“Do not wear widow’s weeds tomorrow, Miss Hilgrove. Black and gray displeases me. Don a cheerful color.”
How dare he? The unconscionable cheek of the man…
She ground her molars with painful force, not bothering to cast a backward glance in his direction. “Good day, Your Grace.”
“Good day,” he called after her, his tone cheerful.
He was enjoying this, the villain. But she would have the last laugh, and she would see his endorsement in theTimes. This, she vowed.
Chapter Two
Benedict’s carriage cameto a halt well before they had reached Westmorland House. He peered out the window of the conveyance, confirming by the light of the street lamps that they were currently halted before the Earl of Pendrake’s home instead of his own.
Frowning, he scratched the back of his neck. He was returning home from a meeting at the Home Office involving the London Bridge bombing and the Gower Street Station explosion both. In a city which had already been rocked by the grip of panic in the wake of the attempt on the bridge, an attack on the Underground had made a bad situation far worse.
Witnesses to the London Bridge explosion reported seeing the mangled wreckage of the boat and bodies of the dynamitards sailing down the Thames through evening fog. However, others had stepped forward to claim the men responsible for the outrage had been seen alive in the days following the bomb. Rumors abounded, including some suggesting they had made their way to France. Others still claimed the same men were responsible for Gower Street station explosion.
All evidence gathered previously suggested the London Bridge dynamitards had been killed, but Scotland Yard was now searching all London for any sign of them out of necessity. Worse, tonight there had been reports from Philadelphia double agents that a new group of Fenian sympathizers were emerging in the wake of the death of Drummond McKenna, a death that lay squarely on his hands.
Benedict had taken no joy in dispatching the formidable Fenian leader, Drummond McKenna, a few months before. Though he had been left with no choice but to kill the man, the echo of the shot he had fired, and the bloody aftermath, still haunted his dreams.
Shaking himself free of the heavy mire of his thoughts, he knocked on the carriage roof, irritated and seeking an explanation as to why they had stopped at the wrong home. His head ached. He was tired. And all he wanted to do was have his dinner and go to bed. But it would seem the fates were conspiring against him to keep him from gaining his wish.
The carriage swayed, indicating his driver was leaving the box. In less than a minute, the door opened to reveal a frowning Jacobs. He tugged on his hat. “Your Grace, I cannot seem to get nearer to Westmorland House than this. Unless you wish me to travel back and approach through the mews, but what with the crush of carriages, I am afraid it may take us an hour or more.”
The crush of the carriages? Was someone having a fête he was unware of this evening? Perhaps he had not been invited. Or he had, and he had simply forgotten. Lord knew he was not the most social of creatures.
“Who is having a party this time, Jacobs?” he asked wearily.
Jacobs eyed him as if he had gone mad. “You are, Your Grace.”
Hell and damnation.
This could only be the work of one woman.
Callie.
“I am not hosting a party this evening, Jacobs,” he said, struggling to keep calm.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace.” Jacobs paused, looking genuinely perplexed. “But there is a party at Westmorland House this evening. A big affair, from the looks of it.”
Fuck.
All he had wanted was a quiet supper. A soup course, nothing more. A drink of whisky. Perhaps two. And then a hot soak in his newly appointed bathing room before he went to his bed, taking himself in hand to thoughts of the prickly Miss Killjoy.
“I will exit here, Jacobs,” he decided. “You may circle round to the mews as you please.”
Jacobs tugged at his hat again. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Of course it was not what he damn well wished, but it would seem he had no choice. His house was being overrun. Without his prior knowledge. And not for the first time. He waited for his coachman to depart before rising from the bench and following.
The January night was cold and blustery. As he landed on the pavements, a wind whipped up and nearly stole his hat. Icy drizzle fell steadily overhead. With each lashing gust, a fresh burst of frigid raindrops pelted him. Ahead, his townhome loomed—Christ, it still felt strange indeed to think of that ancestral pile of bricks he had visited so much in his youth as his.
Jacobs had not been exaggerating the crush of carriages ahead.Bloody hell, the entire street looked as if it were a stable. And from the looks of it, everyone disembarking from their carriages was creating a fashionable line as they flooded his front door.
He stalked on, his irritation mounting. There was only one reason why his house would be overrun with guests and blazing with lights.Blast her.He was going to have a talk with Callie once and for all. This was his home, by God. And though it was hers as well, she could not simply thrust societal engagements upon him. She could not host parties on a whim.
On he marched, growing more irate by the moment. Men and women descended from their carriages, flitting onward. Into his sanctuary. He had a great deal of patience for Callie, because he loved her. But she had tested his patience one too many times. And this fête, ball, whatever the hell it was, when he was ballocks deep in danger, treachery, termagant typing school proprietresses, dynamitards, and Lord knew what else, was the outside of enough.
