12

Anthony went up the steps of the large house on Brackton Street. Dreading what lay ahead, he banged the gleaming brass knocker. Footsteps sounded in the hall. The door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverously thin, gray-haired man in a butler’s suit.

“Mr. Stalbridge, sir. Do come in.”

“Good afternoon, Shuttle.” Anthony moved into the hall and tossed his hat onto the marble-topped side table. “All is well with you, I trust?”

“I am in excellent health, thank you, sir.” Shuttle closed the door. “Your mother and sister are in the library. Your father, of course, is in his workshop.”

“Thank you.”

Anthony went along the hall and paused in the open doorway of the library, steeling himself for the assault. There was a large desk and an easel in the room, both positioned to catch the best light from the tall windows overlooking the extensive gardens. His mother, Georgiana, was at the easel, paintbrush in hand. The sun highlighted the silver in her dark hair. She was in her late fifties, tall and gracefully made. A paint-stained apron covered her gown. Clarice sat at the desk, poring over a stack of papers covered with her handwriting. Her latest script for the Olympia, no doubt. A cloud of red curls framed her elfin face and blue eyes.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said from the door. “You both appear to be busy. I will not intrude.” He took a step back. “I just stopped by to have a word with Father.”

“Tony.” Clarice looked up suddenly. “Come back here. Don’t you dare try to leave without explaining yourself.”

“Sorry,” Anthony said, edging farther out into the hall. “I’m in somewhat of a hurry at the moment. Later, perhaps.”

“No, not later,” Georgiana declared. She set aside her brush. “Your grandmother was here not more than an hour ago and told us everything.”

He swore under his breath. His grandmother, Lady Payne, was an indomitable woman who never failed to live up to her name. Her chief occupation in life, as far as he could tell, was to meddle in family affairs. At one time or another they had all suffered from her interference, but of late she had been focusing most of her attention on him.

To be fair, she was not alone. These days it seemed that everyone in the large clan was concentrating the full force of their no doubt well-intentioned attention on him. Fortunately, the only members of the extended Stalbridge family who were in town at the moment were his grandmother, mother, father, and sister.

Nevertheless, given the razor-sharp intelligence and forceful willpower that characterized virtually every leaf on the Stalbridge family tree, it was little wonder that he was doing his best these days to avoid even the four relations who did happen to be in London.

“Is it true?” Clarice demanded eagerly. “Did you really sweep a mysterious widow named Mrs. Bryce away from the Hastingses’ ball last evening and carry her off into the night in your carriage?”

He loved his sister. She was several years younger, sharp of wit, compassionate by nature, and generally quite entertaining, but there was no denying that she had a flare for the dramatic, a side effect of her playwriting talents, no doubt.

“Mrs. Bryce and I did leave the ball together,” he said, choosing his words with care. “However, we went down the steps and got into the carriage in an entirely normal manner. As I recall, there was no sweeping involved. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go find Father.”

“Wait, you must tell us more about her,” Georgiana insisted. “Who is she? What of her family background? What became of Mr. Bryce? Your grandmother did not have a great deal of information. The only facts she had were that Mrs. Bryce is a distant relation of Lady Ashton’s and that she has absolutely no sense of style.”

Anthony smiled at that. “The lack of details must have been extremely frustrating for her.”

“Does she really wear her spectacles when she goes to a ball?” Clarice asked.

“Yes,” Anthony said.

“Well?” Georgiana prompted. “What of her husband?”

“I do not know what became of Mr. Bryce,” he admitted. “The important thing is that he is no longer around.”

“Grandmother says Mrs. Bryce is out of mourning so he must have died at least three or four years ago,” Clarice offered.

“One could make that assumption, yes,” Anthony agreed.

“Your grandmother indicated that she does not appear to have any money in her own right,” Georgina observed. “Evidently Lady Ashton has taken her in out of the kindness of her heart.”

“That seems to be the case,” Anthony agreed. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

“What is she like?” Clarice asked.

Anthony gave that a few seconds of close contemplation.

“Unconventional,” he said finally.

“In what way?” Clarice demanded. “We want details, Tony. This is the first woman you have shown any interest in since Fiona died. The least you can do is tell us a little about her.”

“Among other things she admires your plays,” he said.

“You told her that I write for the Olympia?” Clarice’s eyes widened.

“I believe she was quite pleased that the heroine who had the illicit affair in Night on Sutton Lane did not drown at the end of the story even though she was not rescued by the man who had seduced her.”

“I couldn’t have Nigel rescue her,” Clarice explained. “He was already married.”

“I did try to explain that,” Anthony said. With that, he made good his escape.

He climbed the stairs and went down the long hall to the large room at the back of the house. The architect had intended the space to serve as a master bedroom and sitting room, but it had functioned as his father’s workshop for as long as he could remember.

The muffled clang of metal on metal reverberated through the upstairs hall. It was a familiar sound, one he remembered well from his childhood. He had spent countless hours in the workshop. When he had not been actively assisting his father with a project, he had wiled away a considerable amount of time playing with the unique clockwork and mechanical toys his father had created for him.

One thing about having an inventor for a parent, he thought, opening the door: Life had never been dull.

“Is that you, Clarice?” Marcus Stalbridge had his back to the door. He did not turn around. “I haven’t finished work on your burning house project yet. Bit of a problem with the chemicals that create the smoke, I’m afraid. They produce far too much of the stuff. The audience won’t be able to see the action on the stage.”

Anthony closed the door, folded his arms, and propped one shoulder against the wall. “Clarice is planning to burn down a house?”

“Tony. About time you got here.” Marcus put down a wrench and swung around. “I sent that message hours ago. Where the devil have you been?”

Dressed in a heavy leather apron, grease-stained shirt and trousers, and a pair of sturdy boots, his father could easily have been mistaken for a dockside worker or a carpenter, Anthony thought. He certainly did not present the typical image of an English gentleman descended from a long line of the same.

Marcus had been educated as an engineer. According to everyone who had known him in his youth, he had been inventing things since he was old enough to climb out of his cradle. He was in his sixties now, a big man with big, competent hands and aggressively modeled features. His green-and-gold eyes could be disconcertingly piercing and direct when he was consumed with the creation of one of his countless inventions. At other times he appeared vague and distracted. Everyone knew that expression well. It meant that Marcus was dreaming up a new device.

“My apologies, sir,” Anthony said. “I’ve been busy today, and then, when I arrived, I had some difficulty getting past that pair of inquisitors downstairs.”