“Oh. Are you his . . .”

“Housekeeper,” she said. “Are you selling something?”

“No. I just had a question for—”

“Qu'est-ce?” a voice boomed from the top of the stairs, behind her.

Stiffening, the housekeeper turned and, with her voice shaking, mumbled something about it being some American woman. Diana could sense the woman was definitely uncomfortable. So, Bronson Moreau was a jerk.

Diana braced herself as the door swung open wider and the man appeared. He was probably mid-forties, dressed in a three-piece suit, wearing glasses. He had longish dark hair, slicked back from his face, and gave off the oily Wolf of Wall Street vibe.

“What do you want?” he snapped, pointing at a small silver placard that said pas de colporteur in the door’s sidelight. “We don’t accept solicitations here.”

“I’m not. I was at the ball last night and had something taken as well. I just had a few questions for ask you?”

His frown deepened, showing wrinkles on his face. At first, she’d thought him younger; but with the wrinkles and the gray hair she now noticed at his temples, he looked almost her age. “I’m too busy for—”

“Please. It’d only take a moment.”

He paused for a moment, considering it, then pushed open the door. “All right, you have me intrigued. Come in.”

He turned back to his housekeeper, who was standing at the ready behind him. He barked, “Draw my bath,” at her, and she scurried up the stairs as he strode into a room that was full of built-in bookcases and uncomfortable-looking antique furniture. Despite it being the dead of summer and air conditioning whirring in the background, there was a fire roaring in the fireplace.

He motioned at her to sit on the sofa, while he sat in the wingback chair and started to fiddle with his pipe kit. “What’s this all about, Mme . . .?

“St. James. Diana St. James.”

“The ball, you said?”

She nodded, “Did you have a good time?”

He snorted. “Is it possible to have a good time at things like that?” His eyes went to the ceiling. “I normally stay far away from such a farce, but a lady friend begged me to go.”

“You’re single,” she blurted, not realizing she’d said it aloud until his eyes flashed up from the pipe he was filling with tobacco.

The side of his mouth quirked up in amusement. “Yes, I am. Perpetually. Despite the notions women have about changing a man, I assure them it’s not possible with me. I’ve worked too hard in my life to share my wealth.”

Now, it was Diana’s turn to snort. Gee, what a lovely man. “Understood. I wanted to ask you about your missing item.”

He nodded, lifting the pipe to his mouth, and struck a match. He puffed, lighting it up, and extinguished the match. As he blew out the smoke, something Diana didn’t mind because it reminded her of one of her grandfathers, he said, “Yes. My wallet. You say you lost something too?”