Anthony Blake, Viscount Percival, clasped his hands behind him and stared out the tall windows of his drawing room at the rain. Water glossed the budding branches of the trees outside, and the overcast light made the lawn look surprisingly green. In the distance, low hills edged the border of his estate, calling to him. Despite the weather, he’d planned to go riding.

Now, however, he must hurry back to London.

“As Her Majesty commands,” he said, turning away from the peaceful view. “I am ever at the queen’s service.”

No matter that said service was beginning to wear upon him. It was only here, in the privacy of his country estate, he could let the deception drop and be wholly himself.

The man facing him, his good friend Lord Bradley, gave him a sympathetic look.

“Percy,” he said, using Anthony’s nickname from when they were at Oxford together, “I know it’s not what you would choose, but you’re so damnably good at what you do.”

“Alas.” Anthony let a wry note creep into his voice. “Curse my pretty face. Very well. I’ll come back with you to Town.”

It wasn’t as though he had a choice. He’d pledged his life to queen and country nearly a decade ago, and still served wholeheartedly.

Too bad he hadn’t foreseen what, exactly, that service would require.

Bradley nodded. “The situation on the Continent is growing increasingly unstable. The Crown fears that tensions between Austria and Sardinia are coming to a boiling point, and could plunge the whole of Central Europe into war. Although we expect their ambassadors to behave themselves on English soil, there are rumors afoot.”

“Considering the parties in question, I’m not surprised. And so, I get to leap into the cauldron.” Anthony rang for his butler. “Give my servants an hour to pack, and we’ll be off. In the meantime, we can have a quick lunch and you can brief me on the situation.”

“The Crown would like you to concentrate on the Austrians. Count Dietrichstein’s wife has a roving eye, and the count is… indulgent.”

“And he’s happy not to have to squire his wife about to various functions,” Anthony said. “I hear he’s a bit of a recluse, while she loves a good party.”

His friend gave him a keen look. “Indeed. Clearly you haven’t been entirely cut off for the past month, Percy.”

“We can’t be idle in our line of work. You know that as well as I.”

Anthony glanced once more out the window. He had to admit that, despite his touch of weariness, he did enjoy the games of intrigue and deception.

“Come,” he said, turning away from the view. “Let’s see what the servants have laid out for lunch.”

Miss Irenna Brunner trailed her Aunt Sophie, the flamboyant Countess Dietrichstein, as she traversed the ballroom. Although Aunt Sophie was supposedly there as Irenna’s chaperone, it often felt rather the reverse. Irenna’s aunt flirted shamelessly with all the gentlemen—the more handsome, the better—despite being a good decade older than most of the young bucks.

They humored her, of course. She was still a striking woman, with a strong laugh and a taste for expensive jewelry. A pity Fritz, her husband, neglected her so, but Sophie had never been one to sit idly by and bemoan her fate.

“Come, Wren,” Sophie said, taking Irenna by the arm. “We must meet that extraordinarily good looking gentleman conversing with our hostess. My, what a figure of a man. Perhaps he will make an excellent husband for you.”

“I find that doubtful,” Irenna said, rather dryly.

So far, all of Aunt Sophie’s attempts to snag a husband for her drab niece had proved unsuccessful, much to Irenna’s relief. She’d learned last year to distrust gentlemen—especially the handsome ones—and a painful lesson that had been, too.

To escape the shame and the gossip, Irenna’s mother had sent her to her aunt in London. Sadly, Irenna thought, there was no leaving behind the inexorable fact that she was completely unremarkable. Her nickname suited her all too well, for she was as plain and ordinary as a wren.

The man Aunt Sophie was dragging her over to meet, however, was a veritable peacock of a fellow. He was quite handsome, with hair the glossy black of a raven’s wing and piercing blue eyes. His dark blue coat clung to his broad shoulders, and he was impeccably dressed. Overdressed, perhaps. The lace edging his cravat, the diamond pin adorning his cobalt brocade waistcoat, and the sapphire rings on his fingers suggested he was a bit of a dandy, if not an outright popinjay.

Just the sort of fellow her aunt delighted in. And the type Irenna planned to steer well clear of, whenever possible.

Their hostess turned to them with a smile as they drew near. “Countess Dietrichstein, do allow me to introduce Lord Anthony Blake, Viscount Percival, lately returned to Town.”

“My lady.” The viscount made a sweeping bow, the lace at his cuffs fluttering, then took the countess’s gloved hand and pressed a kiss upon it. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Tales of your beauty are not exaggerated, I declare.”

“Flattery,” Aunt Sophie said, laughter in her voice. “Lord Percival, may I present my niece, Miss Irenna Brunner.”

The viscount turned to Irenna and made her a similar bow, though not quite so exaggerated. “Charmed,” he said. “I see the family resemblance, certainly. What lovely hair you both have. The very shade of fine cognac, sipped before a fire, while a storm rages outside. I’ve never seen any color more particular.” He punctuated his words with a twisting flourish of his hand.

Irenna blinked at the florid compliment. Her brown hair had never been so overdramatically praised before. Well, almost never. And then she’d been humiliated and laughed at, her appearance mocked by the very man she thought she’d loved. She winced at the memory and shoved it away. At least Lord Percival seemed harmless, unlike her former so-called admirer.

The viscount turned to Aunt Sophie, somewhat in the manner of a lapdog who has performed a trick and expects a treat in return.

“My dearest countess, nothing could make the evening more resplendent than if you would grant me a dance,” he said. “Dare I ask you for the waltz?”

“I’m afraid my waltz is already claimed,” Aunt Sophie said, though Irenna was fairly certain she was lying. “You may have the mazurka. And in return, you may dance with my niece for the waltz.”

“Two of the loveliest ladies at the ball have agreed to dance with me. Such a bounty of blessings!” The viscount laid his hand on his chest. “I am, indeed, the luckiest of fellows. In the meantime, might I fetch you charming young ladies some refreshment?”

Aunt Sophie nodded her assent. “Champagne, for both of us.”

The viscount bowed and hurried away, and Irenna gave her aunt a sidelong look.

“I don’t mind you encouraging him,” she said. “But can’t you leave me out of it, Aunt Sophie?”

In truth, she’d far prefer to be back at Chandos House, in the refuge of the library, not being forced to waltz with a foppish stranger.

“Not at all,” Aunt Sophie replied. “You’re here for the specific purpose of getting out in Society more. We both know you’ve been too sheltered, Wren.”

Or not sheltered enough. Irenna glanced at the parquet floor of the ballroom. Why must she have been born into a well connected family, with its obligations and expectations? She was not suited to the role. Indeed, she wished she could fly off with a quiet flock of her own kind, not be forced to don the gaudy plumage that was her lot.

All too soon, Viscount Percival returned with their champagne. He struck a pose, one foot out, and bowed as he handed Aunt Sophie her glass.

“A sparkling drink, to complement your effervescent personality, Countess,” he said, giving her a long look from his deep blue eyes. “Indeed, I need only spend time in your presence to feel giddy.”

Aunt Sophie tapped him on the arm with her folded fan. “You are a flirt, Lord Percival.”

“How could I be otherwise, surrounded by such beauty?” He turned to Irenna and held out her glass. “Miss Brunner, I ought to have brought you sherry, instead, to complement the color of your eyes. I say, you’re made up of the finest vintages.”

The compliments stung, salt on the too-recent wounds she bore from the Austrian court, and a flare of anger overrode her usual reticence.

“Sherry would not do at all,” she said, taking her champagne. “You might find that type of cloying beverage to your taste, my lord, but I prefer a strong cup of coffee.”

Irenna accompanied these words with what she hoped was a piercing look. Likely her insinuation that he wasn’t manly enough to drink black coffee would fly right over that aggravatingly handsome head. At least he was harmless. Such striking good looks in a more intelligent man would prove a deadly combination.

His eyes widened a fraction, and then he let out a whinny of a laugh. “Of course—coffee. Thought I admit, when I drink it at all, I take three lumps and plenty of cream in my cup. One shouldn’t deny the sweetness of life, after all.”

So, her suspicions had proved correct. “I believe one should accept the bitter, and not try to mask it with falsity.”

“I declare, Miss Brunner. Next you’ll tell me you like to add a bit of vinegar in order to accentuate the bite. I wouldn’t have thought it.”

“Irenna is a complex young woman,” Aunt Sophie said.

“As you Austrians are.” He turned back to Irenna’s aunt. “Full of exciting depths.”

Irenna didn’t know whether to take offense at his overblown compliments or be amused by them. Clearly Aunt Sophie had decided upon the latter, enjoying the viscount’s attentions without giving them undue weight.

“I believe our dance is about to begin,” she said, finishing off her champagne. “Stay out of trouble, Irenna.”

Irenna gave her aunt a nod. She would retreat to the edge of the ballroom with the rest of the wallflowers, sip her champagne, and attempt to dismiss her irritation with Viscount Percival. It wasn’t the man’s fault that he was a brainless ninny as well as a flirt.

He’s harmless, she reminded herself. Unlike Baron Andris, who had set out to seduce her on a bet. And she, foolish innocent, had fallen right into his trap.

She was wiser now. A touch more bitter, too—the viscount was correct on that point. But life was strong and dark and often unpleasant. It was better to drink it down in a quick gulp than to dress it up with frivolities in an attempt to disguise the pain.