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Foshter.”
    “Pierce Foster!” Daisy gasped. “Oh, he’s a black one. We’re
well and truly done in now. I’ll go and pack my things. It’s sorry I am to say
it, but you’re on your own, my lady.”
    * * * * *
    Clarissa was able to glean from her father—through the
locked study door, no less—that Pierce Foster was the owner of several gaming
hells, one of which, dubiously called The Painted Lady, her father had been
frequenting. At The Painted Lady, there were, of course, the requisite painted
ladies, whist tables and whiskey. Lots and lots of whiskey. Last evening,
Pierce Foster himself had sat in on a card game and insulted her father to his
face, questioning whether or not he was well enough in funds to even play.
Naturally, or so Papa would have it, he had been forced to defend his honor by
engaging in a game he went on to lose. While he would not let on precisely how
much he’d squandered, the mere fact he was removing every servant from their
house remained both troubling and telling.
    Pierce Foster was notorious in less-than-savory circles.
Certainly she’d never have met him at Almack’s or even passed him on Rotten
Row, but Clarissa had read of him in the scandal sheets. He was not of the
fashionable set. Few members of the peerage knew him or received him unless
they were in his debt.
    His immense wealth was as well known as his peccadilloes.
Rumor had him gambling and buying his way through society, attempting to steal
into the upper echelons. He was not a gentleman and it was said he had no less
than five lady birds, one of whom was a married countess. The frantically
packing Daisy suggested Clarissa run and hide to save herself from the danger
of the gaming baron’s lecherous company.
    Clarissa, however, vowed to do no such thing. Her courage
would not fail her. After she exchanged tearful goodbyes with her lady’s maid,
she headed to her bedchamber with great purpose, choosing her most formidable
gown. Unlike many dresses from her come-out three years gone, this was a deep,
dark emerald to complement her green eyes and mahogany tresses. Its décolletage
was a bit lower than proper for the daytime, but she was in no position to fret
over proprieties. On her neck she wore a pearl necklace, one of few precious
items she’d been able to hide from her father.
    By the time a knock sounded on the front door later, she’d
been pacing for the better part of an hour, rehearsing what she would say to
him, how she could handle the beast and bend him to her will. When she saw
Pierce Foster on the stoop, she nearly gasped. Nothing had prepared her for the
power of his presence. One word instantly rose to mind.
    Dangerous.
    He was tall and strong of build with broad shoulders and
lean hips. Pierce Foster possessed the body of an active Corinthian, muscled
and toned, nary a hint of fat. His blond hair was too long by society’s
standards, swept back from his high forehead. He had bronzed skin, even,
beneath his shirt. Shockingly, he wore no cravat, only a simple white shirt and
black waistcoat beneath his greatcoat, the shirt unbuttoned to reveal an
improper wedge of his chest. And his face was more beautiful than any she’d
ever seen on a man, starkly handsome. Lord, he was all slashing cheekbones,
proud chin, sullen mouth.
    He gave a stiff bow and offered her his card. “Mr. Foster
for Lord Darlington.”
    How could her greatest foe, a man so low he could have been
swept from the gutters, be the most magnetic man she’d ever met? It hardly
seemed fair. Best to gather her wits for the forthcoming battle and stop acting
the ninny.
    “My father is indisposed,” she informed him in her frostiest
accent.
    Mr. Foster smiled and he appeared, almost, the consummate
gentleman. Indeed had she not known what and who he was, she may have been
deceived by his confident bearing and deadly good looks. As it happened,
however, she knew the man for a blackguard and an utter swindler.
    “Ah. Lady Clarissa, I