The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,166
season—the closing phases of another year, the time when cold fogs descended and polite society fled to the warmth of ancestral hearths, there to prepare for the coming festive season and the attendant revels. For him this time of year had always been difficult—difficult to find any viable excuse to avoid his mother’s artfully engineered social gatherings.
She’d married both his elder brothers and his sister, Melissa, far too easily; in him, she’d met her Waterloo, yet she continued more doggedly and indefatigably than Napoleon. She was determined to see him, the last of her brood, suitably wed, and was fully prepared to bring to bear whatever weapons were necessary to achieve that goal.
Despite being at loose ends, he didn’t want to deliver himself up at the Cothelstone Castle gates, a candidate for his mother’s matrimonial machinations. What if it snowed and he couldn’t escape?
Unfortunately, even villains tended to hibernate over winter.
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat shattered the comfortable silence.
Glancing at the parlor door, Barnaby realized he’d heard a carriage on the cobbles. The rattle of wheels had ceased outside his residence. He listened as Mostyn’s measured tread passed the parlor on the way to the front door. Who could be calling at such an hour—a quick glance at the mantelpiece clock confirmed it was after eleven—and on such a night? Beyond the heavily curtained windows the night was bleak, a dense chill fog wreathing the streets, swallowing houses and converting familiar streetscapes into ghostly gothic realms.
No one would venture out on such a night without good reason.
Voices, muted, reached him. It appeared Mostyn was engaged in dissuading whoever was attempting to disrupt his master’s peace.
Abruptly the voices fell silent.
A moment later the door opened and Mostyn entered, carefully closing the door behind him. One glance at Mostyn’s tight lips and studiously blank expression informed Barnaby that Mostyn did not approve of whomever had called. Even more interesting was the transparent implication that Mostyn had been routed—efficiently and comprehensively—in his attempt to deny the visitor.
“A . . . lady to see you, sir. A Miss—”
“Penelope Ashford.”
The crisp, determined tones had both Barnaby and Mostyn looking to the door—which now stood open, swung wide to admit a lady in a dark, severe yet fashionable pelisse. A sable-lined muff dangled from one wrist and her hands were encased in fur-edged leather gloves.
Lustrous mahogany hair, pulled into a knot at the back of her head, gleamed as she crossed the room with a grace and self-confidence that screamed her station even more than her delicate, quintessentially aristocratic features. Features that were animated by so much determination, so much sheer will, that the force of her personality seemed to roll like a wave before her.
Mostyn stepped back as she neared.
His eyes never leaving her, Barnaby unhurriedly uncrossed his legs and rose. “Miss Ashford.”
An exceptional pair of dark brown eyes framed by finely wrought gold-rimmed spectacles fixed on his face. “Mr. Adair. We met nearly two years ago, at Morwellan Park in the ballroom at Charlie and Sarah’s wedding.” Halting two paces away, she studied him, as if estimating the quality of his memory. “We spoke briefly if you recall.”
She didn’t offer her hand. Barnaby looked down into her uptilted face—her head barely cleared his shoulder—and found he remembered her surprisingly well. “You asked if I was the one who investigates crimes.”
She smiled—brilliantly. “Yes. That’s right.”
Barnaby blinked; he felt a trifle winded. He could, he realized, recall how, all those months ago, her small fingers had felt in his. They’d merely shaken hands, yet he could remember it perfectly; even now, his fingers tingled with tactile memory.
She’d obviously made an impression on him even if he hadn’t been so aware of it at the time. At the time he’d been focused on another case, and had been more intent on deflecting her interest than on her.
Since he’d last seen her, she’d grown. Not taller. Indeed, he wasn’t sure she’d gained inches anywhere; she was as neatly rounded as his memory painted her. Yet she’d gained in stature, in self-assurance and confidence; although he doubted she’d ever been lacking in the latter, she was now the sort of lady any fool would recognize as a natural force of nature, to be crossed at one’s peril.
Little wonder she’d rolled up Mostyn.
Her smile had faded. She’d been examining him openly; in most others he would have termed it brazenly, but she seemed to be evaluating him intellectually rather than physically.
Rosy lips, distractingly lush, firmed, as if she’d made some decision.