Since Lady Calvert was breathtakingly beautiful Miranda took leave to doubt it, and she made the proper demurral. It had taken her but a moment to recognize Eugenia Calvert, a woman who’d done the unthinkable and left her first husband to run away with Sir Anthony Calvert. They were on the outskirts of society just as she was, and yet apart from that blot on Lady Calvert’s reputation she was as well-born and gracious as any member of the ton.

She was also commanding. In no time at all Miranda found herself ensconced in a comfortable carriage, warm bricks at her feet, a fur throw across her lap, being regaled by Lady Calvert’s clever on-dits, mostly at the expense of the people who’d shunned her. Sir Anthony said very little, content to gaze adoringly at his wife and murmur any required pleasantries, not a bad sort of husband, Miranda thought mischievously, also remembering that Sir Anthony was quite plump in the pocket.

Rochdale House was on the very edge of the fashionable district, on a street she failed to recognize. While it wasn’t quite the blaze of light Miranda remembered from soirees of old, it was well-enough lit that she could see the dark, prepossessing outlines of the large house, and her initial misgivings returned. Had she been foolish once more?

She was still trying to come up with a graceful excuse when she was swept up the broad front steps into a blaze of light, and she readied herself for her first view of the so-called monster who’d unaccountably befriended her.

He wasn’t there. As she handed her cloak to one of the waiting servants she looked about her in surprise. In a gathering this small the host usually greeted his guests, but the foyer was empty, and the music drifted down the broad marble stairs from the first floor.

“We’re a bit late,” Lady Calvert said apologetically. “He probably thought we weren’t coming.”

An unaccustomed nervousness swept over her. Miranda was someone who took jumps headlong, who, to her detriment, never showed fear or even reasoned hesitation. And yet something swept over her, a sense that there would be no coming back from this step across his threshold.

“I wouldn’t want to disturb them,” she said, looking behind her for her relinquished cloak. But the maid had already disappeared. Lady Calvert threaded her arm through Miranda’s and began herding her up the staircase, chattering gaily so that Miranda couldn’t manage another faint protest, so she instead straightened her shoulders in preparation. She’d never shied away from a challenge in all her life. She could hardly run away at this point.

Signor Tebaldi was singing quite loudly, and no one heard them arrive at the entrance of the large salon. It was redolent of candle wax and perfume and hothouse flowers, and the heat was stifling. There were about two dozen guests, as he’d promised, all watching the tenor with rapt attention, except for one man.

One man, sitting in the shadows at the back of the room, and she felt his eyes on her. Lucien de Malheur.

Lady Calvert had melted away, her duty done, and Signor Tebaldi launched into another lengthy aria with scarcely a pause for breath or applause. And Miranda’s choices were clear.

Her host, and she knew it was he, hadn’t moved. He watched her from the shadows, and she wondered for a moment if he was unable to walk. She could move ahead, slip into one of the empty seats, as far away from him as possible. She could turn and leave. She would scarcely be blamed—his failure to rise and greet her was a social solecism of the first order.

Instead she started toward him, unable to see him clearly in the shadows. He was sitting alone, which struck her as odd, but she kept moving, when suddenly her view was blocked by a broad male chest, and it took her good balance to keep from barreling into him.

She looked up into a handsome face, dark eyes and a winning smile. He looked vaguely familiar, and for a moment she wondered if she’d been mistaken, if Lucien de Malheur, the Earl of Rochdale, was this magnificent male specimen.

“Lady Miranda!” he breathed, and she knew immediately that this wasn’t her host. The Scorpion’s voice had been soft, sinuous, unforgettable, a far cry from this man’s hearty tones. “It’s been an age since we’ve met, but I’d been told you might be joining us tonight and I must confess I’ve been watching the door. I flatter myself to think you haven’t forgotten me.”

“Of course I haven’t,” she lied promptly.

He laughed heartily. “Not that I should ever dare to question a young lady’s veracity, but I suspect you can’t possibly remember who I am. I’m Gregory Panelle, a friend of your brother Benedick’s. You and I met several years ago, even stood up together.”

She could feel her smile warm slightly. “Of course I remember you, Mr. Panelle,” she said, still not placing him. However, her brother would never have introduced her to any kind of loose fish, so she could assume there was nothing untoward if she was in his company.

He was very large, blocking her vision, and she leaned past him to glance at the now-deserted seat in the shadows. Her intended target had vanished. “I don’t suppose you could tell me where I might find my host? I’m afraid we were delayed, and I haven’t had a chance to greet him.”

“We? Have I trespassed on some gentleman’s previous claim? I saw no one with you when you floated through the door like a radiant angel.”

She didn’t like him, she decided abruptly. In the past she usually made an effort, but she was no longer willing to spend her time with flirtatious buffoons. “No one has any claim on me,” she said with a soft edge.

He leaned forward, too close, and murmured in a heated voice, “Then may I stake mine?” There was no missing the double entendre, but Miranda simply blinked up at him innocently.

“I’m afraid I do need to see Lord Rochdale. Perhaps we might talk later.”

He took her hand in his thick one and brought it to his mouth, pressing his lips against the soft kidskin, dampening the leather before pulling it into the crook of his arm. “It would be my honor to take you to him. I don’t know why you would want to, but one must do the pretty, eh? Come with me.”

He started toward the far side of the room, the row of French doors that presumably led to some sort of balcony, and short of getting into a public brawl there was nothing she could do but go along with him. “Did he ask you to bring me to him?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Panelle said immediately. “It’s devilish hot in here, isn’t it? He’ll be waiting outside on the terrace.”

Bloody hell, Miranda thought, not believing him for one moment. He was a big man, but she was more than capable of getting away from him if it came to that. And perhaps she was wrong and he was acting on his host’s behalf.

The night was blissfully cool after the overheated room, and the moon was bright overhead, almost full. And there was no one out on the terrace at all.

“Lord Rochdale must have changed his mind,” she said, glancing about her. “We should go back …”

Gregory Panelle swooped her into his arms, clasping her to his manly bosom with surprising clumsiness as he leaned down to kiss her. “You know as well as I do that Lucien’s not out here. Damn, but you’re a sweet little piece of crumpet. I never realized it before.” He aimed for her mouth, but she jerked her head to one side and his wet, blubbery lips landed on her chin. His grip was quite strong, and she stood still, frozen in his arms, awaiting her chance.

“Come on now, don’t be missish,” he complained. He moved one hand and clamped it over her breast, squeezing tightly, still imprisoning her with his strong arm. “You and I both know you’re not too good for this. Treat me nicely and I may see about setting you up somewhere with a place of your own.”

“I have a place of my own,” she said icily. “And if you don’t take your bloody hands off me you’ll regret it.”

He made the mistake of laughing. “I like a girl with spirit. Trust me, you don’t want anything to do with the likes of the Scorpion. He’s a Very Bad Man.”

“And you’re a good one?” she said derisively, biding her time, carefully choosing her target.

“Well, not nearly so bad as Lucien, if truth be told, and a hell of a lot handsomer. He’s as ugly as sin and twice as mean when he gets riled. The man’s ruthless.” he said, pinching her breast so hard it was all she could do not to squeak with pain.

“Then do you think you ought to manhandle his guests and risk his wrath?” a silken voice came out of the darkness.

Miranda made her move. It was far from ladylike, but so very effective. She brought her knee up, very hard, between his legs, slamming into that male part of him she had particular cause to dislike, and his high-pitched scream was much prettier than Signor Tebaldi’s most measured cadences. He fell away from her, collapsing on the stone terrace as he made agonized, whistling noises, curling in on himself like a baby.

If she’d been alone she would have kicked him for good measure. Instead, she looked up at the man who’d appeared from the shadows, and by the light of the clear March moon had her first good look at the Scorpion.

She didn’t blink. He was a tall man, and lean, almost gaunt. The scars across his face were old but nonetheless vicious, and she couldn’t quite identify their origins. Something had raked across his face, leaving furrows, and there were other deeper, neater lines from something else even more cutting. He was dressed in the first degree of elegance, all in funeral black, and he leaned on a gold-headed cane.

“Look your fill, Lady Miranda,” he said softly in that well-remembered voice. “I owe you at least that much for failing to protect you from an oaf like Panelle. Would you care to see me walk? You don’t get the full effect of my monstrousness until you see me move.” He turned around slowly, leaning heavily on the cane, and she could see that one leg was bent slightly, twisted, as if broken and never set properly.

He had long dark hair, but he’d tied it back from his face rather than use it to shield himself, and when he faced her she looked more closely, past the scars. He had a narrow, clever face with high cheekbones, and his eyes looked faintly exotic, tilted. She couldn’t see their color in the moon-washed landscape, but they were very pale, unusually so. His nose was thin, strong, with a slight twist to it. Oddly enough, his mouth had scarcely been touched by whatever horror had befallen the rest of him. His upper lip was narrow, thoughtful. His lower one full and sensuous. What did it feel like to kiss that mouth? she thought with distant, shocking curiosity.