He had woken this morning determined to make up for lost time. White’s seemed the obvious place to start. He had never let his membership lapse, despite the years spent far afield. Consequently, when challenged, he felt perfectly confident in directing the porter to the membership lists. All proved in order. From the man’s change in manner, Martin assumed his ascension to the title was common knowledge. He was bowed into the rooms with all due deference.
He strolled through the interconnecting chambers, pausing to scan the scattered groups for signs of familiar faces. As it transpired, it was they who recognised him.
‘Martin?’
The question had him turning to meet hazel eyes on a level with his own. Delighted, Martin grinned. ‘Marc!’
They shook hands warmly. After they had exchanged their news, and Martin had duly exclaimed over his friend’s recent marriage, Hazelmere gestured to the rooms ahead.
‘Tony’s here somewhere. He’s married too. To Dorothea’s sister, as it happens.’
Martin turned laughing eyes on him. ‘That must have caused comment. How did Tony take the ribbing about always following your lead?’
‘Strangely, this time, I don’t think he cared.’
They found Anthony, Lord Fanshawe, and various other members of what had once been Martin’s set, ensconced in one of the back rooms. Martin’s entrance caused a mild sensation. He was bombarded with questions, which he answered with good grace, picking up the threads of long-ago friendships, and, to his surprise, gradually relaxing into what had once been his milieu. With so many present, he put aside his questions on fair Juno. To Hazelmere or Fanshawe, his oldest friends, he might admit to an interest in an unknown widow. But to raise speculation in so many minds was not his present aim.
Leaving the club some hours later, still in company with Hazelmere and Fanshawe, he wryly reflected that at least he had made a start at re-establishing himself socially.
They were about to part, when Hazelmere stayed him. ‘I’ve just remembered. Come to dinner tomorrow—we’re having an informal affair, just family. Tony’s coming, so you can meet both our wives.’ He smiled proudly. ‘And my heir.’
‘God, yes!’ said Fanshawe. ‘Come and add to the mood. It’ll be chaos anyway.’
Martin could not help his laugh. ‘Very well. I have to confess I’m dying to meet your paragons.’
‘Six, then. We still dine early at present.’
With a nod and a wave, they parted. Striding along the pavement in the direction of his newly refurbished home in Grosvenor Square, Martin mused that the new Lady Hazel-mere might well be one who could assist him in discovering fair Juno’s identity.
Letting himself into his front hall, he surrendered his cane and gloves to his butler, Hillthorpe, who had instantly materialised from beyond the green baize door. Strolling the corridor to his library, Martin was struck again by the silence of the large house. In his memories, there had always been people around—children, friends of his brothers, friends of his parents. All gone now. Only his mother, tied to her room in Somerset, and his younger brother Damian remained. And God knew where Damian was, nor yet how long he was likely to remain. Martin’s expression hardened, then he shrugged aside all thought of his younger brother. Damian could take care of himself.
Sinking into a newly upholstered chair, a glass of the finest French brandy in his hand, Martin considered his house. It was empty—indubitably empty. He needed to fill it—with life, with laughter. That was what was still missing. He had rectified the damp and the decay and had cast forth the unscrupulous. The structure was now sound. It was time to turn his mind, and energies, to rebuilding a family—his family.
Hazelmere’s transparent pride in his wife and son had impressed him. He knew Marc, and a few hours had sufficed to assure him that the bonds of similarity that had drawn them to each other in earlier years still persisted.
Perhaps that was why fate had thrown fair Juno at his head?
Martin’s lips twisted in a self-deprecatory smile. Why could he not just admit that he was besotted with the woman? There was no need to invoke fate or any such infernal agency. Juno was very real and, to him, wholly desirable. And, for the first time in his life, he was not contemplating a temporary relationship, limited by his interest. He was quite sure his interest in Juno would never die.
With a grin, Martin raised his glass in a silent toast. To his goddess. He tossed off the brandy, then, laying down the glass, left the room.
Thursday evening was mild and clear. Martin walked the few blocks to Cavendish Square. He was admitted to Hazelmere House by the butler, Mytton, whom he recognised and who, to his amazement, recognised him.
‘Welcome back, my lord.’
‘Er—thank you, Mytton.’
Hazelmere strolled into the hall. ‘Thought it was you.’
Martin shook hands but his eyes were drawn to the woman who had followed his host into the hall. Fair-skinned and slender, a wealth of auburn hair crowned a classically featured face. Martin glanced at Hazelmere, his brows lifting in question.
The smile on the Marquis’s face was answer enough. ‘Permit me to introduce you to my wife. Dorothea, Marchioness of Hazelmere—Martin Willesden, Earl of Merton.’
Martin bowed over the slim hand that was bestowed on him; Dorothea curtsied, then, rising, looked up at him frankly, green eyes twinkling. ‘Welcome, my lord. We’ve heard so much about you. You see me positively preening, such is the cachet of being the first hostess to entertain you.’
The low voice invited him to laugh with her at society’s vagaries. Martin smiled. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, my lady.’ She was, he thought, entirely enchanting, just right for Hazelmere. His gaze shifted to his friend’s face. Hazel-mere was watching his wife, the proprietorial gleam in his hazel eyes pronounced.
‘But do come in and meet the others.’ Dorothea took his arm and led him towards the drawing-room.