“That is certainly agreeable to me, my lord,” Ginny said briskly. The carriage drew up before her town home. “Ah, here we are—” Her relief seemed to stop short. Quickly shifted to concern. “Why are all the lights on?”
Irene leaned around her to peer out the window. “Perhaps the servants are having a party, Mama.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, ignoring Irene’s rebuking gasp. Brock would be tempted to laugh but for Ginny’s obvious surprise.
Brock’s own curiosity kicked up. Had Maudsley changed his mind about taking up residence? He kicked the door open, before recalling Maudsley had been at Griston’s and there was no way for the man to have returned to London so quickly. He stepped down gingerly, holding Cecilia, who still slept soundly. He held out his hand for Irene then Ginny. The ground floor was lit up like Christmas. Ginny grabbed Irene’s hand; Brock followed, issuing a vague order to Andrews regarding the bags. He followed Ginny up the steps to the portico and into the house.
“Kipling, what is going on here?” she demanded.
The harried butler hurried forward. “You’ve guests, madam.”
“Guests? Who on earth—”
“Darling. There you are. Your father and I only just arrived.” Her mother started forward. “Then we learn you are attending a house party in the country and not even in residence.” Her chastisement was not the least bit subtle.
Ginny froze, her half boots appearing to meld to the marble floor. She wrapped an arm around Irene, pulling her into her body. Brock moved next to Ginny, his only desire to help present a united front to the monsters who’d sold their daughter out to an abusive bastard who’d basically left her for dead.
Lines bracketed Ginny’s mother’s mouth, reminiscent of a bitter heart. Her advancement halted. “Oh my. Look how beautiful my grandchildren are.” Ginny’s father strolled in from the study. Their unmitigated gall floored Brock.
“What are you doing in my house?” The flatness of Ginny’s words should have served as a warning.
“There’s no need to for rudeness, daughter,” her father blustered. “We’d heard you came out of mourning. Is it so wrong to want to see how you are faring? You’re our only child.”
“One you haven’t seen in ten years. Again I ask, what are you doing here?”
Miss Lambert appeared at the top of the stairs, and a second later she hurried down. “I see Cecilia is quite worn out, my lord. Perhaps I should put the girls to bed?”
“Excellent notion, ma’am,” Brock said, handing over the five-year-old.
Ginny pushed Irene into the governess’s direction. “Irene, go with Miss Lambert. I’ll be up to see you before I go to bed.”
“Yes, Mama.” Irene moved next to Miss Lambert, and the trio went up the stairs, Irene’s worried face watching over her shoulder.
Ginny turned to Brock. “You should go. I can handle things here.”
“Forget it,” he growled. “I am not leaving you to these two. Do you remember the last time?”
“Of course I do. It’s not something I’m likely to forget,” she told him. “I’ll be fine. I’m not an innocent this time around.”
With reluctance and a tightened jaw, Brock went out the door. Andrews was carting an armful of bags up the steps. Brock relieved him of his load and set them inside the door. He completed two more loads before climbing into the carriage and instructing Andrews to take him back to the Kimptons’ for his horse.
He didn’t anticipate getting much sleep the rest of the night. Not with the unexpected surveillance thrust upon him, as he had no intention of leaving Ginny in the hands of her parents. They wanted something from her, and they would have to go through him to get it.
The fully lit hall gave Ginny a dreadfully aching head. She longed for the sanctuary of her chamber, the softness of her pillow, and the weight of the counterpane. Instead, she did a slow circle, searching for the words to oust her odious, overbearing parents. She glanced up at the long clock, noting the lateness of the hour. She could hardly turn her parents out in the dead of night, no matter how tempting. “You may stay tonight, but I’ll expect you out by noon tomorrow.” It only took one step up for her mother’s grating shrill to echo through the cavernous foyer to the ceiling.
“Now, Virginia, there’s no reason to be so upset.”
She was torn between outrage, dread, and out-and-out amusement.
“Close your mouth, darling. It’s in bad taste to leave it hanging open so.”
The audacity of being scolded so won out in a burst of hysterical laughter. Ginny whirled about and took the stairs one at a time. What else was she to do still fully dressed in her travel attire? “Noon, mother,” she said over her shoulder. “You and Papa have until noon tomorrow.”
Ginny trotted up the rest of the way, filing past her own chamber to the flight leading to the nursery and the girls’ bedroom. She tapped on the door and peered inside. “Irene?”
“I’m here, Mama. Did you throw them out?” If it had been anyone else asking, Ginny would have believed they were jesting. Not Irene.
“Not yet, darling.” But she had every intention of following through on that very task the next day. “Will you have trouble sleeping?”
