“She’s returned to London,” James said, trying to keep his tone even.
“Gone?” Anthony’s gaze narrowed on James.
“Yes,” James replied.
“I thought she said she wasn’t leaving until after breakfast.” Anthony frowned.
“You met her?” Nina’s brows knitted.
Anthony regarded the footman who stood by the sideboard. “Martin, would you get us a warm pot of coffee?”
“Yes, m’lord.” The servant picked up the steaming silver pot and exited the room without batting an eye.
“I did. I happened to be in the garden last night, enjoying a cigarette, when she came out for a breath of fresh air,” Anthony said.
“What did you do, Anthony?” Nina’s accusing voice sounded shrill.
“I didn’t do anything. I dashed well wish people would stop assuming the worst of me.” Anthony tossed his napkin onto the table and stood.
“You must have done something!” Nina bounced up from her chair and set her hands on her slender hips.
The pounding that had started in James’s head at the train station intensified. Taking a deep breath, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d always wanted children of his own, though obviously he wasn’t skilled at raising them. Nina was petulant and self-centered, and Anthony had the morals of a tomcat.
Who was he to condemn his brother? He’d acted abominably last night. His gaze shifted to Georgie, who sat eating his food. Except for having recently pissed on the tulips, Georgie was an endearing child. Wasn’t he? Yes, of course.
The escalating argument between Nina and Anthony drew James from his thoughts. He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the china. An unlit candle toppled from a candelabra and rolled across the polished surface. Georgie snatched it up before it fell to the floor.
“Sit down! Both of you,” James snapped.
Scowling at each other, Nina and Anthony returned to their seats. Nina glowered at James with glassy eyes. “I wanted to talk with Miss Armoire again. Ask her more questions.”
“Again?” James stared at her. “I wasn’t aware you’d conversed with her in the first place.”
“Well, I did, and I won’t apologize for it. I asked her about London.”
James set down his utensils and leaned forward, hoping Caroline had revealed something of import—some clues about herself beside the fact she had an aunt who was a housekeeper in Mayfair.
“And what did our recent guest tell you?” His heartbeat quickened.
Nina smiled as if she’d learned the most imperative information. “She told me that waltzing is wonderful. That gentlemen will line up to dance with me. And that pink gowns are all the rage!”
James slumped in his chair. The green-eyed imp. He should have known Caroline was too smart to disclose anything which would give her away. He had half a mind to go to the address his footman had delivered her note to and ask the housekeeper about her lying, tempting, mind-distracting niece.
Ha. That would surely set tongues wagging. With his luck Caroline’s aunt probably worked for an acquaintance of his.
“I met her, as well,” Georgie said around a bite of a currant scone.
“When?” James asked, startled by the child’s admission.
His youngest sibling swallowed his food and brushed crumbs from his cheek. “This morning. I couldn’t sleep. I thought I heard something under my bed.” Georgie glanced down at his plate. “I-I wasn’t scared.”
“There is no shame in feeling frightened, Georgie. All of us experience fear,” James said reassuringly.
Georgie moved a piece of egg around in his dish. “Even you, James?”
“Of course.” His thoughts centered on earlier this morning when he’d ridden up to the train platform and seen it empty. A distinct sense of fear had shot through him with the knowledge that the train might have already departed. Whether irrational or not, he couldn’t deny the emotion. It had welled up in him, tightening his lungs.
An expression of relief flashed across Georgie’s face. “When I went to your room, you weren’t there, and your bed was still made.”
Anthony’s and Nina’s gazes jerked to James.
“When I went into your private sitting room,” Georgie continued, “I heard a noise in the connecting bedchamber. I thought it was you, James. That was where I met her. She was ever so nice. I told her I was looking for you because I thought something was under my bed. She took my hand in hers and walked with me back to my room. Then she got on her hands and knees and peered under my bed. Told me nothing was there, but if I ever hear the noise again she knew what I should do.”
“What?” Anthony’s voice sounded enthralled as he braced his forearms on the table.
“She told me all I had to say was Huffetty boo, I’m not afraid of you. It’s a magical in-incantation that will send away whatever is under one’s bed. Caroline said her mama taught it to her. I spoke the words. It worked because whatever was under my bed earlier never returned.” Georgie smiled.
James tried to picture Caroline holding the child’s hand while walking him to his room and telling him this rhyme to stave off Georgie’s fears. The vision of her doing so came easily to him. Too easily.
* * *
Two hours later, James leaned back in his office chair and propped his feet on the desk. He picked up one of Caroline’s black half-boots. No wonder she couldn’t find them last night or this morning. One of the maids had brought them belowstairs to polish them with dubbin. His staff was nothing if not efficient. He turned over the delicate laced boot and looked at the shoemaker’s mark on the sole. François Pinet. He arched a brow. Bespoke shoes from France.
Oh, Caroline, you little liar. She wasn’t the maid’s niece. He should have realized it all along. The way she carried herself. The cultured tone of her speech.
With terse movements, he swung his legs down and scowled when his sore feet touched the floor. The boots he’d worn to ride to Helmsford this morning had pinched his toes. Didn’t Caroline know a man’s boots were as sacred as a lover, off limits to anyone else? It had taken him years to break in the ones she’d absconded with.
He really should go to that Mayfair residence. He gave a derogatory laugh. It sounded like a fairy tale, heading to London with the woman’s shoes.
He tossed the boot aside. A moment later, he picked it up and placed it almost reverently next to its match at the corner of his desk.
After making some changes to the blueprint for the new hydronic water system, James glanced at Caroline’s boots. He shifted in his seat and tried to focus. Yet, his gaze wandered to the boots again. Uttering a derisive noise, he opened the bottom drawer of the desk, shoved them in, and slammed the compartment closed.
A knock sounded on his office door.
“Come in,” he barked.
Reilly entered. It was the man’s half day. What was he doing about?
“I’m going to Mingsfield. Why don’t you come?”
What the hell was there to do in Mingsfield? Nothing but sheep farmers. James cocked a brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown a perverse attachment to sheep?”
A bark of laughter exploded from Reilly before his expression sobered. “That’s bleedin’ disgusting, James. No, old man Smyth holds fights at his grange.”
James frowned. “Cockfights? Not interested.”
Reilly grinned. “No, bare-knuckled fights. Come with me and blow off some steam.”
* * *
Dirt didn’t taste good, especially if flavored with horse dung. That thought flashed in James’s mind as he lifted his head off the floor of the barn and spit the foul taste from his mouth.
He shook his head to clear his vision and looked over his shoulder. Bloody hell, James considered himself a large man, but his opponent was built like an ox. The man’s last punch felt as if powered by a steam locomotive. Stifling a groan, he hoisted himself back onto his feet. He cut a glance at Reilly, who was drinking a mug of ale and smiling from ear to ear with a
group of his Irish cohorts.
Damn bastard was enjoying this far too much. James rolled his shoulders and rammed his fist into his opponent’s chin, sending the man stumbling backward.
The buzz of the crowd quieted. James knew most of the patrons gathered around had placed their bets on the giant. They wanted James to fall. Christ, if they realized he was a lord, they’d want his blood spilled.
The man spit a mouthful of red-tinged saliva onto the ground and charged toward him, fist raised, belly exposed.
James punched the charging man’s paunch.
The brute did nothing more than belch. The crowd roared with laughter and the goliath flashed a toothless grin before he jabbed a ham-sized fist at James’s face.
James ducked. Not quick enough. Knuckles as hard as iron crashed against his jaw, sending a lightning bolt of pain shooting through his skull. He stumbled backward, cupping his jaw to work it back and forth. He’d not be able to chew for a week, and he hated mush.
Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped off the tip of his nose. He swiped his sleeve over his face. Why the hell had he let Reilly talk him into climbing into the ring? Burn off steam, his arse! If he got himself killed, Anthony would be the next Marquess of Huntington. The lad wasn’t ready for the task. Worse, he’d end up raising Georgie and approving who Nina married. He’d probably allow her to wed a money-grubbing gent who’d break the girl’s heart. He couldn’t let that happen.
The only way to beat his opponent would be to momentarily blind him. James craned his arm back and, with all his weight, slammed his right fist into the giant’s brow.
Blood oozed out of a gash and into the fighter’s eye. The man blinked.
Now or never. Ignoring the pain shooting through his raw knuckles, James hit him again. A solid undercut to the jaw, followed by a fist to the man’s ribs.
“Owf!” the cyclops grunted. Dazed, the bloke wobbled, but stayed on his feet.
Damn you to hell. Fall, you overgrown ox!
James struck him again, another quick combination to the face and belly. The goliath, at last, doubled over and fell to his knees, then landed face-first.
Silence filled the barn. James snatched his coat out of Reilly’s hands and stormed from the building into the fading sunlight.
Reilly appeared next to him and clapped a hand on James’s aching shoulder. “Don’t you feel better?”
He scowled. Even that slight movement hurt.
Reilly waved a handful of banknotes in the air. His obvious winnings. “Well, I know I feel better, and for once I didn’t have to climb within the ropes to make a hefty sum. I knew you’d prevail, considering the foul mood you’re in.”
“Is this where you’ve been coming on your days off?” James knew the answer. He’d seen the bruises on the man’s face. “Don’t I bloody well pay you enough?”
Reilly chuckled. “Ah, but you have to see how the barmaids coddle me after a fight.”
* * *
By the time James returned to Trent Hall, stars scattered the sky. The pains plaguing his bruised body were a distant hum, numbed by the excessive amount of ale he’d consumed at a pub on the road back from Mingsfield.
He swung his leg over Thor’s saddle and dismounted. His stockinged feet hit the gravel with as much grace as an elephant. A pebble lodged between his toes. “Hell,” he grumbled, hopping on one foot as he picked the stone loose.
“That’s what you get for taking your boots off,” Reilly said. “Some lucky bloke’s going to think God has smiled upon him when he finds a pair of barely worn Wellingtons tossed on the side of the road as if day-old rubbish.”
James harrumphed. “Whoever finds them is more than welcome to them. They hurt like the devil.”
As he hobbled toward the house, the front door swung wide. Anthony came rushing down the stairs. “Blister it, James, where have you been? What the hell happened to your face? And where are your boots?”
“In London with that green-eyed vixen.”
“Blimey, you’re soused.” Anthony wrinkled his nose and took a step back.
Reilly smacked James on the shoulder. “Indeed, he is. And feeling little pain.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there at the moment,” Anthony said. “Nina is gone!”
The hairs on the back of James’s neck stood on end. “What?”
Anthony lifted a piece of paper and waved it in the air.
James snatched the parchment from his brother’s hand and stared at the fuzzy script until it came into focus. There were only three words.
Gone to London!
What was Nina thinking? Obviously, she wasn’t. The chit would get herself ruined. He crumpled the paper in his hand and stormed up the stairs and into the house, suddenly feeling as sober as an undertaker.
“Reilly, pack my valise. We’re going to Town!”
Chapter Nine
In the day’s early hours, fog drifted above the pavement. From inside his carriage, James shifted his gaze from the flagstones to the dried mourning wreath that hung on the door of his town house on Belgrave Square.
He had not entered the residence in over a year. Why hadn’t he sold the place? It wasn’t entailed. He’d bought it only a few months after he and Henrietta married, believing it the perfect place for him and his new wife to raise their children, along with his siblings, when in London.
Now the idea of walking through the front door made him tense.
The only thing that kept him from instructing his coachman to move on was the possibility Nina stood inside.
As he exited the vehicle, he scrubbed a hand over his face, flinching when his fingers touched his bruised jaw.
Reilly stepped beside him and set a commiserating hand on James’s shoulder.
After James removed the wreath of laurel with its faded black ribbon from the door, he slipped the key into the lock. Inside, the stale odors of a house closed up for far too long filled his nostrils as he placed the wreath on the table in the entry hall.
Hopefully his sister was here. “Nina?”
No answer.
As he moved toward the stairs, the muscles in his back knotted. He set a foot on the bottom tread and tried not to think about the past. Yet, he wasn’t able to stifle the noises that filled his head. The sound of Henrietta’s body tumbling downward. The splintering of wood as her foot tangled in a banister. The sound of his own feet as he’d raced from his office to the staircase, Anthony trailing him.
Too late. His wife’s body lay at the bottom of the steps. Lifeless.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. Taking a deep breath, he darted up the steps two at a time and entered the drawing room. The furniture remained covered with dust cloths and the mirrors were still obscured with black crepe. The air felt dark and damp, like a mausoleum.
He propelled himself from the oppressive space and rushed up the next flight of steps. “Nina!”
Flashes of memories assailed him. Henrietta’s shrill voice as she’d justified her own infidelity by accusing him of being unfaithful first. He’d remained steady to her throughout their tumultuous marriage. Trying to ignore the memories barraging his mind, he grabbed the railing, moved along the corridor, and flung open the door to Henrietta’s bedchamber.
Empty. He closed the door. Strode to his bedchamber. Like all the others, it appeared untouched. Even Anthony didn’t stay in this house when he came to Town. James drew back the heavy damask curtains. The growing morning light spilled through the glass to relieve some of the oppressiveness and highlight the motes dancing in the thick air. He thrust one of the mullioned windows open. As though he’d been swimming underwater and just resurfaced, he sucked a deep breath into his lungs.
A floorboard creaked. He spun around.
Reilly stepped into the room. “I checked belowstairs. Doesn’t look as if anyone’s been there.”
James arched a brow. “I doubt Nina would go to the kitchen or the larder.”
“She needs to eat.”
His s
ister wouldn’t cook. He doubted she’d ever stepped into the kitchen at Trent Hall. She was more apt to dine at a tea room or buy something from a bakery.
Reilly rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, you’re right,” he said as if reading James’s thoughts.
They both checked the next story. Nothing.
As they started down the stairs Reilly asked, “Do you think she went to Park Lane?”
He hoped to God she had. But if so, she would already be regretting the decision to do so.
The knocker pounded against the thick front door.
Nina?
James rushed down the steps and wrenched the door open. A young footman clad in familiar livery started and took a step back. “Is Lord Huntington in?”
“You’re addressing him.”
The man’s eyes grew wide. The servant squared his shoulders and adjusted his posture. “A note for you, m’lord.”
James took the folded parchment from the man’s outstretched hand and broke the seal. He had a strong premonition as to what it would say, and a whisper of relief shifted through his body.
Huntington,
I am in possession of an unexpected guest. Park Lane. Now!
Fondest regards,
Grandmother
James released a slow breath. Thank God. He should have gone to their family home in Mayfair first, but he’d hoped to avoid informing the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington what Nina had done. It appeared his sister had felt less apprehension. Misguided girl.
Reilly cleared his throat. “Good news?”
“Yes, Nina is with the dowager.”
“No avoiding her now, old chum.” Reilly smirked.
Indeed, he’d have to deal with the dragoness. He’d not call until this afternoon. Nina deserved to contend with the matriarch’s discontent a bit longer.
Reilly smacked him on the back. “Buck up. Hopefully your grandmother has mellowed over the last year.”
“We both know that’s as probable as the devil giving the next benediction at St. George’s.”
* * *
Never Kiss a Notorious Marquess Page 7
