upon the scoundrel dunking his battered right hand in a basin of water. Watching him, though, he was hoping the damage was limited to his lordship’s person. It would break the heart of any valet worth his salt to gaze upon an exquisite superfine tailcoat ripped about the seams. Yet were it so, the garment would be tossed to him to dispose of rather than to repair and his lordship’s Italian tailor would rub together his greedy palms. Reeves edged closer, attempting to ease a muscular arm out of a sleeve so he could spirit away the jacket to inspect it. He was bluntly told to desist. A few moments later the Earl of Houndsmere was stretched out on top of his four-poster, fully dressed. Reeves muttered something about sacrilege, but managed not to slam the door of the huge bedchamber as he disappeared to leave his lordship to nap.

      Lance pillowed his scalp on his hands and frowned thoughtfully at the tasselled canopy overhead. He was annoyed with himself for being unable to put Emma Waverley from his mind. He liked a pretty woman as much as the next man, but there were plenty to brood upon who liked him in return and were expecting him to do something about that. Perfect manners aside, she’d been cool to him, despite his derring-do, and he didn’t think she was acting coy to pique his interest. He doubted she’d have been any more impressed by him had he introduced himself by his title. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t...other than to save her father’s feelings. The man lived in a shoddy house and might have become yet more defensive on discovering a nobleman was within his humble abode. The poor fellow did have worries aplenty: a son who might or might not be dead, a daughter given to making midnight visits to slums and pockets quite obviously to let.

      But Mr Waverley was fortunate in that his beauteous daughter was protective of him. Lance believed she was also protecting her brother. If so, he must have faked his own death to avoid pursuit after killing his opponent. It wasn’t an unusual trick for a duellist to flee abroad, then send home a tale of his demise before rising phoenix-like years later after the fuss had died down.

      Lance regretted charging right up to her door like an idiot and getting her into trouble, yet...he was glad he’d gone inside the house and had the chance to talk to her. From the moment they’d been left alone together and he’d got a proper look into her glorious golden eyes he had seen a sadness that no amount of defiance could disguise. Something was very wrong in her life. Intrepid little thing that she was, she’d nevertheless possessed an endearing vulnerability that had moved him and had made him pry not simply from curiosity, but to understand if there was a way in which he might help. He wasn’t given to sentimentality or to solving puzzles, but he knew this one would eat away at him if he didn’t look further into it. Besides, dwelling on Emma Waverley and her intriguing family would make a change from pondering on his own kin making of themselves a blasted nuisance. If it weren’t for his sister Ruth nagging him to sort things out, he would have long ago turned his back on his stepmother and her tiresome daughter in the same way his father had.

      He sat up and shrugged out of his coat. Although he still felt enervated, he knew he wouldn’t sleep. The day stretched in front of him and he needed something to occupy the time that didn’t involve him joining Ruth at her afternoon salon. The prospect of drinking tea and listening to her friends wheedling for him to attend their debutantes’ balls was enough to send him off early to his club with the intention of remaining there until nightfall.

      ‘What in God’s name are you doing up at this hour?’

      Lance addressed the newcomer, but continued taking off his crumpled clothes as his friend sauntered into his bedchamber and slunk down on the window seat.

      ‘I’m not up... I haven’t retired yet.’ Jack Valance dragged some fingers through his fair hair. ‘And neither have you by the look of it.’ He yawned, watching the Earl ripping off his boots and lobbing them into a corner. ‘Any chance of some coffee? Or a kip in your bed if you’ve finished with it?’ Jack stretched out his legs in front of him, then crossed his arms and rested his head back against the wall as though to snooze.

      ‘Ask Reeves for coffee.’ Lance jerked his head to indicate the anteroom where his valet would be skulking.

      ‘Fancy a trip to Newmarket races later?’ Jack asked, opening one red-rimmed eye to watch his friend’s reaction to his suggestion.

      ‘Can’t. Got things to do.’

      ‘What?’ Jack perked up, hoping to hear about something interesting that he could get involved in.

      ‘Family matters.’ Lance dampened down his friend’s grin.

      ‘I don’t know why you bother with that chit.’ Jack sighed. ‘The girl will end up in Bridewell if she don’t settle down.’ Jack knew that his friend’s stepsister was a minx. The Countess had been a courtesan before becoming the old Earl’s second wife. Now the daughter appeared to be taking up where the mother had left off. Lance had already hushed up one scandal after the girl was spotted without a chaperon, visiting relatives on her mother’s side who lived by the docks.

      Jack ordered the coffee by poking his head round the anteroom door to speak to Reeves. He found the window seat again with a sigh. ‘I’m in Queer Street since I put twenty guineas on a mare. The damnable filly cantered in second from last at Epsom.’

      Reeves backed into the room, bearing a tray holding cups and a silver coffee pot. After the valet deposited it on a table, Lance handed him his creased jacket with an apologetic smile. He’d noticed his servant’s mournful gaze kept returning to it.

      ‘Do you need some salve for those knuckles, sir?’ Reeves was eyeing the Earl’s grazes.

      Lance idly flexed his fingers, having forgotten about the wounds, if not the woman who’d caused him to get them. ‘They’re only scratches.’

      ‘Had a scrap last night, did you?’ Jack approached to investigate the damage with a raised eyebrow.

      ‘Nothing worth mentioning,’ Lance said and commenced lathering his skin with a shaving brush.

      Jack knew when he was being shut out. They were close friends, but the Earl had a private side and Jack knew better than to pry into it.

      Having poured the coffee and distributed the cups, Reeves perambulated the room, foraging beneath chairs and cabinets for shoes and boots for polishing while the gentlemen continued their discourse. He halted with an armful of supple leather to say, ‘You should allow me to do that for you, my lord.’ Reeves was frowning at the sight of his master shaving himself.

      Lance half-smiled. ‘You’re probably the only man I would allow to hold a blade to my throat, Reeves.’ He drew steel up a column of tanned throat to a square, bristly jaw, then dipped the soap-edged razor into warm water. He’d been in the army for six years and had grown used to doing things for himself...even cooking over an open fire. Dragging a servant along on campaign to mollycoddle you was to his mind an unnecessary vanity when all any soldier needed was a surgeon and a priest on standby. Lance heard a gruff laugh and his eyes strayed to his friend’s reflection.

      Jack had been observing an entertaining spectacle of a street urchin pickpocketing for some minutes. He’d been giving his friend a running commentary as the scene unfolded. Jack gave another guffaw before dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Just what I needed to wake me up,’ he said, turning to Lance.

      ‘Escaped, did he?’

      ‘The little toe-rag did at that,’ Jack concurred with an amount of admiration.

      Lance continued shaving with one hand, his other extended meaningfully.

      Jack groaned and plunged a hand in a pocket. He dropped a coin into his friend’s damp palm.

      ‘Shall I bring a breakfast tray, my lord?’ Reeves offered over a starchy black shoulder. ‘Or will you go to the dining room for