Michael spent the entirety of the following morning with a sappy smile on his face. His especially boisterous mood was entirely due to the aftereffects of spending a few stolen hours with a mysterious, ruby-clad minx.

This time, he hadn’t lost her until almost sunup. Nearly twice as much of her company as the last time. His heart felt light. He was ever so grateful the duke had been hosting weekly masquerades rather than fortnightly. Michael never had to go more than seven days without an unforgettable evening with Lady X.

And yet it still wasn’t enough.

He stared across the otherwise empty dining table in the center of an equally empty supper room and wished he hadn’t taken his habitual late luncheon alone with his thoughts, but had Lady X here to accompany him. He had no idea if she liked pheasant with French sauces, and would have liked the chance to find out.

Not that such a scenario would ever occur. For one, a request to exchange names was expressly forbidden, and Michael had no desire to fall from the Duke of Lambley’s good graces.

For two, the ill-begotten forty-day wager was only a quarter through, and nothing would splash his name back into center stage quite like the scandal columns believing the Earl of Wainwright was playing beau.

But the third and most important reason was that Michael loved the mystery. Their encounters were fun. He would not wish to spoil it by finding out who she was—being underwhelmed with the truth. He loved the fantasy. Loved not knowing what to expect. Such an opportunity was not something he was often afforded in his real life, and so far the experience was more exciting than he could have hoped.

What would it be like to see her outside of the masquerades?

If Lady X were here, she might surprise him by asking to do some utterly mundane activity in a completely new way. Dance on tabletops. Take tea in a tree. Or she might shock him with more absurdities from her Punch and Judy family. Perhaps her brothers were professional boxers. Perhaps her sisters were fencing masters.

Rather than regale him with tales of her family, Lady X might chastise him for sitting by himself in an empty dining room long after the dishes had been removed, dreaming about things that were not instead of taking action with the things that were.

He should play an instrument. His jaw lifted with determination. As a familiar face in the caricatures, Michael had very good reasons for not hiring an instructor to teach him the harp, but those reasons were no excuse at all for why he didn’t pick one up and try to figure it out on his own. Why not start now?

Grinning to himself, he quit the dining room and leapt up the stairs two at a time lest he lose confidence in this new plan.

The harp room was at the east end of the main corridor. Because of an obsessive need to protect its contents, the chamber was off limits to guests. Just to be safe, so was the entire east wing of this floor. The opposite wing held the guest quarters. Since none of Michael’s guests ever stayed the night, this floor rarely got used at all. It was nothing more than wasted space.

That would change, he decided. He would learn to play, and to do so, he would visit every day if necessary. The harp room would be full of music once more. Steeling himself against the memories, he opened the door and strode inside.

For the first time in many years, its familiar cherubic paintings and rows of collected harps did not fill him with the bittersweet nostalgia he’d battled since his youth.

Perhaps his annual purchase of a new harp for the collection was not him succumbing to the pain of the past, but rather a tribute to what his parents’ memories might bring to the future. His heart lightened.

According to family lore, the spacious, sunny music room had once been a heavily trafficked sitting room for one of Michael’s great-grandmothers, whose worsening gout no longer allowed her to attend functions. She had combined two smaller rooms into one large chamber in order to let in more sunlight—and more people.

Her daughter was the one who had commissioned the cherubs. She and Michael’s grandfather had just returned from a trip to Rome, where the wondrousness of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel had made a lasting impression. That influence was even how Michael’s mother had decided upon his name.

She was the first to bring music into the airy, painted room. Michael had little doubt that his mother’s choice of harp as instrument was inspired by her surroundings. The beloved specimens she had once played were old and worn, though the servants were under strict orders to treat each specimen as if it were brand new.

The other harps varied in size and quality. One was a small ivory harp Michael had won over a Faro table at the Cloven Hoof. Others he’d picked up at various music shops during his Grand Tour or later holidays. His journeys to far flung havens of music had become something of an annual pilgrimage. The visit to the music box factory in Switzerland had been a serendipitous perquisite to just such a trip.

His favorite of all the items in his collection was not even a playable instrument. It was a slender, thumb-size harp made of solid gold. His father had commissioned it as a necklace bauble for his wife on the tenth anniversary of their marriage—two short years before their lives were over.

Michael’s mother had adored that tiny harp above all things, and had declared her husband had given her a gift of music she could keep with her at all times. His heart warmed. That was a woman who would appreciate her son plucking at strings to carry on the tradition.

Smiling, he crossed over to the mirrored glass dome where he kept the golden harp. He froze.

It wasn’t there.

He stared blindly, his chest tight with fear. He launched himself about the clean, tidy room, peering behind curtains and flinging chair cushions and all but tearing his hair from his head.

It wasn’t there. It wasn’t anywhere.

His mother’s favorite harp had been stolen.

He tried to control his breathing. Who would do such a thing? Every muscle shook with anger.

Immediately, his mind flashed back to the soirée that polite manners had not allowed him to cancel. What a disaster. After the guests had gone, his butler had informed him of a tussle that had taken place in one of the card rooms on the ground floor.

Apparently, one of the guests had implied to another guest that Michael had sampled his wife’s wares, and the man flew into a jealous rage before the footmen could break up the fight.

Michael could not imagine any man in such a condition evading dozens of footmen to sneak up an unused staircase to steal a bauble from an old necklace… but who else could have done so?

His shoulders slumped. Anyone, he realized. Anyone at all.

It wasn’t that the public held any specific dislike for him. If anything, the scandal columns only increased his popularity. But with every new caricature, the rumors grew ever greater. Being invited to his residence was an achievement. Being welcomed into private quarters, an honor.

For some, sneaking in without Lord Wainwright or his staff being the wiser would be the ultimate victory. Certainly deserving of a trophy.

After all, the harp room was supposed to be one of the infamous rake’s many dens of iniquity. If someone wished to prove they’d dared cross its threshold, what better proof than a tiny gold harp that fit so easily in the palm of one’s hand?

A tiny gold harp that meant more to Michael than any other possession in his entire earldom.

And now it was gone.

Sadness flooded his veins but could not dispel the rage.

Limbs jerking, he stalked from the music room in the foulest mood he’d experienced in years. It was too late. The harp was gone. Anger was useless. Michael would have to get past it. Or at the very least, distract himself before he threw a punch at a wall.

Heart thudding, he hurried down the stairs, putting as much distance between himself and the music room as possible. He couldn’t bear to be within its celestial walls at the moment. Couldn’t withstand the accusing stares of painted cherubs.

His throat was thick with grief. He needed to get out of these walls, go somewhere to clear his head. But where? Somewhere with lots of people and plenty of distractions.

Not the Cloven Hoof. Drinking would keep him focused on his frustration rather than let him forget it. Besides, he had the cursed wager to consider. He wasn’t going to compound the loss of an irreplaceable memento with the loss of his friends’ respect.

Which left what? A respectable gathering, he supposed. He curled his lip in self-deprecation. Did he get invited to respectable gatherings?

There must be something. He crossed to the mantel and flipped impatiently through the tray of cards and invitations on top. The majority were from the type of individual who most certainly would get Michael’s name back onto the scandal columns, but… What was this? He scanned the next invitation with interest.

The Grenville soirée was tonight.

Although he had heard the siblings’ talent was impressive, he had never been to one of their musicales. Michael had always felt on display in such environments, even if he wasn’t anywhere near the stage. For much the same reason, he rarely attended the theater. Far too many opera glasses pointed in his direction.

A single soirée, on the other hand, was casual and fluid. He was not required to arrive at a certain time, sit in an assigned seat amongst starry-eyed debutantes, or stay until the hosts declared it suitable to leave. A casual soirée meant he could mingle if and how he chose, and leave whenever he pleased. The perfect distraction.

His tense shoulders loosened in relief. Quickly, he slid a few similar invitations into his waistcoat pocket. That was what he would do. Repay the calls of those who had attended his rout. The staid, proper sector, anyway. It might be more tedious than his usual fare, but then again… it might not.

Although more than respectable by society’s standards, the Grenvilles were unquestionably odd ducks, and to date far more entertaining than Michael would ever have imagined.

Perhaps they were just what he needed to diffuse the fury boiling in his veins at having been robbed by someone he’d trusted in his house. Someone who would never be invited back—if only Michael knew who it was.

His simmering anger and grief had not diminished by the time his coach arrived at the Grenville estate, but he managed to tuck it below the surface and affect a mien a few degrees less surly than he felt inside.

Before the butler could show him from the anteroom to the main parlor, additional guests arrived at the door. While they handed off their hats and coats, Michael wandered over to a quartet of portraits evenly spaced upon the wall.

The visages represented all four of the younger Grenvilles, if he wasn’t mistaken. A handsome lot. The painted profiles appeared a few years old, but the faces were easily recognizable. Though he wished the frames held nameplates. He had always been horrid with names.

The lad he recalled from various gentlemen’s clubs. His name was… Harold? No. Heathcliff? Michael’s jaw tightened in embarrassment at his inability to recall the right name. It would come to him. Maybe. As to the others… He remembered each of them quite distinctly.

Of the three chestnut-haired beauties, the green-eyed eldest was definitely the one he’d run into in the park. The dark-eyed middle chit was the one who had offered to whinny at his soirée. And the blue-eyed youngest was the one who had been kicked in the ankle for referencing the latest caricature. He tilted his head. Perhaps the middle girl was his favorite. He quite approved of that kick to the ankle. That caricature had been repellant.

“Wainwright?” came a disbelieving voice. “What are you doing here? Fishing in a new pond? The Grenville chits aren’t your cuppa. The eldest is a mouse, the middle one a harpy, and the youngest… that diabolical creature possesses bigger bollocks than a Clydesdale.”

Michael’s mood dipped from bad to worse. His temples pounded at the effort to still his temper. He ground his jaw as he turned to see who would have made such appallingly disrespectful statements under the family’s own roof.

None other than self-important prig Phineas Mapleton.

Splendid. The evening only wanted this.

“I am not here to romance the entire family,” Michael bit out through clenched teeth. “I am simply returning a call. It’s polite behavior. You might try it.”

“When have you ever cared about being proper?” Phineas laughed until his eyes watered.

Michael’s humor darkened to a dangerous level. He tried not to clench his fists. Phineas was far overdue for a letdown.

The insufferable buffoon slapped him on the shoulder. “A bit less propriety, eh? If you’re not careful, you’ll put the caricaturists out of business. A tryst with all three would make for a fine cartoon, even if it means sharing one’s bed with a mouse and a harpy.”

Michael was of a mood to shake the man silly. And torch the caricaturists’ entire shops. He turned away before saying something he would regret… and came face-to-face with the dark-eyed middle sister Phineas had just called a harpy.

No woman deserved to hear such garbage. He was going to have to box Phineas’s ears after all.

“Please ignore that imbecile.” Michael tamped down his nasty mood and did his best to summon a jest to lighten the terrible situation. “Aren’t you a Grenville? Shouldn’t you be on stage?”

To his surprise, she glared at him, not Phineas, as if Michael’s mere presence wounded her more deeply than the repugnant gossip’s ignorant slurs. “Tonight is a dinner party, not a musicale. Or can’t you read your invitation?” Her cupid’s bow lips curved into a sneer. “Shouldn’t a soulless cretin like you be fleeing a viscountess’s balcony or out seducing debutantes three at a time?”

He stepped backward, his jaw dropping in shock. No wonder the chit was known as a harpy. “A soulless cretin like me? I suppose a termagant like you will never have to worry about being seduced by anyone.”

The moment the words left his lips, he regretted having allowed her to prick his foul temper—but it was too late to take them back.

The elder sister had walked around the corner just in time to miss the harpy’s needling comments, but overhear every single syllable of Michael’s incredibly tasteless reply.

“Out.” Green eyes flashing with anger, her stiff arm pointed straight toward the door.

“Miss Grenville, I… I don’t know what came over me.” Horror flooded him as his cheeks flamed in embarrassment. He turned to the middle sister. “I do apolo—”

“Out!” The elder sister’s finger shook with anger but did not waver from pointing to the door. “Must we toss you out by the scruff of your neck, like a common mongrel?”

“That will not be necessary.” He drew himself up stiffly.

Given the fiery, pious chit had quoted the Old Testament at him just last week, he would not be surprised if she’d rather smite an earl than toss him out on his ear.

He sketched the slowest, most elegant bow of his life, then walked out the door with his head held high.

Until he reached the street.

He could not believe how badly he’d bollocksed the situation. Or that he had been ejected, but Phineas Mapleton had somehow managed to avoid the ladies’ wrath—despite instigating the entire debacle.

Michael clenched his fingers in frustration. Bugger paying calls on respectable folk. When he climbed into his carriage, he sent the driver straight to the Cloven Hoof. At this point in his wretched day, he could definitely use a drink. Possibly several.

With luck, he would never run into any Grenville girls ever again.