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Authors: Miranda Neville
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between Mrs. Townsend and the man in the striped coat—Horner she’d called him. For all he knew, she was encouraging him, indulging in flirtatious byplay he’d failed to understand. Good Lord, perhaps the pair of them were lovers. His cheeks heated as she glared up at him, her lips pursed. Their gazes clashed for some seconds, and he felt a tightening in his chest, a compound of irritation and something more, something he couldn’t name. Then her mood shifted, her expression softened.
“I’m being unjust,” she said. “You meant well, and you weren’t to know that you interfered where you weren’t needed.” A hint of distress flickered across her mobile features. He wanted to press her, to ask how he could help. He also wanted to run away as far as he could. Mrs. Townsend was the kind of overly dramatic, emotional woman who came to a bad end.
Her melancholy, if that was it, passed quickly. The smile that had bewitched him earlier made its reappearance. “You must admit,” she said, “it was the most magnificent fight. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself more.”
He had his defenses mounted against her charm. “A fracas in a public place, or anywhere else for that matter, is no place for a lady.”
She laughed aloud. “Don’t be stuffy, Castleton. You know you enjoyed it.”
To his shame—and he had no intention of owning it—she was right. In the small hours, after he’d seen the ladies bestowed safely in Conduit Street, he walked to Piccadilly through the cool, quiet streets. Too tired for thought, he let his mind roam aimlessly and found himself humming.
He never hummed. And he certainly had no reason for frivolous gaiety. His neckcloth was a mess, his waistcoat buttonless, and his shirt torn. His hands were sore from punching, his chest and shoulders stiff from received blows, and he knew beyond doubt that in the morning he’d be sporting a black eye.
Barely acknowledged, shoved into the back corner of his mind, was the fact that he’d never had so much fun in all his twenty-nine years. He’d never felt more alive.
Chapter 6
A fter the birth of his twin sisters, Thomas’s mother no longer made her annual visit to London. The inconvenient house in Whitehall built by the first duke was let, and his father rented rooms when he spent a few weeks in the capital to attend Parliament. After his death, Thomas made a quick trip on business and discovered Nerot’s, comfortable, conveniently located, and reasonably priced—at least by ducal standards.
He enjoyed hotel living for its informality and privacy. Two rooms, in addition to a dressing closet and a room for a servant, were quite adequate to his needs. He relished the unwonted isolation, almost anonymity, without the mother, sisters, and huge domestic staff who inhabited Castleton House. In these modest quarters, he felt a freedom that as the heir and now owner of a ducal estate he could never experience. If he needed a drink, a meal, hot water, or a carriage, all he had to do was ring the bell, and his needs were met quickly, without fuss or reference to the convenience of others.
The morning after the masquerade, dressed only in his banyan, he tucked into a hearty breakfast. To the comfort of lounging en deshabille, was added the pleasure of eating beefsteak and eggs piping hot from the hotel kitchen. At home, the food was generally tepid after being carried from distant offices along miles of ancestral passages. Under his father’s strict rule, attendance at an early breakfast, in the dining room, had been obligatory.
During his postmeal shave, he sensed the disapproval of his valet though you’d think he would be pleased not to have to get up at the crack of dawn. Minchin, a middle-aged man of silent efficiency and rectitude, was a legacy from the late duke. It hadn’t seemed fair to dismiss so senior a servant. Not until Thomas’s chin was smooth and the razors set aside did Minchin bring up the state of his eye.
“An
“I’m being unjust,” she said. “You meant well, and you weren’t to know that you interfered where you weren’t needed.” A hint of distress flickered across her mobile features. He wanted to press her, to ask how he could help. He also wanted to run away as far as he could. Mrs. Townsend was the kind of overly dramatic, emotional woman who came to a bad end.
Her melancholy, if that was it, passed quickly. The smile that had bewitched him earlier made its reappearance. “You must admit,” she said, “it was the most magnificent fight. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself more.”
He had his defenses mounted against her charm. “A fracas in a public place, or anywhere else for that matter, is no place for a lady.”
She laughed aloud. “Don’t be stuffy, Castleton. You know you enjoyed it.”
To his shame—and he had no intention of owning it—she was right. In the small hours, after he’d seen the ladies bestowed safely in Conduit Street, he walked to Piccadilly through the cool, quiet streets. Too tired for thought, he let his mind roam aimlessly and found himself humming.
He never hummed. And he certainly had no reason for frivolous gaiety. His neckcloth was a mess, his waistcoat buttonless, and his shirt torn. His hands were sore from punching, his chest and shoulders stiff from received blows, and he knew beyond doubt that in the morning he’d be sporting a black eye.
Barely acknowledged, shoved into the back corner of his mind, was the fact that he’d never had so much fun in all his twenty-nine years. He’d never felt more alive.
Chapter 6
A fter the birth of his twin sisters, Thomas’s mother no longer made her annual visit to London. The inconvenient house in Whitehall built by the first duke was let, and his father rented rooms when he spent a few weeks in the capital to attend Parliament. After his death, Thomas made a quick trip on business and discovered Nerot’s, comfortable, conveniently located, and reasonably priced—at least by ducal standards.
He enjoyed hotel living for its informality and privacy. Two rooms, in addition to a dressing closet and a room for a servant, were quite adequate to his needs. He relished the unwonted isolation, almost anonymity, without the mother, sisters, and huge domestic staff who inhabited Castleton House. In these modest quarters, he felt a freedom that as the heir and now owner of a ducal estate he could never experience. If he needed a drink, a meal, hot water, or a carriage, all he had to do was ring the bell, and his needs were met quickly, without fuss or reference to the convenience of others.
The morning after the masquerade, dressed only in his banyan, he tucked into a hearty breakfast. To the comfort of lounging en deshabille, was added the pleasure of eating beefsteak and eggs piping hot from the hotel kitchen. At home, the food was generally tepid after being carried from distant offices along miles of ancestral passages. Under his father’s strict rule, attendance at an early breakfast, in the dining room, had been obligatory.
During his postmeal shave, he sensed the disapproval of his valet though you’d think he would be pleased not to have to get up at the crack of dawn. Minchin, a middle-aged man of silent efficiency and rectitude, was a legacy from the late duke. It hadn’t seemed fair to dismiss so senior a servant. Not until Thomas’s chin was smooth and the razors set aside did Minchin bring up the state of his eye.
“An
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