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Discreetly positioning herself, she blocked his view as Miss Stapleton made quick work of securing Miss Caruthers’ stays and gown. After propping her cousin into a sitting position, Miss Stapleton lifted the dangling tiara and circlet from atop Miss Caruthers’ head. She attempted to straighten the mass of midnight curls cascading well-past her cousin’s shoulders.

The chit did look like she’d engaged in a rousing romp. Despite the irregular circumstances, the notion fascinated. Far more than it ought to, in fact. His loins contracted again. Eight months is far too long.

Mrs. Stapleton handed her niece a glass of water, receiving a weak smile in return.

Miss Caruthers took a sip, her bewildered gaze searching the room over the rim.

“How did you come to be here, chéri, and partially déshabillé?” Mrs. Stapleton asked.

“She isn’t partially disrobed,” Ian disputed with calm irritation. She was, but not for the reason everyone likely assumed. “I but loosened her stays, so she could breathe.”

Mrs. Stapleton’s fair eyebrows rose in twin arcs of disbelief. “And you thought such a thing was appropriate?”

“Her lips were turning blue.”

The eyebrows rose higher.

They were as likely to believe that excuse as pigs were to fly. Feeling a noose slip around his neck, Ian released an exasperated huff. “As I—”

“I suggest you not speak at present, my lord,” Stapleton said spearing him with a scowl. He turned his intense gaze on his niece, his expression softening. “Vangie, what happened?”

Miss Caruthers’ confused gaze swung to Ian. Voice husky, she murmured, “I…I don’t know, Uncle Gideon. I often cannot remember anything happening before or after I faint.” She clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap.

Ian fisted his hands. “Bloody hell,” he ground out between his teeth. This situation was becoming devilishly thorny. The noose tightened a fraction.

“I say, Warrick, bad ton. There are ladies present.” Lord Armstrong delivered this admonition, cutting his baggy-eyed gaze toward the women.

Ian angled his head. “Please, forgive—”

Aunt Edith burst into the room, alarm etched across her refined features.

“Lud, Ian, whatever has occurred? Everyone’s speaking of it. That chinwag Lady Pendelbury’s proclaiming you and Miss Caruthers were caught—” She caught herself, and cast a guarded glance toward Miss Caruthers. “Er…that is, in an unseemly situation.”

The Stapleton women gasped, exchanging horrified glances. The rope tugged taut, and Ian ran a finger around his neckcloth.

Miss Caruthers lounged on the divan, a bemused, nonplussed look in her beautiful blue eyes. Did she understand any of what was transpiring?

“Armstrong, do you have a private study nearby?” Stapleton asked.

“Yes, yes, o’ course.” Lord Armstrong nodded, one hand holding his lapel. “Just down the corridor.” He moved toward the door. “Gentlemen, let’s make our way there and allow the ladies to care for Miss Caruthers.”

“I’ll join you as well,” Aunt Edith announced starchily, a fierce no-nonsense glint in her intelligent eyes.

None dared deny her. She sailed to Ian’s side. Giving him a tense smile, she smoothed several errant strands of hair. “Lawks, Ian, you’ve made a merry mess of it. You should never have been here tonight. None of this would’ve occurred if you’d observed protocol.”

He tugged at his cravat again, the imaginary rope burning his flesh.

“Armstrong,” Stapleton said, “would you arrange for our landau to be brought around to the side entrance, please? I presume there’s a way to leave the premises through those doors.” He indicated the French windows with a slight inclination of his dark head.

Lord Armstrong nodded, his bewhiskered jowls jiggling. “Course, o’ course.”

“Adélaid, I’ll have your wraps brought here,” Stapleton said. “I’m confident Lady Armstrong will ensure you’re not disturbed. You and Yvette escort Vangie home. Leave by the side entrance, and speak to no one.”

Meeting her husband’s eyes, Mrs. Stapleton inclined her head whilst draping an arm across Miss Caruthers’ shoulders.

Ian observed the exchange with practiced detachment, something he’d learned to do as a child and then perfected while in the army. A nasty premonition niggled. One he wouldn’t allow himself to fully explore, or his temper would give way entirely.

From a thick haze, Vangie listened to conversations around her. Without thinking, she answered the questions posed. Something untoward had occurred. Something scandalous. She could see it in Lord Armstrong’s embarrassed fidgeting, the troubled looks Aunt Adélaid and Yvette gave her, and the anger Uncle Gideon strictly controlled.

But what, precisely, had happened?

Searching her memory, she pulled her eyebrows together, trying to concentrate. Her head was muddled, and she felt disoriented. Oh, to be able to go home, crawl into her soft bed, and go to sleep. Slouching against the divan, she lifted her gaze to Lord Warrick then quickly averted it.

He was in high dudgeon as well. Though he appeared self-possessed and unruffled, except for a few strands of dark chestnut hair sticking up at odd angles, he simmered with restrained fury. The hooded eyes he leveled on her revealed his rage was, at least in part, directed at her.

But why?

Somehow, she’d caused his anger. For the life of her, she couldn’t recall what she’d done; unless swooning while dancing aggravated him so. Vangie trembled, clasping her hands once more. Was he like Uncle Percival, given to fits of irrational rage without provocation? More than once she’d been on the receiving end of a vicious slap from her uncle.

From beneath her lashes, she dared a peek at Lord Warrick. He looked every bit the untamed cat she’d likened him to earlier, right down to the wild, dangerous glint in his eyes. If he had a tail, it would be lashing back-and-forth in agitation.

“Lady Fitzgibbons, gentlemen?” Lord Armstrong waited beside the closed door.

Her ladyship and the men moved to quit the chamber. Viscount Warrick turned to give Vangie an indecipherable look, a steely stare, peering into her soul. His predatory panther gaze captured hers.

Time stopped, held immobile for the scantest of moments. Even in her muddled state, she knew her world had been turned upside-down, irrevocably altered, for better or worse.