Chapter 1
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."
He threaded through the crowd to Esme and her suitor.
Up close, she was even more arresting. The dark green silk fit well. A curl had slipped free at her temple, and her eyes held sharp intelligence. Her fan lay closed against her wrist.
"...and my steward has often remarked upon the clarity of my accounts," Watford was saying. "A firm hand with ledgers reflects a firm hand in the household, Lady Esme."
"An admirable philosophy," James said, stepping into the circle. "Without ledgers, where would we be? Forced to enjoy ourselves, I suppose."
Several heads turned. Watford's jaw tightened.
"Lord Redford," he said. "I was not aware you'd arrived."
"My apologies, Watford. I feared the room might sink under the weight of so much respectability without my corrupting influence." Redford turned to Esme. "Lady Esme, you are the only person in this ballroom who looks as though she has retained possession of her soul."
Her lashes flickered. "Do I look so very mutinous, my lord?"
"Only to those acquainted with mutiny."
A spark lit in her eyes—amusement, relief, diversion.
"Lord Watford was explaining," she said, "that proper penmanship is the foundation of domestic harmony."
"Indeed?" James adopted an expression of grave interest. "Then I have underestimated the power of ink. The tragedies I have witnessed in gentlemen's clubs over smudged totals would move you to tears."
A breath of laughter escaped her.
Woodmere's gaze sharpened. "Redford, my sister promised Lord Watford the next dance."
Watford flushed. “If…if Lady Esme is still inclined—"
James shook his head mournfully. "How unfortunate. I have just staked a guinea on your brother being wrong at least once this evening."
Esme's brows rose. "You have made a wager on my brother's infallibility?"
"On its absence," James corrected. "He assured me your card would be too full to allow a single dance with someone as disreputable as myself. I, naturally, could not let such a challenge stand."
"That is not what I said," Woodmere snapped.
"In effect," James said cheerfully. "And what is friendship, if not a series of opportunities to prove one another mistaken?"
Esme's gaze flicked between them.
"I should hate," she said slowly, "to be the cause of your losing a wager, Lord Redford."
"Then perhaps," he said, offering his arm, "you will save me."
Watford looked stricken. Woodmere looked murderous. Esme looked, for the first time that evening, alive.
She placed her hand on James's sleeve.
"I suppose," she said, "one dance in defense of a gentleman's purse may be excused."
James's smile turned wicked. "You are all generosity, Lady Esme."
As they moved into the forming set, the orchestra slid into a graceful figure. Taking her hand for the opening, he felt the strength in her grip. Not a woman who floated, but one who landed.
"Is this a habit of yours?" she asked, voice low. "Inserting yourself into perfectly dull conversations and leaving chaos behind?"
"Not habit," he said. "Calling."
"In that case, Lord Redford, this Season is in dire need of your services."
"And you, Lady Esme? What is your calling?"
They turned, parted, met again in the pattern of the dance.
"I should like to retire from the marriage market," she said, "and take up the study of being left alone."
"In Mayfair?" he said. "Ambitious."
"I could be very dedicated," she assured him.
He believed it. He also believed peace and quiet would never suit her as well as mischief.
"That would be a tragic loss," he said. "If you retreat, we shall be left with nothing but Lord Watford's penmanship to sustain us."
"You are unkind to Lord Watford," she said, though her lips curved.
"Not unkind. Accurately descriptive."
She looked up at him then, as if taking his measure. He let the humor soften into something more honest.
"You are not at all what I expected," she murmured.
"Ah," he said lightly. "I do my best work when no one is expecting it."
The set ended amid polite applause. James bowed over her hand, lingering a moment longer than necessary. "Come," he said. "If I am to be executed by your brother, I should like a glass of lemonade first."
She allowed him to escort her toward the refreshments. As they walked, her posture altered. Some of the tightness eased from her shoulders, as if stepping out of her assigned orbit had shifted the balance.
"Do you always wager on other people's evenings?" she asked, half-teasing. Her smile thinned a fraction, and her fingers tightened around her glass.
"Only when they are in danger," he said. "You, Lady Esme, were moments away from a discourse on ink viscosity."
"Lord Watford is very proud of his ink," she said gravely.
"I am sure he is. Some men have estates. Some have titles. Some have... handwriting."
"You are terrible," she said, failing to entirely smother a smile.
"I am efficient."
"Efficient?"
"One cannot save everyone," he said. "But one can, on occasion, rescue the most interesting person in the room from an evening of ledgers."
Before she could answer, a whirlwind of pale blue muslin descended upon them.
"There you are," Miss Genevieve Moreland exclaimed, finding them at last. "I have been searching everywhere, only to discover you in the most obvious place possible, monopolizing the only man guaranteed to irritate your brother."
"Genny," Esme sighed. "Please do not start."
"I've clearly arrived in the middle," Miss Moreland said, eyes bright as she took in the sight of Esme on his arm. "Lord Redford. I compliment your timing. You swooped in like a particularly well-tailored hawk."
"I strive for usefulness," James said, bowing. "And entertainment."
"You have saved us all," Miss Moreland said solemnly, accepting a glass of lemonade. "If I had to watch Esme endure one more remark about the moral superiority of columns, I should have hurled myself into the orchestra."
Esme's fingers tightened around her own glass. "Apparently," she said, "my brother has appointed you to moderate me."
James raised a brow. "Moderate?"
"Yes," Miss Moreland said. "A most unfortunate word. He asked me to ensure you made no 'unfortunate impressions.'"
Esme's jaw clenched. "I am one-and-twenty, not a porcelain shepherdess to be dusted and put back on a shelf."
"No," James said quietly. "You are not a ledger, either."