Fallen Angel

The party after the opera was crowded with people thronging out into the open halls, and it seemed every second one was calling to Nicholas on an urgent and important purpose, invitations offered and congratulations given for some new and successful business venture of his.

They all knew of his Midas touch, the way he made thousands from every concept he believed in and the way his holdings multiplied each year: land, horses, ships and women.

Nicholas Pencarrow, Duke of Westbourne, never went anywhere without every female eye in every room fastened upon him, young and old, and all with the same thought in their minds—how they longed to be the one to tame the lion who stalked in their midst, with copper hair and tawny eyes, the most handsome man in court and the richest to boot.

Tonight, dressed entirely in black, he seemed to prowl the confines of the small room in an unspoken need to be free, though as he stood, glass in hand, a name mentioned behind Nicholas made him turn.

‘Michael De Lancey.’ A woman was introducing an older man to a couple directly to his left and the name on Brenna Stanhope’s file leapt to mind. Her uncle? His eyes raked across this man and Nicholas smiled as he heard the accent, cultured and quiet like his niece’s. With care he beckoned a footman stationed across the room, the servant hurrying through the crowd at the summons and waiting as the Duke pulled out a card from his jacket pocket.

‘Please inform Sir Michael De Lancey that I would like to meet with him when he finds himself free,’ he said politely, returning to his own conversation as the man hurried off.

It was only a few minutes later when he felt the small man’s presence at his shoulder. Nicholas held out his hand to the other’s uncertainly offered bow, taking Sir Michael’s hand firmly in his own and saying with feeling, ‘I am very pleased to meet you, sir. Your niece, Brenna Stanhope, has no doubt told you of her part in my lucky escape near Worsley!’

Michael De Lancey started, a frown deep in his eyes as he shook his head. ‘No, your Grace, she has told me nothing.’

The admission floored Nicholas. ‘You have not seen her in the past three weeks?’ he asked in amazement.

‘Oh, indeed, yes, Brenna lives with me.’

‘And yet she has mentioned nothing?’

‘No, I am afraid not!’ Grey eyes came up to his own, honest eyes with all the look of a gentleman, and Nicholas, surmising this man not to be lying, changed tack instantly.

‘Would you permit me to call on your niece, Sir Michael?’

‘No!’

One word and so unexpected Nicholas could hardly credit the answer. Did he not know to whom he was speaking? Did he not understand the social etiquette due to such a title as his own? He sized up the situation and tried again.

‘You won’t let me call on your niece?’ The query was phrased more in incredulity than anger.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘And you have my card?’

‘I do, your Grace.’

Perplexed, Nicholas ran a hand through his hair. ‘Is she married already?’ he said suddenly.

‘No, your Grace.’

‘Betrothed?’

‘No, your Grace.’

‘Then you would agree that she’s free to make up her own mind about whether or not to see me?’

Sir Michael shifted uncomfortably, giving the impression of a man who was backing himself into a quickly approaching corner. ‘Yes.’

‘Then please give her this.’ Taking out another card, Nicholas wrote on it in haste. ‘I would very much like a reply.’

Nodding, Michael De Lancey clutched the paper in his fist and Nicholas watched him call for his coat and hat and take his leave.

Brenna rose the next morning early, dressing in one of her customary dark-blue velvet gowns, then hurried downstairs to the breakfast room, coming to a halt as she saw her uncle already seated and looking very perturbed.

‘Good morning,’ she said, favouring him with a smile as she took the seat opposite and poured herself some tea.

He cleared his throat. ‘Brenna, I need to talk to you.’

‘Mmm, what about?’ She glanced up as he took a card from the table in front of him, and placed it before her.

‘That!’ he stammered as she raised the gilt-edged card to her eyes.

NICHOLAS PENCARROW

DUKE OF WESTBOURNE

‘Who is he?’ she returned quietly, a premonition of disaster seeming to emanate from the words themselves.

‘Read the back.’ With dread she flipped it over, her heart beating faster as she placed the context of the message: Would you permit me to say thank you in person for your help at Worsley?

Unsure eyes surveyed her uncle. ‘I didn’t tell you. I thought it might make you worried.’

‘But you’ll tell me now?’ he asked softly.

‘Yes,’ she answered, giving him a blow-by-blow description of the whole episode.

Her uncle was silent when she finished, phrasing his next question only after much thought. ‘Did you talk with him at Airelies?’

‘No.’

‘Did you see him properly, Brenna?’ The words came hesitantly.

‘No. Why?’

‘I think he could be persistent, you see, as well as both powerful and stubborn. The whole of London treads carefully in his wake and it seems he owns almost half of it.’

‘The wrong man to rescue, you mean?’ Brenna quipped. ‘I should have left him to an untimely end, especially now if he’s going to harass me.’

Michael De Lancey grimaced. ‘I do have a feeling about this man. I think you should at least meet him. Be as dour and miserable as you want. It is the mystery that is making him interested. I know his type. It is only the thrill of the chase that he craves and there are plenty of women in London who will attest to that truth, or so I’m told.’

The words made sense, though already Brenna’s heart beat painfully at the thought as his gold-green eyes and dark copper hair came fully to mind. With a rising irritation she stood and pulled at the plait that hung across her shoulder. She knew better than to allow herself such feelings.

‘I thought I’d finished with all this, Michael. That season in London was by far enough. I’m twenty-four now, a happy spinster and a woman in my own right and I don’t want the Duke of Westbourne to come and call on me.’

Michael frowned. ‘Well then, let’s get it over with. I’ll have Kenneth take over your reply this morning and with any luck we can have him out of our lives by this evening.’ He stood then, searching in a drawer on one side of the room for paper and pen. ‘Here, write to him and say you could see him at three o’clock. I’ll come home at three-thirty and remind you of an appointment we have at four. That way we can have the whole thing finished within under an hour.’

Reluctantly, Brenna took the page and wrote a very brief and very formal invitation to Nicholas Pencarrow, hating herself for having to do it while mentally calculating all the things she’d need to put off till the morrow now that she had him to deal with today.