London, April 1829

Her pulse racing, Claire Russell pulled the hood of her cloak lower over her forehead, pushed her auburn curls farther out of sight and knocked on the door of the private residence. She dearly hoped the doorman wouldn’t require an invitation since she had none.

She needn’t have worried. After opening the door, the liveried footman merely nodded and bowed her in. Apparently, the guest list for the private masquerade was unrestricted.

Actually, Viscount Ormond was not so democratically disposed. His servants had been instructed to admit pretty ladies regardless of rank, but others were not welcome save if they carried a chit from him.

Claire knew nothing of the viscount’s particular style of hospitality, but had she known, it would have only confirmed her jaundiced opinion of him. James Bell, Viscount Ormond, heir to an earldom that would soon be his if the present earl continued drinking to excess, was an unabashed rake, infamous for his dissipation and amorous pursuits. That he was, unfortunately, also famous for his vast wealth, stunning good looks, and prodigal charm was the reason Claire had come to this den of iniquity.

Her silly younger sister had fallen under the viscount’s spell and foolishly labored under the illusion that his recent flattering attentions were genuine. Harriet viewed the viscount’s gifts and posies, the strolls in the park when they’d chance to meet, and his billets-doux as a bona fide courtship.

Not that their equally foolish aunt, who served as their guardian, wasn’t all atwitter as well that a peer of Ormond’s rank and fortune was paying court to Harriet. As if a man of Ormond’s dissolute repute was interested in more than an amorous fling with a frivolous young beauty like Harriet with no family of distinction and even less wealth.