Heath glanced at his reflection in the sitting room looking-glass, expecting to find the guilty eyes and flushed cheeks of a blackguard who had just been kissing lips that could never belong to him.

To his surprise, the calm, aristocratic façade in the mirror in no way betrayed the turmoil churning within him.

He didn’t know what made him feel worse: that he had succumbed to the call of passion in the heat of the moment, or that his reflection didn’t appear flustered about it in the least.

He turned to Miss Winfield.

She had not fared as well. Her fair cheeks were delightfully rosy, and her full lips looked plump and freshly kissed.

In short, a disaster. Anyone with eyes would easily guess what had transpired between them.

Heath could not help but think she had never looked more beautiful.

“Miss Winfield…” he began.

Captain Pugboat let out an excited yip, scrambled up Heath’s right boot, and began humping his ankle without further ado.

Miss Winfield’s laughing eyes met Heath’s. “He now has two tricks.”

He gave a sage nod. “Lady Roundtree will be so proud.”

Shyly, Miss Winfield nibbled her lip. “Thank you for dancing with me.”

“I swear that the pleasure was mine,” he said firmly. She could not begin to guess just how much pleasure holding her body in his arms had stirred within him.

“And for…” She blushed and looked away.

Heath was grateful she did not complete the thought. If Miss Winfield had thanked him for being a bounder shameless enough to take a kiss without giving anything in return, Heath would never forgive himself.

It might already be too late.

He had held her, kissed her. He, a man consumed with upholding the highest standard of integrity and honesty.

Had he lost his mind? Or had he finally found his heart?

Heath ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Stop that,” Miss Winfield chastised him, and pushed a stray lock back in place.

She was achingly tender. It all felt so perfectly right. And yet Heath knew it was wrong.

He tried to imagine bringing her home to his family.

It would never work. His mother would suffer hysterics. His father would disown him… If the baron noticed the commotion.

Heath was the heir. As such, he’d always known his lot was to marry for the betterment of his title, not for the sake of his heart. Love had nothing to do with it.

By definition, a baroness needed to be the sort of woman who would best complement one’s family, one’s home, one’s status, one’s title. A paragon. Content in the knowledge that he would never scandalize her, and she would never scandalize him. How could she? His future baroness would be part of his world, of his class, above reproach.

And yet all he wanted to do was lower his lips to Miss Winfield’s eminently kissable mouth and lose himself once more in the welcome heat of her embrace.

Heath knew all the reasons why such an infatuation was madness.

First, he should never have tarried with a woman he could not wed. Such improper comportment was the last thing a gentleman should do. He had been taught better.

Although he was still decades away from inheriting the barony, its shadow constantly loomed over him. The title was the reason he could move freely in Society, but also the reason his freedom was limited to what Society would allow.

He could not have her.

But he was not ready to give her up.

“Do you have plans tomorrow?” he asked urgently.

“The same plan as every other day,” she said with a bemused expression. “Accompany Lady Roundtree whilst she is awake.”

“But you will be here?” he insisted. “Do you take tea at the same time every day?”

“The baroness takes tea at the same time every day, and I accompany her,” Miss Winfield said, enunciating carefully. “If you wish to speak with Lady Roundtree, I suggest you arrive an hour earlier. She will be happy to have you at the table.”

“I am not asking about Lady Roundtree.” He took a deep breath. “I’m asking about you. If I call tomorrow at teatime, may I request the pleasure of your company?”

The silence was deafening.

“I don’t understand,” she stammered.

More proof that he was a blackguard.

“Because you are a paid companion and I shall inherit a barony?” he asked.

Miss Winfield nodded slowly, as if he had stated the exact reason why his words made no sense. She was right.

He didn’t care.

“We are so much more than our professional capacities. I would like to get to know you, if you would be amenable.” He held his breath.

“Why?” she asked, her tone mystified.

For the moment, he could promise little. But he wished he were in a position to give her everything. “Why not?”

She licked her lips. “Teatime?”

“Teatime.” He did not trust himself to touch her again without stealing another kiss, so he forced himself to keep a proper distance.

He returned Miss Winfield and her wrinkly pug-lion to their patroness, and begged his leave after promising Lady Roundtree he would return on the morrow.

With a final lingering glance at Miss Winfield, Heath strode to his carriage and sat for a long moment with the reins in his lap. He was too on edge to head straight home, so he turned his horses toward a haven of friends and shadows.

Familiar sights and smells greeted him when he walked through the front doors of the Cloven Hoof. Raucous card games, tumbling dice, glasses of port and ale, giddy laughter mingling with groans of despair.

“Problem-fixer,” said a deep, low voice to Heath’s side. “Just the man I was hoping to find.”

He turned to face Maxwell Gideon, a client and an old acquaintance. Max was many things: clever, crafty, dangerous. Some called him ruthless and controlling. Others called him risk-taking and arrogant.

Heath was fortunate enough to call him a friend.

“Is it the caricature?” he asked. Of course it was. It had instantly become the talk of the town.

“I do look fetching with cloven hooves.” Max’s eyes glinted in amusement. “I’m afraid I owe the caricaturist a debt. From the moment fashionable gentlemen read ‘the road to me is paved with gold intentions,’ the club has been filled nearly to capacity. ’Twas as if the ton viewed the caption as a personal challenge.”

Heath wished he were more surprised. “Then how can I help you?”

Max motioned for them to settle around an out-of-the-way table before responding. “Business has never been better. Which leads me to an opportunity I am hoping you can arrange for me.”

Heath allowed a cautious smile. “What are friends for if not to help each other? Enough fencing. Tell me what you need.”

“I need all of this.” Max’s dark eyes raked in their surroundings. “Without my silent investor, the Cloven Hoof would not exist. That contract turned my dream into reality.”

Heath nodded. Old news. He had consulted on that contract himself.

“Are you unhappy with the terms?” he asked. “The interest is high, but if I recall correctly, the terms enable buy-out negotiations within the next year.”

“I can’t wait a year.” Max leaned forward, his gaze intense. “I want to buy him out right now. Today.”

“That wasn’t the deal,” Heath reminded him.

“Let’s make a new deal,” Max countered without hesitating. “I have the money.”

Heath frowned. “Mayhap owning the deed has become an investment too lucrative to sell. What makes you think your partner would be amenable to alterations, when the current deal is weighted so heavily in their favor?”

“I’ll make certain he cannot refuse.” Max’s dark eyes glittered. “We’re not partners. He owns the building. I own everything inside of it. All I need is a meeting.”

Heath considered, then shook his head. “Nonnegotiable. Your silent investor has been silent for a reason. You are not the only one I’ve made promises to.”

“I don’t need him to chat. I need him to sign a reversion clause. It is past time I become full owner of this establishment.” Max clenched his jaw. “I have spent every day and every night for the past three years pouring my blood and sweat into every corner of this business, and he has never once walked through the door.”

Heath arched his brows. “So you’ve learned his identity?”

“No.” Max’s eyes flashed. “And I don’t care. I just need him gone. Can you broker the deal or not?”

Heath gazed back at his friend. “I cannot make promises. Both of you are my clients. But if you give me the terms, I will present your offer.”

Max growled in frustration. “Can we not simply meet in person? Surely by now every gentleman has seen enough high-in-the-instep lords and dandies frequent my club that he realizes it won’t hurt his precious reputation to meet somewhere other than White’s or Boodle’s.”

Max was not welcome at the “right” gentlemen’s clubs. It was one of the many reasons he’d chosen to establish his own. His request to meet here, in a public location co-owned by both parties, was more than fair.

“I’ll ask,” Heath repeated.

Max inclined his head. “Thank you.”

Heath assented and allowed his gaze to roam the club’s crowded interior. Max was right. His establishment was more popular than ever. Heath should be proud to have brokered the deal that allowed the Cloven Hoof to become a reality.

Instead, Heath’s temples began to pound. He didn’t feel fulfilled. His life felt like it was missing something important. He had helped countless others live the lives they desired. When would it be time for Heath to do the same?

Max had followed his dream and made it work. He had gone from shadowy stranger with a questionable background to lord of a semi-reputable gambling den with an impressive clientele.

It was not the direction Heath would have chosen for himself. Nevertheless, he envied those who could pursue their passion at all costs. Camellia and her singing. Dahlia and her charity. Heath and his art gallery?

A cold sweat tickled his skin. His mind overflowed with images of all the ways such a venture could go wrong. He could not abide the thought of people judging him for his taste, or lack thereof. Soon enough he would have a title, a wife, an heir, a spare. That would have to suffice.

“Grenville!” One of his friends pointed to the sea of caricatures hanging from reams of string tacked around the ceiling. “Have you seen the latest Lord of Pleasure?”

Heath sighed. Months ago, the Earl of Wainwright might have actively earned his rakish reputation, but now that he was married to Heath’s sister there was nothing funny about the golden-haired earl causing a roomful of women to spontaneously—

His heart thudded to a stop.

That was not Lord Wainwright front and center in the new caricature, but Heath’s own sister Camellia. She was not drawn in some ballroom, but rather on stage in a recognizable London theater. The audience full of women were not swooning at Wainwright’s legendary Grecian profile, but cooing to each other about the hopelessly lovesick expression on his face as he gazed up adoringly at his wife.

“He’ll never live this down,” another gentleman hooted.

“I heard from three people who were actually there,” shouted another. “That is exactly how his face looked during her entire performance!”

Heath’s muscles shook in both fury and horror. His lip curled as he glared at the damning inked lines. He recognized that the “joke” in this case was the scandal of being in love with one’s wife, not Camellia’s career choice.

But it didn’t matter. That was his sister’s face. Who knew what the next caricature would bring? Perhaps all three of his sisters would be next to have their reputations torn asunder. How positively amusing for the caricaturist.

Heath dropped into the closest chair and hung his pounding head in his hands. He was a failure. Both as a fixer of problems and a big brother to his sweet, talented sister.

What good was he at either calling, if he could not keep Cam’s likeness from being passed around Town as a penny jest?

He slammed his fist on the table before him. If he had disliked the so-called artist before, it was now hatred… and personal. He was going to put a stop to this cruelty if it was the last thing he did. The caricaturist now had a formidable enemy.

Heath no longer intended to unmask the coward.

He planned to destroy him.