Free The Westerby Inheritance by M.C. Beaton Page B

walk home, picking his way catlike through the filth of the streets and handling his clouded cane with an expertise that would have been the envy of Lady Jane Lovelace, could she have seen him at that moment.
    He reached Hessel Street without incident. He decided the best thing he could do was go straight to bed and banish his restless, fretting disgust of the world in sleep.
    His butler, Anderson, opened the door and stared at his master in amazement. “I-I d-did not expect my lord home so soon,” he stammered.
    “Zooks, man,” drawled Lord Charles lazily. “Why so pale and trembling? You have a kitchen wench in your bed, you old rascal, and I am come home at this ungodly hour to spoil your pleasures.”
    “My lord,” cried Anderson, wringing his hands, “a young lady awaits you in the morning room. I did not expect you before dawn, and so I gave the lady some refreshment and planned to be rid of her shortly.”
    “My dear fellow,” said his lordship in silky tones, “you have obviously taken leave of your senses. Since when did I receive
any
female in my home?”
    “But she said she was a friend of your lordship,” cried Anderson. “She says she’s Lady Jane Lovelace!”
    “Lovelace? One of old Westerby’s brats, I should think. Get rid of her.”
    “Very good, my lord.”
    “And don’t let it happen again.”
    “No, my lord.”
    Lord Charles stood frowning. Perhaps this Lady Jane might provide some sport. If she had come into the lion’s den, then she was no innocent miss.
    “Stay, Anderson,” he said. “I will see her.”
    “Very good, my lord,” said Anderson in hollow accents. “But, my lord, I don’t think she’s that kind of female.”
    “Any female who calls on me at this hour is certainly not respectable, dear Anderson, and therefore interesting. I shall see her.”
    Anderson rushed forward and threw open the door to the morning room, and his lordship stood on the threshold and raised his eyeglass and haughtily surveyed the small person sitting beside the fire.
    Lady Jane Lovelace stared back and suddenly realized the enormity of what she had done. She had envisaged someone charming in a devilish way who would merrily accept her mad proposal. She had not for a minute imagined anything like the grand and glittering figure framed in the doorway.
    Lord Charles Welbourne must have been at least six feet tall. His Ramillie wig was as white as the driven snow. His yellow satin coat with its gold frogging was fitted tightly across his broad shoulders, and the whaleboned skirts of his coat were opened to reveal a magnificent waistcoat and white satin knee breeches, white silk stockings, and black shoes with high red heels and jeweled buckles. The lace at his throat and wrist was as fine as white cobwebs. Diamonds blazed on his long white hands and at his throat.
    His eyes were dark and mocking and restless, reminding Jane strangely of Lady Comfrey, since they seemed the only things alive in the white, immobile sculpture of his face. He wore a small black patch at the side of his mouth, which seem to accentuate the cynical curl of his lips.
    Lord Charles Welbourne looked appreciatively at the diminutive figure facing him. Jane had dressed in her best, a pale lavender taffeta gown with pagoda sleeves. The edges were ruched in flower shapes, and it was worn open over a lemon silk petticoat with rows of ruching and flouncing. It had white neck and sleeve ruffles, and the bodice was trimmed with dark lavender satin bows. Her face was almost as white as her powdered hair, and her strangely tilted eyes were dark with fear.
    Lord Charles made her a magnificent leg, his tricorne hat held at his breast with one hand and his cane at exactly the right angle with the other. He then turned and shut the door and turned the key in the lock.
    “Now, Lady Jane,” he said in a light, amused voice, “I would ask you your business here, had not your business been self-evident.”
    Jane stood up and dropped him a