The Diamond Key Read Free Page A

front door, Lady Duchamp concluded: “Besides, you will have to wait for your coat.”
    Wynn did not fancy traipsing through London in his shirtsleeves, in fact, nor walking back to his lodgings in Kensington. Boyce’s carriage had driven off, and Wynn would never ask to borrow a Duchamp coach. He could not hire a hackney, though, not while his purse was in the pocket of his jacket, which was even then disappearing around a corner, still wrapped around Lady Torrie. One of the maids was tucking a blanket around her, but not before he caught a glimpse of one dainty ankle.
    The aunt cleared her throat and scowled at him, making him feel like a spotty-faced youth caught with his hand up a milkmaid’s skirts. “Perhaps a dish of water for my dog, then,” was all he could think to say.
    Lady Ann sniffed and led the way down the hall to an opulent white-and-gold parlor. She gestured toward a tray of decanters and glasses while she gave orders to the butler, but Wynn did not stray from the entrance to the lavishly decorated room. In his present filthy state he was not fit for the intricately carved moldings, painted ceiling, and priceless works of art in every niche. In fact, he did not belong in any part of this magnificent home, and never would no matter how he was dressed. As soon as Lady Duchamp realized who he was, or her husband the earl returned, they’d be glad to see the back of Wynn Ingram quickly enough. He ought to leave before they were forced to be polite to such a pariah. He could wash up in the kitchens and perhaps have a glass of ale.
    It was too late, for Homer was lapping at a crystal dish a servant had set on the floor. The little dog barely looked civilized on his best days, and this was not one of those. He appeared more black than his usual tan, and bits of cinder and strands of thread were matted onto his short curly coat. One side of his mustache must have been singed off, leaving him lopsided and more vagabondish than the viscount himself. At least Wynn did not slosh his drink on the fine Turkey carpet.
    “I should leave,” Wynn told Lady Ann, who was still frowning her disapproval. Most likely her face was frozen that way, he decided. “I doubt my coat can be worn again, anyway.”
    She was holding out a dampened cloth. “Did you really rescue my niece from the fire?”
    He nodded yes. “But it was Homer who heard her calls and led me to her.”
    Instead of handing Wynn the linen, the earl’s sister bent and started wiping at the dog. “I love my niece,” the dragon murmured, dampening Homer more with her tears than the towel. “She bears my name as her middle one. Thank you.”
    Homer wagged his tail and went back to the water dish.
    Lud, now Wynn was alone with a starched-up female who was old enough to be his mother—except his mother had never cried over him, not even when he left England, never to see her again. Wynn hoped Lady Torrie appreciated what she had: so many people to care about her welfare, to worry about her, to love her.
    He had his dog.
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Chapter 3
    “Torrie? Where is my girl?”
    Wynn could hear the frantic calls even through the thick oak door of the parlor.
    The earl had returned from his club, having received the news of a fire. As Lord Duchamp pounded up the stairs, Wynn could hear him calling to his wife, “Maggie, where are you?” And to the butler, “Mallen, she is all right, isn’t she? Tell me my little girl is all right.”
    Again, Wynn felt that wrench on his heartstrings at the love in this family.
    “I’ll be leaving now,” he told Lady Ann. “Company is decidedly de trop at a time like this.”
    “You will stay and be thanked like the proper gentleman you were raised to be,” the old woman told him.
    No one had spoken to Wynn like that in over six years. He had braved barren wildernesses and sailed most of the seven seas. He had made his fortune in a harsh, empty land, and another in a harsher one that was teeming with life. He owned a fleet of