stood up. Her father’s excitement had ignited her own. For ten years she had lived with the sorrow of her brother’s death, as well as the bitter knowledge that his murderer had gotten away. Part of her passion as a journalist had come from her thwarted desire for justice for her brother. She had known she could not help him, but she could help others whose lives had been shattered or whose rights as human beings had been trampled. Among her peers, she was known as a crusader, and she was at her best in ferreting out a story of corruption or injustice.
She could not entirely believe that her sister had seen their brother. But her father’s words made sense. The man who had killed Dennis must have had a motive…and greed had always been a prime motive for murder.
“You’re right,” she said. “But I should be the one to go.” She began to pace, her words tumbling out excitedly. “I don’t know why I never thought of this before. I could investigate Dennis’s death, just like I do a story. I mean, that’s what I do every day—look into things, talk to people, check facts, hunt down witnesses. I should have done this long ago. Maybe I can figure out what really happened. Even after all these years, there must be something I can find. Even if it’s something that wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, at least we’d have the satisfaction of knowing.”
“But, Megan, it’s dangerous,” her sister protested. “I mean, the man has murdered already. If you show up there asking questions…”
“I’m not going to just walk up to him and say, ‘Why did you kill my brother?’” Megan retorted. “He won’t know who I am. I’ll think of some other reason to talk to him. Don’t worry, I’m good at that.”
“She’s right,” their father said, and his daughters turned to him in astonishment. He shrugged. “I’m a man of reason. Megan has experience in this sort of matter. But,” he added with a stern look at Megan, “if you think I’m going to let you run off and track down a murderer alone, then you haven’t the brains I credit you with. I’m going, too.”
“But, Da—”
He shook his head. “I mean it, Megan. We’re all going. We’ll track down Theo Moreland and make him pay for killing your brother.”
1
Theo Moreland, Lord Raine, rested his hands on the railing and gazed down at the grand ballroom below, a look of discontent upon his handsome face. His green eyes, fringed by smoky lashes so long and thick they would have looked feminine on any face less ruggedly masculine, moved lazily across the floor below, crowded with dancers.
He wondered, not for the first time this evening, what he was doing here.
He was not the sort for elegant parties. He liked much more to be out-of-doors, preferably in some exotic locale, doing something more intriguing…and possibly dangerous.
Of course, Lady Rutherford’s ball was dangerous in its own way—ambitious mothers and their daughters circling like sharks—but it was the kind of danger that he assiduously avoided. He wasn’t sure why he had come here this evening. He had simply been bored and restless, as he had been many times lately, so much so that at last he had flipped through his stack of invitations, usually ignored, and settled on Lady Rutherford’s party.
Once he got here, he had regretted the impulse. Besieged by flirtatious women of all ages, he had finally retreated upstairs to the card room. That, too, had paled, and he’d wound up here, gazing down moodily at the wide expanse of floor below.
“Lord Raine, what a surprise,” a sultry voice behind him said.
Suppressing a groan, Theo turned. “Lady Scarle.”
The woman before him was one of the beauties of London and had been for years. Her coloring was vivid, with jet black hair and deep blue eyes, and a strawberries-and-cream complexion. If the color in her cheeks was not entirely natural or a stray white hair or two had to be plucked out whenever they appeared, well, only her personal maid knew about it, and she was paid well to keep secrets. Most men, truth be known, found it difficult to lift their eyes above Lady Scarle’s magnificent white bosom, which was, as was customary, spilling out lushly over the low neckline of her purple evening gown.
“Now, now,” she said, smiling archly and laying a hand on Theo’s arm. “I think that we know each other well enough for you to call me Helena.”
Theo shifted uncomfortably and gave her a vague smile. He had never been good at dealing with rapacious females, and he found women like Lady Scarle even more unnerving than giggling young debutantes.
When he had left London on his last expedition, Lady Helena Scarle had been married to doddering old Lord Scarle, and while she had flirted with Theo, she had been interested in nothing more than a light affair, which he had avoided with little problem.
But when he’d returned a few months ago, he found that Lord Scarle had died, leaving the lady a widow. And the widow was interested in finding a new husband—as long as it meant moving up the social or economic scale. Unfortunately for Theo, he fit both requirements.
Lady Scarle had been on the hunt for him ever since.
“I was very disappointed not to see you at Lady Huntington’s musicale last night,” Lady Helena went on silkily.
“Mmm. Not my sort of thing,” he replied, looking about, hoping to see some means of getting out of the situation without seeming rude. Lady Scarle, he had found out, was impervious to almost anything short of rudeness.
“Nor mine,” she replied with a flirtatious glance. “But I had thought…well, when we talked last week, we discussed whether we might run into one another at the musicale.”
“We did?” Theo blurted out, surprised. He did remember running into Lady Scarle when he was out riding in the Park one day last week. She had chattered on for some time before he could get away, but he had not really been listening to what she said. “I mean, well, I must have forgotten. I apologize.”
Temper flashed in her blue eyes—she was not used to being forgotten by any man—but she hid it quickly, turning her eyes down and looking up at him beguilingly through her lashes. “Now you have wounded me, Raine. You must make amends by coming to my rout on Tuesday.”
“I…um…I’m almost certain I have an engagement that day. My, uh…Kyria!” He spotted his sister walking across the room, and he waved to her.
Kyria, taking in the situation in a glance, grinned and walked over to him. “Theo! What a pleasant surprise. And Lady Scarle.” Kyria’s gaze swept over the other woman’s overexposed chest. “My goodness, you must be chilled. Would you like to borrow my wrap?”
Lady Scarle gave her a stiff smile. “Thank you, I am perfectly warm, Lady Kyria. Or should I say Mrs. McIntyre?”
“Either is all right,” Kyria responded calmly. Tall, flame-haired and green-eyed, Kyria was easily the most beautiful woman in the house. She had reigned as the leading beauty of London society since her coming out, earning the appellation “The Goddess” for her beauty and cool confidence. Even now, approaching the age of thirty and a wife and mother, there was no one who could match her.
Lady Scarle, several years older than Kyria, had been married by the time Kyria had made her debut, but it had put her nose out of joint to watch Kyria assume all the acclaim she had once held. The two women had never been friendly.
“Theo.” Kyria turned to her brother and linked her hand possessively through his arm. “I had been wondering what had happened to you. I believe I promised my next dance to you.”
“Yes.” Theo brightened. “Yes, you did.” He turned to the other woman and bowed. “Lady Scarle, if you will excuse us…”
Lady Scarle had little choice but to smile and murmur, “Of course.”
Quickly Theo swept Kyria away down the stairs. She leaned closer to him and murmured, “Now you owe me.”
“I