You had to give her credit. The lady wasn’t easily rattled, although having organized this performance-with witnesses to boot-bespoke a certain audacity on her part. He slid off her and rose from the bed. Lifting his overcoat from the chair on which he’d dropped it, he slipped it on, buttoned it, then exited the room and made his way downstairs to speak to the proprietor.

Isolde debated dressing, but should he return quickly, she ran the risk of being caught in some degree of nudity, and with a forward fellow like this actor, she was safer where she was. Her purse was within reach. Furthermore, there was no doubt in her mind that they could reach a monetary agreement. Malmsey had already paid him for his night’s work, but the life of an actor was one of financial insecurity. So she’d simply ask him what he required to forget that he’d been here and she’d pay it.

Downstairs, Oz was offering the proprietor of Blackwood’s Hotel a rueful smile. “A slight problem has arisen, Fremont. Room thirteen is occupied by an unknown person.”

“My apologies, sir.” The trim, dapper man quickly flipped through the guest ledger and a moment later glanced up with a genuinely pained expression. “My most profuse apologies, my lord. I should have said room twenty-three.” His face was beet red. “I most humbly beg your pardon.”

“Rest easy, Fremont,” Oz replied good-naturedly. “No great damage has been done. Although, if you’d be so kind as to inform the lady in room twenty-three that I’m unable to meet her tonight, I’d appreciate it. Tell her that a business matter of some importance has delayed me.”

“Naturally, sir, as you wish, sir.” Relieved he wouldn’t meet with the baron’s wrath, the proprietor deferentially added, “Would you like me to express your regrets to the lady?”

“I would, thank you. And see that she has a carriage waiting for her.”

“Yes, sir. Consider it done.” Fremont gave no indication that he knew Lennox was nude beneath his coat. The baron was a very generous man, his gratuities commensurate with his fortune. Not to mention his forgiving nature tonight was a profound relief.

Oz turned to leave, then swung back. “You don’t happen to know the name of the lady in room thirteen?”

“A Mrs. Smith, sir,” Fremont answered, one brow lifting at the obvious fraud.

“Ah-I see. Thank you.”

Not prone to self-reflection after an evening of drink, he gave no more thought to the lady’s pretense. Taking the stairs at a run, he returned to room thirteen, slipped inside, and shut and locked the door behind him. There she was-right where he’d left her. That she’d not taken the opportunity to run suggested this situation was critical in some way. Interesting… as was the lovely lady. Shedding his coat, he walked to the light switch by the connecting door, flicked off the intolerably bright overhead fixture, and moving toward the bed, turned on another wall sconce.

A touch of apprehension appeared in Isolde’s eyes. Even in worldly London, even with an actor from the free and easy world of the theater she’d not expected such shamelessness. “What are you doing?” Seated against the headboard, she jerked the covers up to her chin.

“Coming to make a bargain with you.” While he was not entirely sure what had motivated his reply, the persuasive influence of a beautiful woman, opportunity, and considerable liquor couldn’t be discounted. Not to mention that on closer inspection, her charms were even more impressive.

“Kindly do so once you’re dressed.”

“You’re not in a position to give orders,” Oz gently noted, thinking he really must have drunk too much tonight that the alarm in the lady’s eyes was so perversely satisfying. Prompted by his thoughts, he looked around the room. “Is there any liquor here?”

“No.”

But he spied a tray with decanters on a table in the corner. He walked without haste to the table and poured himself a brandy. Returning to the bed, he raised his glass to her. “See-you were mistaken. Would you like some?”

“No, I would not,” Isolde replied in quelling accents. “Kindly inform me of this bargain of yours so we may both be on our way.”

Since his intentions weren’t entirely clear or rather of a chrysalis nature, he climbed back into bed, took a seat beside her, and said, “First tell me why I’m here-because clearly the man Malmsey hired is not.” Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drank half the brandy.

Good God, he isn’t the actor! “I have no idea on either score,” she tersely said, rattled by this unexpected turn of events. “If I did, you wouldn’t be here annoying me and some anonymous actor would have long since left.”

“An actor?” Oz grinned. “Did the poor man know what he was getting into?”

“I’m sure he did. He was well paid for his role.”

“Apparently he was,” Oz drolly noted, “considering he didn’t show up for his performance.”

“Obviously, there was some mistake. But,” Isolde mockingly added, “since you performed well, all turned out in the end.”

“If I agree to accommodate you.” The word perform was triggering rather explicit images.

“You already have.”

“Not completely.” This lady along with her story piqued his interest. Or maybe he’d become bored with Nell.

“If it’s money you want,” she said with a touch of impatience, “just say so and we can stop playing games.”

Oz lifted his glass to her. “I haven’t even begun playing, Countess,” he silkily murmured.

“I find your innuendo shameless and irritating,” Isolde snapped, bristling with indignation, her ready temper on the rise. The man was equally shameless in his nudity; he didn’t even attempt to cover himself.

“Now, now,” Oz murmured, fascinated by her willful personality, “there’s no reason we can’t be friends. Where are you from?” He hadn’t seen her before, and if she was indeed a countess, he would have met her-and more to the point, wouldn’t have forgotten so splendid a woman. She had the face of an enchantress-sensual blue eyes dark with storm clouds, a fine straight nose, soft, cherry red lips that fairly begged to be kissed, and a stubborn little chin that was infinitely fascinating to a man who knew far too many willing females. A glorious halo of pale hair framed her features, and even with their brief bodily contact, her voluptuousness was conspicuous.

“I have no intention of being your friend, nor need you know where I’m from.” She must extricate herself from this unexpected and potentially disastrous predicament-and quickly. Her plans didn’t include someone who might talk out of turn. Everything depended on a nameless lover who couldn’t be found and cross-examined.

“Then perhaps,” Oz drawled, “I should tell Mr. Malmsey that I don’t choose to cooperate with this scheme and if he persists I’ll sue him for every penny he has.”

“You’re the one who barged in,” she argued, more calmly now. This man would eventually name his price; everyone did.

“And you were the one who said I was late.” His lazy smile was full of grace. “Surely I’d have been remiss to keep a lady waiting.”

“How very smooth you are. But impertinent, sir.”

“While you’re quite beautiful,” he softly countered. “Although I expect you already know that. Tell me, is this little drama perpetrated to give your husband cause for divorce? If so, I don’t understand why your lover is willing to expose you to all the prurient interest and scandal on your own. Where’s the scoundrel’s backbone?”

“So you would assume responsibility if your lover were exposed in court?”

“Certainly. Any honorable man would.”

“Why then would an honorable man toy with another man’s wife?”

Oz’s dark brows shot up. “You can’t be serious. Or perhaps you live in a cave. Although, if you do,” he cheekily murmured, surveying the portion of her nightgown visible above the covers, “you have a fashionable modiste in there with you. That’s quality silk you’re wearing.” Anyone in the India trade knew silk.

“Who are you?” she asked, suddenly curious about a man acquainted with grades of silk.

Perhaps she did live in a cave; he was well-known for a variety of reasons, some of them actually acceptable. “You tell me first.”

She watched him drain the rest of his drink, wondered in passing why her alarm had seemingly disappeared, and wondered as well where he came from with his deeply bronzed skin. “Are you drunk?” Would he remember any of this? How much should she divulge? And how honorable would he be if she related her tale?

He hesitated a fraction of a second. “I’m probably not completely sober.”

“Are you dangerous?” Even as she spoke, she realized how useless the question if indeed he was.

He shot her a look. “To you? Hardly.”

“I’m relieved.”

He smiled. “I’m relieved you’re relieved. Now tell me your name.”

“Isolde Perceval.”

“From where-the ends of the earth? I haven’t seen you in society.”

“I avoid society.”

“Apparently.” He dipped his head. “Osmond Lennox. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

“Now that the courtesies have been observed,” she said, “kindly tell me what you want, so we may end this charade and go our separate ways.”

“You.”

Her eyes flared wide. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.” There, certainty-his plans no longer moot-although wealthy noblemen were as a rule unrestrained in their whims. “Think of it as recompense,” he said with a small smile, “for the shock to my system. When your witnesses barged in I thought someone was seeking vengeance for my many sins. Or about to horsewhip me.”

“Well, no one was seeking revenge. You’re quite unharmed. And what you ask is naturally out of the question.”

“Surely you can’t claim to be a virgin.”