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May I kiss you? He wanted to ask that question, wanted to gift her with all the respect and interest it embodied. He also truly longed to kiss her, not merely to wander the woods with her while putting off his duties as a host.

Ten more days until sanity returned—unless he proposed to Emma Cavanaugh, in which case, more foolishness would ensue for a time.

“Shall we continue on to the house?” Lysander asked.

Lady Cargill looked him over, her gaze critical, as if assessing a portrait in progress. She ran her fingers through his hair several times, bringing him the scent of orange blossoms.

“That’s better,” she said, starting toward the break in the trees. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like your hat back?”

He’d like his heart back, for the damned woman appeared to be making off with it, which was perishing inconvenient of her.

“You may keep the hat, though you must promise me that should I allow two waltzes at the wedding ball, you will save one of them for me.”

Out into the sunlight she marched, Lysander trailing like a sleeper reluctant to face the dawn.

“Of course, my lord. It would be an honor to dance with you. Thank you for your escort,

He bowed, though she’d already moved away in the direction of the house. Had a fine walk, did Lady Cargill. And a fine sense of humor.

And freckles.

“Lady Cargill cannot be compromised,” Offenbach said. “I’ve had more than a week to consider the notion and it can’t be done.”

Mr. Terrence Cargill sniffed at his ale and set the tankard down untasted. “Because you ain’t got the stomach for it? You needn’t bed the fair Daphne. All you have to do is create the fiction that she’s been free with her favors.”

Offenbach had no illusions about himself. He was randy, profligate, ornamental at best, and not very nice. He yet had standards, tarnished though they were, and Terrence Cargill offended those standards.

“Lady Cargill might be mature, but she is attractive nonetheless.” She had that indefinable quality of spirit, of directed energy, which intrigued a fellow whose greatest purpose in life was to avoid paying for anything.

“Her ladyship’s age is not the problem.” Besides, Offenbach had learned years ago that Mr. Heyward’s aphorism was correct: When all candles be out, all cats be grey.

For this interview, Mr. Cargill had appropriated the private dining room at the Duck and Donkey, a humble coaching inn eight miles from the splendors of Marche Hall. The summer ale was superb, and the tavern maids comely and friendly .

“If her age ain’t putting you off,” Cargill said, sitting back, “then be about the business. I ain’t paying you to learn the secrets of Montmarche’s famed maze.

” Cargill was perhaps ten years Offenbach’s senior, and he carried at least two stone more evidence of prosperity about his middle.

He gave orders as if he, not his nephew, had inherited the title.

“What puts me off, Cargill, is the lady herself. Nobody will believe she’s granted me her favors. She’s not that sort of widow. She took one look at me and knew me for a bounder.” Worse, she’d communicated that judgment clearly, not bothering with the usual house party polite fictions.

Her ladyship had regarded Offenbach as if he were dung on her slipper.

He should be furious with her for presuming to judge him, except he was dung on her slipper.

Dung whose creditors were ready to toss him into the sponging house, where all of society’s impecunious excreta collected like a crossing sweeper’s pile of horse droppings, but not half so useful.

“Then convince her ladyship you’re worth another look,” Cargill said, rising.

“She’s a little bit of a thing. Wrestle her into a linen closet, lame her horse and take advantage on the long walk back to the stables.

She wanders the countryside with her easel.

Come upon her within view of some walking party and claim passion outstripped your good sense. ”

“You are prodigiously talented at planning a woman’s ruin, but how do I manage the little business of being charged with rape?”

“If she accuses you of rape, she’ll be lying, won’t she? You’ve said as much. Mutton dressed up as lamb and all that.”

Offenbach felt a moment’s sympathy for young Lord Cargill. Terrence was the boy’s oldest male relation, and a venal, greedy, disgrace despite being born to significant privilege.

“Why can’t I ruin Phoebe? She’s a spinster in the making and needs a spot of adventure.” She did not need all the wealth that was rumored to languish amid her settlement accounts. She bore the restless air of a woman overdue for a few rash kisses .

“If you ruin my niece, you’d have to marry her.

Damned Daphne would tie up the settlements so neither you nor I would see a groat.

Ruin Daphne and even her perishing brother will agree that her opinions ain’t to be trusted, and then I’ll finally get control of his lordship’s fortune.

Failing all else, you might be able to get to the boy. ”

“Another criminal act.” And the boy would be horrified at the very notion. That Offenbach was only mildly revolted at such a venal scheme was lowering indeed.

Cargill looked unconvinced. “You needn’t climb into his bed to inspire a case of hero worship. Goad him into insisting that Daphne turn loose of his funds. My guiding but generous hand would be the logical check on his youthful impulses.”

Cargill would part with his nephew’s coin about as willingly as Mephistopheles would return a damned soul to the custody of the seraphim.

“Lord Cargill won’t become infatuated with me in the next eight days, not to the extent that he’d cast aspersion on his mother’s handling of his funds. He respects his mother and will never stand for her to be criticized before others.”

Which was… touching, if a bit silly. Lady Cargill was merely a woman with some means, not a goddess of maternal perfection. She was fierce though, unlike her children.

“Then,” Terrence said, “you are back to compromising the mother. Daphne has been a thorn in my side since my brother took a notion to marry a squire’s daughter.

She can keep her settlements, she can keep her daughter’s settlements, but for the boy’s money to be in her hands is unnatural.

You either give me the means to induce her to sign that money over to me, or you will wish you had. Good day, Mr. Offenbach.”

Not so fast. “Pay the shot,” Offenbach said, not bothering to get to his feet.

“I beg your pardon?”

Offenbach took a sip of the ale. “Pay for the bloody bread and ale. If you want me to ruin a woman who has done me no wrong, betray the trust of a mere boy, and risk the wrath of an earl who is reported to be a damned fine hand with a firearm, then you can absorb the cost of a pitcher of ale.”

Of the three wrongs… Offenbach could not choose among them. Betraying a boy’s trust was very low. Compromising a decent woman was vile. Courting Montmarche’s ire was stupid beyond belief, for the earl was the old-fashioned sort, who would take any slight to a guest as a slight to his own honor.

The older generation took quaint notions like honor seriously, bless them.

Still Cargill merely stood by the door, looking well fed and late for an appointment with his tailor.

“I will tell the fair Daphne all,” Offenbach said, “if you think to use me ill. You will never see a penny of that money, and I will be a hero.”

Cargill laughed. “Oh, right. Force yourself upon my sister-in-law, drag her into the maze with malice aforethought, aid my plans as long as they aid yours, then turn your back on me. See how worshipfully polite society regards you then, Offenbach. You were born a scoundrel, the least you can do is be competent about it. Daphne will hand that money over to me before she brings ruin down on the heads of her children. You merely have to bring scandal down on her .”

Cargill tossed a coin onto the table and strode out.

Two nights ago, Offenbach had taken a large ball of twine and explored the maze. He’d been nowhere near the center when the twine had run out, and he’d wasted more than an hour making wrong turns, doubling back, and making more wrong turns.

Cargill’s challenge was like the maze: All wrong turns, no way to reach the treasure. Except…

Offenbach sipped his ale, for not a drop should be wasted, and flirted with the tavern maids. He munched on fresh bread with fresh butter, and considered the problem of compromising Lady Cargill.

He also considered the pleasures of the sponging house. Beatings weren’t the worst of it, and the usual progression was from sponging house to debtor’s prison, a quagmire that never released its victims save in a shroud or longing for one.

As Offenbach peered into the bottom of his tankard, a glimmer of an idea germinated in his weary and worried mind.

Lady Cargill must be compromised, that was given and something he was well equipped to accomplish.

Offenbach merely needed to be found embracing her, or sharing a linen closet with her.

A gentlemanly silence on his part paired with protestations of innocence from her would ignite a bonfire of gossip, and the lady’s ruin would result.

What was needed was an ally, somebody who could be depended upon to discover a couple at an unfortunate moment, and trumpet that news all over Marche Hall.

The damage would be done, and—such a pity—Offenbach would be victimized by circumstances every bit as much as the lady.

He’d nobly offer marriage, she’d turn him down flat, and all would be well.

Perfect.

“Perhaps your lordship could help me find a book?” Mrs. Cavanaugh had developed an affliction of the eyelids, for she seemed compelled to bat them at Lysander like one plagued by a nervous tic.