Civil enough greetings were exchanged, and then another man appeared on the stairs, tottering slowly down them with the aid of two canes that encased his lower arms.
“Sir Benedict Harper,” Stanbrook said.
Six of them. The seventh was missing.
“I will see Lady Barclay,” Percy said curtly. Good manners might have served him better, but to hell with good manners. He was in a bad mood.
“There may be a slight problem,” the blond one said on a sigh, as though even speaking those few words was a trial to him. “For you see, Hardford, Lady Barclay will perhaps not see you.”
“And frankly,” scar-face added, “I would not blame her.”
The big tough one folded his arms and looked tougher.
“Then ask her,” Percy said, “and find out. And tell her I am not budging from here until she does see me.”
He felt as though he were standing back from himself and observing his bad behavior with a slightly incredulous shake of the head. Where had all his famed charm fled?
“Say please,” he added, glaring at the lot of them.
“Perhaps you will step into the visitors’ salon,” Stanbrook suggested, “and have a drink while you wait. The others will go with you while I go talk to Lady Barclay. I warn you, though, that she may refuse to speak to you. She saw you come and was less than delighted.”
Percy felt a bit like a hot air balloon that had sprung a leak.
“Let me go, George,” Darleigh said. “Let me talk to her. And I will remember to say please, Hardford.” He smiled with great sweetness. “Go and have some refreshments. You are upset.”
And there went the rest of the hot air, leaving Percy feeling limp and deflated.
Good God and a thousand devils, what if she would not see him? He could hardly camp out beneath her window—even if he knew which one it was—forever and ever, could he? Not with the army on the prowl. He particularly did not like the look of the giant.
He turned in the direction of the room Stanbrook was indicating, while the blind Darleigh set off in the opposite direction, led by a dog Percy was just noticing for the first time. He remembered that he had left Hector in the carriage. The wretched hound had flatly refused to be left at home.
25
Imogen was in the conservatory, where she had taken refuge after seeing the familiar carriage approaching. She would not have had even that much warning if she had not been standing in the drawing room window at the time, rocking a sleeping Melody Emes in her arms and thinking that there could surely be no lovelier feeling in the world.
She was gazing out through the conservatory windows now at some daffodils blooming in the grass, though she was not really seeing them. She heard someone come—someone with a dog—but did not turn her head.
Vincent sat down beside her, first feeling for the seat. His dog settled by his knee.
“Imogen,” he said, and he reached out and patted the back of her hand. “Does he always behave badly?”
“Oh.” And strangely, bizarrely, she found herself smiling. “Did he behave badly?”
“There is a smile in your voice,” he said, and that sobered her. “He was bursting with belligerence. It would not have taken much provocation for him to take us all on at once with his bare fists. I could not see him, of course, but I could hear him. Is he a large man?”
“Yes,” she said. “Not huge, though.”
“Then Hugo alone could have knocked him down with one punch,” he said, “though I have the feeling he would had hopped right up again for more punishment. What does he look like?”
“Oh,” she said, frowning, “tall, dark, handsome—all the old clichés.”
“And is he a cliché?” he asked.
“No.” She was still frowning. “I thought he was at first, Vincent. But not now that I know him better. No one is less of a cliché. He is . . . oh, no matter. Did he go quietly?”
She felt as though there were a leaden weight at the bottom of her stomach as she imagined his carriage driving away from Penderris. Actually, it had been there since the night of his birthday ball, that cold, heavy weight. Would it never go away?
“He is in the salon with the other men,” he said. “He wants to see you. He demanded that one of us come and tell you so. But then he added a please.”
Her lips quirked into a smile again, though she felt nearer to tears than laughter.
“Tell him no,” she said. “And add thank you, if you will.”
“We all expected him to come, you know,” he said. “We were all agreed upon it the night before last after you went to bed. There was no point in laying wagers. We were all on the same side. And Sophie agreed with me, and the other ladies did too. We have all been expecting him to come.”
There was nothing to say into the pause that followed.
“He is terribly upset,” Vincent told her.
“I thought he was belligerent,” she said.
“Precisely,” he said. “But there was nothing to be belligerent about, you see, Imogen. George went outside to greet him like a courteous host, and we all behaved with the greatest civility.”
She could just imagine them all lined up in the hall, not realizing how formidable they could look when they were standing between someone and what that someone wanted.
Poor Percy! He had done nothing to deserve any of this.
“I will send him away if you wish,” Vincent said. “I believe he will go even though he told us he would not budge until he saw you. He is a gentleman and will not continue to pester you if your answer is no. But I think you ought to see him.”