Matthew descended the terrace steps two at a time. Despite the lit braziers and lamps dotted around the perimeter of the garden, it was too difficult to distinguish faces in the dark. Lucinda had mentioned the summerhouse, and so he ran across the grass and darted behind the large topiary hedge.

The small wooden building sat nestled in the north-west corner of the garden. Although he’d spoken to Priscilla about auctioning the key, the room was always unlocked.

Coming to within a few feet of the tiny house, he crept up to the door. The sound of breathless pants and moans confirmed someone was inside. If Boden had touched a hair on Priscilla’s head there’d be hell to pay.

Murder was the only thought on Matthew’s mind when he opened the door and marched inside. Despite a red mist descending, he recognised Boden’s broad frame towering over his quarry hidden in the shadows. Indeed, the guttural groans and smacking of lips awakened a rage so intense he could barely focus.

Lunging at Boden, Matthew grabbed the collar of his coat and dragged him back.

“What the hell?” With arms flailing Boden struggled to keep his balance as Matthew shook him like a disobedient pup.

“I’ve tolerated your conceit and your arrogant comments. But I warned you, lay a hand on my wife and you’ll not live to see another day.”

Just for good measure, and because he’d been itching to do it for weeks, Matthew released Boden and punched him hard in the stomach.

With a loud groan, the lord’s head fell forward so fast his chin almost hit the floor. “What the bloody hell was that for?” Boden clutched his stomach as he tried to straighten. “I’ve not touched your wife. I’ve not seen her since … since the card game.”

“You had your tongue down someone’s throat.”

“This is a private matter.” Boden wobbled and shuffled to block the identity of the figure hiding behind the plant in the corner. “It is no concern of yours who I spend my time with.”

“Who is she?” Every bone and fibre in Matthew’s body told him it was not Priscilla. This lady had been a willing partner, and he trusted his wife implicitly.

“I do not have to answer to you. Why do you care?”

“Miss Pearce said you’d lured my wife out here. While I’m confident she was lying in the hope of causing me distress, I’ll not leave until I learn the identity of your partner.”

What was his problem? All the ladies present swopped lovers regularly.

“This is an outrage.” Boden threw his hands in the air. “Can a man not have his privacy?”

“Not in my home, no.” Matthew peered around Boden’s shoulder. “I suggest you come out and show yourself so we can all go about our business.” He glanced at Boden. “These parties are an opportunity for members to partake in illicit affairs. You have no need to fear anyone’s censure.”

“I fear no one,” Boden spat. “And it’s an affront—”

“It doesn’t matter, Lawrence,” the mystery figure interjected in a cool, masculine tone. “I’m certain we can be assured of Mr Chandler’s discretion.”

The gentleman stepped out from the shadows. His golden hair was ruffled, his lips swollen. The blush rising to his cheeks made him appear timid, angelic.

“Mr Musswell,” Matthew said in as calm a voice as he could muster under the circumstances. But it wasn’t anger that flowed through his veins. Indeed, seeing the look of vulnerability pass over Boden’s face caused a rush of satisfaction. “Forgive me. I fear Miss Pearce likes to cause trouble. Had I not been concerned for my wife’s safety, I would not have disturbed your … your evening.”

“That blasted woman,” Boden snapped.

Mr Musswell placed a hand on Boden’s sleeve. “She has had her suspicions for some time. A woman scorned will always seek revenge.”

Matthew cast his mind back a few months. He recalled talk of a liaison between Mr Musswell and Lucinda Pearce.

“Revenge is certainly on her agenda,” Matthew agreed. “The lady cannot cope with rejection. She can be irrational when things don’t go as she planned.”

Musswell sighed. “No doubt she finds this whole situation amusing and is probably watching us from the garden.”

“Oh, there is no need to worry on that score,” Matthew said arrogantly. “Miss Pearce has left. I revoked her membership, told her she’s not welcome in my home.”

“You did what?” Boden punched the air, the strenuous activity causing him to sway and stumble. “Damn it all. God knows what she’ll do now.”

“Calm down, Lawrence. Anger serves no one but the Devil.”

Lucinda was nothing more than a gossip, a courtesan who trampled over people to get what she wanted.

“The woman has no power over you,” Matthew said. “No person in their right mind would accuse a lord of a criminal offence. If she spreads rumours, you must deny them. Indeed, it would not take much to have her refused entry to every ball and soiree.”

“Mr Chandler is right, Lawrence. You give the woman too much credit.”

Matthew nodded. “What you do in your personal lives is of no consequence.” This was not the first time he had chanced upon a similar situation. “But may I advise that you be more discreet in future. Conducting a liaison so openly is courting trouble.”

“It’s that bloody brandy,” Boden cried. “I am normally a man in complete control of my urges.”

Matthew shrugged. “Perhaps you should have had the port. It was a particularly good bottle. Indeed, my wife had a new decanter brought in just before the game.”

Boden’s eyes widened. “Yes … yes. Perhaps you’re right.”

“Indeed, I find brandy affects one’s facial expressions. You appeared to develop a twitch before playing a knave. An excessively arched brow equated to a queen.”

Boden’s face turned beetroot red. He mumbled and stuttered but couldn’t form a coherent word.

“Are you all right, Lawrence,” Musswell enquired. “Are you ill? Is it the brandy?”

“Now, I shall leave you gentlemen to your business.” Matthew tugged at the sleeves of his coat and brushed imagined dust from his lapels. “I hope to see you tomorrow, Lord Boden. I shall look forward to ripping up my vowel and watching it burn. When you play cards again, you should refrain from drinking brandy. Twitches are often mistaken for silent communication, and I’m certain you would hate for others to think you a cheat.” Matthew inclined his head. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

With a grin stretching from ear to ear, Matthew left them to their affairs. He had taken but two strides across the lawn when he heard Boden’s frustrated curses rent the air. While annoyed with Lucinda for causing mischief, finding Boden in a clinch with a male lover was a fitting reward.

Matthew was still smiling to himself when he entered the ballroom, but Robert’s frantic gesture from his position on the stairs banished all amusing thoughts. Perhaps Lucinda refused to leave and was intent on making a scene.

Matthew strode over. “What is it, Robert? Please tell me you got rid of her.”

“No, the … the lady, sir. She’s had an accident, tripped and tumbled on her way out. She hit her head hard on the front steps.”

Bloody hell!

“All I asked you to do was escort her to the damn door?” This was probably another one of Lucinda’s games to get attention. “I assume we’re talking of Miss Pearce?”

Robert nodded. “Hopkins came looking but couldn’t find you.”

“I trust she’s not dead.” Matthew accompanied the footman out into the hall. Relief filled his chest when he saw John standing to attention at the bottom of the stairs.

“No, sir. She’s in the drawing room. We carried her and laid her out on the chaise.”

“But she is breathing?”

Robert nodded again. “She looks to be sleeping.”

“Take me to her.” He had no desire to be alone in a room with the vixen.

Hopkins appeared behind them, his breathless pants audible. “Sir, has … has Robert—”

“Yes, yes. I know about Miss Pearce. Follow me, Hopkins.”

They all marched into the drawing room, stood on the rug in the centre, shocked to find no sign of the injured Miss Pearce.

“Where the hell is she?” Matthew stabbed his finger at the empty chaise. “Where the hell has she gone?”

“But I don’t understand.” Robert scratched his head. “She was here a few minutes ago.”

With his heart pounding hard in his chest, Matthew scanned the room. “Well, she’s not here now.” He strode over to the window and searched behind the drapes, noticed the slight breeze coming from the gap between the sash and the ledge. Surely she’d not climbed out of the window? “Why the blazes did you leave her alone?”

You’d be surprised how helpful your staff can be when a lady feels unwell.

Miss Pearce’s words had come back to haunt him.

“Perhaps she felt better, sir, and wandered back to the ballroom.”

“Then let us go and speak to John.”

They returned to the hall.

“After Robert and Hopkins carried Miss Pearce to the drawing room, at any point did she return to the hall?”

“No, sir. Other than Mr Chigwell and Mrs Wilson, I’ve seen no one else.”

Hopkins cleared his throat. “I was in the ballroom at the time, sir. It was John and Robert who carried Miss Pearce into the room and made her comfortable.”

Matthew blinked and shook his head, somehow hoping it would solve the problem with his hearing. He shot around to face John. “Are you telling me you left the stairs unattended?”

The colour drained from John’s face until his pallor was ashen, an odd shade of grey. “Just for a moment. Miss Pearce injured her head. We couldn’t wake her. I … I couldn’t leave her lying on the steps. Robert struggled to carry her on his own.”

“Bloody hell!”

It was as though a hundred needles pierced his heart. He’d underestimated Lucinda’s skill for deception. All the signs had been there. Matthew pushed the footman aside.

Fists clenched he mounted the stairs, fearing what he would find.