Percy did not know why he was angry, but he was. No, not angry exactly. Disgruntled. All out of sorts. In as bad a mood as he could possibly be without actually snapping at everyone who came in his path.
Jealous.
But that was preposterous. Why would he be jealous of a collection of men he did not even know? Men who called themselves by the pretentious name of Survivors—with a capitalS, if you please? Wasn’t everyone a survivor? Wasn’t he? What gave them exclusive right to the word? And how much could they love her when a number of them—he could not remember if it was all—had gone off and married other women.
But it was to them she had gone running—in the middle of the night without a word to him. Even her note had been addressed to her aunt.
And now he was playing messenger boy and deliveryman combined. In the carriage with him were letters from Lady Lavinia, Mrs. Ferby, his mother, Beth, Lady Quentin, and Miss Wenzel. It was ridiculous. If many more people had written, he would have needed a wagon to pull behind. And there was a large trunk of her belongings in the boot of the carriage, leaving hardly any room for his own luggage.
And here he was arriving at Penderris Hall, which was just as large and imposing as he had expected and considerably closer to the ever-present cliffs than Hardford Hall was, and he was having second—or was it forty-second—thoughts about the wisdom of coming here but it was too late to turn back because his arrival seemed to have been noticed and the main doors had opened and a tall man with elegantly graying hair—damn him!—was stepping outside to see who the devil was arriving when he had not been invited and Percy could see that he was the Duke of Stanbrook. He had seen the man a few times at the House of Lords.
He felt stupid and belligerent, and if the man stood in his way, he would first flatten his nose and then take him apart with his bare hands and maybe his teeth too. He was going to see her—he must see her—and that was that. She had had no business running off that night without giving him a chance to collect his thoughts and respond to what she had told him. He was going to talk to her—now. She owed him that much, by Jove.
Stanbrook was holding out his right hand as Percy stepped down from the carriage and closed the door on Hector.
“Hardford, I believe,” Stanbrook said, and Percy shook his hand.
“I have brought Lady Barclay’s trunk,” he said, “and some letters for her. And I will see her.”
The ducal eyebrows went up. “Come inside,” he said, “and have some refreshments. Your man may proceed to the stables after unloading the trunk. Someone will see to him there.” And he turned to lead the way inside.
There was an army lined up in the hall, of course. Well, there were only four of them in addition to Stanbrook, but they looked like an army. Or an impregnable fortress. But let them just try to stand in his way. Percy almost hoped they would. He was spoiling for a fight.
Stanbrook introduced him with perfectly mild courtesy—damn him again. The great big bruiser with the closely cropped hair was Trentham; the one with the nasty slash across his face was the Duke of Worthingham; the blond one who looked as though the whole world had been created for his amusement was Ponsonby; and the slight, blue-eyed boy was Darleigh. Percy looked at him, looked away, and then looked again. Was he not the blind one? And then he saw that the eyes that had appeared to be looking directly at him were actually missing his face by a few inches. It was a bit eerie.
Civil enough greetings were exchanged, and then another man appeared on the stairs, tottering slowly down them with the aid of two canes that encased his lower arms.
“Sir Benedict Harper,” Stanbrook said.
Six of them. The seventh was missing.
“I will see Lady Barclay,” Percy said curtly. Good manners might have served him better, but to hell with good manners. He was in a bad mood.
“There may be a slight problem,” the blond one said on a sigh, as though even speaking those few words was a trial to him. “For you see, Hardford, Lady Barclay will perhaps not see you.”
“And frankly,” scar-face added, “I would not blame her.”
The big tough one folded his arms and looked tougher.
“Then ask her,” Percy said, “and find out. And tell her I am not budging from here until she does see me.”
He felt as though he were standing back from himself and observing his bad behavior with a slightly incredulous shake of the head. Where had all his famed charm fled?
“Say please,” he added, glaring at the lot of them.
“Perhaps you will step into the visitors’ salon,” Stanbrook suggested, “and have a drink while you wait. The others will go with you while I go talk to Lady Barclay. I warn you, though, that she may refuse to speak to you. She saw you come and was less than delighted.”
Percy felt a bit like a hot air balloon that had sprung a leak.
“Let me go, George,” Darleigh said. “Let me talk to her. And I will remember to say please, Hardford.” He smiled with great sweetness. “Go and have some refreshments. You are upset.”
And there went the rest of the hot air, leaving Percy feeling limp and deflated.
Good God and a thousand devils, what if she would not see him? He could hardly camp out beneath her window—even if he knew which one it was—forever and ever, could he? Not with the army on the prowl. He particularly did not like the look of the giant.
He turned in the direction of the room Stanbrook was indicating, while the blind Darleigh set off in the opposite direction, led by a dog Percy was just noticing for the first time. He remembered that he had left Hector in the carriage. The wretched hound had flatly refused to be left at home.
25
