Lord Langley Is Back in Town (19 page)

Minerva tried to twist around, but the maid barked at her in German and gave her hair a sharp tug. All Minerva dared after that was a hot glance at Jamilla. “You didn’t!”

“But it was in the room, on the mantel,” the princess demurred. “I merely helped her with the translation.”

Oh, how could she have forgotten the duchess’s infamous matchmaking journal was still in the house? Leaving it around this lot of grasping, title-chasing women was like offering each of them their own personal keys to the Tower treasury.

“I think he is perfect,” Brigid said, admiring herself in the tall glass propped up in the corner.

Brigid’s maid, enlisting some help from Agnes, got the gown pinned and tucked with a few quick stitches until it fit to Jamilla’s and Brigid’s satisfaction. Next came out a small case of pots, and the two supervised as Brigid’s maid powdered Minerva’s face, added a bit of paint on her lips, kohl on her eyes, and ended by waving for a pair of high heeled shoes. Last, but not least, Agnes carried over the Sterling diamonds and sighed with delight as they were settled around her ladyship’s neck.

Minerva felt dizzy from all the attention. That, and the bantering, frank comparisons by Jamilla and Brigid of past lovers and potential ones gleaned from the
Bachelor Chronicles
, though it seemed the contessa was genuinely taken by this mysterious marquess of hers.

“And tonight,” Brigid said, turning Minerva toward the full length mirror in the corner, “every man at the theatre will envy Langley.”

Hardly, she scoffed silently, that is until she looked at her reflection in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. How had they done this to her? However could this be her?

For looking back at her from the mirror was Nanny Minerva—a veritable goddess having risen from the plain and sensible ashes of what had once been Lady Standon.

L
angley stood at the bottom of the stairs and listened to the tromp of feet overhead and cringed with each shout at a maid or slam of a door.

He’d spent a good part of his life romancing women, learning their nuances, knowing how to charm them and when to leave, but in all his experiences, he’d never understood what took so demmed long for them to get ready.

Especially since he knew how quickly they could get undressed.

Glancing at the clock, he sighed, for there wasn’t much time left to get to Drury-Lane, but what could he do? Not for a dukedom would he venture up those stairs and prod a single one of those ladies along.

What about her? Would you dare for her?

Langley shook his head as images of Lady Standon filled his thoughts. In that dreadful night-rail, no less. Yet when he’d held her, oh, what unbelievable curves his hands had discovered. And the kiss he’d stolen, her lush, full lips, her fury, and then that moment when she surrendered and caught him unaware with the fire smoldering inside her. He tried to tell himself his reaction, the jolt of desire, the need she’d awakened inside him, had merely been that of any man who’d been alone as long as he had.

But that wasn’t quite the truth.

That certainly didn’t explain this afternoon—when he’d come into the parlor and greeted her with a kiss, in front of a roomful of gossips. Kissed her not once, but twice.

His only excuse was that when he entered the room she was the only one he’d seen. For a second he thought her all alone, for that was where his gaze had landed.

And where it stayed.

Fixed on Lady Standon. When he finally noticed the others, then her regal stance, her uplifted chin, the tight line of her brow had made sense. No longer the marchioness, she was in his eyes Minerva, the goddess of wisdom . . . of war.

For there in the keen intelligence sparking in her eyes—he could tell she blamed him utterly for her predicament, and well she should. But also he thought he spied a fire, a hint of the passion he’d barely tasted last night, and suddenly found himself parched to drink from those lips once again, despite his vow to keep their arrangement chaste.

None of which he should even be thinking about since what he needed to be doing was sticking to his search for Nottage—which had come up empty this afternoon. The man’s rooms were hastily packed up and vacated, and his landlady hadn’t seen him go.

Which had her in a state, for Nottage owed her for his rent.

Which indicated, more than likely, his former secretary wasn’t planning on coming back.

Which only made the search for Nottage, and his quest to get the evidence Langley needed to clear his name from suspicion, more urgent.

And put him at greater risk.

As well as those around him.

Including her . . .
He glanced upward again, his brow furrowed into deep rows. He shoved that thought aside, since for the first time in months, nay years, he was so close to clearing his name, regaining his life . . .

But those niggling fears didn’t stay tucked away for long.

“Going out?” Thomas-William asked, having come silently up the backstairs.

“Yes,” Langley told him, tearing his gaze away from the steps leading up.

“Have you a care about what could happen to her?”

He knew exactly whom Thomas-William meant.

Lady Standon.

“This isn’t Paris,” he said aloud, more for himself than to answer his friend’s query.

“No, but it is just as dangerous. Going out in the open isn’t—”

“Yes, I know,” Langley said, cutting him off. “It wasn’t what George liked to do. But Lord Andrew’s plan is sound.” What it could be better described as was quick and cunning.

Thomas-William snorted and shook his head. Then again, he never liked haste, but certainly he had to appreciate the cunning part.

“And if you are worried about the lady, don’t forget, she’s got that bloody pistol of yours, threatened me with it last night,” Langley argued. “I think you should be more worried about my hide than hers. The lady can take care of herself.”

Before Thomas-William could add another Ellyson-inspired lecture on carefully thought out strategies, they were interrupted by a loud explosion of breaking glass upstairs, followed by the margravine letting loose a harangue in no less than three languages.

When the lady finished, Thomas-William made one more appeal. “How will your honor be restored if Lady Standon is harmed in the effort? There is no excuse for sacrificing her for something so fleeting.” Then he bowed his head slightly and left, his parting shot taking a bit of Langley’s confidence with it.

Damn Thomas-William and his philosopher’s sensibilities!

Not that he had time to consider them or even compose a retort—not that there was one—for just then the doorbell jangled, and when no one came in to answer it (most likely every servant in the house had been harried to the point of deafness), the baron opened it himself.

“Swilly!” he exclaimed, shoving out his hand at his old school friend. “What the devil are you doing here?”

“Me? I should say! Is that you, Langley?”

“It is. In the flesh.” They shook hands enthusiastically and Langley all but drug him into the foyer. “Swilly, how is it that you are here?”

“Swilly no more, my good man,” the fellow said. “Throssell now. Inherited about five years ago. That demmed uncle of mine seemed all but determined to live on like a veritable Methuselah, but I finally got the chance to put him to bed with a shovel, and I did so with great vigor.”

Langley laughed. “Got your hands on the title and that old pile of stones to boot.”

“And a fine pile of money,” Throssell added, his chest puffing out. “I will say this for the old goat: He lived well past his time, but turns out he was a regular Midas. Kept all his gold neatly piled up. So there it was just waiting for me. Put it right to good use, I did, fixing up the kennels. He left them in a shameful state of disrepair. Shocking, don’t you think?”

The baron slapped his old friend on the back, for Swilly, as he’d been known at school, always had pockets to let and high expectations of his uncle dying “at a moment’s notice.” That and he’d always been hound-mad—no wonder the kennels at Throssell Castle had been the first to see his attentions. “I’m happy for you, but that still doesn’t explain what you are doing here, of all places.”

“I’m in Town for the Season,” the marquess explained. “Never really thought about taking a wife, but it seems that a marquess must have one. At least that’s what my mother natters on about.” He glanced at his reflection in the mirror and gave his wild brown hair an absentminded pat. “So when I ran into Lady Chudley this morning—demmed fine woman that Lady Chudley—and she introduced me to one of those foreign chits she had in tow with her, a countess with the oddest bit of terrier I’ve ever seen—got the lines of a devilish little ratter to him, I will say, but demmed if the little chap doesn’t look like a monkey. Caught my eye, she did.”

Langley shook his head. “Brigid?”

“No, no, I think the dog had another name, Noodles, or something like that. Hard to understand what that gel was saying, but she claimed the dog had come from a long line of sires owned by none other than—than—” He snapped his fingers as he tried to come up with the name.

Langley closed his eyes. “Marie Antoinette.”

“Yes, yes. Of course you’d know. All that time on the Continent and such.” Throssell shuffled his feet a bit and took a glance up the stairs. “Liked her lines, good stance, and so I asked her to the theatre with me tonight.”

Langley was almost afraid to ask if his friend meant Knuddles or Brigid. But then he got his answer when the lady in question came down the stairs.

“My Lord Throssell, is that you? Why I nearly didn’t recognize you—looking so very resplendent,” Brigid cooed like a lovesick teenager, and to Langley’s shock, Swilly—no, make that Throssell—blushed like a lad.

The poor man tried to come up with a response as Brigid, her red hair falling like a waterfall of curls over one bare shoulder, her gown fitted to her curves as if her maid had painted it on, glided down the stairs. And while Langley knew the lady preferred horseback and hounds over Town life, when it came to making a sensation, Brigid could stop a man in his tracks when she dressed for seduction.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said as she stopped in front of Throssell.

Langley knew why she had paused thusly, and nudged his old friend in the back and whispered, “Take her hand, Swilly.”

“Oh, what? Yes, suppose so,” he stammered, before he caught hold of Brigid’s gloved fingers and brought them to his lips. “My lady, you look divine,” he managed in a voice that sounded far more sophisticated than Langley would have ever thought Swilly could muster, but there it was. “Shall we?” he said, leading her toward the door.

“Do you mind if we bring my friends?” she asked. “For Langley’s carriage is far too small for all of them and I would be loath to have them travel about so cramped.”

Langley’s gaze followed Swilly’s as it went up the stairs. Perched on the various steps were his daughter’s former nannies, Jamilla, Lucia, Tasha, and Helga. It was a dazzling sight to behold, the colorful gowns, the glitter of jewels and the scandalous décolletages.

All that Swilly could manage in response was a stammering “We-ell, I—I—I—”

That was enough for Brigid. “Come along, ladies. Lord Throssell is delighted to have our company.”

The ladies trooped down the stairs, filing after Brigid and her conquest.

“If you prefer,
schatzi
,” Helga said, “I could stay behind and keep you company.”

“No, I think this is Throssell’s night,” Langley said. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

She continued on, a bit of frown on her features.

Tasha and Lucia said nothing as they passed him by. But then again, neither of them needed to say a single word to convey what they were thinking. Or offering. Tasha with her swaying hips and Lucia with her come-hither glances would probably put Swilly into apoplexy.

Then again, the Marquess of Throssell was about to become the most envied man in London.

As Jamilla came by, she winked. “Enjoy your ride with Lady Standon.”

“Yes, darling,” Brigid called from the window of the elegant Throssell carriage. “Enjoy your ride to the theatre.”

Then he understood what had just happened. Brigid and Jamilla had conspired and outmaneuvered the others so that he and Minerva had the duke’s carriage all to themselves.

All to themselves?

Perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. She still had Thomas-William’s pistol tucked away somewhere.

Especially since he’d kissed her this afternoon. Twice. In front of witnesses. When he had promised quite faithfully not to . . .

Oh, she might have had a spark of passion in her gaze, but he hadn’t forgotten that furrowed brow of hers hinted at a goddess’s wraith.

Still, she was merely a London dowager, he reminded himself. Hardly the dangerous sort like Brigid and her poisons, Tasha and her Cossacks, and Helga and her threats of a sharp pike to the mid-section . . . or lower.

Whatever did he have to fear from Lady Standon?