Once Dishonored (Rogues Redeemed #5) - Mary Jo Putney Page 0,2

approached. “I hadn’t realized you were still on my guest list, Lady Denshire.”

Kendra had wondered why she’d received an invitation. “I’m sorry I’ve brought notoriety to your doorstep, Lady Clanton.”

The other woman’s face eased into wry humor. “I should probably thank you. Notoriety enhances a social event.” She turned away to speak to another guest.

Foxton accompanied her to the vestibule, where an efficient footman produced Kendra’s black cloak and Foxton’s hat. After she donned the cloak, she took her escort’s arm and they descended to street level. He asked, “Where do you live? You said it was nearby.”

“Thorsay House. It’s just off St. James, only three blocks away.” Kendra was surprised by how relaxed she felt on his arm. Was it because they had a prior acquaintance, or because he didn’t judge, leer, or despise her? Perhaps both.

Foxton walked like the military officer he’d been: upright, quietly alert to their surroundings, and clearly not an easy victim. She wasn’t afraid of a short walk at night in this part of London, but it was no bad thing to have a capable male escort.

“Thorsay,” he said thoughtfully. “Named for the group of Scottish islands between Orkney and Shetland?”

“Yes, all three of the archipelagos are more Norse than Celtic, though they’re part of Scotland now. Thorsay House belongs to the laird of the islands, and he allows Thorsayians to use it as a sort of boardinghouse when in London. My grandmother was from Thorsay, first cousin to the laird. I spent summers there so I qualify as Thorsayian.” The relaxed, accepting nature of Thorsay House had been a sanctuary in the hell her life had become. “I was grateful to be welcomed at the house when I needed a new home.”

“You were forced out of your marital home?” Foxton asked quietly.

“Yes.” Her voice was stony. That had been the worst day of her life, a raging firestorm whose details blurred in her mind. What she remembered was pain and loss.

Neither of them spoke as they walked the short blocks to Thorsay House. At the bottom of the steps, she paused to pull her key from her reticule.

She was going to offer a polite thank-you for Foxton’s escort when he caught her gaze and said soberly, “Your life has been shattered, Kendra Douglas. Rage and grief are inevitable and likely necessary. But at some point you need to step beyond the anger toward your future. What is possible? What matters most to you, and how can you take the first steps toward achieving that?”

His words were a blade cutting through her inner turmoil. She drew a deep breath as she thought about what he’d said. Yes, it was time to move forward instead of standing still and burning. “That is the most useful advice I’ve yet received. You’ve implied that your life was also shattered. Did you learn wisdom by handling disaster well?”

He smiled with wry self-mockery. “No, I learned by handling it badly. I’m willing to tell you the whole disgraceful tale if you’re interested.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, wanting to see beyond the handsome features to the man’s soul. Once she’d thought herself a good judge of people, but recent years had destroyed that belief.

Now she forced herself to lower her defenses and really look. Perhaps she was wrong, but she felt that Lucas Mandeville was a man she could trust, at least a little. “I’d like to hear that disgraceful tale, preferably over a brandy. Will you join me for talk? Only talk.”

“Only talk,” he agreed, looking mildly amused at her wariness.

She unlocked the door and stepped inside, leaving it open for Lord Foxton to follow. Thorsay House was quiet at this hour. There were no other guests at the moment, and Mr. and Mrs. Brown, the couple who maintained the house, were in bed by now.

A candle was burning on the narrow table in the vestibule. She lifted the candlestick and led the way into a small sitting room on the left. While she lit the lamps, Foxton knelt on the hearth and roused the embers of the coal fire to warmer life. Like a Scot, he didn’t stand on ceremony and wait for someone else to perform mundane tasks.

After the fire was burning easily, he stood and gazed around the sitting room. The walls were festooned with Scottish weaponry: arcs of swords and battle axes, daggers and shields, and a range of other implements of death. He moved to a wheel of dirks and traced his