The Diamond Key Read Free

care.”
    “But ... but ...”
    Wynn was already stepping up into the coach, his weight combined with the woman in his arms making the carriage sway. He held her more tightly. Instead of placing her on the squabs, he sat with her in his lap. She’d fall off the seat, otherwise, Wynn told himself.
    The dog jumped in after them, then turned and showed his teeth to Lord Boyce, whose mouth hung open. He was stilt staring through his quizzing glass.
    “But ... but ...” he stammered, “she cannot go with you!”
    Freeing one hand, Wynn rapped on the roof of the coach, signaling the driver to start. “Go on, Boyce. The lady is safe with me.”
    As the carriage moved forward, Torrie pulled her other arm—the one that was not wrapped around her rescuer’s neck—from his enveloping coat and softly patted his cheek. “Of course I am safe with you. You already saved my life. That is why we have to get married.”
    “Maybe Boyce has a flask in here after all,” the viscount declared, immediately shoving the woman onto the opposing seat, next to the dog, so he could search. At least one of them desperately needed a drink.
    Marry her? Hell, he’d already lost his honor, given up six years of his life away from his homeland, and forfeited the respect of his family, all for a woman. He’d be damned if he was going to sacrifice his freedom for another flea-brained female.
    Wynn Ingram, Viscount Ingall, did not trust women.
    He did not like women.
    He sure as Hades did not understand women.
    * * * *
    What seemed to be fifteen females threw themselves at Wynn the moment he crossed the open threshold of Duchamp House in Grosvenor Square. Wynn never thought he would have missed the Canadian wilderness.
    There were white-faced maids, one hand-wringing abigail who swore the whole disaster was her fault, and an anxious housekeeper waiting for instructions. One woman cried, “My baby!” and had to be supported closer by a black-clad female so she could see for herself that Lady Victoria still breathed, and brushed a strand of begrimed hair off her cheek.
    “I am fine, Mama, truly.” Torrie’s voice was low and raspy, but strong. “This fine gentleman rescued me in time.”
    A damp-eyed butler took over then, snapping his fingers for two stalwart footmen to remove Wynn’s burden; another flick of his hand had two of the maids hurrying ahead while the menservants carefully bore their fragile cargo up the marble arched stairs.
    A female who had to be Lady Duchamp turned on the steps to address Wynn, whose arms felt oddly empty. “Please stay so I may thank you properly, as soon as I have seen to Torrie. And my husband has been sent for. He’ll wish to—”
    “Please do not concern yourself, my lady. Your daughter’s well-being is reward enough.”
    “No, you must stay. I insist.”
    Wynn recognized the same implacable air of authority and the same determined chin he’d noted in Lady Victoria. If the daughter resembled her mother in other ways, he considered, the girl was indeed an exquisite. Countess Duchamp was an elegant, graceful woman with reddish hair under a scrap of lace. She barely seemed old enough to be the mother of a marriageable chit. He choked on the mental mention of the word marriage, and Lady Duchamp pounced on the sound.
    “There. You need a restorative. I should have offered sooner.”
    “No, ma’am. I would not wish to be in the way at this time of great concern.”
    “I will not hear of your leaving, and that is the end of it. Lady Ann, my sister-in-law, can look to your needs while I see to Torrie.” She nodded toward the frowning, black-gowned female who remained in the hall near Wynn, as if checking to make certain he did not make off with any of the silver. The aunt’s glare was so chilling, Wynn could feel his spine shivering. He never thought he’d miss the heat of Bombay, either. If Lady Torrie resembled this old dragon, it was no wonder she was unwed. Before Wynn could make a dash toward the