Page 54 of The Rake's Daughter
“We do,” Izzy said. “Good evening.”
Milly struggled out of the chair and stomped to the door. “And don’t pretend you don’t go riding with him nearly every day. I’veseenyou! I shouldn’t even betalkingto people who associate with rakes! Mama warned me!”
“Take her advice then,” Clarissa said. “We won’t mind.”
“Regards to Mama,” Izzy called after her. “Anytime she wants a warm story...”
Milly flounced off, and Izzy turned to Clarissa. “You talk to the gardeners here, don’t you, ’Riss?”
Clarissa blinked, surprised by the abrupt change of subject. “Yes.”
“Good. See if you can get them to plant a big tree—better still several trees, no, a hedge—blocking the view from the Harrington house. I’m fed up with that ghastly girl spying on us.”
Clarissa giggled. “I’ll see what I can do.”
***
The sun was riding low in the sky, glinting off the dome of St. Paul’s as London came into view. Leo felt oddly glad to be back. Three weeks since he was here last. In the past he’d always been glad to escape London. Now...
How had the young ladies found life in his absence? Flat, dull and uneventful, he hoped. He smiled to himself. After three weeks of the unalloyed company of Aunt Olive and her little mutts, they’d be willing to listen to reason.
His carriage pulled up in front of his house. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the front entry hall was lit up. Leo hadn’t told Matteo exactly when to expect him, but the man was a miracle of efficiency. How close to completion was the refurbishment of the house, he wondered as he climbed the front steps. He reached for the doorbell, but to his surprise the front door opened and a complete stranger faced him.
“I’m sorry, sir, this is not the correct entrance. You need to go around the block to number 17.”
“What the devil do you mean, ‘not the correct entrance’? And who the devil are you?”
The footman stiffened. “I am Lord Salcott’s footman, Grose, sir. And who might you be?”
“I am Lord Salcott,” Leo said pushing past him. “And this is my house.”
The man, horrified by his introduction to his new employer, gabbled apologies.
“Yes, yes, enough of that.” Leo handed the man his hat and coat. “Understandable mistake. I suppose Matteo hired you. But what the devil did you mean by sending me to my aunt’s address?”
“For the party, my lord.”
“My aunt having a party, eh?” One of her little card parties no doubt. They were all she had, these days. She never went out.
“Er, yes, my lord.” The man collected Leo’s bag and followed him upstairs. Leo was glad to see no remaining evidence of workmen or workwomen—just a pristine, elegant house. Matteo had done a superb job.
“Where is Matteo, by the way?” he asked his new footman.
“Assisting your aunt, my lord.” Passing Leo in the hallway, he hurried ahead and threw open the door to Leo’s bedchamber. “Your rooms, my lord,” he said proudly. “They are to your liking?”
They were. The walls were papered with a simple design of bamboo on a soft blue background, the architraves and ornamental plasterwork were crisp white, and the bedcover was of some richly textured stuff in dark reds and blues. There were no bed hangings. Leo was pleased. He’d always found bed hangings stifling.
“Italian silk, my lord,” the footman said, reverently smoothing his hand over the bedspread as he set the valise on the floor beside it. He hurried across and drew the curtains, which were a plain dark blue with a delicate pattern like a watermark woven through them. “Shall I unpack for you now, my lord?”
Leo waved him away. “Later. And, Grose, you don’t need to call me ‘my lord’ every second sentence.”
“Very good, my lord. Will you want dinner sent up, my lord?”
Leo sighed. “No.” He rather thought he’d dine at his club. With any luck he’d run into Race or some other friend. He was in the mood for congenial and undemanding company—male company.
He glanced around the room again. Matteo had done a very good job. It was pleasingly masculine, rich without being fussy or ornate. A strip of light showing between the folds of the curtains made him frown. Light? At this time of evening? His windows looked out to the gardens at the rear of the house, not the front, where gas lamps lit the streets.
He strolled to the window and drew one of the curtains aside. And blinked.
