How a man enters a room says much about his character.
Advice to Felicity Langley from her Nanny Tasha
Now long past midnight, a sharp biting wind whistled through the empty streets of London, and Lord Langley drew the collar of his coat up higher as he made his stealthy way down the alley behind the houses lining Brook Street. It was demmed cold outside, but he’d spent the last fortnight thusly, whiling away his evenings in the shadows until there was a sign from Thomas-William that it was safe for him to come in.
Certainly, he’d never envisioned his return to London in this manner. Hiding in byways and attics, remaining unseen so he could stay alive.
And tonight the lamp in the kitchen window wasn’t lit, and a strange stillness fell over the mews. It had Langley on points, for something was wrong—he knew it like he knew his own boots. Even the kitchen door was locked.
Then he learned why.
“You’ve been discovered.” From the shadows, Thomas-William stepped forward, his French accented words a leftover from his childhood spent in the service of a chevalier. That was before George Ellyson, Thomas-William’s former employer and the spymaster who had taught Langley everything he knew about the business, had bought the man off a Paris auction block.
“Discovered? By whom?” Langley asked, glancing instinctively over his shoulder, even though he knew no one was there.
Thomas-William was not the most loquacious of fellows, and he answered with the same concise turn of phrase that Ellyson had always favored. “Your paramours.”
“My what?” Langley asked, slightly confused and stealing a glance at the house. He hadn’t been with a woman in ages, and his infamous conquests—the ones that had given the ton and the European courts enough fodder to keep the gossips happily chattering for years on end—had all taken place on the Continent—not here in London.
Why, all his former mistresses were happily closeted away, from the turreted courts of St. Petersburg to the minarets of Constantinople, and in a good portion of the capitals in between.
Then he stole a glance at the house, which was uncharacteristically lit from the ground floor to the attics, as if it were filled with . . .
“Oh, good God, no!” he groaned. Lord Langley, who’d managed to defy death on enough occasions to frustrate even the devil, wavered with a fear that no man likes to consider. “They” implied more than one. As in several. And all under one roof.
It was a rake’s worst nightmare.
“What the hell am I going to do now?” he muttered, plucking off his hat and raking his hand through his hair. “I’ve no place left to go.”
Thomas-William glanced over his shoulder at the house and shuddered. “I agreed to stay here for Miss Lucy, but no more. Not with that lot.”
It was then that Langley noticed the battered valise at the man’s feet. “As bad as all that.”
The fellow nodded. “Best you join me at Clifton’s house in the country. I can hide you there.”
“No,” Langley said, shaking his head. This was getting to be an old argument between them. Thomas-William thought it best for the baron to stay hidden, out of sight as they worked through who might be to blame for his fall from grace. “I’m done with hiding.”
“If you go out in the open, you’ll only get yourself killed,” Thomas-William said. More like repeated. “As long as no one truly knows you are here in London—”
“Well, I think it is rather too late now,” Langley admitted.
“What did you do?”
“Went and saw an old friend tonight.”
Thomas-William groaned. “Who?”
“Brownie.”
The older man looked askance. “You did what?”
“Now before you start lamenting the moment you ever laid eyes on me, I think he knows more than he is letting on,” Langley rushed to say. “He went rather pale when he realized I wasn’t dead. Well, that and I shoved a pistol between his eyes.”
“I think you will find that a common response,” the man muttered.
“No, no, not like that. I think he was scared because he knows why I was betrayed.”
Thomas-William studied him, then shook his head. “Too bad you don’t, my lord. It would be better than baiting the lion in his own den.”
This is exactly what George Ellyson would have said. For George had always gone on and on about not plunging into a situation without having a plan. Without knowing what you were after.
But it was rather hard to do that when you didn’t remember anything. And that was the rub. When Langley had been struck in the head that fateful night in Paris, the injury had struck at his memory as well.
Why he’d been betrayed, who betrayed him, and what he’d been doing in Paris to begin with were all lost. Just fragments and scattered bits in his thoughts, flashes of images, none of which made sense.
“Have you considered that you just gave him time to see the original assignment finished?” Thomas-William said, arms folded over his chest. “Or simply the reason to have you openly declared a traitor and hung?”
“I can’t sit around and wait.”
Thomas-William looked as if he wished the baron would do just that. Wait. For by taking his cause—their cause, really—out into the open, it put them both at risk.
“What if it is true, Thomas-William? What if I am a traitor and I just don’t remember it?” He looked over at his old friend to see what the other man thought of that, for it was something that had been festering in the back of his mind for months. Years, really, ever since he’d woken up in a Paris prison.
“Then why did you come back to England?” he asked. “Why even bother?”
Langley stared at him. Why bother? “Because it is utter nonsense! I can’t be a—”
Thomas-William laughed softly and then clapped him firmly on the back. “Exactly, my lord. You are no traitor. Ellyson trusted you. And I trust you as well.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, bowing slightly.
“Enough of that,” Thomas-William told him, looking embarrassed. “Now it is time for us to leave.” He leaned over to retrieve his valise. “Not even for Miss Lucy will I stay in this house. Not if you intend to stand out in the open like a stag in the meadow.” He smiled at his own joke.
“Come now, my old friend,” Langley cajoled. “It isn’t like you to pass up what might be a rout. You always did like a losing proposition.”
The man looked over his shoulder at the house behind him and shook his head. “We had better odds playing cards with Miss Tia.”
That bad, eh? Langley looked back at the house, the shadows of figures passing back and forth in front of the curtains like a regimental parade. Egads, how many of them could there be inside?
And as if he’d read his thoughts, Thomas-William told him. “Four.”
“Four?” Langley’s gaze narrowed. “Which ones?”
“A Russian—”
“Tasha?” he murmured.
Thomas-William nodded. “An Italian—”
“Lucia?” Langley glanced again at the house. His fiery Italian countess with his ruthless Russian mistress? Good God, he was shocked the house wasn’t yet in flames and London burning down around them.
“A contessa with a dog—”
“Brigid,” he said, a chill running down his spine. If anyone was capable of killing him, he might look no further than Brigid—for the lady was as beautiful as she was deadly.
“And a margravine with a temper,” Thomas-William said.
“Wilhelmenia?” Langley couldn’t even imagine the lady leaving her corner of Europe unless she was following her ancestors’ tradition of conquest and pillaging. Saint George, save them all, if that was the case.
It had been difficult enough sneaking in and out when Elinor Sterling and her young sister Tia had been living in the house, but now? Why, it would be nigh on impossible.
For even with his careful planning, Tia had caught him a week into his residence. She’d snuck down to the kitchen in the middle of the night and discovered him and Thomas-William playing cards. They’d tried to fob her off with lies, but she’d coolly regarded the stranger at the table, declared him a gentleman and obviously a spy, and then anted into their game of vingt-et-un, soundly beating them both before she’d toddled off to bed again, declaring, “I care not if you are living in the attic, but best not let Minerva find out.”
Luckily for Langley, the rest of the servants were much like Tia, and had taken little notice of Thomas-William’s mysterious guest in the attic. For as long as there was no work associated with his care and upkeep—it was no matter to them.
But the baron suspected the sole remaining mistress of the house would not share their largesse.
Proper and strict, Minerva Sterling, from what Thomas-William had told him, would most likely set a pack of hounds on him. If she owned any. Luckily she didn’t. But Thomas-William had muttered something about her stealing his pistol once, something he’d dismissed as a drunken blithering.
Still, Langley glanced over at her window, the one on the corner near the drainpipe. The chamber was dark and still, which said to him she had either sought her bed long before or was out for the evening.
“Why hasn’t she cast them out?” he asked. From what Thomas-William had said about the lady, he couldn’t imagine Minerva Sterling suffering a pack of fools gladly.
Thomas-William’s answer was one upraised brow that said so very clearly that the lady had tried . . . and failed.
Langley nodded. “It would have probably taken a regiment of the king’s finest Marines, a dedicated group of cannoneers, and a nearby sale on silks to get those four to quit their stronghold now that they’ve dug in.”
“And they know you’re about,” the other man grumbled.
That was the worst of it. They knew he was alive. And that he was in London. So how was it that all four of them had discovered this, and discovered it early enough to journey all this way just to corner him? And what if they believed the rumors, the lies that he was guilty of treason . . . guilty of something he couldn’t even remember . . .
Perhaps he should take a more a careful tack, listen to Thomas-William.
“Are you coming?” the man prodded.
Shivering in the cold, Langley muttered, “I must get my notes . . . my clothes . . .”
“Have you considered that one of them might be . . .” Thomas-William’s words trailed off, but it didn’t take much wit to finish his supposition.
The one who wanted to see him gain his just reward . . .
Oh, yes, that thought had run its wild course through his rattled senses.
“This complicates everything,” he said, more to himself.
Thomas-William made a loud snort, as if to underline such a statement. “I have your things—at least your clothes. Come with me to the earl’s estate. We’ll catch the first tide.”
Langley shook his head. “No, I stay in London. I’ll never discover the truth, never clear my name, cowering in the countryside.”
“Suit yourself. You might try the King’s Barrel in Shoreditch. Ellyson favored it when he came to town. Mention him, and the landlady might extend you credit.” This was Thomas-William’s oh-so-subtle way of reminding him that he had no money. No money for lodgings, no money for bribes, all the things that would have made his task much easier.
That was the rub of it. He had no money—other than the handful of coins he’d stowed away in the attic. Nor was Thomas-William sporting plump pockets, not unless he’d finally found a way to win back his last six months of salary from that cheating little minx, Tia.
Since most everyone thought him dead anyway, his fortune had been divided between his daughters. There were no accounts to draw from, not unless he wanted to drag Felicity and Tally into his dangerous pursuit. And that was exactly why he’d deposited them in Miss Emery’s school all those years ago. To keep them safe. Hidden away from his enemies.
Hiding.
God, he hated that word. It left him in alleyways, grasping at fleeting memories and chasing shadows. What if this was it? The rest of his life was to be spent thusly? At the edges of society, if only to avoid the scandal of treason, of his name—not to mention his carcass—being dragged through the streets and what that would mean to his daughters, their reputations.
Shivering anew, Langley lost patience with this half-life of his—even if it was only for a narrow bed and the faint warmth of Lady Standon’s attics. By God, he needed to finish this. But to do that, he needed to retrieve his journal—for it held what little he did remember of Paris, along with his list of suspects, top of which sat one name: Sir Basil Brownett.
That was one of two things he’d recalled all this time. Sir Basil’s name and a shadowy profile of the villain who’d struck him down in Paris.
A face so familiar he swore he knew who the fellow was, if only he could make out the man’s features, remember where he’d seen him before.
No, there would be no clearing his name until he solved this mystery, so he started toward the house. That is, until Thomas-William caught him by the elbow, tugging him to a halt. “Are you mad? You can’t go in there.”
“I must have my notes. I’ve been collecting every bit I can remember from Paris, and I don’t dare lose them.” All he really had were his suspicions of Brownie scrawled in a journal full of nonsensical notes.
Yet when he started for the kitchen door again, Thomas-William shook his head. “You cannot go that way,” he said, nodding toward the windows.
For between the kitchen and the attic stood five flights of stairs—any of which could be occupied by one of the visiting servants. While Mrs. Hutchinson didn’t care about a stranger in their midst, Helga’s maid or one of Tasha’s footmen might not be so willing to look the other way.
After all, they’d come all this way for their mistresses to find her man.
Langley muttered a curse, to which Thomas-William chuckled and said, “Seems you have no other choice but to do as I advise. Come away with me. It is what Ellyson would do. It would hardly do for you to find yourself out in the open.”
“I don’t intend on being caught,” Langley said. “Watch and learn something not even Ellyson would have tried.”
Edging his way along the garden wall, for there was still a light on in the first floor parlor, Langley worked his way to the side of the house, where the drainpipe ran up all the way to the attic balcony. He glanced over his shoulder and smirked at Thomas-William. Now it was time to show the man how it was he’d managed to steal so many secrets from the courts of Europe. And contrary to popular opinion in the Foreign Office that it had been his prowess in seducing the wives and mistresses of the various princes, ministers of state, and high ranking nobles, it had more to do with the fact that he could prowl like a cat.
He glanced up the drainpipe and measured the distance, which was considerable, but then again Lord Langley had never been known for avoiding a bit of risk, and a few moments later he was climbing up the side of the house with the agility of one of Astley’s rope walkers.
Grinning down at an astonished Thomas-William, he continued upward—silently and stealthily. Truly, if he hadn’t become a spy, he might have done well as London’s finest burglar. That is, until the old pipe groaned in complaint and began to shudder beneath his hands. A ripple of panic ran down his spine, and he cursed his own bravado as the cold metal began to waver and shudder in earnest.
He should have known. Most of this house was in ill-repair. Why should the drainpipe be any different?
Yet here he was, halfway up, having to weigh his options in a split second—and he did, making a scrambling leap onto the wide ledge of the nearest window just as the pipe gave way, clattering onto the ground below.
Clinging to the stonework, Langley held his breath, waiting for some sound of alarm. Below him, Thomas-William had melded into the shadows, now unseen, as if he too were waiting to see what sort of aftermath would come of this.
But by some miracle of chance, the house remained silent, not a soul stirred. Thomas-William eased out of his hiding place and glanced up at Langley. Then he shook his head, as if the real calamity had yet to drop.
For indeed, Langley’s refuge could hardly be called that. His only option now was to climb into the room the window led to.
Lady Standon’s room, to be exact.
Glancing inside at the pitch-black bedchamber, Langley wondered if he wouldn’t have been better off staying in Paris.
Without his title. Without his name.
No, that would never do. As he told Brownie, he’d never give up. So, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he slid the window open as quietly as he could and slipped into Lady Standon’s room.
It wasn’t like he could spend the night on her ledge.
He blinked, trying to discern anything in the room to gain his bearings, and took one tentative step toward where he hoped he would find the door.
Instead, he tripped over the bed and landed atop the lady herself.
Minerva had fallen into an uneasy sleep rife with dreams of her unwanted houseguests and their paramour, Lord Langley.
While the ladies were all as clear as day, and just as unwelcome in her dreams—Lord Langley remained in the shadows, a figure she couldn’t quite see, a man who moved with catlike elegance, enticing her to come closer.
Minerva twisted fitfully from one side to another until her fanciful flight was interrupted by an equally shady figure falling over her.
The man’s body—for there was no doubt it was a man—covered hers, pinning her down in the depths of her mattress. One of his hands had landed quite squarely over her breast.
“Aaaah,” she began to cry out as she struggled to bolt upward, but he clapped a hard hand over her mouth, silencing her scream.
“No, no, no,” he told her in a voice deep and rich. “I’m not here to harm you.”
His reassurances did nothing to stop her from struggling, but it was to no avail, for her arms were trapped under the coverlet and he had her entirely pinned.
Covered with his long figure, the muscles that seemed to be . . . well, everywhere.
If only she could reach the nightstand . . . where earlier tonight she’d concealed one of Thomas-William’s pistols.
After all, her house was filled with strangers, and now it seemed a thief as well . . .
“Truly, my lady, I will not harm you, you have to believe me,” he continued, his hand still covering her mouth. There was a cultured air to his plea, tinging his words, as if it had been a long time since English had been his native tongue.
A long time since he’d been home . . .
Minerva’s lashes blinked as she tried to discern in the darkness some hint of his features, spy something about this man that might soothe her panic.
Then the words on the duchessa’s letter from Felicity echoed through her rattled senses.
I would be ever so grateful that if you hear word of my father, to direct him to return to London. And when he does, advise him to take refuge in my house on Brook Street. Number 7.
“I am no villain. But I must beg of you to be quiet.”
Lord Langley?
Ridiculous! she told herself. Whatever would a respected—well, infamous might be a more apt description—English diplomat be doing sneaking into her bedchamber like a common thief?
She blinked again, and this time, in the dim moonlight, she could make out his face—the handsome Roman features, the cleft in his chin, and the rich curve of his lips. His aristocratic features shocked her, for she hardly expected to discover such a handsome man—and certainly not one in her bed.
Then out of the blue she heard the declaration she’d made the other day to Lucy and Elinor, words that now sounded something akin to prophecy.
A man will have to fall out of the sky and into my bedroom before I marry him . . .
How was she to know such a thing was possible? For there was her window, open, and here he was.
The sort of man she’d always dreamt of marrying. Long before her dreams of a happily-ever-after had been quashed by her father’s plots and her forced marriage to Philip Sterling.
Oh, what utter rubbish! She was far too practical to believe that perfectly handsome husbands just tumbled out of the heavens.
No, it was better to hold onto her reason and realize that the only sorts who stole into a lady’s bedchamber in the middle of the night had other thoughts on their mind.
Then again, whatever his reason, this fellow had yet to molest her, other than his initial landing and holding his hand over her mouth.
“Please, I don’t want to cause a scandal—” he whispered.
Then whatever are you doing in my bedchamber, you wretched beast?
“—I merely came to get my belongings and then I’ll be gone. If the door hadn’t been locked . . .”
Get his things? As in, they were in her house?
“I know it might be hard to believe—”
Impossible would be more like it. Wouldn’t she know if there was a man living in her house? Certainly one of the staff would have said something . . .
Well, perhaps a real staff, she conceded.
“Now I am going to take my hand off your mouth,” he was saying, even as he was slowly easing his fingers away, “but only if you promise not to—”
There was such a seductive lull to his voice, so deep and enticing, that it almost had her believing he wasn’t there to harm her. She even found herself nodding in agreement to his request like some dimwitted simpleton.
Whatever was she doing? Oh, this was all madness, and so was this fellow.
So the moment his hand slipped from her mouth, she screamed. Bloody murder.
And just as quickly her hand snaked out from beneath the covers and snatched Thomas-William’s pistol from the nightstand.
Shoving it forward even as she scooted back, her knees tucked in front of her like a walled fortress, poor blockade that they were, they were enough for now.
Now that she’d gained the upper hand.
Taking a few gulps of air, she said in an unsteady voice, “Don’t think I won’t shoot.”
“My lady, from what I know of you, I’m surprised you haven’t already.”
“I will shoot,” Lady Standon averred, the pistol trembling traitorously in her hand. “See that I don’t.”
Langley reached out and with a single finger steadied the barrel. “If you must, make a good shot of it. All that wavering about is making me nervous.”
All through the house he could hear the scrambling of feet—the curious and the wary—rummaging about as they tried to determine whether her round of screeching cries were worth their own life.
Apparently they were, for now the footsteps were on the stairs and in the hall, and a thread of light began to creep under the door as candles in the hall were lit and furtive search for the source of the alarm began.
“It was in her room!” he heard a lady with a deep, gravely voice say.
Langley cringed. Helga!
So it was true. His past was now at his doorstep.
Or rather on Lady Standon’s. “Yes, please, in here!” she called out. “I am being accosted.”
He glanced over at her, more amused than annoyed. “Truly? Accosted? That is the best you can come up with?”
The latch at the door rattled, but it remained closed.
“Oh, dear!” Lady Standon said. “It’s locked.” Then she had the audacity to glance up at him. “Would you mind?”
“Mind what?” He knew exactly what she was asking, but he wasn’t about to make this easy on her. If she had kept her word and not screeched like a fishwife, he wouldn’t be in this mess. Nor would she.
“Opening the door,” she said, waving the pistol at the door. “I fear it is locked.”
“Locked?” Langley glanced at it and then back at her, smiling. “How inconvenient.” Her forethought earlier to bolt her door was now gaining him some time, even as outside her room a crowd swelled—he could hear a smattering of questions in German and Italian, as well as Helga’s gruff responses.
“Get out of my way,” he heard a rich sultry voice call out, then the door rattled with a determined round of knocking. “Darling! Is that you? I shall break down this door immediately!”
Langley cringed again. Tasha! Leave it to his Russian paramour to come to his rescue. Then again, how many times had she been on the other side of the door while her irate husband had pounded away at the portal, threatening one of her many lovers?
“Then you are him? Lord Langley?” the lady beside him asked without the least bit of the enthusiasm that could be heard rising in the hallway. She actually sounded rather affronted.
He bowed slightly. “At your service, my lady.”
“I didn’t ask for your service,” she shot back.
Yes, definitely not one of the welcoming party. “Well, I didn’t ask you to invite in that circus of harpies into my daughter’s house.”
“My house,” she corrected. “Which you weren’t invited into either.”
“Wasn’t I?” He patted his jacket as if searching for something. “I do believe I have my invitation here somewhere.”
His charm was lost on the lady, for her reply was the arch of her dark brows over her narrowed eyes.
For a moment he found himself wistfully wondering what color they were. Blue? Nut brown? Green?
The ruckus in the hall drew both their attention back to the door as it rattled loudly, the hinges—unlike the drainpipe outside—holding their own.
“I must say you are a most indulgent hostess,” he said as he rose from the bed, “for you seem to draw guests like a moth.”
“If only you were all as easily squashed,” she replied as she too got up and faced him.
“Poor, darling, Langley, you needn’t stay in there with her,” Tasha purred. “Come out here with me. I have missed you so.” The slow scratch of fingernails ran down the door.
“My Langley with her? Are you mad?” This came from Lucia, ever the fiery Italian duchessa. Of course, she would dismiss anyone else as being in competition with her, for she had lived her entire life as the petted and coveted jewel of Naples. “She is nothing, she is but a mouse. As if he would fancy such as that.”
“A mouse!” Lady Standon straightened. “Whatever does she mean by that?”
“That she thinks you are unworthy of my affections,” he said, glancing at the door and then back at the window. He was a good two stories above the ground, which would mean he would most likely break at least one limb if he made a jump for it.
“I knew she was hiding him!” Brigid declared to the others.
This spun Lady Standon around on her heel. “I am not!” she told them through the door.
“Bah! The English and all their high and mighty morals!” Helga sounded in fine form. “Would someone get a pike, an axe, a halberd? I shall break this door down myself!”
“A halberd?” Lady Standon exclaimed. “Oh, yes, I have several of those in the morning room.” She glanced over at him. “What sort of lady does she think I am?”
Langley grinned. “I believe the margravine has an entire room devoted to such things.”
There was an indelicate snort from the mistress of the house, but whether it was to the fact that Helga had a collection of sharpened weapons at the ready or that he merely knew such women, he didn’t know.
Nor did he ask.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, the enemy was clearly growing impatient, for Tasha began calling for one of her footmen—most likely not trusting the margravine with an axe. And if his rusty Russian was correct, the princess was calling the situation “a matter of great moral imperative.” Nor did he suspect she was creating this fuss in order to save Lady Standon’s imperiled reputation.
“This is ruinous!” his unwitting hostess declared, nudging him with her pistol. “Get out of my room!”
“Madame, if I open that door, I’ll be ruined.”
“Then go back the way you came,” she said, pointing at the window.
“Believe me, I’ve considered it.” For now there was a very resounding thud of boots on the steps. Apparently Tasha still favored keeping a few handsome Cossacks about.
“Well—” Lady Standon’s foot tapped, and the pistol remained stubbornly pointed at him.
“The drainpipe broke on my way up. The only way out is to jump.”
She stepped aside. “Do I appear to be stopping you?”
“I’d break my neck at this height,” he said, hands fisting at his sides. Not that the lady looked all that dismayed over the prospect of him ending his illustrious life in a heap of broken bones in her garden.
Truly he could see why the servants muttered about her and Thomas-William got that nervous twitch in his eye every time her name was mentioned.
Nor was she done with him. “So you’ve not only damaged my house, but now you are going to damage my standing? I am a respectable widow.”
He grinned at her. “I’ve known many a respectable widow in my day.”
“I am not that sort of lady!”
“Apparently not,” he replied, glancing once again at the window.
“I demand that you leave at once!” she insisted.
Good God! She was every inch the bossy bit of muslin that Thomas-William claimed. And utterly English in her superiority.
Much to his chagrin, Langley had to admit to being a bit charmed.
She continued on in quite an abominable fashion. “Lord Langley, I’ll have you know I deplore scandal! Nor will I be party to your . . . your . . . your common, ruffian ways!”
“Ruffian?” He ignored the “common” part of her snub. “The ladies outside this door would probably argue with such a description of my character.”
She snorted in reply. Apparently she held them in just as much contempt as she did his “ruffian” inclinations. “Then I’ll open the door and straighten them out on the subject.”
“Oh, no you won’t,” he told her, cutting off her path.
“I’ll shoot,” she warned.
“Please do,” he offered. “Better you, my lovely firing squad, than being torn limb from limb from limb by those silken clad wolves.” He tossed a knowing glance toward the door.
She appeared to be considering his words, as if they might be a good suggestion. But finally she stepped away from the door, shooting him a baleful glance. “Do not consider this a concession,” she said, “for I am not all that unconvinced that you’d be the only one to be ripped apart in the melee.”
Smart minx.
“Then, my dear Lady Standon, if it comes to that, stay away from the window. I do believe an open sash was how Tasha got rid of her first husband.”
Her eyes widened even as there was another rattle of the hinges. This time the door groaned in protest and looked all but ready to give way. Tasha’s footman had most likely arrived. “If you were a respectable gentleman, those . . . those . . .” She waved the pistol at the door as she searched for the words to describe the pack of females beyond.
“Houseguests?” he offered, rocking on his heels, grinning at her. Whyever was he enjoying this? He was about to meet his maker, or at the very least the last four women he ever wanted to encounter again, and all he could do was tease this one.
An irate, entirely proper and upstanding English marchioness.
God, he’d missed Britain.
“You jest? This is hardly funny,” she told him as her door shuddered anew. “And now my door is to be ruined as well.”
“You could open it yourself,” he said, stepping aside. “And feed me to the wolves, as I suggested before.”
“Don’t think I wouldn’t like to, but the moment that door opens I’m ruined.” She looked amusingly fierce—standing in the middle of the room in her plain white night rail, her hair falling in a thick braid over one shoulder, pistol in her hand. Unfortunately it was too dark to make out the color of her eyes, the hue of her hair, the true line of her curves beneath that ugly, voluminous night rail.
Egads, was it flannel? Whatever had happened to England since he’d left that they were swathing their women in flannel?
This had to be one of the more devastating results of overturning the French.
And English modesty aside, he made another point. “Lady Standon, you place too much value in respectability. Believe me, it rarely leaves one with an epitaph worth remembering.”
“I can well imagine yours!”
He grinned and leaned closer. “Can you now?”
“Oh!” she sputtered and stepped away from him. “None of this would be happening if you were a respectable man. True to your title.”
Langley closed his eyes and shuddered. “And let me guess what you would suggest: that I take a wife and remove myself to the country for the remainder of my days. Would that dull prospect make me respectable?”
“If that is what it takes to get you and your . . .”
“Former nannies?” he offered.
“Companions,” she corrected, “and yes, if that is what it takes to get all of you out of my house, then please take a wife. I’d say my house is overflowing with likely and overly willing candidates.”
Langley paused, a shiver running down his spine, her suggestion jumbling about with Thomas-William’s grumbled complaints.
Hiding . . . Out in the open . . . Take a wife . . .
The door shuddered again, and he realized he had barely enough time to hatch his plan. But leap into it he would, starting with shrugging off his jacket.
Lady Standon gaped at him. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Taking your advice.” Flinging his jacket in one direction, he plucked off his cravat with one hand while the other flipped open the buttons on his waistcoat.
She eyed him with open horror. “You’re mad! I never told you to disrobe!” Then realizing that her voice was rising, she gasped and lowered her register.
Having added his cravat and waistcoat to the pile, he opened up his shirt a bit and stalked across the room, catching her in his arms. “No, you didn’t.”
Caught unawares, the pistol fell from her grasp. Then Lady Standon began to struggle, her fists pounding at his chest. “I certainly didn’t tell you to accost me either!”
“No, madame, you didn’t.”
A loud crash left the hinges groaning their last. One more good hit and—
“Then whatever are you doing?” she gasped, having stilled for a second.
“Exactly what you told me to do. Taking a wife.”
And as the door crashed open, he sealed his proposal with a kiss.