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The rumors. The bane of her existence.

“Please enlighten me,” she said, but her haughtiness was rushing away. She had to get to the door and away from this horrible man.

“You’re the daughter of that crazy recluse Duncan no one ever sees anymore. Not that anyone can blame him when his wife was two steps away from being a whore.”

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, but Sir Kier’s words slashed at her heart nonetheless. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her cry. No one got to see that.

He was leering at her now. “How much do you take after good old Mamma?”

“I’ll bid you good night,” she said, turning quickly.

He lunged and snatched her hand off the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” she cried, jerking her hand back, but his grip didn’t slip.

“I’m going to lift your skirts,” he said. “And you’re going to like it.”

Moving fast, she twisted out of his grip, a decorative bit of lace tearing from the cuff of her evening dress. He staggered, and she realized that the man was so deep in his cups he could barely keep his balance.

Good, she thought, putting an armchair between them.

“You don’t want to do this,” she said. “We could be caught. You don’t want to be saddled with marrying me.”

The monstrous man began to laugh. “Marry you? As though anyone would believe Brianna Duncan’s daughter.”

He made another lunge for her, his meaty hand wrapping around the bones of her wrist and squeezing. She cried out and, acting on pure instinct, she drew her other hand back and hit him square in the face.

Sir Kier roared as his nose exploded with blood. The door banged open, and Gavin barreled in and slammed the blackguard against a bookshelf.

Any relief Ina might have felt, however, was short-lived, for standing in the doorway was Mrs. Sullivan, and it was clear that the most powerful hostess in Edinburgh was livid.

Chapter Two

GAVIN HAD BEEN standing with Mrs. Sullivan, watching the lady put off the advances of a comically young and noticeably poor poet named Avery who no doubt had an eye out for a wealthy patron, when the lady’s butler, Fergus, edged into view. With him stood a nervous-looking maid in her trim cap and black dress. Excusing herself, Mrs. Sullivan stepped away from her guests.

“What is it, Fergus?” he could hear her ask.

“I beg your pardon, madam, but Jessa believes she overheard voices in one of the rooms.”

His eyes darted around the room, searching out Ina. He shouldn’t have left her alone. Years of friendship had taught him that a bored Ina was a dangerous Ina. She had little patience for society and, in turn, society extended her little understanding. Things might have been different if she’d stayed with the Bohemian circles she moved in so comfortably, but her position as a wealthy—albeit eccentric—man’s daughter meant her world was wider than that. Money opened doors, prompted invitations, and brought scrutiny.

“Certainly that’s not cause for alarm,” Mrs. Sullivan was saying.

“I heard a gentleman and a lady speaking,” the maid said.

Why couldn’t he find Ina? She wasn’t with Lana Russell, Christine Nell, or Anne Breck, three of her close friends.

“I see,” Mrs. Sullivan said quietly. “Which of the rooms was it?”

“The library,” said Fergus.

The same room he’d told her the Carriera hung in. Damn but he was an idiot. He’d dangled a carrot in front of Ina and then wandered off, more interested in propping up his faded career than in her well-being.

“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I know who may be in your library,” he said, inserting himself with the same low tone the hostess and her butler had used.

“And who is that, Mr. Barrett?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.

“Miss Duncan.”