How to Woo a Widow by Manda Collins Page A

been broken up and used for scrap. And by the time he was in any shape to examine the wreckage, the parts were scattered to the four corners.
    But something Tretham had said the other night at Almack’s had jogged a memory. He’d forgotten long ago that Tretham himself was staying in the neighborhood that summer as well. He’d been part of the party of young people who gathered for dancing and cards and parties before the school term began again in the fall. Like himself, Tretham had been sweet on Portia though she’d paid him even less heed than she had Tony. Daventry’s regiment had been stationed in neighboring Meryton and once she’d laid eyes on his handsome visage none of the other young gentlemen had stood a chance.
    “It was just a bad bit of luck,” Tretham had said the other evening, speaking about the accident that had taken James Bascombe’s young life. “Who could have foreseen that the axle on your curricle would break like that?”
    But the thing of it was—no one had ever known what caused the curricle to crash. The body had been so devastated by the impact that it was impossible to tell which part had actually failed to cause the accident. And during the past week, Tony had gone back and spoken with everyone who had been around that ghastly summer when his best friend had died, and they all agreed. The cause of the crash was unknown.
    So how the hell did Tretham know unless he himself had been responsible for weakening the axle?
    When he’d arrived back in town, eager to speak to Portia, he’d hurried straight away to the house on Berkeley Square. The burden of guilt that he’d not even known he carried with him all these years was gone, and in its place he found a desire to start living the rest of his life with Portia right this minute. Once they’d gone to the authorities about Tretham, there would be little reason for them to delay their wedding. Perhaps by next year there would even be a child. With her dark hair and his green eyes.
    Whistling, he bounded up the steps of the Bascombe townhouse and rapped on the door.
    With a haste that nearly made Tony leap backward, the butler opened the door his disappointment at the identity of the visitor apparent in his face.
    “What’s the matter, Jameson?” Tony asked, “Were you expecting someone else?”
    Jameson eyed the newcomer with a speculative gaze. “No. That is to say, you may be the very person for it, my lord.”
    Taking Tony’s gloves and hat, Jameson explained, “Mrs. Daventry has been closeted with that Lord Tretham for the better part of an hour in the little sitting room. And when I went to deliver the tea tray the door was locked. When I knocked, Tretham just told me to go about my business. And Mrs. Daventry said she everything was fine. But I know Mrs. Daventry, my lord. Her voice didn’t sound right. And she kept asking if her mother had arrived home yet.”
    “Dammit,” Tony fumed. He’d need to be smart about this. Tretham had already killed one man. He would probably be just as happy to kill again.
    “Jameson,” he said. “Do you know whether there is a weapon in the house?”
    The butler’s eyes narrowed with determination at Tony’s question. “Yes, my lord, the dowager keeps a pair of dueling pistols in the library. They were her late husband’s.”
    Tony was already mounting the stairs two at a time, though careful not to make noise that would alert Tretham to his presence. “Good,” he told the butler. “Fetch me on of the pistols and tell me if there is another way to get into the little sitting room without Tretham seeing me.”
    “There is a balcony, my lord. It runs from the window in the study to the window in the drawing room.”
    Though he was approaching sixty, Jameson followed Tony up the stairs with the grace of a cat and with just as little noise.
    Once they’d retrieved the pistol, Tony sent Jameson downstairs and made his way out onto the balcony.
    He heard voices— Portia’s in calm,