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“I’m here to rescue my brother.”
    One dark brow slowly arched. “Rescue?”
    Undefined warning shaded the word. She ignored it. “Precisely. You cannot be so distanced from the polite world not to know that association with a man of your . . . propensities would be ruinous for my brother, should such an association become widely known.”
    No reaction showed in the hard planes of his face. An instant ticked by, then he said, “My propensities?”
    She refused to be intimidated. “Your business. Your activities.” She glanced at the front hall, then looked at him. “I’m unsure what form of entertainment you and your patrons are indulging in tonight, but if you would be so good as to let Mr. Clifford know that I am here and require his escort home, you will not be troubled by either him or me again.”
    Far from showing any inclination to accede to her request, he regarded her steadily, his dark eyes—she couldn’t tell what color they were, but she didn’t think they were black—studying her eyes, her face. His expression was unreadable, utterly uninterpretable.
    “Tell me, Miss Clifford,” he eventually said, his deep drawl almost a purr, “just what forms of entertainment do you imagine I provide for my . . . close acquaintances in the privacy of my home?”
    Yes, she was in the wrong venturing into his house like this, but she’d be damned if she allowed a gambling king to patronize her. “I have no idea, and less interest, but the two that leapt to mind when I realized that Roderick was coming here were a private gambling party, or else an orgy. Regardless, I believe attending will not be in my brother’s best interests, just as I know that associating with you will definitely not be to his advantage.”
    His heavy lids flickered, fleetingly screening his eyes. “Are you accusing me of corrupting your brother, Miss Clifford?”
    She refused to quake at his quietly steely tone. “Are you?”
    “No.” But she wasn’t the first lady to view him as a corrupter of innocents; perhaps that long-ago echo was why Roscoe felt compelled to prove her wrong. To open her eyes to her misjudgment of him, to make her acknowledge it, and apologize, now, tonight.
    He wasn’t normally so sensitive; some part of his mind found it strange that she, a lady he hadn’t previously met, had so quickly got under his skin sufficiently to needle him in such a very private spot. A spot he was surprised to discover still tender. Regardless . . .
    “I suggest, Miss Clifford, that you come with me.” Stepping back, he waved her to the corridor leading off the far end of the gallery.
    She viewed the corridor with open suspicion. “Why? I can just as well wait here until you send Roderick to me.”
    “Ah, but I have no intention of embarrassing your brother in such a way.” He started strolling toward the corridor.
    Three strides, and she huffed out a breath and came after him. “Where are we going?”
    “To a place from where you can watch our proceedings without any of my guests being aware of it.”
    “No!” She halted.
    When he didn’t stop walking, she hurried to catch up, then tipped up her chin and breathlessly amended, “That is, there’s no need for me to see—”
    “Oh, but there is.” He kept his expression utterly impassive, but inside he was smiling.
    Reaching a door set in the paneled wall, his hand on the knob, he halted and faced her. “You would have to possess a remarkably peculiar view of such things to imagine I would host an orgy in my library.”
    She blinked. “I would?”
    “Trust me—I hold no orgies in my library. So the worst you’re going to see is eight men gambling, although in fact it won’t even be that.” He met her gaze, open challenge in his eyes. “You followed your brother here intent on discovering what he was about—are you going to turn tail and run at this point, or are you brave enough to face the truth?”
    He was enjoying himself, and despite his best