Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows #2)

Chapter One

Curzon Street, Mayfair, November 1820

“ W hat 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.”

She surged to her feet, then wished she hadn't when the room reeled alarmingly. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Greaves move to catch her, but Mr. Townsend was too quick.

As his arm curled around her waist, she sank into all-encompassing masculinity. For one lost moment, she drew strength from that bear-like embrace. She was so upset, she could almost forgive his rudeness if he folded her close and told her that all this was just a horrid joke.

“Oh, curse me for a right impulsive fool. I'm sorry, lass.” Through the fog in her mind, she was vaguely aware that he didn't sound angry anymore. Instead he sounded kind and concerned. And the Yorkshire accent was remarkably soothing now that he'd stopped shouting. “I shouldn't have blurted the news out like that, but after talking to the school, I assumed I'd find them safe and sound under your protection.”

Fenella blinked fiercely to bring the room into focus and told herself to be strong. She couldn't fall into a hysterical heap. Brand needed her. She made a feeble attempt to push free. “Please…please let me go.”

“Can you stand up?” Deep-set, disconcertingly perceptive eyes studied her. “You were close to collapsing.”

“Well, I'm perfectly steady now,” she snapped, irritation reviving her spirit.

“Very well,” he said gruffly, but his huge hands lowered her into the chair with surprising care. Given his earlier behaviour, she'd expect him to drop her like a stone. He inspected her briefly before, apparently satisfied with what he saw, he turned to Greaves. “Brandy for her ladyship. She's had a shock.”

Thanks to you , she wanted to retort, but restrained herself. She didn't want to risk another outburst. They didn't have time to bicker. They had to find Brand and Carey. With an unsteady hand, she took the glass from Greaves and strove to come up with a coherent plan.

“I'm sorry for shoving my way in here—I thought you were part of some ridiculous scheme to keep Carey from me. The lad's never settled to having me as his guardian.” With a sigh, Mr. Townsend subsided into his chair and spoke almost like a reasonable man. At least the china on the mantelpiece stopped rattling. “I've been worried sick ever since I found out Carey and Brandon had gone.”

Fenella struggled against the urge to shriek and run in panicked circles. She needed more information, and at the moment, the domineering Mr. Townsend was her only source. Inhaling to calm rioting nerves, she made her first proper assessment of the man sprawling opposite her. Despite first impressions, he wasn't by any means a yokel. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and the grand surroundings didn't appear to overawe him.

He remained eye-poppingly large. Well over six feet and built like a prizefighter, he was all solid muscle. She thought of a Clydesdale. No, something more predatory and fast-moving. An oversized panther, perhaps.

While not handsome by society's standards, his square-cut features and glittering eyes expressed vigor and determination enough to conquer the world. His nose had been broken at some stage, and his jaw looked to be chiseled from granite.

He was far and away the most daunting creature she'd ever encountered.

Still, that rugged face was strangely fascinating. It was a wrench to look away toward Greaves. Whatever happened next, she'd shared enough private business with the servants for one night. “That will be all, Greaves.”

Her butler warily eyed Mr. Townsend. “It might be prudent if I stay, my lady.”

Mr. Townsend was at least thirty years younger and a good four stone heavier than her butler. Although she appreciated Greaves's gallantry, Fenella's voice firmed. “I believe our visitor has forsaken his impulse to violence.”

As she'd intended, her remark brought a pink tinge to Townsend's tan. Heavens above, he looked like he'd spent his life baking under a tropical sun somewhere out in Sumatra or the Cape Colony.

Once they were alone, Fenella folded trembling hands in her lap. She battened her fear for Brandon deep down inside her and set out to wrest control of this meeting from her visitor. She might want to scream and weep, but she was her son's only help. After five lonely years of widowhood, that role was familiar enough to be second nature. “Tell me everything.”

“I became my nephew's guardian about six months ago.” To her relief, Mr. Townsend had calmed considerably. “My brother William and his wife Jenny drowned in a yachting accident last summer.”

Henry's death had made her tragically familiar with grief. She heard the unspoken pain behind Mr. Townsend's prosaic explanation. “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you. I was in Canton at the time.”

Fenella hadn't been wrong about his travels. “Canton?”

“The family runs a trading concern. You've probably heard of us.”

With a shock, she realized that he must be part of Townsend and Co. In fact, something about his air of command led her to guess that he was Townsend and Co. “You're Anthony Townsend?”

Even in aristocratic circles, Anthony Townsend's enormous fortune aroused envy. If she wasn't in such a spin about Brandon, she'd have made the connection earlier. The Townsend trading empire spanned the globe and influenced the destiny of nations.

He frowned. “Didn't you know?”

“You neglected to introduce yourself, sir.”

Another faint flush. In circumstances less dire, she'd almost enjoy putting this arrogant creature to the blush.

“I beg your pardon. Again.” He leaned forward, dangling big hands between thighs like tree trunks. The chair squeaked in protest at the movement. Good Lord, he was a giant. “I assumed you'd made the connection when you talked about Carey. You clearly know my nephew.”

“Only that he's the sportingest cove ever born and a right royal fine fellow. My son didn't consider his family of any importance.” Despite herself, she smiled fondly. She was happy that her son made such a good friend—or at least she had been, until Carey Townsend persuaded Brand into this rash escapade.

Mr. Townsend sighed again. “That's pleasing to hear. I like to think the lad has some spirit—although today's madness hints at a little too much. I hardly know Carey. I'm away so much, and he's always completely tongue-tied in my presence.”

“You probably scare the life out of him,” Fenella said before she thought better of it.

To her dismay, he whitened, and she realized that her careless remark had stung. Mr. Townsend looked like a flying cannonball would leave no mark, but she came to suspect that a man of genuine feeling lurked beneath all that brusque self-confidence. The hint of vulnerability made her like him better, and she forgave his unconventional entrance. After all, he'd had more than twenty miles from Eton to London to imagine disasters.

“I deserved that,” he said quietly. “But whatever Carey thinks of me, I can't leave the lad to wander around on his own, prey to every villain in the land.”

She spread her hands, struggling through alarm to make sense of events. “Are you certain the boys are missing? Surely if the school contacted you, they'd contact me. Perhaps Brand and Carey are up to mischief—hiding to cause trouble.”

“I'm certain they're missing.” Looking deathly tired, Mr. Townsend rubbed one massive hand over his face. “The headmaster left it to me to tell you, although I imagine a letter is on its way. He suggested I come straight here, while they search the local area. I was so quick to find out the boys had gone because I was on the spot. I got into port from Copenhagen this morning and decided to call on the lad and see how he was faring. Thank God I did. Otherwise they'd be gone who knows how long before anyone noticed, damned muddleheaded numbskulls at that school. I should have guessed I was on a wild goose chase, whatever his housemaster's ideas. I asked all along the way, and nobody had seen them.”

An agonizing mixture of worry and anger squeezed Fenella's chest. “I could wring Brand's neck.” She moderated her tone. Recriminations would do no good. “But to be fair, it's not like him. He's levelheaded, mature beyond his years. This is the most trouble he's ever caused.”

Since his father's death, Brandon had been touchingly protective of his mother. It was as if, even at six, he'd taken on Henry's mantle as man of the house.

Mr. Townsend sent her a sharp-eyed glance. “Are you saying it's Carey's fault?”

“I'm saying that there's no use speculating on their reasons at this stage.”

“I'd say there's every use. If we knew why they ran away, we can guess where they went.” He stood with sudden dispatch and started to pace, his long legs covering the distance from wall to wall in a few strides. Until now, this room had never felt small. With Mr. Townsend quartering the carpet, it became suffocating. “Damn it, there's no point sitting around here. I'll head back to Eton to check the roads leading out of town. The school's searching across to Windsor, but I've got a feeling the boys are long gone.” He fixed those blazing dark eyes on her. “What about the family seat? Would Brandon go there?”

“He might,” she said doubtfully. “But I don't see why. He hasn't been there since Henry died, and the place is tenanted with strangers. Where did Carey and his parents live?”

“In Liverpool. William managed our Atlantic shipping from the docks there. But their house was sold after the accident.”

“Would he go looking for you?”

“I doubt it,” he said grimly. “But I've sent messages to all my offices to be on the lookout just in case.”

“Is there anywhere else Carey's likely to go?”

Mr. Townsend growled with frustration. “Hell, I don't know. The lad's as silent as the grave with me. I should have tried harder, but I know nowt about raising bairns. When William named me guardian, I swore I'd look after his boy—now I've let him and Jenny down.” Despite her overwhelming concern for Brand, the bewildered sorrow in Mr. Townsend's voice made Fenella's heart ache.

Her hands clenched in her skirts. She'd lost Henry. Be… damned if she'd lose Brandon, too. Since her husband's death, her love for her son was all that had kept her going. Only in the last few months had she seen a glimmer of a fresh start. Her friends Caroline Beaumont and Helena Wade had decided that five years of mourning were enough for any woman and they'd dragged her back into society.

With a determined gesture, she set her untouched brandy next to her embroidery. “Let's go, then.”

Mr. Townsend regarded her blankly as she stood. “Go?”

“Yes. I'm coming with you back to Eton.”

“That's impossible, my dear Lady Deerham.”

“No, it's not. And while we argue, the boys get further out of reach.”

The emphatic brows—heaven help her, everything on Mr. Townsend was larger than life—drew together over his eyes. “There's no way I'm taking you. I don't have time to cater to a lady's requirements.”

Fenella's lips tightened at his quick dismissal of her usefulness and endurance. For five years, people had coddled her—if truth were told, people had always coddled her—and she'd had enough. It had been unpleasant, but refreshingly bracing when Mr. Townsend had shouted at her. Nobody ever shouted at her. Since her widowhood, they were inclined to murmur in her presence as if they were in church.

“I won't hold you up,” she said evenly.

“Of course you will.” He leveled a telling look upon her. “I mean…look at you. You'd crack with one careless touch.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Looks can deceive, sir. I've borne a child. I've lost a beloved husband. I've made a life for myself.” Well, at least, thanks to Helena and Caro, she was trying to turn that last claim into reality. “Don't patronize me, Mr. Townsend. A moment's weakness does not a weakling make.”

“My dear Lady Deerham, you can't go traipsing off into the night with a man you don't know. There will be a scandal.”

“Believe me, sir, your reputation is safe.” If he called her his dear lady again, she'd go after him with a fire iron. “And even if it's not, I promise you don't have to marry me.”

He didn't smile. “You speak lightly, but you haven't considered the consequences. My reputation in society doesn't matter a tinker's damn. Nobody's likely to worry about my suitability for Almack's. You, on the other hand, move in more discriminating circles.”

It was a good argument, she gave him that. But not good enough when her beloved son was in danger. “I'm coming with you.”

“You can trust me with Brandon, you know.”

Surprisingly, some deep instinct insisted that, despite his rough edges, Mr. Townsend was a good man. In his care, Brand would be safe. But for heaven's sake, she was Brand's mother, and only crushing him in her arms and giving him a good scolding would banish her terror. “I know.”

If she expected gratitude for her trust, she was disappointed. He folded his arms over his broad chest and regarded her like an insect. “Then let me do this. I'll send word as soon as I find them.”

“You won't do that because I'll be right beside you.”

“No, you won't. And nothing you say will sway me, madam.”

Madam was almost as grating as my dear Lady Deerham. “Very well.”

He looked relieved. “Excellent. I knew you'd see sense.”

She rang for Greaves who appeared so swiftly that he must have been standing outside the door. “Have my gig readied.”

“What the devil?” Mr. Townsend snapped. “You said you weren't coming.”

“Not with you. I'll follow close on your heels.”

“Don't be absurd. You won't keep up.”

“I could beat you to Eton with one hand tied behind my back.”

Exasperation turned those craggy features forbidding. “Brave words. If I didn't think you'd risk your damned fool neck, I'd take you up on the challenge.”

With so much at stake, Fenella couldn't falter. “So you'll take me.”

“Not on your life.”

“We'll be discreet.”

His snort was dismissive. “Aye, and of course nobody will pay a lass like you a scrap of attention when we stop to ask after the scamps.”

“We'll manage.”

That square jaw jutted with obstinacy. “ I'll be on my own.”

She summoned a saccharine smile, despite her urgency. “And I'll be just behind you.”

“You're a blasted stubborn wench, Lady Deerham.”

“I am.” Strangely the remark pleased her. It was an improvement on madam or his dear Lady Deerham. Somewhere in the last six months, she'd grown a backbone—and she liked it. Before meeting Caroline and Helena, she'd been contemptibly compliant. “Whether you intend to take me or not, I'm leaving for Eton within the next quarter of an hour.”

He folded his arms and tilted one eyebrow in disdain. She raised her chin and faced him down, although it was rather like scowling at Ben Nevis and expecting it to melt into a puddle.

“There's no room in my carriage for a maid, my lady. And I've neither time nor inclination to swap my rig for a larger vehicle. We'll be completely alone. You and I. All night.”

Fenella recognized the potential for scandal. She hardly cared. “Sir, two young boys are lost somewhere out in the darkness. With or without you, I will find them. Compared to my son's safety, I couldn't give a…tinker's damn for my social standing. Or your nitpicking.”

He looked rather startled at her language, despite his own tendency to curse. Too bad. She'd swear like a sailor if it achieved her end of joining him. She wasn't at all sure what she thought of Anthony Townsend. But she was positive of one thing—in the case of trouble, Mr. Townsend was big and mean enough to handle anything life flung at him. If anyone could track Brand and Carey down, it was this large, belligerent male.

“This is a mistake.”

That sounded like he might relent. “The mistake is delaying our departure.”

He gestured toward her yellow gown with a contempt her modiste's best efforts didn't deserve. “You'll need to change.”

He'd yielded, although he was yet to admit it. She hid a triumphant smile. She faced hours in this mercurial man's company. Silly to get him offside. Or more offside. “I'll be quick.”

“You'd better be.”

The smile at last proved unstoppable, although she hoped it wasn't as smug as it felt. Extraordinary to smile at all. Defying Mr. Townsend bolstered her courage. “You'll take me, then.”

His sigh was long-suffering. “Not if you're more than five minutes getting ready—and very much against my better judgment. God help us both.”