Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows 2)

"Thank goodness you did," Fenella said. "We were about to call in the Bow Street Runners."

"Cor," Carey said.

"Young gentlemen do not say cor." Mr. Townsend narrowed his eyes at Fenella who was trying not to laugh. It had been difficult enough stifling a giggle at the idea of piglets taking precedence over a young baronet and his wealthy friend. "You're lucky this lunacy didn't end in disaster—I've no idea what the masters at Eton will say. You'll probably both be expelled."

"Good," Carey dared to say.

"Don't push your luck, young man," Mr. Townsend said in a quelling voice.

"You really don't want to go back to school, Brand?" Fenella asked.

Brand glanced at Mr. Townsend as if he had some say. A poignant reminder of the sad lack of a male authority figure in her family. "Do I have a choice?"

She spread her hands in bewilderment. "I don't know. You've hit me with this out of the blue. You know Creston Hall is tenanted for the next five years, so we can't go there. Your grandmother isn't up to looking after you in Bath." Henry's mother was hopelessly old-fashioned in her ideas, and she'd never recovered from her only son's death. "And while I'd love to have you in London, it's not a suitable place for a child."

"Brand could stay here," Carey chipped in.

His uncle subjected him to the sardonic eyebrow. "And where the deuce will you be while Brandon's settling into the Beeches, my lad?"

"You can't send the poor mite back to that nest of heathens," Mrs. Penn protested, looking unconvincingly piteous.

"Poor mite?" Mr. Townsend said drily. "A few minutes ago, you called him an imp of Satan."

"Can't I stay here?" Carey fixed burning dark eyes on his uncle. "Please?"

Mr. Townsend's lips flattened in frustration. "There's nobody to supervise you."

"You could get me a tutor."

"Not good enough. This latest mess only confirms that you need a firm hand."

"You've got a firm hand."

"I live in London."

"You could live here."

"Aye," Mrs. Penny said. "The house needs a master. And you must be sick of traipsing around all those foreign places."

"You think so?"

"You've got a boy to raise. His father wouldn't want the lad unhappy."

Mr. Townsend went ashen under his tan. It had been a telling blow—and the canny old woman knew it.

Carey still hadn't given up. Fenella admired his persistence. It reminded her of his guardian. "Will you at least think about it, sir?"

Mr. Townsend nodded shortly. "I'll think—but that doesn't mean you've swayed me."

Carey's brilliant smile reminded Fenella of his uncle's charm when he forgot his sternness. "Capital, Uncle. And can Brand stay, too?"

"Brandon's mother won't like that."

Carey looked crestfallen, then cast Fenella a glance under his eyelashes. "Will you think about it, too?"

"Please, Mamma," Brand said.

"You can't saddle poor Mr. Townsend with the care of two unruly ruffians," she said helplessly. "Be reasonable, Brand."