She let the horses out a bit, enjoying the sensation as they pounded through the park. Perhaps she ought to go out to the countryside, to the family estate in Dorset, but that would scarcely solve her problem with her family away in the north. She would still be kicking her heels in frustration, bereft of any kind of stimulation apart from the solitary enjoyment of books and the theater. She had no one to talk with, no one to laugh with, to fight with. And it looked as if it would continue that way for the rest of her life.

An unexpected fit of melancholia settled down around her, and she bit her lip. She made it a rule never to cry about her situation. She was simply reaping the rewards of her own foolishness.

But after endless days of rain and gloom she could feel waves of obnoxious self-pity begin to well up. The damp wind had pulled some of her hair loose, and she reached up a gloved hand to push it out of her face.

The swiftness of the accident was astonishing. One moment she was bowling along the road, in the next the carriage lurched violently and she just barely held on to the reins, controlling the horses as she kept them from trying to bolt.

She knew immediately that something must have happened to one of the wheels, and she hauled back on the reins, trying to stop the frightened beasts, trying to maintain her seat and not be tossed into the road, just as a huge black carriage came up from behind her. Within moments two of the grooms had jumped down, pulling her frightened animals to a halt.

It had begun to rain again, and Miranda was getting soaked. The carriage had stopped just ahead of hers on the road, a crest on the door, but she didn’t recognize whose it was, and she was too busy castigating herself as an absolute idiot, a total noddy for letting the horses panic like that. Her curricle was tilted at a strange angle, and she scrambled down before anyone could come to her aid, passing the broken wheel and moving to the leader’s head, taking the bridle in her hand and stroking his nose, murmuring soothing words.

The footman she’d displaced went back to the dark carriage and let down the steps, opening the door, holding a muffled conversation with someone inside before returning to her. “His lordship wonders if you would do him the honor of allowing him to assist you,” the groom said politely.

Bloody hell, Miranda thought, having been taught to curse by her brothers. “I thank him, but he’s already come to my rescue.”

A voice emerged from the darkened interior of the carriage, a smooth, sinuous voice. “Dear child, you’re getting drenched. Pray allow me to at least give you a ride home while my servants see to your horses and carriage.”

She bit her lip, glancing around her in the rain. There was no one else in sight, and she certainly couldn’t handle this on her own. Besides, he was of the peerage—he was unlikely to be terribly dangerous. Most of the titled men she’d known were elderly and gout-ridden. And if he offered her any insult she was quite adept at kicking, biting and gouging, all skills that would have stopped Christopher St. John two years ago … if she’d possessed them then. Her father and three brothers had seen to it that she would never again be at the mercy of any man.

“You are very kind.” Giving up the fight, she handed the reins back to one groom as she allowed the other one to hand her up into the darkened carriage. A moment later the door shut, closing her in with her mysterious rescuer.

He was nothing more than a shadowy figure on the opposite seat of the large, opulent carriage. The cushions beneath her were soft, there was a heated coal box near her feet and a moment later a fur throw was covering her, though she hadn’t seen him move.

“You’re Lady Miranda Rohan, are you not?” came the smooth voice from the darkness.

Miranda stiffened, glancing toward the door. If need be she could always push it open and leap to safety—they weren’t moving that fast.

He must have read her thoughts. “I mean you no harm, Lady Miranda, and no insult. I simply wish to be of service.”

It was a lovely thought, but she still wasn’t certain that she trusted him. She glanced out the window. “Where are you taking me?”

“To your house on Half Moon Street, of course. No, don’t look so distrustful. The sad fact is that London society is a hotbed of gossip, as I’ve discovered to my own detriment. Everyone knows of your … ah … unique lifestyle.” His voice was gentle, unnervingly so.

“Of course,” she said with a grimace. “You would think polite society had better things to do than concern itself with me, but apparently not. There is nothing worse than having the world judging you, making up outrageous stories and even worse, believing them.”

“In fact, there are any number of things that are a great deal worse.” His voice was dry. “But I do understand what you mean. I’ve been the victim of the same sort of malicious gossip for most of my life.”

Miranda was trying to tuck her wet hair back inside her bonnet when she paused. She imagined she looked like a rain-swept slattern, but perhaps her odd rescuer could no more see her than she could see him.

“You have?” she said, curious, her own misery banished.

“I beg pardon—I’ve been most remiss. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lucien de Malheur.” He paused for a moment. “You may have heard of me.”

Miranda didn’t blink. So this was the notorious Scorpion, the fifth earl of Rochdale. She peered through the darkness with renewed fascination. “You’re right,” she said with her usual frankness. “Even in my cloistered existence I’ve heard the stories. Compared to you, I’m St. Joan.”

His soft laugh was oddly beguiling. “But we both know that gossip is seldom true.”

“Seldom?”

“Occasionally an element of truth colors a story. Doubtless you’ve heard that I consort with criminals, that I’m debauched and evil and lead young men to their financial ruin and consort with the notorious Heavenly Host. Don’t look so shocked—I realize people seldom admit the organization even exists anymore, but it’s a very badly kept secret. And you would have heard of my deformities, doubtless exaggerated to the point where I’m better suited to Astley’s Circus and its objects of Wonder and Horror.”

He’d been described in exactly that way, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “And what is the truth?” She didn’t have to look out the window. She recognized the sound of the pavement beneath the carriage, the pattern of cobblestones on the narrow street. They were already on Half Moon Street. Too soon, she thought, frustrated. This was the most interesting thing that had happened to her in weeks, perhaps months.

For a moment he said nothing, and she had the odd sense that he was weighing something, considering something new and unlikely.

“The truth is, Lady Miranda, that I am an ugly brute with a lame leg and I prefer not to impose my ugliness on unsuspecting strangers.”

She wanted to see him. For some reason she was quite desperate to set eyes on the notorious, reputedly villainous earl, and she suspected his words had been formed with just that intent.

They had pulled up outside her small, immaculate house. “I’ve been warned,” she said with humor in her voice. “You can show me and I promise not to scream or faint.”

His soft laugh was her answer. “I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough yet, Lady Miranda. I would never trespass on so short an acquaintance.”

She picked up the important word. “Yet?” she echoed warily.

“Please,” he protested, once again reading her doubts. “I do only wish to be your friend.”

“A friend I can’t see?”

“I’ll make a bargain with you, Lady Miranda. You’re fond of music, are you not? If you agree to attend a musical evening at my house in Cadogan Place you’ll have no choice but to look at my unfortunate face. And no, don’t go jumping to conclusions again. The twenty-four people who’ve been invited have all accepted with flattering alacrity. I would be honored if you joined us.”

She probably shouldn’t, she thought. She knew she shouldn’t, but the risk sounded so tempting, and in faith, what did she have to lose?

“I was planning to go out of town, my lord….”

“But surely you can put your departure off for a few days? London has been so devoid of company you must be bored to tears. Indulge yourself, and me.”

“I shall have to see.” It was tempting. It had been so long since she’d held a conversation with anyone outside her small circle, and she was strangely drawn to him, another outsider. She’d be a fool to walk into trouble again. Still, there was always the chance that common sense would reappear as needed.

He seemed to take her pause for acquiescence. “I’ll send my carriage round for you, since I expect it will be a while before your curricle is repaired. Wednesday next, at nine.”

“I shall see,” she said again, being careful. The servants had opened the door to the carriage but the gray, dismal light penetrated no deeper than his shiny black boots.

He took her lack of agreement in stride. “You can come or not as you please. In either case, my men will have your horses back in no time, and I’ll see to the return of your carriage, as well. In the meantime I’m most delighted to have met you, and honored to have been of some minor assistance.”

To her surprise he took her hand, bringing it to his lips in the dark of the carriage. The touch of his mouth was light, but against her bare skin it was oddly … disturbing. What in the world had she done with her gloves?

She practically scrambled away, almost falling down the lowered carriage steps. She might have heard a soft laugh from the shadows, but realized that was absurd.

“À bientôt,” her mysterious rescuer murmured.

And a moment later he was gone.

Lucien de Malheur, the Earl of Rochdale, sank back against the well-cushioned squabs, tapping his long pale fingers against his bad leg. He was feeling meditative—he always prided himself on his ability to shift with the changing winds, and having spent a mere ten minutes in Miranda Rohan’s company had changed those winds quite significantly.