The six-storied, Portland stone Monsale House loomed large over Mount Street. It was taller than every other mansion in the neighborhood. Even the impressive Duke of Strathmore’s house on nearby Park Lane came up ten feet short.
But the house itself paled into insignificance against the stature of its owner. Andrew McNeal, fifteenth Duke of Monsale, was standing hands on hips in front of one of the massive fireplaces in the grand ballroom when Stephen arrived. About the floor were scattered various pots and plants. A half-empty shipping crate was to one side of the door.
Monsale pointed to it. “Just arrived from Morocco this morning. Some of the rose bushes didn’t survive the sea voyage. I am most disappointed.”
Stephen stifled a grin. Monsale became a different man when he was talking about his beloved roses. His sharp edges dulled. The other members of the rogues of the road knew well to inquire about his precious petals before they gifted him with any sort of unpleasant news.
“Sorry about the flowers,” replied Stephen.
Monsale stirred from gazing lovingly at his floral children and fixed him with a hard stare. “Why are you here? I thought you went to sulk in France.”
“We were ambushed in the woods just below the château. Gus took a bullet in his upper chest.”
The color drained from the duke’s face. “Where is he?”
“At Bridget’s house. We removed the bullet onboard theNight Wind,but he won’t seek professional medical attention. Bridget is changing his bandages. Apparently, her late husband had a habit of shooting his friends while out hunting,” replied Stephen.
A trail of violent curses followed Monsale as he headed for the door. It was all Stephen could do to get out of the way as he stormed past and into the foyer.
“Get the coach and the palanquin!” he bellowed.
There came a muffled reply, then more swearing from Monsale.
“The blasted litter. You know the stretcher for carrying people.”
He returned to the ballroom. “Why didn’t you bring Gus here straight away? Your poor, much put upon bride should not be having to deal with this. Do I need to remind you that you are a bloody fool?”
Stephen gritted his teeth. Now was not the time to lose his temper. “You always said that we were never to bring trouble to your door. And besides that, Bridget didn’t complain. Gus is fine where he is.”
A hard slap to the back of the head was Stephen’s reward for his impertinence.
“She must really love you to put up with such nonsense. Either that or she is wishing that you were the one shot.”
Stephen had already heard more than enough, and now his head hurt. “Enjoy your roses, Monsale. I have an errand to run at Gracechurch Street, then I am going home to my wife.”
I have delivered the news, and my task is done. There are more important things to worry about.
He made for the door, but stopped, and turned back to his friend. “You are right. I am a bloody fool. And if you ever hear me again refer to my home as Bridget’s house you can slap me twice.”
Chapter Forty-Two
An hour later, Stephen returned to the house on Berkeley Square. He marched upstairs carrying a large box. Two footmen bearing his travel trunk followed. At the top, he nodded in the direction of Bridget’s bedroom.
“Put it in there, thank you.”
He went in search of his wife. It was time for them to talk.
He spied a light shining through the open door of the main drawing room and headed toward it. Bridget was seated by the fire, her hands resting in her lap. She rose as Stephen stepped into the room.
“How is Gus?” he asked.
“Gone.”
He halted mid-stride, stunned. Gus had been fine when he had left to go and see Monsale. What on earth had happened? “What? How?”
She smiled. “Monsale came and took him. Had a group of his servants carry Gus out on a litter. It’s a pity you missed the whole spectacle—it was rather amusing. Gus looked for all the world like Queen Cleopatra as they carried him downstairs. Though I don’t expect that she complained as much as he did when she was being borne about.”
“You had me worried there for a moment,” he replied.
