“What! No! This ismyhome.” She stalked over to the bed and slipped into a fuzzy wrap, cinching it at the waist.
Dropping back in the chair, he lounged, legs splayed, daring her to order him otherwise.
With an outraged huff, she unlocked the door and cracked it. “Yes? Irene?” With a scathing glance at him over her shoulder, she dragged the door open, allowing two bedraggled children to enter.
Right. Children.
One whose thumb was securely tucked in her sweet little mouth.
“Hello, Mama.” Irene’s gaze narrowed on him with unerring accuracy before going back to her mother. “Is this a good time? I left Miss Lambert a note.”
“Of course it is, darling. Lord Brockway feared he would be late tomorrow and… and…”
“I’m here to look over theyoungwomen of the household,” he said, taking pity on Ginny, yet unable to resist giving her a smug smile. “Lady Cecilia’s incident at the park worried me greatly, I fear.”
Ginny’s revenge went deep, however. “Take Celia and crawl into the bed, darling. Lord Brockway will serve as our bodyguard tonight,” she said, returning his smile with a smirk.
“I suppose that is wise.” Irene tugged her younger sister to the cavernous bed and assisted her up before crawling up beside her. “What with strangers in the house and all, ’tis probably best.”
Who was this woman-child?Brock wondered with a sense of the absurd, though oddly touched.
Ginny had disappeared in the dressing room, but returned a moment later, wearing another demure night rail with nary a hanging thread and holding a rug. She sauntered over and tossed it in his lap. “Sweet dreams, my lord.”
“Yes, sweet dreams,” Irene said. Her serious demeanor confused him but wrapped around his heart like the cozy blanket he held.
The small plop, sounding suspiciously like the suctioned release of a thumb from a mouth, pierced the quiet, followed by Cecilia’s soft echo. “Sweet dreams, Lord Bwockway.”
Fifteen
T
he long clock chimed the ungodly hour of two, and yet Loren’s mother still held court with some of the more determined matchmakers. A few energetic dancers fell in line on the parquet floor for the Scottish reel. The dowager was a staunch adversary, as he well knew. His jaw ached from forced smiles, his toes pinched in the patent pumps with their jeweled buckles. Even the Belgian lace at his wrists itched, never mind the blinding pain at the back of his neck he’d been nursing the entire weekend. How he detested hosting these ridiculous events.
He’d had enough.
The unexplained pressure built behind his eyes, and his temples throbbed. He caught sight of the maestro and gave a discreet signal to halt the music. Then stood near an alcove, leaning against a column, one ankle crossing the other with the toe of his shoe on the floor. With an arm folded over his chest, he brought a tumbler of whiskey to his lips and sipped, waiting for his mother to forge an escape.
The strategy for obtaining Lady Maudsley had turned into an unmitigated disaster. When she’d crossed that threshold at the Peachornsbys’ musicale, he’d believed his plans were coming to fruition. If most of thehaute tonhad retired to the country, he could quietly have made his move. They hadn’t.
The plan had been a simple one when inspiration had struck. By inviting her to his country home, he would occupy her time while Sid stole back into London to snatch the younger child with no one the wiser. But Sid had reported back that Maudsley House had been invaded by the Baron and Baroness Wimbley, Lady Maudsley’s parents, and Sid hadn’t seen a sign of the children.
How was he supposed to pull off Markov’s demand now? Hatred, black and seething, blinded him momentarily. Choked him with bile as a voracious roar filled his ears. He blinked. His vision cleared as the quartet’s last notes trailed off in a melodic whimsy, even if his elaborately tied cravat seemed to strangle him.
The last of his mother’s cronies meandered off, and her eyes met his. He straightened from the wall and strolled in her direction, daring her to defy him. He inclined his head. “Mother.”
“Good evening, my dear. It was a lovely ball, wasn’t it?” No one, unless they knew her well, would detect the underlying tremor in her voice.
“It was lovely. But I missed seeing my future bride.” He leaned in, softening his tone to a deadly menace. “I checked her chamber, you see, and alas, it appears she left.”
“Oh, yes.” Her hand flittered about like a nervous bird. “She mentioned something regarding her children falling ill.” This last was scoffed out. “She bid my pardon. I, of course, generously concurred. She didn’t wish to trouble you…” she finished on a whisper.
Crushing her wrist with guests still milling about was out of the question. There would be time enough to deal with her at a later date. “I see. She is a woman who thinks highly of her children.” He made a pretense of considering her words. “I believe I will leave for London at first light. She may need me. Thank you for your kindness, Mother. I shall send your regards.”
She sputtered, “B-but, your guests—”
Loren tipped his head to the few curiosity mongers and headed for his bedchamber. His life was quickly turning to shambles. Markov’s unreasonableness. The Harlowe debacle. The Holks woman. The damned talking trees. He slammed through the door. “Danvers, a bath.”
“Of course, my lord.”
