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When his brain resumed working, all he knew was how huge and clumsy and unrefined he was compared to her graceful perfection. It was like Caliban yearning after Ariel, if Caliban was a great bear of a blockhead with a booming voice, and hands like dinner plates, and the manners of a stevedore. By rights, she should shrink from his uncouth presence.

But this creature of air and light possessed surprising courage. No common sense at all, of course, or else she’d see that her plans were totally unsuitable.

He definitely knew one thing about gentlewomen. Rules hedged them about, tighter than the strapping on a bale of fine merino wool from New South Wales.

But somehow despite being a foot shorter and half his weight, she’d forced an agreement from him. Another item to add to his list of facts about the nobly born female. They were damned slippery customers.

“Mr. Townsend?”

He must be gawping at her as if she’d clouted him on the noggin with a cricket bat. Which was a fair description of his state. “Aye, you can come. But cause any trouble and I’ll unload you at the first inn we come to and send a carriage to collect you when everything’s over.”

“That’s a bargain.” Her smile intensified the sensation of having been hit with a blunt instrument.

Dear Lord above, but she was pretty.

She was completely out of his sphere and pointless to want, but nobody could stop a man from taking pleasure in a bonny lass.

When he was alone, he lifted her untouched brandy and downed it in one gulp. Even though he was a fellow of generally abstemious habits.

The liquor hit his throat with a hot burst and shocked him back to the current moment. But as he went outside to check the horses, he could swear he wasn’t the same man he’d been half an hour ago.

* * *

Anthony had to give Lady Deerham credit. She was downstairs in not much more than the unreasonable five minutes he’d specified. Thank God they delayed. As they descended her front steps toward his curricle, a horseman raced into Curzon Street and flung himself down before them. In the torchlight, he looked filthy and frantic and travel-weary. All the sudden activity made Anthony’s highbred horses shift restlessly in their harness and the footman holding their heads spoke in a low voice to calm them.

“I’m looking for Lady Deerham,” the man gasped as another footman ran down to catch the sweating horse. “I’ve come from Eton College.”

Hell, don’t let this be more bad news. The rider’s manner immediately discounted any chance that the lads were safely back at school. “What is it?” Anthony automatically stepped nearer to Lady Deerham.

“I am Fenella Deerham,” she said with admirable dignity. Between the torches and the full moon, Anthony couldn’t miss how the blood drained from her porcelain complexion.

“My name’s Harley.” The man snatched off his hat and bowed quickly, before he fumbled in his coat. “I’m a porter at the school. I’ve got a letter from the headmaster, my lady.”

Anthony was standing close enough to hear her indrawn breath. Without thinking, he took her arm in case she felt faint again. Inside, he’d been astounded how his pulses had leaped at the brief contact. Now he braced for that automatic physical response.

“I’m Anthony Townsend,” he said sharply. “Have the lads been located?”

“No, sir.” Harley located the letter and extended it toward Lady Deerham.

“But there’s news?” Her voice was artificially calm, and Anthony found himself yet again commending her courage.

“We found a letter addressed to you in the outgoing mail. The headmaster took the liberty of opening it. It’s enclosed with Mr. Keates’s note.”

“Thank you.” Trembling, Lady Deerham ripped open the letter. Shoving the accompanying papers at Anthony, she feverishly read Brandon’s message.

She looked up with appalled eyes. “They’ve gone to see Carey’s old nurse. She’s sick.”

“At least that explains why they ran away. Mrs. Penn is the closest thing to a mother Carey has left,” Anthony said somberly. He turned to Harley. “Surely it would have been better to contact me than trouble her ladyship.”

Harley tugged his hat between his hands and looked ill. Anthony Townsend’s displeasure generally had that effect, although it hadn’t subdued valiant Lady Deerham. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Townsend, but Mr. Keates said you’d most likely be here. If not, I had instructions to ride to your offices once I’d seen her ladyship.” He stopped torturing his hat and fished another letter from his coat. “This is for you.”

“Has the school sent someone after the boys?” Lady Deerham asked.

“They don’t know where they’ve gone,” Harley said.

Anthony took the letter addressed to him. A quick glance confirmed that it contained the same information, if less carefully phrased. “They don’t know, but I do.”

“Where?” Lady Deerham turned a wide, troubled gaze on him.


Tags: Anna Campbell Dashing Widows Romance