A Reckless Promise. Кейси Майклс

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      “Clearly I have to develop more of a commanding air with the staff,” Darby told himself, replacing hat, gloves and riding crop on the large round table and stepping back two paces, ready to surprise his guest with his unexpected presence. Or perhaps he’d be mistaken for Camford, come to vet the uninvited guest so he’d know where “ta put ’em.”

      A mental picture of the portly butler dressed in riding clothes brought a small smile to Darby’s lips as Tompkins opened the door and then stood directly in front of the opening, blocking any view of the visitor. Apparently Camford hadn’t had time to complete the lad’s lessons in footmanship.

      “Let whoever it is pass, please,” he told the boy, unnecessarily it would seem, as Tompkins was rather handily pushed out of the way as a tall, heavily cloaked and hooded figure breached the human barrier and stepped through the portal, dripping water onto the tile floor.

      When had it begun to rain? Did Norton so sincerely loathe the country that he didn’t even peek out the window to be certain his employer would be correctly dressed? Darby waved a figurative goodbye to any notion of working the new stallion.

      He took a closer look at the figure. The words drowned rat scuttled into his brain.

      “If you hadn’t yet noticed, young man, the doorway lacks a portico. How long do you usually have His Lordship’s guests stand unprotected in a deluge?”

      A woman? It was definitely a woman’s voice. Tall, for a woman, able to wear a man’s cloak and not have it be six sizes too large. Only four, he estimated, taking in the many-caped cloak once again. Bossy, for a woman, especially one who had arrived uninvited, unaccompanied and apparently on foot.

      “Tompkins, offer to take the lady’s cloak before she drowns in it, both literally and figuratively.”

      “Yes, Tompkins, do that. And when it’s dry, consider burning it. I feel as if it could stand on its own after five days of travel on the public coach. And then please inform His Lordship that his ward has arrived.”

      “Oh, bollocks,” Darby muttered under his breath, feeling the worst of his many suppositions had just sloshed through the doorway. Past her last prayers, unmannered, tall as a stick and clearly— “Well, hello.”

      The woman had finally thrown back her dripping, drooping hood to reveal a head of more than merely damp blond hair, eyes that could be any color from blue to green to even gray, probably depending on her mood.

      At the moment, as she looked directly at him, they were definitely leaning toward a stormy gray.

      Her nose was straight, her lips full—with an intriguing pout to the upper one—her skin pale and flawless, a slight dimple in her chin. Her slim neck could only be judged as regal.

      Furthermore, she was tall enough to tower over young Tompkins, and was only a few inches shy of being able to look Darby straight in his eyes, which would make her very nearly six feet tall.

      Amazing. One can only wonder how much of her is legs.

      “And you are...?” she asked him, definitely imperiously, and with no hint of a country accent. In fact, her English was probably more precise than his own, as he had a tendency to drawl when amused, and he was often amused. He’d best pull out his most precise accent.

      He also probably should stop grinning.

      “Astounded,” Darby said, bowing. “Perplexed. Nonplussed. Oh, and dry. And you?”

      “You’re Viscount Nailbourne,” she countered as Tompkins finally realized he should close the door. “John told me about the eye. You received my letter? I sent one to every address John had provided. You weren’t at the first one and I was forced to continue my search.”

      Typical female. Somehow everything apparently has become my fault.

      “Clearly a lapse on my part. A thousand apologies,” he said, bowing yet again. “Would you care to continue this conversation upstairs, or are you more comfortable in foyers? I’m amendable either way, and I’m certain Tompkins here wouldn’t mind watching this small farce unfold.”

      “I’m more comfortable dry. Our trunk momentarily lies abandoned just inside your gates. I would appreciate having it fetched and taken to whatever quarters you might assign. Once I have your ward settled, I would be more than amenable to continuing our conversation.”

      “You’re...you’re not my ward?”

      Then who in bloody hell are you?

      She looked at him as if he had just popped out a second head. “Certainly not. I’m above the age of requiring a keeper. Marley? You can come out now, please, and allow me to introduce you to your new guardian.”

      The young woman pulled back one side of the oversize cloak to reveal a female child of no more than six or seven. The child was clinging to her apparent protector with both arms, her face buried against the damp muslin skirts.

      Yes, the legs were that long...

      “Marley,” the woman urged, “if you’re quite done with your impersonation of a barnacle, make your curtsy to His Lordship, as I’ve taught you to do.”

      “Will not.” The words were rather muffled, but clearly understood.

      I don’t blame you, Darby thought.

      “She’s prodigiously fatigued, poor poppet,” the woman said through only slightly gritted teeth she still couldn’t manage to keep from chattering with cold. “Unless I gave him a copper, the coach driver wouldn’t bring us any farther. We were forced to walk from the gate. And then it began to rain.”

      And there is that glare again. Apparently the rain is also my fault.

      Considering that the gate and house were separated by nearly a mile of gravel drive, Darby mustered some sympathy for the child. “I understand. And she’s probably a bit shy, aren’t you, Marley? Tompkins, fetch Mrs. Camford at once, and have her attend to our guests. But first—you still have the advantage of me, ma’am, in more than one way. If I might have your name?”

      “Forgive me, my lord. I am Mrs. Boxer. Mrs. Sadie Grace Boxer, sister to the late John Hamilton, and Marley’s paternal aunt.”

      More and more curious...but it might help explain her unusual height. John, he remembered, had been quite the beanpole himself. They also seemed to share their blond hair.

      “Boxer? S. G. Boxer? You wrote the letter I received last week? I was under the impression that I had been contacted by John’s solicitor.”

      “Then you were laboring under a mistaken impression. I never claimed any such thing.”

      “No? Well, you certainly implied it, madam. Did you pen the note with Mr. Johnson’s lexicon at your elbow?”

      “Are you now implying that perhaps Marley and I aren’t who I presented us to be? Are you questioning that Marley is indeed John’s child, and now your ward?”

      Sadie Grace Boxer had stepped forward a pace, her dimpled chin raised. When she spoke, there had been the hint of a drawl in her voice, as if she was pouring cream over steel. Odd, that they both should have the same failing, but for СКАЧАТЬ