He had not asked Hugh to leave, but then again, they’d both known he’d not needed to. Hugh had immediately bowed and retreated. He’d caused those two women enough pain. To remain at the ball would have been nothing short of spiteful.

Especially since he couldn’t bloody well dance.

But his leg had hurt, and he hadn’t felt like pushing through the line of carriages outside to find a hired hack, at least not right away. So he’d made his way to a quiet salon, where he’d been hoping to sit and rest in solitude.

Or not.

The woman who had intruded upon his refuge was still standing just inside the doorway, her fury so palpable that Hugh was almost prepared to reexamine his beliefs on the possibility of spontaneous combustion of the human form.

“You have ruined my life,” she hissed.

That he knew to be untrue. He had ruined Daniel Smythe-Smith’s life, and by extension possibly that of his unmarried younger sister, but this darkly brunette woman in front of him was not Honoria Smythe-Smith. Lady Honoria had much lighter hair, and her face wasn’t nearly as expressive, although the deep emotion on this woman could easily have been brought on by insanity. Or, now that he thought on it, drink.

Yes, that was far more likely. Hugh was not sure how many glasses of ratafia were required to intoxicate a woman of approximately nine stone, but clearly she’d managed it.

“I regret that I have distressed you,” he said, “but I’m afraid you have confused me with someone else.” Then he added—not because he wanted to but rather because he had to; she was bloody well blocking the corridor and clearly needed some sort of verbal nudge to be on her way—“If I may be of any further assistance . . .”

“You may assist me,” she spat, “by removing your presence from London.”

He tried not to groan. This was getting tedious.

“Or from this world,” she said venomously.

“Oh, for the love of Christ,” he swore. Whoever this woman was, she’d long since sacrificed any obligation he had to speak as a gentleman in her presence. “Please” —he bowed, with flair and sarcasm in equal measure—“allow me to kill myself at your tender request, O unnamed woman whose life I have destroyed.”

Her mouth fell open. Good. She was speechless.

Finally.

“I would be happy to fulfill your bidding,” he continued, “once you get out of my WAY.” His voice rose to a roar, or rather, his version of a roar, which was more of a malevolent growl. He thrust his cane into the empty space at her left, hoping its jabbing presence would be enough to convince her to step to the side.

Her breath sucked the air from the room in a loud gasp worthy of Drury Lane. “Are you attacking me?”

“Not yet,” he muttered.

She snarled. “Because I wouldn’t be surprised if you attempted it.”

“Neither,” he said, eyes slitting, “would I.”