Lord Langley Is Back in Town (2 page)

Oh, the first few days had been a horror, but then something amazing happened: Minerva, Elinor, and Lucy established an uneasy truce. Then, unbelievable as it was, discovered they could be friends. And finally, had joined forces to help each other.

Now, best of all for Minerva, with Lucy and Elinor’s marriages, she could live in the house on Brook Street to the end of her days in relative comfort. Alone. Without a husband. Doing exactly as she saw fit.

That thought, while a welcome notion a month ago, now yawned before her. Like this evening, which Aunt Bedelia had interrupted by arriving and announcing that she was taking her to Lady Veare’s soiree. Not that her planned entertainment of attempting the latest embroidery pattern from the new issue of the
Lady’s Magazine
had been all that inviting.

For if she was inclined to be honest, life with Lucy and Elinor—though initially repugnant—had turned out to be full of adventure, especially when her two fellow dowagers had discovered love and their own perfect happy endings.

Minerva’s heart skipped a beat as she considered her own hand in both matches . . . and just as quickly she stopped herself.

Oh, gammon! She was turning into Aunt Bedelia if she was taking credit for such things. Heavens, what would she be like in a few years, if after only a few days alone she was already making such assumptions?

Minerva stole a glance at her aunt, who was pouring herself another glass of wine from the decanter—never a good sign, for it meant the old girl was deep into a plot. Most likely how to foist some unsuspecting lord into her niece’s path. And as it turned out, she wasn’t too far off on that suspicion.

“Dear girl, there is nothing wrong with seeking a husband,” the lady began, settling deeper into the settee, which was as bad a sign as the wineglass filled nearly to the brim. “I would be delighted even if you were able to secure a mere baron. I was married to one once. Lord Taunton.” She sighed dreamily, as if she were once again a debutante of seventeen. “Taunton was a wicked man if ever there was one. Barons do seem to be inclined toward a wildness that is unmatched. Why I remember once, we were at the Grassby ball, and he suggested we go upstairs in the middle of a cotillion and—”

“Aunt Bedelia!” Minerva protested. She should never have brought out that bottle of Madeira. “Honestly! Are such details necessary?”

“Apparently so,” the lady insisted. “There are advantages to having a man in your life—advantages you seem to have forgotten.”

“Might I remind you I was married to Philip Sterling?” Minerva shuddered, as she usually did when she remembered her short and very unhappy marriage to the Marquess of Standon. He’d lived a long, ruinous life before she’d been hauled to the altar and forced to marry him—the third such unhappy bride to pledge her troth to the spoiled, drunken Hollindrake heir.

Aunt Bedelia took a long sip from her wineglass. “I doubt Standon could even do his duty, given the dissolute life he led. Why no wonder you are so averse to marriage, dear girl. You haven’t been properly tupped, have you?”

Minerva opened her mouth to protest, but what could she say? First of all, she was mortified beyond words to be having this discussion with her elderly relation, and secondly, her aunt was utterly correct.

Philip Sterling’s licentious life had left his manhood as flaccid as his protruding belly.

So there it was, she’d never been properly “tupped.” Not even close.

“Never mind, my dear,” Aunt Bedelia said. “That is what your collection of French novels are for. At least for the time being. We just need to find the right man for you so you can put your reading days behind you. Then you can forget all about that loathsome Standon. He certainly wasn’t a fit example of matrimony.”

“Truly?” Minerva remarked with every bit of sarcasm she possessed.

A note her aunt did not miss. “I will say it again, my dear, if I had known what your father intended back then, I would have come to your defense. I would never have stood for—”

“Yes, I know,” Minerva said hastily, for she didn’t like dwelling on her father’s deception. His machinations back then haunted her still. And for a few moments an awkward silence sat between them.

Not that this uncomfortable pause would give her indomitable aunt a moment’s hesitation at continuing to press her suit. Especially fortified as she was with not one, but two glasses of Madeira.

“Shall we just agree that you were married to the wrong man?” her aunt offered. “However, Minerva, I tell you as one who knows, the right husband will put a spark in your eyes and a spring in your step.”

Now it could be argued that Bedelia knew more on the subject of marriage than anyone else could profess to, for the lady had managed to walk down the aisle no less than five times. And as further proof, there was no disputing that her aunt had been blushing like a schoolgirl ever since she’d married Lord Chudley.

Good heavens, her aunt and Chudley . . . together? Minerva shuddered again. For certainly they were too old for such antics . . . weren’t they?

She glanced over at her aunt, only to spy the telltale hint of pink on her aunt’s cheeks and a sly grin that suggested a secret satisfaction with life—not unlike the expressions Lucy and Elinor had been sporting of late. Why, Elinor had positively glowed yesterday when she’d come by to fetch her sister Tia, as well as her dogs and the litter of pups that had taken up residence in the second floor linen closet.

With all of them gone, the house had been uncharacteristically quiet last night—something Minerva hadn’t considered. Without the dogs, Tia’s youthful chatter, Lucy’s nephew Mickey bounding up and down the stairs, why it was rather like a mausoleum around here.

“Minerva—” her aunt began, and as if she could read minds, picked up that very thread and marched forward with it. “You cannot tell me that you will be happy living alone in this drafty, wretched house for the rest of your days?”

Minerva ruffled a bit. For indeed the house on Brook Street was hardly a fine mansion, but now that it was hers, she took offense to having its deficiencies pointed out. “Whatever is wrong with this house? The address is most sought after”—which was the truth, for it sat only a few steps away from Grosvenor Square, one of Mayfair’s finest—“and I have already been given permission by His Grace to make the necessary repairs—at his expense.”

Since the house was the property of the current Duke of Hollindrake, Philip’s nephew, Minerva had applied to him for the funds for her renovations. And to her surprise and delight, he’d written back in his usual direct and informal manner:
Do whatever you want to make that wreck a home. Just don’t tell Her Grace.

For there it was, for all his military accolades and lofty title, the Duke of Hollindrake was a good man at heart. And he knew his wife’s shortcomings as well as her virtues.

Aunt Bedelia let out a sniff at this news—most likely in disapproval, for if Minerva was back in the duke’s good graces, that would make all her arguments about her niece finding a new husband utterly moot.

“I’ve had the house scrubbed from top to bottom,” Minerva pointed out—having borrowed a legion of scullery maids from the duke’s London residence. Unfortunately, the cleaning had only served to reveal all the more that needed to be fixed, not that she was going to tell her aunt this. “The painter, the plasterer, and a man recommended by Lady Geneva for the wallpapers have all called on me and are scheduled to begin in a fortnight. With the house nearly empty, save for me, Agnes, and—”

“The rest of your riffraff!” her aunt rushed to add. “However can you live in this house with such a collection of servants? Why you might wake up to find your throat slit
and
the silver missing.”

Minerva wasn’t about to ask which was the worse scenario. Still . . . “Yes, yes, the staff is hardly up to snuff,” she agreed. For they too had come with the house. Mrs. Hutchinson, a rather drunken surly housekeeper/cook; the lady’s dim daughter, Mary; Mr. Mudgett, their nearly nonexistent butler; and Thomas-William, Lucy’s father’s former servant.

None of them were proper, respectable employees, but the household was hers, and that counted for something.

Minerva sat up straight and gazed directly at her aunt. “In a few months this house will be as comfortable and fashionable as any on the block. And I will be happily situated. You should be pleased for me, not trying to drag me off to Lady Veare’s soiree—which will boast nothing more than a collection of mushrooms and
cits
, given her poor connections. Now leave me in peace, Auntie, or I will set Thomas-William after you.”

“Well, perhaps you are correct about Lady Veare’s, but my darling girl, you cannot prefer to remain alone—”

“But I do!” she said, cutting her aunt off. “The quiet and solitude suits me perfectly. In no time I shall be the envy of all.”

Or so the last remaining Standon dowager claimed. That is, until the doorbell jangled and she made the mistake of opening it.

S
ir Basil Brownett got into his carriage in front of Whitehall and tapped on the roof once he was settled into his seat. In twenty minutes he’d be home, and he hoped his wife was ready and waiting to leave for their evening at the Prime Minister’s.

Dining with the Prime Minister.

He straightened a bit. Yes, his career was on the rise. Quite the accomplishment for an ordinary fellow from Buxton. In an hour or so he’d be offering advice on the French reconstruction using information he’d gleaned from recent reports, adding a few suggestions for new (and profitable) trading partners along the African coast, and ending the evening with a few
on dits
about one of the PM’s rivals.

Yes, yes, the perfect evening
, he mused, silently practicing his delivery of a particularly interesting bit as his carriage rolled right on schedule past the government buildings lining Whitehall, and then into the darkening streets of London.

Sir Basil only hoped Anthea would be dressed and ready to leave on time. Good heavens, whatever took the woman so long to get ready? Anthea did love to have every detail perfect, but this was the Prime Minister, as he’d admonished her this morning—it wouldn’t do to keep the man’s meal waiting all because she couldn’t decide which ear bobs to wear.

But his wife’s jewels became the least of his worries when, as his carriage slowed to round a corner, the door suddenly opened and a masked man slipped inside. Before the baronet could even utter a peep, raise his cane to pound the roof in alarm, the intruder had a pistol thrust at his forehead and had issued a single warning.

“Don’t say a word or it will be your last, Brownie.”

Sir Basil hadn’t made it up through the steep ranks of the Foreign Office for nothing. “Do you realize who I am? This is treason, you blackguard! I’ll see you hanged!”

The fellow took the seat opposite him and laughed, his amusement belied by the fact that the pistol in his steady grasp remained pointed determinedly at Sir Basil. “Still blustering your way through life, I see. Never were one for fieldwork, or you would know not to take the same route home every night. Such regularity will get you killed.”

“Get out of my carriage,” Sir Basil ordered, determined not to show the fear that was even now wriggling its way down his spine. For one didn’t get to the top of the Foreign Office without making a few enemies. Passing along a few scurrilous and damaging morsels at one dinner party or another . . . and he had no idea who this man was—though his voice . . . well, it was utterly familiar, and yet . . .

“Take my wallet and be gone, if that is all you want,” he said, starting to reach inside his coat.

The pistol wagged in warning, like a nanny’s finger. “
Tsk tsk tsk
. Keep your hands where I can see them, so I don’t have to put a hole in that jacket. It looks well cut—which suggests you’ve discovered a better tailor in my absence . . . and the means to pay him.”

“Who the devil are you?” Sir Basil blustered anew, keeping his hands fisted at his sides. For this blackguard was right, it was a very expensive jacket. One he could have ill-afforded a few years back, but now . . .

“If you must know, I’m the one with your life in my hands. So cease your bombastic posturing, for I am not one of your minions to be browbeaten and frightened by your meaningless threats.” He paused and leaned back into the cushions. “For I remember when you were merely Basil Brownett, the Brownie from Buxton. Though I must say, for all your finery, you’ve managed to still cling to most of your old manners—always were a bit of a rat—knowing when to jump ship and how to find the richest pickings, weren’t you?”

A shiver ran down the baronet’s spine. For no one had spoken to him thusly, called him by that hideous nickname in some time. Not since he’d been naught but a lad at Eton, and the other boys—those with loftier connections and noble relations—had teased him over his humble origins and country clothes.

And it was more than this whisper from the past, but the voice. The deep, steely voice pierced him. For it couldn’t be . . .

No, it was too ridiculous to consider.

For it meant he was in far more danger than he’d suspected.

“How dare you address me so. You’ll hang for this effrontery,” the baronet said with far more bravado than he actually possessed, for he wasn’t about to believe that this man before him, this shadow from his past could really, truly be . . .