Chapter1
James Dearborn, Viscount Redford, paused at the top of the marble staircase in Woodmere House and surveyed the ballroom.Crystal dripped from every sconce, musicians were half-hidden behind an enormous spray of hothouse flowers, and a crowd of elegantly dressed people pretended not to hunt one another.The Earl and Viscountess of Woodmere had outdone themselves.
He took it in with a practiced eye—matchmaking mamas near the doors, the hum of conversation—and decided it all looked oppressively sensible, like a market stall draped in satin.
His kind of trouble was not welcome in rooms like this.
James descended at an unhurried pace, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing tray.Heads turned.Years of mischief had given him a reputation, and a reputation was easier to manage than the truth.Let them think him idle, charming, a harmless hazard.It kept expectations low.
"Lord Redford," cooed a powdered matron as he reached the floor."We are honored."
He bowed over her hand with just enough sincerity to be convincing, then slipped away before she could decide which niece to unleash.
From the edge of the crowd, he watched the evening's main campaign unfold.The Viscountess of Woodmere stood beside her daughter, Lady Esme Jones.
Lady Esme was illuminated by the full blaze of the chandeliers, a dark-green gown setting off her shoulders and eyes.Gentlemen approached, were presented, exchanged a few sentences, and retired with the faintly stunned air of men who had expected something docile and found sharp edges instead.
She smiled in all the right places, but her gaze kept sliding to the far doorway, as if measuring the distance to freedom, while her fingers tightened around her fan.
James lifted his glass, amused.
She was not hiding her boredom very well, not from someone who knew the signs.
Beside her, Viscount Woodmere stood tall and straight, hands clasped behind his back, his expression that of a man guarding a treasury.Every so often he bent to murmur in Esme's ear.Her shoulders stiffened by a degree each time.
James did not need to hear the words to supply them.He knew Harrison Jones, Viscount Woodmere.The man was punctual, respectable, unnervingly fond of the word responsibility.James had never disliked him.He simply had no idea what to do with such relentless good sense.
Lady Esme, however, appeared to be dying of it.
"See anything that interests you?"said a voice at his elbow.
James glanced sideways to find Mr.Simon Berkshire, younger brother to the Earl of Langley, wine in hand.
"I see an excellent orchestra, entirely wasted on people who do not listen," James said, "and Woodmere attempting to arrange the world to her liking."
Simon followed his gaze."Ah, that.I hear Watford is the parents' favorite, reliable, respectable, dull."
"Heaven forbid a lady wish for anything more," James murmured.
Across the room, the musicians struck up a country dance.The Viscountess of Woodmere seized her moment, directing a tall gentleman toward Esme.
"Boiled mutton approaches," Simon observed, eyes alight with glee.
Cedric Hargrove, Viscount Watford, bowed to Esme, who curtsied in return.As she straightened, James caught the flash of mutiny in her eyes before she smoothed it away.
For a heartbeat, her gaze met James's across the room, and a prickle ran down the back of his neck.
Her expression did not change, but he saw the plea.
Help.
James's smirk deepened.
"Well now," he said, setting his empty glass on a passing tray."Perhaps the evening can be rescued."
"From Watford?"Simon asked.
James straightened his cuffs."Every man must have a cause."
