Sally MacKenzie Bundle Read Free Page B

Hartford—eighty-year-old Hartford. As she was walking up the aisle at St. George’s to meet her decrepit bridegroom, she’d sworn to make Alvord pay. Now, perhaps, he would.
    She waited for the thrill she always experienced at the thought of finally getting her revenge. It didn’t come.
    She felt nothing.
    She jerked on the bureau drawer, pulling it open more forcefully than she’d intended. She caught it before it came out entirely and dumped her belongings onto the floor.
    What was the matter with her? She took out her small silver flask and closed the drawer carefully. It was the house party. That was it. She’d been feeling on edge ever since she’d arrived. She should have known being around Tynweith would do this to her.
    She uncorked her flask and breathed in the pungent scent of brandy.
    No, the truth was, she had more pressing concerns on her mind than revenge.
    Hartford was failing. He needed an heir. Time was running out.
    An all-too-familiar knot formed in her stomach.
    “Discretion wasn’t part of the plan.” Felicity flung herself into a chair by the fire. “I was supposed to be discovered in bed with Westbrooke. Who knew he’d take to the window?”
    “You might have guessed. He’s made an art of avoiding parson’s mousetrap. He’s made an art of avoiding you. ” Charlotte raised her flask to her lips, then paused. “Care for brandy?”
    “No.”
    “Suit yourself.” She took a long drink. The liquid was comforting, as always. She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth that spread through her chest.
    If she didn’t need Lord Peter’s services so badly, she would have stayed in London.
    “You’d better go easy on the drink. You’ll be passed out before your paramour arrives.”
    “I’ll be fine.” She wished she could pass out, but Lord Peter would probably prefer a sentient partner. Not that her alertness would make any difference, if her experience with Hartford was a guide.
    She sat on the chaise across from Felicity. “I wonder what Lady Elizabeth thought when Westbrooke appeared naked in her room.”
    Felicity snorted. “I’m surprised Miss Prunes and Prisms didn’t scream loud enough to wake deaf old Mr. Maxwell in London. She is such a prude.”
    “I thought she was, too, but now I’m not so certain. She was as cool as ice when everyone was crowded round her, your hand on the bed curtains ready to open them wide. She never flinched. I would not have guessed there was a naked man in her bed.” Charlotte took another sip of brandy. “Are you sure Westbrooke was there?”
    “Yes, I’m sure. There was nowhere else he could be. Lord Peter followed him. He saw him go in that window.”
    “Hmm.” Charlotte shook her head. “I just can’t picture Lady Elizabeth greeting a naked Lord Westbrooke. Of course, her brother always acted very proper, and you know what everyone said about him.”
    “That he was a regular satyr.” Felicity’s mouth slid into a sly smile. “He seems content enough now to stay home with his wife.”
    “She’s breeding again, you know.” The anxious knot twisted in Charlotte’s stomach again. She took a deep breath.
    Lord Peter would solve her problem.
    “I’d heard. That’s why Lady Beatrice is acting as Lady Elizabeth’s chaperone this Season—that and the fact Knightsdale’s sister-in-law has finally been dragged to Town.” Felicity picked up a miniature from an end table and studied it. “This looks like you.”
    Damn. She should have put that picture in a drawer.
    “It is me.”
    “Do you make a habit of taking your picture with you? I would have thought your glass would suffice.”
    “It’s not mine.”
    She watched Felicity’s eyes widen, then quickly narrow. Charlotte bit her tongue. She should have lied.
    “What do you mean, it’s not yours? How did it get here?”
    She shrugged. “Our host has an odd sense of humor.”
    Felicity’s nose twitched like a hound scenting a fox. “But why does he have a miniature of