Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

Chapter One

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Curzon Street, Mayfair, November 1820

"What the devil have you done with my ward, madam?"

Shocked, Fenella jerked her attention from the embroidery that she'd picked up to while away a rare quiet night at home.

Good heavens. A man the size of a mountain had invaded her drawing room.

An angry mountain.

Astonishment, rather than fear, was her immediate reaction. She slid her tambour frame onto the table beside her and straightened in her chair. "And who on earth are you?"

Greaves, her butler, rushed in with two brawny footmen looming behind him. "My lady, this fellow pushed his way into the house before I could stop him."

The fellow clenched his huge fists at his sides and shot her servants a narrow-eyed glare. Despite their size, Tom and John faltered back.

Fenella could see why. The mysterious intruder looked ready to commit murder. Ready, and more than capable. His excellent tailoring did nothing to hide his impressive muscles and the breadth of shoulders and chest.

When he focused that searing stare on her, her stomach jumped with nerves. Was this some madman escaped from confinement? Although he didn't look unhinged. Just furious.

"Don't pretend you don't know who I am," the man said tersely, a northern accent edging his deep, resonant voice. "Just stop all this blasted nonsense and take me to the lad."

Fenella snatched a shallow breath and rose with an appearance of calm. Nobody needed to know about the quaking knees beneath her frothy lemon skirts.

"It isn't nonsense to expect a guest in my house to show some manners," she said evenly. She gestured to a brocade chair, ignoring Greaves's surprise at the way she faced the man down. She was heartily sick of people treating her as if she was too fragile for this rough world. "Pray calm yourself, sir, and state your business. Preferably without blasting and deviling your way through the explanation."

She waited for the intruder to explode into a rage, but he sucked in a deep breath and directed a doubtful glance at the chair. She couldn't blame him. It looked inadequate for his weight. He was all height and brawn, and he turned her airy drawing room into a salon from a doll's house.

"Tom and John, you may go."

"My lady!" Greaves protested as the footmen departed, although not before directing a questioning glance at the butler. "He could be dangerous."

Fenella subjected the stranger to a comprehensive inspection and shook her head. He'd hold his own in a fight, but some powerful instinct told her she was safe from harm. She couldn't say the same for her servants if they attempted to eject him before he'd achieved his purpose, whatever it was. "I don't think so. There's clearly been some mistake."

"Mistake be damned. Please, for God's sake, just tell me Carey is all right."

Carey? A spark of memory stirred in Fenella's mind. Her son Brandon's recent letters had brimmed with praises for a new boy who had quickly become his best friend. "Carey Townsend?"

"Who the dev…" The large man cast her a darkling glance and ran his hand through his windswept coal-black hair. "Of course Carey Townsend, unless your house is packed to the rafters with runaways."

"Carey's not at Eton?" she asked faintly. A horrible premonition gripped her that her son might be in grave trouble. After all, if Brand hadn't run off, too, why would this man expect his ward to be here?

"No, by God. The boys have been missing since early afternoon."

"Boys?" Dear heaven, she'd been right. Sick fear, worse by far than any doubt about the man's intentions, cramped her belly. In the five years since her husband Henry's death at Waterloo, this was the worst crisis she'd faced. Her knees gave up and she collapsed into her chair. "Brand's with him?"

"Aye."

"Mr…Townsend?" When he nodded to confirm her guess at his name, she went on, "Please, for pity's sake, stop talking in riddles and tell me what's happened."

"So the lads aren't here?" His impatience vibrated like an earthquake, but at least he moderated his roar to a cranky rumble. As he sat, the chair creaked ominously. "Or are you blethering to put me off?"

"If your ward was here, I'd tell you." Her voice shook, and terror knotted her stomach. "But this is the first I've heard of anything wrong."

He frowned. "Your son is a bad influence."

"I doubt that very much, sir." Automatically she defended Brand, while her imagination took flight in hellish directions. The idea of two eleven-year-old boys lost somewhere between Eton and London turned her blood to ice. "If Brandon has done something silly, I place the blame firmly with your—"

"Nephew," the man snarled. "And they've been more than silly, madam. They've been wantonly irresponsible. Are you sure they're not here?"

She shook her head. "No."

Mr. Townsend's dark eyes regarded her searchingly, then his aggression drained away. "Hell. I was convinced they'd make for your house, but now I see you had no warning of this harebrained prank either. When the boys' housemaster told me that Brand was dying to introduce his new best friend to his mamma, this seemed the logical destination. Especially with Carey missing his own mother."

Through her agitation, she barely heard him. Dread rose to choke her. "We have to find them."