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“None of my business, eh?” She surveyed him with shrewd eyes. “How are you faring?” Then, only out of polite necessity he was sure, she inquired, “Lucinda and Charlotte?”

With a quirk of his lips, Ian said, “You don’t care a whit how my stepmother is doing. Or Charlotte either, for that matter.”

Aunt Edith inclined her noble head slightly and poked him with the tortoiseshell fan. Again. He was sorely tempted to snatch the accessory from her and toss it behind the greenery—after snapping it in half.

“You haven’t answered me. I know how much you cared for Geoff.” Worry shadowed her unique gray eyes. His mother’s eyes had been the same unusual shade.

His gaze lingered on her. She was a saucy old bird, but a dear through and through. “I’m fine, Aunt.”

As if compelled by an unseen force, his gaze was drawn to Miss Caruthers once more. A callow-faced youth escorted her to her seat where a line of eager pups stood ready to claim her for the next set.

What’s this?

He stood straighter. Had he imagined it, or had her steps faltered and her shoulders slumped, just the merest bit? Was her smile a little strained? Ian stared, searching her face.

No, she smiled as brightly as ever.

He’d imbibed too much wine—that was all. His faculties were affected, which was why he generally steered clear of the stuff. He fingered the cut crystal glass in his hand. How many had he downed since arriving? He shook his head. More than he ought. He would regret it come the morn. Tonight though, the liquor dulled his senses, his pain, his grief…his rage.

An observant servant offered him another full glass. Ian waved away the offer and handed over the empty flute.

“Ah, I see Miss Caruthers has caught your eye. She’s a delightful girl, has exceptional manners, and is quite an accomplished artist.”

He shot his aunt an astounded look. Thank God, she didn’t see it. She was too busy jabbering on about Miss Caruthers many charms.

“Soft spoken, intelligent, excellent dancer, decorous behavior...”

Ian smothered a contemptuous snort. Miss Caruthers was an accomplished actress, indeed, if Aunt Edith was unaware of her soiled feathers. No doubt she emulated chastity and virtue under the ton’s watchful eye while tossing up her skirts in the shrubberies after nightfall.

A flamboyantly-attired dandy elbowed his way to her side, and she snapped open her fan and began waving it before her face.

Aunt Edith chuckled, elbowing him in the side. “Gads, would you look at Pickering’s togs?” Her shoulders shook with mirth. “La, what a nincompoop. Whatever can he be thinking?”

Ian went rigid, darting his flabbergasted gaze to his aunt then flicking it to the man hovering near Miss Caruthers. “He’s the Earl of Pickering?” He blinked twice.

Charlotte’s beloved Reggie? The man whose affections Miss Caruthers stole?

Ian rolled his eyes at the absurdity. It was laughable. He quirked is mouth into a wry smile at the irony until the memory of Geoff’s grinning face intruded. Charlotte’s affection for Pickering might be ludicrous. Geoff’s and his father’s deaths were anything but. Miss Caruthers had much to atone for.

Crinkling her nose, Aunt Edith whispered, “He doesn’t favor bathing.” She paused, “I take it you’ve not been introduced to the earl?”

Ian sensed his aunt’s perusal. She knew him too well; precisely why he’d avoided her. Mindful of her probing stare, he schooled his features and shook his head. “I’ve not had the...ah...pleasure.”

“He just came into his title. Only because his unfortunate cousin expired without issue.” She cast Pickering a censored look. “He’s an obnoxious coxcomb.”

Ian silently agreed. The ridiculous ensemble Pickering wore pained the eye, clear down to his outdated cherry-red, high-heeled shoes. The shoes pitched his body forward when he walked causing his neck to bobble like the vibrant parrot he resembled.

A moment later Pickering guffawed. The whistling squawks passing for laughter confirmed Ian’s initial assessment of the fop. Miss Caruthers’ fan swished faster, and her eyes—were they blue?—searched the room. Did anxiety crease her otherwise smooth brow? The toes of one foot tapped nonstop. In vexation?

An idea took hold.

“Introduce me, Aunt Edith, won’t you?” Ian would’ve asked Prinny himself to do the honors if it meant making Miss Caruthers’ acquaintance. Only for the purpose of delivering her just dues, of course.

Aunt Edith cocked her head. “I seem to recall you prefer more, shall we say, practiced damsels. Miss Caruthers is far more gentle-bred than your usual choice of companion.” She retreated an arm’s length, assessing him with her too-astute gaze. “What are you really about?”

He couldn’t very well tell her Miss Caruthers was a promiscuous tart—that she was responsible for his father’s and Geoff’s deaths. Instead, forcing a smile, he winked. “Perchance, I’m in the market for a wife.” He couldn’t keep the heavy mockery from his tone.

His aunt snorted. “Rubbish and balderdash. You may be the last in your line, but you’re not that anxious to produce an heir.”