Page 18 of A Wicked Earl's Widow
London
The following week
The Marquessof Landonshire was pleased. Fate seemed to be smiling down at him for a change, and he whistled a cheery tune as he strolled along Pall Mall Street toward his destination. White and pink blossoms colored the bare tree limbs that lined the avenue. Lilacs had begun to bloom, and the sweet scent hung heavy in the air. He’d been to White’s the night before and came away one hundred pounds plumper in the pocket. His card had been sent to the Falsbury townhouse, announcing his intention to make a morning call. Yes, he would collect Eliza and promptly take her over to Bellum’s and seal the bargain.
His partner had the documents prepared and ready for signatures. It was as easy as selling a fine piece of horse flesh. Except his daughter would bring him much more. Thirty thousand pounds would pay off his debts, perhaps buy back a couple of the properties he’d been forced to sell, and set him up with a comfortable annual income. It had all worked out well enough. Why did the little doxy care about the man’s age? Christ, Bellum wouldn’t last more than five or ten years and she’d be free. A rich widow once again. She should be thanking him. Addle-pated women. They didn’t understand business. His hounds had more sense than a female.
Landonshire stopped in front of the brick home, faced with expensive white-gray Portland stone. Sunny yellow daffodils and tulips in red and orange brightened the windowsills. His own rowhouse had been one of the first things to go when the first venture failed. No matter. His wife didn’t accompany him to London since the Boldon shrew had died, and he preferred the hotel. Less expensive, good food and liquor, and close to his office and other…entertainment. He fingered the perfectly tied white cravat, double-checked the buttons on his new single-breasted dove gray tailcoat, and flicked a speck of dust from the white trousers. Removing his matching silk hat and smoothing back his hair, he opened the gate and ascended the stone steps.
The brass knocker held a miniature lion’s head. Landonshire grasped it and rapped sharply three times. A butler promptly answered.
“May I help you?” he said in the stiff, indifferent tone of a well-trained servant.
“Lord Landonshire, Lady Eliza’s father.” He smiled benevolently at the man, pleased at the warm day, the sunshine, and his upcoming windfall. It had been an ugly few years, but it was all behind him now. “I believe I’m expected.”
“Ah, indeed you are.” The butler stepped to the side, opened the door wide, and waited patiently for coat and hat.
“No need, I shan’t be here long.”
The butler nodded. “Very well, sir. Follow me, please.”
He took in the great expanse of the entry as he ambled over the marble floor. Halfway down the hallway, a door stood ajar. The servant stopped at the threshold.
“Lord Landonshire,” he announced with a bow.
Entering the study, he was surprised to see both Lord and Lady Falsbury. The marquess sat behind a large oak desk with intricately carved square legs, his hands folded and resting on the glossy top, a stack of papers neatly piled next to him. Two leather chairs flanked the high desk, the lady seated on the right. He bowed to both host and hostess and took the vacant chair.
“Is Eliza on her way down?” he asked politely. “She’s more like her mother every day. Always late, never a thought to time or appointments. It’s a female trait, I suppose.”
His chuckle faded from the glare cast by Lady Falsbury. “Idon’tsuppose it is. Eliza has been with us for several years now, and she’s proven to be very punctual.”
“Beg your pardon, madam.” He struggled for another thread of conversation. “I’m looking forward to seeing my granddaughter again. I imagine she’s grown since the last time I held her.” He turned his lips up in his most charming smile.
“I’m afraid not,” said Falsbury without rising.
“She’s a sickly thing, then? My daughter was puny as a child but look at her now.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Falsbury said as he sat back in the overstuffed leather chair, an odd look on his face.
His jaw ticked in irritation. “What won’t be possible?” A finger of apprehension scratched at his gut.
Falsbury steepled his hands, a bland expression on his face. “I’m afraid you won’t be meeting with your daughter.”
“Is my sweet Eliza ill? My poor little girl. I’m in town for the week. I can come back in a day or two.” This put a damper on his plans, but Bellum would have to understand. “Like I said, she’s always had a delicate disposition.”
“Really, Lord Landonshire? I think she’s quite resilient surviving a childhood under your roof.” The marchioness faced him, accusation in dark brown eyes.
He blinked. Her tone hit him like a bunch of fives in the face. What had that little hoyden told them? His face burned hot; his heart pounded. He leaned forward, ignoring the addle-pate, and turned his attention to the marquess. Idiot women.
“Falsbury, what the devil is going on? Where the hell is my daughter?”
“On a ship to America.”
“I want her down—what?” He ran a hand over his face. “This is not amusing.”
Falsbury stood. “I agree. Nothing about you or your despicable tactics are amusing. But your game is up, and the bread and butter you were counting on is no longer on the table.”
“I’m her father. She has no right taking my granddaughter and sailing off to—”
