The Earl of Greyley to his wife, Anna,
at the Comptons’ soirée

He had only an hour until dinner. Chase tossed back the last bit of brandy. He closed his eyes as the liquid warmed a path down his throat and into his stomach. His head still ached, but the pain was subsiding with each swallow.

Thank God he’d found the brandy decanter in the library earlier or there would be no sleep that night. In London, he never slept without the assistance of a heavy dose of spirits. Not since—

He closed his eyes, his heart clutched painfully. No. Don’t think about it. Never think about it.

Slowly the feeling of taut-eyed desperation eased. The soft sound of a clock chimed over his shoulder. His hand shook a little as he poured himself another glass. The last time he’d had spirits was the day he’d been attacked. He lifted the glass to his lips, thenpaused. That was probably what had caused the entire ruckus—the fact that he was drunk. The thieves must have figured him an easy mark, just as Annesley had.

Chase set the glass back on the tray, his mind suddenly clear. He’d never be an easy mark again.

Meanwhile, he’d better finish dressing for dinner. He had little doubt that it would be served at a dismally early hour considering he was residing with a houseful of sheep farmers.

Chase sighed and turned, catching sight of his cravat in the mirror. Well, it was supposed to be a cravat. While most of his clothing had been salvaged, his cravat linens had been sadly muddied and mangled, except for two, both of which were now being laundered. Left with no recourse, he’d been forced to accept a horribly understarched cravat linen from the household.

He tried to adjust it one more time, then stopped and shook his head in disgust. Not only was it limp, but it was a damnable nuisance trying to fasten the thing without the benefit of a decent cravat pin.

The thought of his assortment of pins—gold, diamond, ruby, sapphire—made him sigh. Gone forever, the lot of them. It was intolerable, though not as intolerable as it would have been had he lost his mother’s ring.

The thought of that ring and the pocket it rested in caused his teeth to grind of their own accord.

Damn it, he’d get that ring back if it was the last thing he did. Miss Harriet Ward was about to face the St. John determination, whether she was prepared for it or not. The thought eased his spirits some, and he caught his reflection in the mirror.

He’d removed the offending bandage a half hour earlier. A huge bruise colored his forehead. The center was still a dark and forebidding deep blue, while the edges were fading to more muted shades of purple and red with the veriest stain of yellow.

“I’m a veritable rainbow,” he told himself with a rueful grin.

Chase found himself looking at the decanter once again, but he made no move toward it. Instead, he pictured Miss Harriet Ward, a disapproving look in her remarkably brown eyes, her brows lifted as if daring him to be so foolish as to appear before her drunk and witless.