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London, England

Late April, 1814

Vengeance isn’t sweet.

Ian Warrick tipped his champagne flute and took a lengthy swallow. He’d far prefer whisky or brandy. He eyed the pale amber liquid in his still half-full glass. The insipid wine masquerading as champagne did little to wash away the bitterness lingering in his soul.

A young woman partnered by a fusty old lord whirled by, and Ian’s gaze followed her.

Evangeline Caruthers.

After seeking her the better part of an hour, he’d finally found the chit. Or more on accurately, she’d been pointed out to him. A half-smile tugged his lips upward as he watched the aged poger attempt to steer her into a secluded alcove behind a wall of potted greenery. Even across the ballroom, he couldn’t miss her tromping on the ancient fellow’s foot.

That had been no accident.

For a fleeting moment, his smile stretched into a grin of genuine amusement. It vanished just as quickly. He wasn’t here to be amused. Especially by her.

Lounging against the intricately-carved doorframe, he glanced around the opulent ballroom. Candlelight glistened off the crystal chandeliers and framed mirrors gilding the room’s far side. The glass reflected the dancers in a blur of pulsing colors.

This was the first social event he’d attended since resigning his commission in His Majesty’s army. The first since he’d assumed the duties of the seventh Viscount Warrick. The first since his father had succumbed to heart failure brought on by Geoff’s death.

Ian sought Miss Caruthers again, and his gaze lingered. His younger brother was dead. Because of her. Like a rapier between his ribs, pain stabbed him sharp and fierce, hitching the air in his lungs. He exhaled—a slow, deliberate breath. Narrowing his eyes, he lifted the flute to his lips.

A lieutenant reeking of strong spirits staggered from the ballroom and plowed into him. Ian choked on the wine trickling down his throat. “Good—God—man,” he said between strangled coughs.

“’Scuse me, milord. Don’ feel well. Too hot.”

Swallowing against the stinging in his throat, Ian beckoned to a liveried servant. “Help that chap, please.”

He indicated the lieutenant weaving his way through the doorway and careening into any guest unfortunate enough to be in his path. The crimson-uniformed soldier traveled but a dozen more steps before casting up his accounts on the glossy marble floor. Gentlemen raised their voices in protest as ladies squawked their outrage and yanked their skirts aside.

Ian curved his lips again. Poor sot. He’d done it up brown—literally. The ballroom was much too warm; the crush of guests intolerable. He inhaled, and his nostrils twitched. The place stank of sweat, unwashed bodies, and an abundance of cloying perfume. He smirked. No doubt the ball would be touted a haut ton success despite the lieutenant’s messy mishap.

He cared little. Everything about this falderal left him cold. If the circumstances weren’t pressing, he wouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be here with his brother dead and buried less than a month, his father scarcely a fortnight. Ian’s breech of mourning protocol bordered on ruinous—not that he gave a damn.

Miss Caruthers’ retribution could not wait.

Nor could the explanation Prinny demanded for Geoff’s role in the Duke of Paneswort’s death. Ian twisted his lips into a grimace. Paneswort, a royal pain in the arse, had been a particular favorite of the Prince Regent’s.

Lecherous cohorts.

At any rate, Prinny was irate. So, Ian had cast off propriety, abandoned the peace and quiet of Somersfield, his country house, and ventured into this fray despite the ton’s disapproval of his presence. He’d deal with Miss Caruthers, pacify His Majesty, and then return home.

He rested his shoulder against the wall, the deep saffron-colored wallpaper, a similar shade to the mess on the floor in the process of being cleared away by two footmen. With a jaundiced eye, he scrutinized the room once more. Lord, how he despised these garish affairs. The pretentiousness. The fake smiles. The gossip. The social climbing. All of it added to the bad taste in his mouth.

As he’d snooped around to determine who Miss Caruthers was, he’d felt an absolute fool. My God, he’d actually stooped to eavesdropping on the spinsterish misses gossiping along the dance floor’s periphery. When they’d turned their eager, expectant faces to him, he’d fled like a frightened dog with its tail between its legs.

He was the worst sort of knave, raising their pitiful hopes then dashing off without so much as a, “How do you do?” Had the toxic mixture of grief and ire addled him? His tightened his grip around the etched flute’s stem.

The idea wasn’t that far-fetched.

He’d resorted—without success until now—to asking acquaintances to identify Miss Caruthers. At his less than subtle probing, more than one male mouth had stretched into a rakish grin.

“Want a taste of that, eh, Warrick?”

“Prime mort, she is.”

Ian raised his glass to take a sip. Empty. The devil take it.