Page 9 of My Darling Mr. Darling

“My fault, Wentworth, for not so informing you.” For God’s sake, the harebrained ideas people got into their heads. “Had I any inkling that you had suspected Violet to be dead, certainly I would have disabused you of so foolish a notion.”

Wentworth drained the last of his tea. “But you never speak of her, sir. We all assumed it was simply too painful—”

John snorted. “I’m not in the habit of speaking of my marriage to anyone, Wentworth. But she is most certainly alive”—and breaking into homes, apparently—“and well enough. I’ve got letters from her if you’d like to see them.” Although surely her colorful language would shock the man to the core.

“I couldn’t possibly.” Wentworth said, recovering a bit of his dignified demeanor. “Privateletters, sir.”

“Suit yourself.” John rose. “But do show me where you heard sounds within the house.” He needed to know why she had been here, what she had come for. At no small risk to herself, she had broken into his house—a crime quite possibly punishable by death, had she been caught out for it—forsomereason or another. It was of paramount importance to discover it. It occurred to him that, if Wentworth had given chase, as he had claimed, it was possible that he had frightened her away from her goal. “And, Wentworth….”

The butler turned respectfully in the act of rising.

“Should you catch Violet at—er, we’ll saysurreptitiously enterthe house again, do not interfere.” Best if she did not know she was being observed, after all.

“Sir?” Wentworth inquired.

“Let her do as she pleases. Itisher house as well.” Even if she had not set foot inside it in years. “Butdolet me know if you see her.”

Chapter Three

Precisely at ten the following morning, John rapped upon the door of the townhouse that Lady Serena St. Clair, lately the Marchioness of Granbury, had designated for her school.

Within moments the door swung open, and a huge brute of a butler placed himself in the open doorway, looming in what John assumed was meant to be an imposing manner. “Her ladyship is not receiving at present,” the butler said. “But you may leave your card, and I’ll see that she receives it.”

“As it happens,” John said, “I’m not here to see her ladyship. I’m here to see Mrs. Darling.”

The butler’s impassive face revealed nothing. “There is no one here by that name, sir,” he said, and even if he looked more suitable to a career in prizefighting than service, he either knew better than to reveal information that had been entrusted to him, or he genuinely did not know the true name of his employer.

It made no difference to John, really, considering that he knew well enough that he had the correct residence. “Miss Townsend, then—Violet. Or Sarah, I suppose.”Or Lucy, or Kate, or Mary.“Whatever she happens to be calling herself these days.”

The butler did not so much as blink. “Sir, I must ask you to leave.”

“Davis, isn’t it?” John inquired, wedging the toe of his boot between the frame and the door when the butler made to snap it shut upon him. “I’m a friend of Lord Granbury. Heard quite a lot about you.” Little of it flattering, given that Grey had hired the man because he had seemed the sort to be perfectly capable of shuffling an unwanted caller straight out the door. Grey had meant for Davis to protect Serena, of course, but had not expected the butler’s formidable skills to be turned againsthimwhen he had come calling, hat in hand.

Davis’ voice took on a decidedly guttural growl. “Sir, I must ask you to remove your foot from the door, or I shall be forced to remove yourpersonfrom the steps.” His tone suggested he would take a great deal of pleasure in it, in fact.

“Davis? My goodness, whatever is the matter?” It was a soft, feminine voice. Warm. Slightly husky. Most notably, it didnotbelong to Serena. And that meant—

“Bloke’s got his foot wedged in the door. Nothing for you to worry about, miss.” And with a soundthump, Davis dislodged John’s boot. “Goodday,” Davis snarled, but froze at the advent of a lightly censorious cough, his cheeks flushing.

“I’ll handle it, Davis. Thank you.”

John couldn’tseeher, but he knew she was there, just beyond the door. Caught. At last. And she didn’t even know it. And so he straightened himself up, and endured Davis’ hateful glower.

“You call, miss, if you have need of me,” Davis said, fixing a threatening glare upon John as he released the door at last, backing away. Not far, of course. Like a mother hen, he had determined that the ladies in residence were beneath his care, and he would peck to death anyone who dared upset them with utmost glee.

“I will, Davis.” A hand curled around the door, fingers long and elegant, with short trimmed nails. A swath of dove-grey skirts preceded her, and she appeared at last, tucking a loose curl back into place, her face half-distraction, as if she had been pulled from some far more urgent task by his appearance. “How may I—”

And that was as far as she got. She fell silent so swiftly it was if the polite greeting she had planned had fallen straight from her lips and clanked to the ground between them.

She’d lost the youthful plumpness to her cheeks she’d had when last he had seen her, and the pallor of grief as well. She’d lost also the look of the wide-eyed waif, but she had kept the stormy eyes, the extravagant winged brows. Her dark curls, too, though they were neatly pinned in place instead of loose and wild.

She had also kept the scowl.

“Hello, Vi,” he said, striving for a pleasant, even cadence.

She drew in a shallow breath. “No,” she said crisply, sharply inflected and unyielding. “No. Absolutely not. Unacceptable.”

And she slammed the door shut in his face.