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Or, as of late, anything else at all.

Perhaps it was the effect of going to war. After serving in the Peninsula in 1811, followed by the Battle of Salamanca, and a lengthy recovery from a gunshot that nearly took his life …

Ever since his earlier dinner with three friends from Oxford, Joshua had been wrestling with the realization that he’d outgrown them. Back in university, they’d called themselves the Arch Rogues, which was such a stupid label that he shuddered to think of it.

He had matured, and they hadn’t. Or so it seemed over dinner.

He found himself repulsed by his oldest friend, Clay Trywhitt—Clod Trywhitt, they called him now, or so Clod had cheerfully told him. Clod had become a gambler and told Joshua that he was looking to marry a lady with a substantial dowry in the same breath that he boasted of healing from a bout of syphilis. What Joshua knew of syphilis suggested that Clod would infect his would-be wife, not to mention whatever brazen-faced (albeit masked) woman he bought for the evening.

Joshua had just decided to cut Clod Trywhitt from his life and return home when he heard a crash and a recognizable bellow.

Shouldering his way through the crowd, he discovered his friend flat on the floor, staring up at a young vixen who had apparently landed him a blow that had taken him off his feet. Not only that, but her delicate slipper was positioned on his chest.

She was pulling on his neck cloth, shouting. “Oh, you would, would you?” Every time she yanked on the fabric, Clod’s head rose from the floor and then thumped back down again.

Clod wasn’t resisting because he was in the bind of a gentleman who has apparently misbehaved—and is confronted not by a high-flier, but by a young lady. Her voice was crystal clear, and her inflection enraged. Joshua guessed her family was high-born, not mere gentry.

What on earth was she doing here?

Clod stirred, and she stamped her small foot, pressing her slipper into his sternum. “Don’t you dare move, you repellent blackguard!”

Joshua found a genuine smile on his face for the first time since he returned to England. “How can I help?” he asked her, and then, looking down, “What an ass you are, Clod.”

“Clod? As in a clod of earth?” the lady demanded. She yanked on his neckcloth again and let his head thump back down. “He is a disgusting, repugnant Beelzebub!”

“That’s a bit strong,” Clod whined. “Damme, my head is starting to hurt. Would you please take your foot off my chest?”

“Why should I?” she demanded. “So that you may behave in that brazen manner with another lady?”

“Lady? You’re the only lady here!” Clod protested. “For God’s sake, it’s hardly my fault that you—whoever you are—walked into a house full of canary-birds.”

“Canary-birds?” she repeated, frowning.

She turned her head to Joshua and whispered, “Do you think he suffered a head injury?”

Joshua coughed. “Canary-bird is a name for … for a ladybird. A bird of paradise.”

Even through her veil, he saw puzzlement in her eyes. “No one in the room is capable of laying an egg.”

She was aristocratic, very young—and naïve as well.

“My grandmother would have termed most guests trollops,” he explained, hoping he wouldn’t need explicate further.

The lady’s lips formed a perfect circle. Her mouth was cherry red and delightful, and for the very first time since the Battle of Vitoria, Joshua felt a stirring of interest.

“If you’re done with the vocabulary lesson, I’d like to get up,” Clod grumbled.

“If I may be of assistance,” Joshua said, placing his foot firmly on Clod’s chest next to hers, “I can hold this position as long as you wish.”

He could just see long eyelashes blinking at him through the translucent silk of her veil. She removed her foot, shook out her skirts, and said, “I have to find the friend I came with. We must leave immediately.”

“What in the bloody hell are you doing, putting your foot on me, FitzRoy?” Claude said loudly.

“Don’t use that language in front of a young lady,” Joshua retorted, the edge in his voice telling Clod that he would have no hesitation grinding down with his heel.

“Oh, for—” Clod broke off. “Let me up.”

A small hand caught Joshua’s sleeve. “You should release him,” the lady whispered. “We are attracting a great deal of attention.”