He felt stupid and belligerent, and if the man stood in his way, he would first flatten his nose and then take him apart with his bare hands and maybe his teeth too. He was going to see her—he must see her—and that was that. She had had no business running off that night without giving him a chance to collect his thoughts and respond to what she had told him. He was going to talk to her—now. She owed him that much, by Jove.
Stanbrook was holding out his right hand as Percy stepped down from the carriage and closed the door on Hector.
“Hardford, I believe,” Stanbrook said, and Percy shook his hand.
“I have brought Lady Barclay’s trunk,” he said, “and some letters for her. And I will see her.”
The ducal eyebrows went up. “Come inside,” he said, “and have some refreshments. Your man may proceed to the stables after unloading the trunk. Someone will see to him there.” And he turned to lead the way inside.
There was an army lined up in the hall, of course. Well, there were only four of them in addition to Stanbrook, but they looked like an army. Or an impregnable fortress. But let them just try to stand in his way. Percy almost hoped they would. He was spoiling for a fight.
Stanbrook introduced him with perfectly mild courtesy—damn him again. The great big bruiser with the closely cropped hair was Trentham; the one with the nasty slash across his face was the Duke of Worthingham; the blond one who looked as though the whole world had been created for his amusement was Ponsonby; and the slight, blue-eyed boy was Darleigh. Percy looked at him, looked away, and then looked again. Was he not the blind one? And then he saw that the eyes that had appeared to be looking directly at him were actually missing his face by a few inches. It was a bit eerie.
Civil enough greetings were exchanged, and then another man appeared on the stairs, tottering slowly down them with the aid of two canes that encased his lower arms.
“Sir Benedict Harper,” Stanbrook said.
Six of them. The seventh was missing.
“I will see Lady Barclay,” Percy said curtly. Good manners might have served him better, but to hell with good manners. He was in a bad mood.
“There may be a slight problem,” the blond one said on a sigh, as though even speaking those few words was a trial to him. “For you see, Hardford, Lady Barclay will perhaps not see you.”
“And frankly,” scar-face added, “I would not blame her.”
The big tough one folded his arms and looked tougher.
“Then ask her,” Percy said, “and find out. And tell her I am not budging from here until she does see me.”
He felt as though he were standing back from himself and observing his bad behavior with a slightly incredulous shake of the head. Where had all his famed charm fled?
“Say please,” he added, glaring at the lot of them.
“Perhaps you will step into the visitors’ salon,” Stanbrook suggested, “and have a drink while you wait. The others will go with you while I go talk to Lady Barclay. I warn you, though, that she may refuse to speak to you. She saw you come and was less than delighted.”
Percy felt a bit like a hot air balloon that had sprung a leak.
“Let me go, George,” Darleigh said. “Let me talk to her. And I will remember to say please, Hardford.” He smiled with great sweetness. “Go and have some refreshments. You are upset.”
And there went the rest of the hot air, leaving Percy feeling limp and deflated.
Good God and a thousand devils, what if she would not see him? He could hardly camp out beneath her window—even if he knew which one it was—forever and ever, could he? Not with the army on the prowl. He particularly did not like the look of the giant.
He turned in the direction of the room Stanbrook was indicating, while the blind Darleigh set off in the opposite direction, led by a dog Percy was just noticing for the first time. He remembered that he had left Hector in the carriage. The wretched hound had flatly refused to be left at home.
25
Imogen was in the conservatory, where she had taken refuge after seeing the familiar carriage approaching. She would not have had even that much warning if she had not been standing in the drawing room window at the time, rocking a sleeping Melody Emes in her arms and thinking that there could surely be no lovelier feeling in the world.
She was gazing out through the conservatory windows now at some daffodils blooming in the grass, though she was not really seeing them. She heard someone come—someone with a dog—but did not turn her head.
Vincent sat down beside her, first feeling for the seat. His dog settled by his knee.
“Imogen,” he said, and he reached out and patted the back of her hand. “Does he always behave badly?”
“Oh.” And strangely, bizarrely, she found herself smiling. “Did he behave badly?”
“There is a smile in your voice,” he said, and that sobered her. “He was bursting with belligerence. It would not have taken much provocation for him to take us all on at once with his bare fists. I could not see him, of course, but I could hear him. Is he a large man?”
“Yes,” she said. “Not huge, though.”
“Then Hugo alone could have knocked him down with one punch,” he said, “though I have the feeling he would had hopped right up again for more punishment. What does he look like?”