According to our sources, Mr. Duke has invited the better part of the London ton. Considering the host’s financial influence, and the ruthless way in which he wields it, the question will not be who will accept his invitation—but rather, who would dare decline?
“Burns! Burns!”
Gabe winced. Just what he needed—another ridiculous conflict between his architect and his housekeeper. He rose from his desk and followed Hammond’s bellowing into the dining room, hoping to head it off before it could begin.
He was too late, sadly. Mrs. Burns had already arrived.
“Yes, Mr. Hammond?” The housekeeper starched her spine. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Hammond gestured at the portrait on the wall. “You can explain to me why I’m looking at the inbred offspring of a suet pudding and a weak-chinned salamander.”
“That’s a portrait of Mrs. Bathsheba Wendleby.”
“I expressly told the workmen to remove these paintings two days ago. Lo and behold, they have reappeared. As if by magic.” His tone sharpened. “Dark magic.”
Burns did not address Hammond’s unspoken accusation of witchcraft. “These are family portraits, representing generations of Wendlebys.”
“Those generations of Wendlebys don’t live here any longer.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Hammond,” she said with foreboding. “This house has a legacy, and it will not be forgotten.”
“This house has a desirable address,” Gabe interjected. “I’m going to sell it to some new-money upstart who wants to hobnob with aristocrats. Those buyers don’t want moldering portraits of a crusty squire and his hunting dogs. They want modern water closets and gilded molding. If Sir Algernon Wendleby cared about his precious legacy, he shouldn’t have frittered away the family fortune on cards and mistresses.”
When he finished his tirade, Gabe felt rather shabby about it. He wasn’t frustrated with the housekeeper. He was frustrated with himself.
After the last few days—and nights—with Penny, Gabe needed a reminder of just what the devil he was doing in Mayfair. He was here to sell this house for the highest possible price, and if the new occupants displeased the ton, so much the better. He wasn’t here to stay.
He wasn’t here to carry on a torrid affaire with the lady next door, either. With every tryst, he promised himself this time would be the last. It must be the last. The risks to Penny were too great.
Then she would whisper his name, or give him a coy smile, or breathe in his general vicinity, and all his resolutions turned to dust.
“As you like, Mr. Duke,” the housekeeper said. “The paintings will be removed today.”
“One more thing before you go.” Hammond narrowed his eyes at her. “How did he die?”
“To whom are you referring, sir?”
“Mr. Burns. Your husband. You were widowed, I assume.”
“It’s customary for housekeepers to be addressed as Mrs., whether or not they are married. There was never a Mr. Burns.” At the sound of the doorbell, she inclined her head. “If you will excuse me, I’ll answer the door.”
After the housekeeper left the room, Hammond approached Gabe and dropped his voice to a whisper. “No Mr. Burns? I don’t believe that for a moment. She’s hiding his corpse in a wardrobe somewhere.”
Gabe sniffed the air hovering about his architect. “What is that smell?”
“Garlic.” Hammond pulled a white, papery bulb from his pocket. “I’ve taken to carrying some at all times, and so should you. For protection. They don’t like garlic.”
“Housekeepers?”
“Vampiresses.”
“For God’s sake, this has to stop. Burns is not a vampiress.”
“She’s pale enough. But then, she does walk about during the day. Perhaps she’s a wandering evil spirit who possessed the reanimated corpse of a virgin beauty.” Hammond stalked away, scrubbing both hands through his silvered hair.
Gabe stared after the man. A virgin beauty? Burns?
If one looked past her gloomy attire and perpetually dour expression, Gabe supposed the woman might not be unattractive. But a beauty? Maybe she truly did have Hammond bewitched.
Light footsteps approached from the corridor. “A ball? You’re hosting a ball? Were you planning to tell me about this?”
Penny. Speaking of enchanting beauties.
Gabe turned to greet her—but he found himself without words.
God above, she was lovely.
Over the brief course of their acquaintance, they’d been systematically destroying her frocks—first rescuing Bixby from the coal store, then chasing after Hubert in the river … After the masquerade, even her black mourning dress would never be the same.
As a result, she’d been reaching further and further back into her wardrobe, drawing out frocks she likely hadn’t worn for some time. Each one painted a portrait of a different, younger Penny. In a strange way, he was growing acquainted with her in reverse. There was a year she’d chosen brighter hues and lower necklines, and a year she’d preferred demure lace, and a year when a modiste must have talked her into an absurd number of flounces.
Today’s frock must have been made several years ago, when she was not merely younger, but slighter in form. Her figure had matured since, and now the muslin clung to her body the way limewash gripped stone. Praise heaven, he could make out nipples.
His conscience niggled at him. There was something he’d been reminding himself of a few minutes ago. Something about selling this place, leaving Mayfair behind—and Lady Penelope Campion with it. He was supposed to remember it.
He remembered nothing. Nothing, that was, except for her silky thighs wrapped about his hips and the coarse saddle blanket chafing his knees when he’d taken her in the hayloft above the mews yesterday. He’d breathed in so much dust, the sneezing had kept him awake half the night.
He had no regrets.
“I’m up here, Gabriel,” she said tartly, yanking his gaze away from her breasts. Her brow wrinkled with concern as she held up a folded newspaper for his view. “And we need to talk about this.”
“What’s the meaning of this? You’re hosting a ball?” Penny waited on Gabriel’s explanation.
He offered none.
Instead, he strolled across the room to her, took the paper from her hand, and read through the notice of his impending ball.
