Verena stood before the mirror in the drawing room, and adjusted the jeweled pin she’d set in her hair.

“Perfect.” James stood in the doorway, watching her in the mirror’s reflection. “Is that a new gown?”

“Oh, no! I’ve had this one for two years, though the dressmaker just changed the neckline.” She turned as she spoke and faced him.

His brows went up at the sight of her décolletage. “It looks as if she left off part of it.”

“Nonsense. It’s the fashion.” She noted that he looked handsome. His black coat fitted to perfection and his burgundy silk waistcoat made his eyes seem even darker than usual. He would break hearts tonight.

The door opened and Herberts stuck his head in. “M’lady? Oiye found something on the stoop.”

“What is it?”

“A rock. And stuck beneath it was this note.” He entered the room and held out a crumpled bit of paper. “It’s addressed to Mr. Lansdowne.”

“Bloody hell,” James muttered. He reached out and took the dirty note and opened it.

“That will be all, Herberts,” Verena said.

He sniffed loudly, his gaze on the note. “Are ye sure ye don’t want a drink afore ye—”

“No. Thank you. You may leave now.”

He slowly went to the door. “Oiye can haf cook make ye a nice pot o’ tea if ye want—”

“No,” Verena said. “Call for the carriage. Mr. Lansdowne and I will be leaving soon.”

Herberts sighed then trudged from the room. The second the door closed, Verena turned to James.

“Well?”

“It’s the blackmailers. Ver, they aren’t asking for money.”

Verena blinked. “What? What do they want if not money?”

He held out the note.

She looked up at James, her brow furrowed. “What list?”

“I don’t know. Who is Humford?”

“Lord Humford is a minor lord—he is a notorious hanger-on, but he tells the most delightful stories. Or he did. He recently left the country due to his debts.”

James looked at the note. “Are you certain? This is worded as if—” He bit his lip.

Alarm filtered through her. “James, do you think someone—surely not! I mean, we did think it was sudden, the way he just vanished, but—” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I cannot believe anyone would harm Lord Humford. He was a harmless old man.”

“To you, perhaps. But it seems he may have been a threat to someone. Verena, we have to find him.”

“Then we’re going to the right place; he was well known at Hell’s Door.” She frowned. “What is this list? It’s the strangest thing.”

“Whomever sent this believes we know what they are talking about.”

“We?”

“They sent it here, Ver. And not to my hotel.” James’s frown deepened. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Well, they’re very wrong if they think either of us have any idea about this list. Come, we’re going to be late and it looks as if we have work to do. Just promise me that you’ll behave yourself this evening.”

James’s expression was the epitome of guileless surprise. “I promise I won’t do anything Father wouldn’t approve of.”

“Oh no, you don’t! I want more assurance than that. I have worked hard to establish myself here and I won’t have you destroy it by drawing too much attention to yourself or me.”

“For your information,” he said in a lofty tone, “I have no plans for this evening, but to assist you in your endeavors and now, to find this Humford fellow.”

“Assist me? I don’t need any help, thank you.”

“No? I could cause a distraction so you can switch out your hand. I suppose I could faint. Or tip over the punch bowl.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I know! I’ll see if I can find St. John and challenge him to a duel. That should cause a stir.”

“Brandon St. John never inhabits gaming hells.” Which was a pity, in its own way. She stifled a sigh; her plans for him had gone sadly awry. It really was a pity he hadn’t become so infuriated with her that he’d stormed into her house and swept her into his arms for a punishing kiss.

Oh my, that would have been something indeed. She still tingled from his last embrace. Well, she wasn’t through yet. She smoothed the bodice of her dress, enjoying the way her new necklet caught the light. Made of delicate silver wire twisted into an elegant design, the necklet framed the only scrap of St. John’s draft that Verena had kept—the part with his arrogantly scrawled signature.

James groaned when he saw it. “You are determined to make him angry, aren’t you?”

“The man deserves a lesson in humility, one he will not soon forget.”

“He will seek revenge.”

“I certainly hope so.”

James lifted his brows. “You sound interested.”

She shrugged. “Of course I’m not interested in Brandon St. John. I just have this overwhelming compulsion to remind him that I am not a woman to be ignored.”

James snorted irreverently.

“Besides,” she continued airily, “I needed more jewelry and this was amazingly inexpensive.”

“Inexpensive? You’re wearing five thousand pounds worth.”

“Only part of five thousand pounds. Lady Farnsworth got butter on the draft and I had to rip that portion off and toss it out.”

“That’s what happens when you make table decorations out of an expensive item.” He shook his head. “It’s a good thing Father’s not here. He’d have had an apoplexy by now.”

“You don’t think he’d like my necklet?”

“He’d hate it.” James touched the heavy loop of pearls that decorated one of her wrists. “At least you have something of real value—” His smile suddenly slipped and he lifted her arm toward the light. “They’re false.”

She pulled her arm free. “They’re paste, but they’re very well done.”

His lips twisted with distaste. “There’s no need for you to go without necessities.”

She burst out laughing. “Only a Lansdowne would think pearls a necessity. I suppose you would consider silk gowns and plum pudding necessities as well?”

“But of course.” He shrugged, the graceful gesture betraying his time on the continent. “Shall we go? I’ve become quite thirsty, standing here, debating with you. And I need to find out about this Humford fellow and see what’s toward with this list. The sooner we get that issue resolved, the better I’ll like it, especially since they are involving you.”

Verena took his arm and smiled. “I’m ready when you are.”

Hell’s Door was the newest craze of the demimonde—the discreet gaming hell run by Lady Farley, a loquacious widow with a penchant for expensive champagne and the finest quality diamonds. Located in a small, stylishly appointed street on the edge of the fashionable part of London, the gaming hell appeared much like every other house on the street—three stories of modish stonework broken by large, imposing windows. But the interior was something more.

No fewer than twenty gaming tables filled the front rooms, sporting Monaco, faro, and whist. Fortunes were made, though more often lost, across those baize-covered tables. The only real winner was Lady Farley who had, in less than two years time, made a sizeable fortune.

Tonight, as all other nights, Lady Farley’s rooms sparkled with the rich gleam of silk, the flash of cravat pins and watch fobs, and the sparkle of hundreds of glasses filled with the best champagne, port, and brandy. It was, all told, a very good night to be a sinner.

As she always did, Lady Farley strolled through the rooms, making sure the refreshments never ended, the music wasn’t too loud, the play satisfactory. She entered the main parlor, her calculating gaze immediately finding a tall, dark-haired man dressed in the height of fashion. Her glow of satisfaction increased tenfold.

Not only had she attracted a St. John to her humble establishment, but she’d managed to lure Brandon St. John himself, London’s undisputed leader of fashion.

It wasn’t his usual fare—the demimonde represented the fringes of polite society and as a St. John, he was far too aware of his own worth to mingle with the mere “fringes.” Yet here he was, sitting in her salon, playing faro.

Fanny tried to hide a flush of triumph, but her burning cheeks told her that she was failing miserably. One of the ton’s most eligible and wealthiest bachelors, a man known for his fastidious tastes…it was beyond even her wildly hopeful expectations. She motioned to a servant. “Jacobs, do you see the gentleman at the faro table?”

“There are two gentlemen at the—”

“The handsome one.”

The servant stiffened. “Handsome? My lady, I’m not qualified to—”

“The dark-haired one. The one on the left.”

“Ah. Yes, my lady.”

“Keep his glass filled all night.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good! And if he seems to want something—anything—make sure that he gets it.”

“Anything, my lady?”

“Anything.”

“Yes, my lady.” Jacobs bowed and could soon be seen hovering near St. John.

Fanny thought she would die of pride.

From where he sat at the faro table, Brandon was well aware of the scrutiny of his hostess, but he studiously ignored her. He was here for one reason and one reason only—to track a wily, if beautiful, vixen to her lair.

And a surprisingly nice lair it was, too. He’d heard of Hell’s Door, but had never attended. Unlike Chase, who lived and breathed such low amusements, Brand found empty play a bore. Any fool could count the cards. Indeed, in his youth, his brothers refused to play him, saying it was no fun to lose every hand.

He allowed a servant to refill his glass. After his meeting with Wycham, Brand had spent the night going through the facts. Someone had stolen this mysterious list from Humford and then killed the man. And somehow, in some way, Lady Westforth was involved. But in what way? Did she know something about the incident, or was she in league with the murderer?

He remembered her smile, the warm way she’d spoken to him. He also remembered that though he’d given her five thousand pounds in a bank draft, she’d not exchanged it. Things simply did not add up.

It hadn’t taken him long to decide what needed to be done; first, he must gain Lady Westforth’s trust. Then he would find the answers to Wycham’s unfortunate situation. Brand thought that it would be a fairly simple thing to pretend to become an admirer. From what he’d heard, she was usually surrounded by a swarm of them anyway, unlucky bastards.

He took a slow sip of port, thinking of his decision. It wouldn’t take much to join her court. Women like Lady Westforth expected attention. They craved it. And he would use that craving to his own benefit.

He would pursue her, woo her, win his way into her bed. Before the week was out, she’d tell him everything he wanted to know.

He smiled into his glass. Damn but he was excited at the prospect. Of course, once he had her to bed, the thrill would diminish, but until then…He wondered about her involvement in Humford’s death. Had she known something? Brand swirled the port in his glass, watching the rich liquid circle into a funnel.

Poor Wycham. Ever since they’d been in school, Roger had fallen from one scrape into another. But this…Brand wondered how Roger had gotten into such a fix. It was unbelievably sad that he had no one to turn to, that he’d been forced to ask for help from an old schoolmate. Brandon couldn’t imagine life without his family, without his brothers and sister who, though impossibly interfering, still cared about him and did what they could to make his life better.

Brandon’s hand tightened about his glass. He would help Roger any way he could.

A slight stir arose at the door. Verena stood in the opening, dressed from head to foot in white and silver. On a normal woman, such a preponderance of brilliance would outshine any tendency toward beauty.

But on Verena, whose smile seemed to brighten the whole room, the gown seemed fitting somehow. As if she and no other woman deserved such angelic dressing.

But she was no angel. Brand owed her dearly for her tricks. And Humford, perhaps his very life.

Brandon tossed back the rest of his drink, collected his money, and stood. Somehow, some way, he’d get Lady Westforth alone.

Tonight was going to be interesting. Very interesting indeed.