Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows) Page 4

  "Aye. I'm a right knight in shining armor."

  "So you did the books, and honed your financial genius, and eventually took over the company?"

  "No. After a year or so, William took pity on me and put me to work on the ships as a common sailor."

  "At a common sailor's wages?"

  "You're a right sharp lass," he said. "Aye. But I didn't mind. I was out of England and discovering life. It was an exciting time for a lad of eighteen. By that stage, I'd convinced him to venture further afield than Massachusetts."

  "I knew you'd had adventures," she said, pleased. "How I envy your travels. I've never been anywhere, when you've seen the whole world."

  "Most of it. China and Brazil and New South Wales and India and Russia, at the very least."

  "Will you tell me about them?" she asked.

  So he did. And the carriage ate up the miles without her noticing, as he entertained her with tales of incredible deeds in far-flung places like Siam and the Indies and the South Pacific.

  * * *

  Fenella stirred from vividly colored dreams of foreign lands. All featuring a larger-than-life, dark-haired man who took every danger in his stride. It was easy to dream of danger when she felt so deliciously warm and safe.

  Then she remembered Brandon, and she made a sound of distress.

  "Hush, lass," an impossibly deep voice purred just beneath her ear.

  Oh, dear. She was curled up against Mr. Townsend, her head resting on his shoulder. He'd wrapped his greatcoat around both of them so she felt marvelously cocooned and cherished.

  And she realized with an unpleasant shock quite how far she'd come from the woman who'd set out in his company, convinced he was an unmannerly brute.

  Flustered she began to fight against the restricting coat. "Let me up."

  "Give me a second," he said gently and swiftly unwound her.

  Clumsily she lurched to sit up. Her eyes were scratchy with tiredness and she rolled her head to ease stiff neck muscles. Bare, wintry farmland stretched around them. The moon sat low on the horizon.

  "I went to sleep." The words emerged as an accusation.

  "Only for half an hour. I warned you that my life was a dull topic."

  She'd been anything but bored with his adventures in all those fairytale places. But that hypnotic voice, the long journey, and the quiet night had caught up with her.

  "I'm sorry. I was lying all over you. How very…embarrassing. And how on earth could I sleep with Brandon in danger?" Self-disgust weighted her voice. Her ease with Mr. Townsend betrayed not only Brand, but Henry as well.

  "You'd fretted yourself into exhaustion. It's a cold night, and I'm large and warm."

  "Still, it's not…"

  He saved her from struggling for words to express her confused feelings. "We're nearly at the Beeches," he said calmly.

  She tugged the rug up around her hot cheeks, and told herself she was just tired and worried and overemotional. "Surely if the boys came this way, we'd have caught sight of them by now."

  "Who knows how long they were gone before the school discovered they were missing?" He turned the carriage between an impressive pair of gateposts crowned with stone lions. "If they found transport, they could beat us by hours."

  "Or they could have met with harm."

  His glance was reproving. "Don't lose your nerve now. You've been a pillar of strength so far. If they're not at the house, all isn't lost. We'll retrace our journey and track them down."

  As they bowled along a beech-lined drive, Fenella fought the urge to clutch at Mr. Townsend's brawny arm like a child seeking reassurance. "You sound very certain."

  "Carey is a clever lad. I don't know much about him, but I know that. And his friend is blessed with courage and resourcefulness."

  Startled, she stared at him. "How can you know that?"

  For the first time, Mr. Townsend smiled fully. And despite fretting over Brandon, Fenella felt her world shift on its axis.

  When she'd first seen Anthony Townsend, she'd considered him striking rather than attractive. Stern. Commanding. Monumental. But his smile made him look younger and more approachable. She realized with a shock that he couldn't be much older than her own thirty. No more than thirty-five, certainly. The lopsided curve of his lips over his large white teeth, and the humor lighting those dark brown eyes turned him into a man of more than ordinary appeal.

  Smiling, he was breathtakingly charming. And dazzlingly attractive.

  Dear heaven, she was in trouble.

  "Because his mother is an exceptional woman."

  Since her recent emergence from mourning, she'd laughed away a thousand extravagant compliments. None made her blush like Mr. Townsend's unexpected praise. She wasn't sure what to say, but luckily a huge stone pile of a building came into view and saved her.

  "Goodness me," she gasped in awe.

  He laughed softly. "If I'm playing the country gentleman, I'm going to do it right."

  "No half measures?"

  "None at all."

  "Aren't we going to see Carey's old nurse?" After the troubling revelation that somewhere between London and the Beeches, she'd developed an unwelcome penchant for this complex man, she was grateful to retreat to prosaic matters.

  Following her one true love's death, she'd sworn to devote herself to her duty as a mother. It hadn't felt like a sacrifice. She'd loved once. She never wanted to love again. Anyway, the prospect of ever finding another man attractive had been so remote as to seem impossible.

  For nearly five years, she'd locked herself away with memories of her young husband and their life together. Even re-entering society this year hadn't pierced her essential isolation.

  But now, she wondered if she was over life after all. Tonight long-buried feelings stirred, and she resented it. She had no wish to brave the hurly-burly of attraction. Losing love had nearly destroyed her. She couldn't risk going through that again.

  "Nanny Penn lives in the east wing." He drew the horses to a stop on the circular drive before the sprawling stone house with its rows of tall windows and imposing columned portico.

  "Lucky Nanny Penn," she said faintly.

  "I bought it after I came to a house party. I haven't decided what I'll do with it. I still haven't been over the whole house—or the grounds."

  "You bought it. Without seeing all of it?"

  "Aye," he said, as if that was nothing extraordinary.

  Fenella had never known want, and she moved in the highest social circles. But the thought of having the cash to pick up an entire estate on a whim made her finally accept the gossip about Mr. Townsend's wealth.

  He leaped down with a vigor that belied his night of driving, and moved to offer his hand. She shivered as she accepted his help, not entirely because he'd taken his big, warm body away. "It might have had a leaky roof or dry rot. The fields might be prone to flooding."

  "I sent a team of surveyors and farming experts down before I signed anything. I'm not one of your careless aristocrats, my lady. I work hard for my brass, and my brass works hard for me."

  "So the building is sound?"

  "It's rundown. That's how I persuaded old Grantley to sell. He didn't have the cash for repairs. Now I plan to turn this into a place Carey will be proud to come home to."

  She couldn't fault his concern for his nephew. And knowing how he cared, she found the courage to catch his arm as he turned away to check the horses. At her touch, he went stock still. Whereas her words faded to nothing under the heat sizzling through her at the contact.

  She snatched her hand away and stared bewildered at him. She was acting like a silly schoolgirl. And it wasn't as if they'd never touched before. In her opinion, there had been far too much touching since Mr. Townsend had blown into her drawing room like a tropical hurricane.

  She swallowed to ease the inexplicable tightness in her throat. "You'll think I'm presumptuous."

  His mouth quirked. "I'm a plain man who appreciates plain speaking. Surely you've
worked that out, Lady Deerham."

  "In that case, I hope you'll listen to a little well-meant advice."

  "Go ahead," he said neutrally as a groom ran out from the side of the house to take charge of the horses.

  She lowered her voice. "I know you're angry with Carey and you think he ought to be punished."

  Mr. Townsend folded his arms and regarded her with an unreadable expression. How she wished the light was better so she could interpret his reaction to her interference. "He's caused needless inconvenience and upset. I'm hoping that's all he's caused, and there are no other unfortunate consequences from this prank."

  "Yes, he has. But you love the boy and want to build his trust."

  "You're asking me to tiptoe around what he's done?"

  "I'm asking you not to go in with all guns blazing."

  "The way I did with you?"

  What was the point of lying? "Yes."

  "So I just pat him on the head and say no harm done?"

  She sighed. "If they're both safe—and I pray they are—no harm has been done." When he didn't answer, she plowed on. "Just give him a chance to explain before you start tearing strips off him."

  "What a poor opinion you have of me."

  "Not at all. Not…now." She stopped before she said too much. Anyway, this was about Carey, not her mixed-up responses to Mr. Townsend. "Because your emotions are engaged, it would be so easy to make a fatal misstep and create a gulf between you. I want what's best for Carey. And…for you."

  During a tense interval, he stared into her face as though he probed her soul. Then he nodded briefly. "I promise I'll listen to him. Beyond that, we'll see."

  That was the best she'd achieve, she could see. She must be satisfied with his promise and pray that his temper didn't win out.

  In most things, he was a reasonable man. But there was such guilt and anger, sorrow and love wrapped up in his feelings for his nephew that she wasn't sure which way he'd jump when he saw Carey.

  "Thank you," she said quietly, and let him take her arm as they mounted the wide steps to the imposing front door.

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  The winter dawn was a pale glow on the horizon when Anthony strode up to the door and brought the heavy lion-headed knocker down with a crash. At his side, bonny, brave Fenella Deerham stood silent, but he felt her willing him to tread carefully. Odd how she could do that. He'd never in his life been so aware of another person's thoughts. If anyone asked him, he'd wager he could repeat every word that she wasn't saying right now.

  By the time the bolt scraped back, he was half frozen and stamping his feet to restore circulation. In the growing light, Fenella looked pale with cold and worry. He wished propriety permitted him to put his arm around her—purely for warmth, of course.

  But one did not hug a lady without invitation. Even if she'd been snuggled up against him all night, soft and fragrant and alluringly female.

  The door squeaked open to reveal an old man. "Mr. Townsend. We were expecting you."

  The butler's words roused tentative hope. "Good morning, Probert. Are the lads here?"

  "Yes, sir. They arrived last night."

  Anthony drew what felt like his first full breath since he'd discovered Carey missing from Eton. Joy bubbled up inside him like a fountain until he wanted to fling his arms around Fenella and dance into the house.

  "Are they well?" she asked, to Anthony's regret withdrawing her hand. Having her on his arm gave him the same sense of rightness he'd felt when he first saw the Beeches.

  "Yes, madam. They arrived tired and hungry, but nothing a good meal and some sleep won't fix."

  "Oh, thank God," she whispered, sagging with relief. Tears glittered in her fine blue eyes. Anthony caught her elbow, as much an excuse to touch her as to stop her falling.

  "Probert, this is Lady Deerham."

  She stiffened her backbone and gathered her composure. "Good morning, Probert."

  The butler bowed, giving no indication that an unchaperoned tonnish lady bowling up to the house at daybreak was unusual. When they all knew how improper it was.

  Probert stepped back to allow them into the hall. Black and white tiles covered the floor. A glass dome crowned the lofty space. A curving double staircase rose to unite into one a story above. The space was breathtakingly impressive, but that didn't explain why it made Anthony's heart sing. He was a plain working man, but from the first, the Beeches had been home.

  Anthony struggled to think through the storm of relief. "Please send a groom to the school to let them know that the boys are here."

  "We sent a message when they arrived, sir."

  "Thank you." He turned to Fenella. "Shall we roust them from their beds?"

  To his surprise, she shook her head. "No, they need to rest after their adventures. I can wait now I know they're safe."

  The more he saw of her, the more he liked her. "Shall we look in on Brandon? We'll make sure we don't disturb him."

  Her grateful smile proved unsettling for Anthony's heart rate. "Oh, I would like that."

  "Where did you put them, Probert?"

  "In the blue and green bedrooms, sir."

  "Excellent."

  "I'll wake cook and have her start breakfast."

  "Thank you. We've been traveling all night. Sustenance will be welcome."

  "How is Carey's nurse?" Fenella asked.

  "Still poorly, I'm sorry to say, but she rallied when she saw the boys. She told young Master Carey off very sharply for running away from school. After that, she looked better than she had all week."

  Anthony laughed appreciatively. "Good for her."

  "Mr. Townsend, I may be speaking out of turn, but it was clear Master Carey's motives were good, however ill-advised his actions."

  Anthony cast Fenella a wry glance as he gestured her toward the graceful staircase. "So I understand, Probert. If someone could sort out some coffee in the next few minutes, they'll have my eternal gratitude."

  "Immediately, sir. And I'll set the fire in the morning room."

  As they climbed the stairs, Fenella was fine-drawn with tension. He knew her mind wouldn't rest until she'd seen her son with her own two eyes.

  Anthony carefully opened the door to the green bedroom, grateful it didn't creak like the front door. The curtains were closed, but he made out a heap of blankets and a tuft of fair hair. This must be Brandon. Carey was as swarthy as his uncle.

  Fenella released a shuddering breath as she ventured a couple of steps inside, before retreating on soundless feet. She lingered in the doorway, her face luminous with love, and Anthony had to look away. It was like looking into her soul, and the experience was too heady for someone little more than a stranger.

  Reluctance weighted her movements as she shut the door on her sleeping son. Anthony touched her arm in silent comfort, propriety be damned. Swift heat slammed him. Because inevitably, he wanted her. Even shouting at her, he'd wanted her.

  He spent his life dealing in the world's finest goods. Silks. Porcelain. Glassware. Expensive trinkets to arouse the appetites of jaded rich men—and women. He'd early learned to appreciate quality.

  Fenella Deerham was quality from head to toe.

  "Wake him up and talk to him," he whispered. "I know you want to."

  Her smile was wistful, and to his surprise she didn't break the contact. "Of course I want to. But he'll be exhausted."

  Beautiful and unselfish. She really was a jewel.

  And a lady, he reminded himself. Counted among the bluest bloods in the land. While Anthony Townsend's blood was as common as mud.

  The world might say he looked too high in setting his sights on Sir Henry Deerham's widow. He wasn't so humble as to agree.

  Thoughtfully he opened the next door along the corridor. Carey was a more restless sleeper than his friend. He'd kicked the blankets to the floor and he lay slantwise across the mattress, his white nightshirt tangled around his wiry body.

  Grief pierced Anthony. Willi
am had been just such a wriggler. "He's so like his father."

  Sympathy softened Fenella's expression. "Those echoes of a lost loved one are painful—and wonderful, aren't they?"

  "You understand."

  "Of course I do."

  "Is Brandon like his father?"

  "No, more like me, but occasional moments—expressions or gestures—turn him into Henry's spitting image."

  When she mentioned her late husband, her voice held a special note. Anthony couldn't doubt that she'd loved the man she'd married. Nor had he missed the way she'd referred to her love for Henry Deerham in the present tense.

  He was ashamed to admit that he wasn't nearly as unselfish as she was. Unworthy jealousy soured his gut.

  Their whispered conversation had lasted too long. The long, lean boy in the bed, all arms and legs, stirred and made a sleepy sound of inquiry. "Uncle Tony?"

  "Sorry to wake you, old son," he said. "Go back to sleep. It's still early."

  Instead of obeying, Carey pushed himself up against the pillows and regarded Anthony warily from under a thick shock of black hair. "You're livid, aren't you?"

  Fenella's eyes focused on Anthony in a silent plea for mercy. In truth, his anger had faded. With both lads safe, this adventure concluded happily.

  And Carey's antics had cast Fenella Deerham in his path.

  Which didn't mean his nephew would evade a stern lecture about responsibility. But not at the crack of dawn. And not when the dark eyes watching him so charily were such a reminder of William.

  "I'm not pleased," he said drily. "But a month on bread and water will be punishment enough."

  "Bread and…" The boy's thin face broke into an uneasy smile. "You're joking."

  "Maybe," Anthony said. "You'll find out at breakfast."

  "You're a good sport, Uncle Tony. Papa always said so."

  "Well, let's hope your father was right."

  The lad yawned widely. "Papa was always right."

  "You've given quite a few people a fright. Not least me. I was worried that you ran away because you hated having me as your guardian." It was a difficult admission to make, but the thought had tormented him from the first.