For the first time all Season, Heath Grenville found himself intrigued.

As the premier scandal-fixer of the upper classes, little occurred in London without his awareness. As heir to a title, a graduate of both Eton and Oxford, and a gentleman who regularly put his dancing slippers to good use, Heath was long-acquainted with everyone even peripherally related to the beau monde.

Today, he had been surprised by a stranger.

The beautiful young lady he’d bumped into near the refreshment table possessed a face no gentleman alive could forget. And yet Heath could not place her. Nor could he understand how it had taken all evening to notice her.

With her soft pink gown and lustrous red curls, she more than stood out from the sea of pastel hopefuls. Wide blue eyes, blushing cheeks, lips a perfect, dusty rose…

“Who are you looking for?” his sister asked.

Heath started and forced his attention back to Bryony.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “No one. Do you want some lemonade?”

“I don’t even want this ratafia.” Bryony sent her cup a baleful glance. “I wish ladies were the ones who retired for port. Have you picked a bride yet?”

“Not yet.” An image of glossy red curls filled his mind.

Heath had not introduced himself because he had been embarrassed he did not already know the young lady’s name. The ton was so insular that new blood was always a ready source of gossip among its members.

A new crop of debutantes? The patronesses of Almack’s would have already decided the girls’ fate before they took their first curtsey. Relatives on holiday or old friends from out of town? The happy occasion would have been boasted about for weeks before the visit even transpired.

His heart thudded. He had not overlooked a wallflower, had he?

In alarm, he swept his horrified gaze about the perimeter of the dance floor.

As elder brother to three sisters, Heath took wallflowers’ enjoyment of public functions very seriously. He had witnessed long ago the mortification that came from staring longingly across a crowded ballroom for six excruciating hours, only to leave with one’s empty dance card hanging limply from one’s wrist.

After he had dried his sister Camellia’s tears, Heath had made it his sworn duty to ensure even the shyest of wallflowers at least bore his name on their dance cards. Not out of pity, but because he assumed every young lady was secretly a force to be reckoned with.

“Have you seen Cam anywhere?” he asked Bryony.

She shook her head. “I think she faked a megrim so she could stay home and practice.”

Probably. Their talented sister Camellia might be quiet in a party environment, but she had the biggest singing voice in all of England.

In fact, all the wallflowers Heath had befriended over the years possessed unique personalities well worth getting to know. If the dandies and young bucks couldn’t be bothered, more fool them. Heath would not make that mistake.

Except he had, had he not? He’d let the red-tressed goddess go without ascertaining her name or securing a spot on her card. And in doing so, he seemed to have lost the intriguing young lady entirely.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked his sister.

“I’m bored with the company,” she answered honestly. “There is only so much one can say about the weather and how lovely the cucumber sandwiches are tonight. I keep hoping to stumble across someone interesting.”

Heath had done precisely that—and then allowed her to slip away. He clenched his jaw.

His set had been promised, and he would never disrespect a waiting woman by failing to promptly present himself for a waltz. But now that he was free…

He scanned the ballroom. After two hours of nonstop dancing, he had few sets left in which to get to know the young lady. If he could determine where she was. Or who she was. He could kick himself for his oversight.

How was he meant to secure a proper introduction when he didn’t even know who to ask?

“Have you seen a woman with red hair and a pink dress?” he asked his sister.

Bryony’s eyes laughed at him. “A beautiful woman with red hair and a pink dress, I presume?”

He gave her a flat look.

She took pity on him. “A debutante?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t think so. She seemed older than you are. Perhaps Dahlia’s age. Or Camellia’s.”

“A beautiful spinster with red hair and a pink dress?” Bryony asked slyly. “The horror!”

Heath regretted having broached the topic with his sister.

Pretty women didn’t just materialize out of thin air. She must be someone’s daughter or sister or friend. She also had to be connected to someone Heath knew well. Otherwise, how would she have secured an invitation to Lord Carlisle’s ball?

Carlisle! Of course. Heath’s shoulders relaxed. The earl would know the names of all of his guests. Carlisle and his countess famously wrote every invitation together. Brilliant. The mystery would be solved in no time.

He glanced about the ballroom in search of his hosts. Ah. There they were, swirling in each other’s arms in the middle of the dance floor. His lips curved into a smile. He was glad to see them dancing. They deserved the happiness they’d found in each other. Tonight’s fête to celebrate their home’s recent renovation to its former splendor was merely the cream on the puff pastry.

“I haven’t seen your mystery lady,” Bryony said, “but I adore watching the Carlisles. Don’t they make a beautiful couple?”

They made a happy couple, which in Heath’s estimation was far better than beauty. They were obviously in love. What more could a man desire?

Not that he would dare voice such romantical thoughts aloud. Especially not in front of his family. Mother’s endless pleas for him to quit wasting time with wallflowers and take a proper bride were insufferable enough already.

As if he didn’t know the rules! Whomever Heath chose as his future baroness must come from the best family, with the impeccable decorum and breeding, and be completely above reproach in every way. Et cetera. Et cetera.

Of course he would comply with such societal dictates, not just for his title’s sake, but for his own. Just as soon as he found the right woman.

Mother might fear her son’s tastes too liberal, but the truth was, Heath’s wife-hunting standards were even more exacting and rigid.

They had to be. As a gentleman who had dedicated his life to ameliorating other people’s disasters, Heath could not risk wedding the wrong woman himself. The idea made him shudder.

“Mother has been preaching at me again,” Bryony said. “Be honest. Is my hair’s inability to hold a curl the reason I haven’t found true love?”

“Maybe,” he replied. “Or it could be emblematic of your complete lack of attention to every other concession to fashion. I’m always surprised when a lady’s maid gets you to sit still for more than five minutes.”

“Why does my fashion have to match anyone else’s?” Bryony pointed out reasonably. “All these other girls look just like each other, and it hasn’t helped them ensnare your heart.”

True enough. After more than a decade of such functions, Heath had yet to find the woman he wished to have at his side for the rest of his life.

It wasn’t that he sought physical perfection. Or even to increase the barony’s social ties by marrying the daughter of an earl or a duke.

Heath cared less about external traits like titles, and more about the caliber of the woman inside. Only someone completely aboveboard—whose heart and ethics he could trust implicitly—would do. Someone who would never embarrass his family with a scandal. All other conditions were secondary.

And in the meantime, he was perfectly happy to dance with wallflowers. Who knew? Perhaps the shyest debutante in the room would be the one to steal his heart.

At the other side of the large chamber, a flash of pink and red caught his eye. He straightened.

There. His mystery woman. Reentering the salon from one of the side passages.

“Found her,” he murmured to his sister.

“What are you waiting for?” She jabbed him with her elbow. “Go.”

He glanced over his shoulder. The current waltz was still underway. There was no time to arrange a formal introduction. What if the young lady had been summoning her carriage? His jaw tightened. He had to catch her now before she disappeared completely.

Heath sliced through the crowd in pursuit.

“We meet again,” he said as soon as he reached her side.

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it just as suddenly. Her head tilted in bewilderment. Wide blue eyes studied him as if memorizing every aspect of his person. “Did you just run through the crowd?”

“Yes. No.” Dear God, what if he looked a fright? Heath cleared his throat. “Perhaps I strolled a touch hurriedly.”

“I see.” Her deep blue eyes stared back at him as if she did indeed see far more than he had intended.

“Let us start anew. I am Mr. Grenville.” Heath made an extravagant leg. “Would you be so kind as to let me know your name?”

Rather than curtsey in return, she took a step back. “You have me confused with someone else, my lord.”

“How can I, when I haven’t the slightest inkling who you are?” he asked reasonably.

At least, he hoped he could still count on reason. He had never witnessed a debutante fail to curtsey after an introduction. Much less retreat backward, as if heirs to baroncies were to be avoided at all costs.

He did not close the gap. His goal had been to befriend, not frighten her.

“May I know your name?” he asked more gently.

“Eleanora Winfield,” she mumbled, the words almost too soft to hear.

“Miss Winfield.” Heath gave an even deeper, more elegant bow. “It is my delight and honor to make your acquaintance.”

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

This was not going well at all.

Heath smiled back at her winningly. Perhaps she was even shyer than any wallflower he’d ever met. What could he do to put her at ease? He took stock of what he knew so far.

Her name was Eleanora Winfield. Including one’s first name in an introduction was usually an indication that one was a younger sister. Heath’s sister Camellia was Miss Grenville, the next eldest was Miss Dahlia Grenville, the youngest Miss Bryony Grenville. Using first names to differentiate sisters was standard practice, particularly when all three were present.

Yet he was not at all certain that was why Miss Winfield had done so. After all, if he had no idea who she was, how could he possibly confuse her with her siblings?

And then there was the curtsey. Or lack thereof.

It had been rude not to offer at least a perfunctory bend of the knee. Rude as well to completely ignore his initial request for her name, under the odd circumstances.

Yet the pretty wallflower was not sneering at him in disgust or anger, but instead wore a rather adorable expression of utter confusion. As if she were uncertain why he would wish to introduce himself to her at all.

There. That was a matter easily resolved. He would give her a good reason.

“The orchestra has only just begun this set,” he said with his most engaging smile. “If you haven’t another name already promised on your card, perhaps you would do me the honor of taking a turn about the dance floor with me.”

The color drained from her face. “No.”

Heath blinked. Perhaps she was very, very shy. Perhaps she believed herself awkward, or possessed of two left feet. Perhaps he had just gallantly offered to drag her straight into her greatest nightmare by forcing her to move rhythmically in front of a crowd.

“No dancing. Are you peckish?” He glanced over toward the refreshment table to see what was left. “I would be happy to fetch you some lemonade. Or… a sponge cake.”

She shook her head, blue eyes filling with something akin to panic. “I cannot possibly accept.”

“I didn’t like them either,” he admitted. “Something to do with the squidgy texture. There might still be a lemon square—”

“It’s not the sponge cakes.” A pink flush crept up her cheeks as her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m a paid companion.”

And now it was Heath’s turn not to take an involuntary step back.

A paid companion.

An employee of one of the invited guests.

He hid a grimace. No wonder she hadn’t accepted his offer to dance. She might have been sacked for the audacity.

And it would have been his fault for insisting on being too friendly to a stranger.

“My apologies,” he said gruffly. “I’m sorry.”

“I am not.” She peered up at him through her lashes and gave a crooked smile. “I thought my post was the best thing that had ever happened to me. Now I think it was the moment I was mistaken for someone with permission to dance.”

Heath returned her smile automatically, but inside his mind whirred. This was a positive development. Perhaps not all was lost. Now that they had met, he and Miss Winfield could at least converse for a short moment, could they not? Even in a ballroom as public as this.

He winced. Well, technically a paid staff member of any household was by definition a servant. But just as a lady’s maid had far greater status than a chamber maid, and a governess had even greater status than a lady’s maid, a companion was even higher than that.

In fact, companions were the very highest of all staff in one’s employ. Often the only difference between a companion and her employer was the size of her purse, not the quality of her bloodline. If Miss Winfield’s parents had possessed slightly more coin, she might have attended this ball as a guest rather than as a member of the staff.

But she was right: that had not transpired. They could not dance.

Nor would he be fetching her any sponge cakes.

He gave an understanding nod. “It was a true pleasure to have made your acquaintance, Miss Winfield. Even without a dance. I shan’t make such a request again.”

“I know.” Her smile wobbled. “It isn’t done.”

It wasn’t done. And yet Heath couldn’t help but like her honesty. She had only tried to save him from himself.

He stepped out of her way. “Have a good evening, Miss Winfield.”

“You, too.” She bit her lip as she glanced back at him one last time. “Mr. Grenville?”

“Yes?”

Her eyes twinkled. “I’m glad I spilled lemonade on your jacket.”

“I’m glad I dipped my elbow in your glass,” he returned with a smile.

As Heath watched her walk away, he wondered which of the many dowagers and spinsters present had employed Miss Winfield as companion. Was she the poor relation of someone he knew? His eyes tracked her as she made her way toward the rear of the salon.

“There’s Grenville,” came a voice. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Blast. Heath turned to see who had interrupted his bout of shameless sleuthing.

A cluster of dandies swarmed around him like a cloud of gnats.

“Is it true you helped the Duke of Lambley, Grenville?” asked one.

“Of course it’s true, you ninny,” said another before Heath could reply. “Grenville can do anything.”

“Should he, though?” asked a third. “Lambley’s name is still shockingly scandalous, I say.”

“Then just imagine what we’d be saying about those masquerades if Grenville hadn’t worked his magic!” said the first.

They all began talking over each other at once.

“There would likely be a caricature about him posted on every window in London.”

“So true! Did you see the one about Wainwright?”

“Lord of Pleasure? Who hasn’t seen that? Poor sap is spiraling on a mission to ‘reshape his image.’”

“Saw that nonsense in the betting book. Went against him, of course.”

“There’s no chance of the Lord of Pleasure avoiding further infamy!” exclaimed another. “Unless he hires Grenville to fix the matter in his favor… That would be poor sportsmanship, wouldn’t it?”

“Poor sportsmanship?” said the first dandy. “Cheating, I say! Paying a scandal-fixer to solve one’s problems takes the sport right out of it.”

The second dandy whirled toward Heath. “Tell the truth, Grenville. Is Wainwright one of your clients?”

A hushed silence fell as the entire gaggle of dandies waited breathlessly for Heath’s reply.

“I never disclose my clients’ names, or their business,” he admonished, his tone final.

But he couldn’t fault them for asking.

Since the ubiquitous sketches first appeared all over London, the anonymous artist had become the sole topic across town. The caricaturist was a cretin. In a scant few days, his irresponsible drawings had caused more uproar than Cruikshank and Gillray combined. Unconscionable.

As a member of the very society being mocked, Heath was morally and personally offended. As a professional dedicated to minimizing scandal for the betterment of all, he was both annoyed and outraged. Worse, after witnessing his sister’s charity work cost poor Dahlia a fair portion of her status, Heath was frightened by the possibilities.

If the idle stroke of this man’s pen was enough to turn a gentleman like the Earl of Wainwright into the most celebrated rake of the ton, what damage might he cause to someone more helpless to defend herself?