Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Penny scanned through the list of names and titles. Her cousin the Russian prince received mention, naturally. Farther down, the Misses Irving were named. She’d nearly reached the end of the column, and no mention of Lady Penelope Campion yet.
Then she read the concluding paragraph.
“‘In the usual fashion of masquerades, the identities of most guests were plain for all to see. However, one gentleman in attendance succeeded in generating a considerable amount of intrigue. As the evening drew to a close, only one question was on the guests’ lips. Who was that knight in shining armor? The mystery remains. He was last seen in the company of . . .’” Penny groaned.
“Well?” Nicola asked. “Which is it? Scandal or spinster?”
“Neither, apparently.”
“Let me see.” Nicola took the paper and found the point where Penny had left off. “‘He was last seen in the company of an unidentified woman.’”
“Unidentified woman,” Penny repeated, separating each syllable. She let her head drop to the table surface. “What could possibly be more depressing?”
“A suffocating cat?”
“True.”
Nicola turned the page of the newspaper. “Hold a moment. Your neighbor is hosting a ball?”
“What?”
Penny rose from her chair and hurried to read over Nicola’s shoulder. There it was, in black and white.
The Prattler has learned that one Mr. Gabriel Duke, better known to readers of this esteemed publication as the infamous Duke of Ruin, is planning to host a ball at the former Wendleby residence on Bloom Square. According to our sources, Mr. Duke has invited the better part of the London ton. Considering the host’s financial influence, and the ruthless way in which he wields it, the question will not be who will accept his invitation—but rather, who would dare decline?
“Burns! Burns!”
Gabe winced. Just what he needed—another ridiculous conflict between his architect and his housekeeper. He rose from his desk and followed Hammond’s bellowing into the dining room, hoping to head it off before it could begin.
He was too late, sadly. Mrs. Burns had already arrived.
“Yes, Mr. Hammond?” The housekeeper starched her spine. “Is there something I can do for you?”
Hammond gestured at the portrait on the wall. “You can explain to me why I’m looking at the inbred offspring of a suet pudding and a weak-chinned salamander.”
“That’s a portrait of Mrs. Bathsheba Wendleby.”
“I expressly told the workmen to remove these paintings two days ago. Lo and behold, they have reappeared. As if by magic.” His tone sharpened. “Dark magic.”
Burns did not address Hammond’s unspoken accusation of witchcraft. “These are family portraits, representing generations of Wendlebys.”
“Those generations of Wendlebys don’t live here any longer.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Hammond,” she said with foreboding. “This house has a legacy, and it will not be forgotten.”
“This house has a desirable address,” Gabe interjected. “I’m going to sell it to some new-money upstart who wants to hobnob with aristocrats. Those buyers don’t want moldering portraits of a crusty squire and his hunting dogs. They want modern water closets and gilded molding. If Sir Algernon Wendleby cared about his precious legacy, he shouldn’t have frittered away the family fortune on cards and mistresses.”
When he finished his tirade, Gabe felt rather shabby about it. He wasn’t frustrated with the housekeeper. He was frustrated with himself.
After the last few days—and nights—with Penny, Gabe needed a reminder of just what the devil he was doing in Mayfair. He was here to sell this house for the highest possible price, and if the new occupants displeased the ton, so much the better. He wasn’t here to stay.
He wasn’t here to carry on a torrid affaire with the lady next door, either. With every tryst, he promised himself this time would be the last. It must be the last. The risks to Penny were too great.
Then she would whisper his name, or give him a coy smile, or breathe in his general vicinity, and all his resolutions turned to dust.
“As you like, Mr. Duke,” the housekeeper said. “The paintings will be removed today.”
“One more thing before you go.” Hammond narrowed his eyes at her. “How did he die?”
“To whom are you referring, sir?”
“Mr. Burns. Your husband. You were widowed, I assume.”
“It’s customary for housekeepers to be addressed as Mrs., whether or not they are married. There was never a Mr. Burns.” At the sound of the doorbell, she inclined her head. “If you will excuse me, I’ll answer the door.”
After the housekeeper left the room, Hammond approached Gabe and dropped his voice to a whisper. “No Mr. Burns? I don’t believe that for a moment. She’s hiding his corpse in a wardrobe somewhere.”
Gabe sniffed the air hovering about his architect. “What is that smell?”
“Garlic.” Hammond pulled a white, papery bulb from his pocket. “I’ve taken to carrying some at all times, and so should you. For protection. They don’t like garlic.”
“Housekeepers?”
“Vampiresses.”
“For God’s sake, this has to stop. Burns is not a vampiress.”