Minx

  Julia Quinn

  MINX

  Dedication

  For Fran Lebowitz—

  a wonderful agent, a wonderful friend.

  And for Paul, even though he kept asking,

  “Where are all the minks?”

  Contents

  Dedication

  DEAR READER

  PROLOGUE

  William Dunford snorted with disgust as he watched...

  CHAPTER 1

  A few months later Dunford was sitting in his...

  CHAPTER 2

  Dunford raised a brow. This was Henry?

  CHAPTER 3

  Henry woke the next morning with a most vexing headache.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Wake up, Henry.” Maryanne, the upstairs...

  CHAPTER 5

  Two hours later he was ready to kill her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Henry spent the next few days introducing...

  CHAPTER 7

  Dunford found he was oddly disappointed when...

  CHAPTER 8

  Supper that night was a silent affair.

  CHAPTER 9

  The rest of Henry’s new dresses arrived the...

  CHAPTER 10

  At ten the following morning Henry was...

  CHAPTER 11

  Very, very bad. Very, very, very bad.

  CHAPTER 12

  Belle’s mother, as expected, took Henry firmly...

  CHAPTER 13

  One week later Henry was ready to be presented...

  CHAPTER 14

  Henry held her head high as Dunford helped...

  CHAPTER 15

  Dunford had slipped away to the card room,

  CHAPTER 16

  Apparently he couldn’t. Dunford was walking up Bond Street...

  CHAPTER 17

  “What did you do?” Belle asked, her voice containing...

  CHAPTER 18

  11:57. Henry clutched at the folds of her dressing...

  CHAPTER 19

  Dunford sent a messenger to London the next...

  CHAPTER 20

  “Is that all, Lady Wolcott?” Henry said frigidly.

  CHAPTER 21

  That may have been the only explanation, but...

  CHAPTER 22

  “Lord Stannage is here to see you, Miss Barrett.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Henry’s fingers shook as she changed out of...

  CHAPTER 24

  Henry was shoveling slop.

  EPILOGUE

  “I am going to kiiiiiillllll him!”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AVON BOOKS BY JULIA QUINN

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  Dear Reader,

  It’s always a little daunting to write a book for a character you’ve established in previous novels. Especially when that character is a devil-may-care, wickedly handsome rogue who has readers everywhere clamoring for more. But after William Dunford (almost) stole the show in my first two novels, Splendid and Dancing at Midnight, I knew that I had to make him the hero of my third, Minx.

  The question was—who would be the heroine? Who could take the ordinarily suave Dunford and ruffle his feathers until he didn’t know which end was up? The answer turned out to be surprisingly easy. Henrietta Barrett, better known as Henry, practically flew off the pages, charging forth with determination and charm and a stubborn streak that left Dunford reeling. And I, the author, happily realized that it was an awful lot of fun to bring London’s smoothest and most unflappable bachelor to his knees.

  I hope you enjoy reading Minx as much as I did writing it!

  With my warmest wishes,

  Prologue

  London, 1816

  William Dunford snorted with disgust as he watched his friends gaze longingly into each other’s eyes. Lady Arabella Blydon, one of his best friends these past two years, had just gotten herself married to Lord John Blackwood, and now they were looking at each other as if they wanted to eat each other up. It was revoltingly cute.

  Dunford tapped his foot and rolled his eyes, hoping they would be able to tear themselves apart. The three of them, along with Dunford’s best friend, Alex, the Duke of Ashbourne, and Alex’s wife, Emma, who happened to be Belle’s cousin, were on their way to a ball. Their carriage had met with a mishap, and they were presently waiting for a fresh one to be brought around.

  At the sound of wheels rolling along the cobbles, Dunford turned. The new carriage pulled up to a halt in front of them, but Belle and John didn’t appear to notice. In fact, they almost looked as if they were ready to throw themselves into each other’s arms and make love on the spot. Dunford decided he had had enough. “Yoo-hoo!” he called out in a nauseatingly sweet voice. “Young lovers!”

  John and Belle finally tore their eyes off one another and turned, blinking, to Dunford, who was making his way toward them.

  “If the two of you can stop making verbal love to each other, we can be on our way. In case you hadn’t noticed, the fresh carriage is here.”

  John took a deep and ragged breath before turning to Dunford and saying, “Tact, I take it, was not emphasized in your upbringing.”

  Dunford smiled merrily. “Not at all. Shall we be off?”

  John turned to Belle and offered her his arm. “My dear?”

  Belle accepted his gesture with a smile, but as they passed Dunford, she turned and hissed, “I’m going to kill you for this.”

  “I’m sure you’ll try.”

  The quintet was soon settled into the new carriage. After a few moments, however, John and Belle were gazing rapturously at each other again. John laid his hand on hers and tapped his fingers against her knuckles. Belle let out a little mewl of contentment.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Dunford exclaimed, turning to Alex and Emma. “Will you look at them? Even the two of you weren’t this nauseating.”

  “Someday,” Belle said in a low voice, her finger jabbing at him, “you’re going to meet the woman of your dreams, and then I’m going to make your life miserable.”

  “Afraid not, my dear Arabella. The woman of my dreams is such a paragon she couldn’t possibly exist.”

  “Oh, please,” Belle snorted. “I bet that within a year you’ll be tied up, leg-shackled, and loving it.” She sat back with a satisfied smile. Beside her, John was shaking with mirth.

  Dunford leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ll take that bet. How much are you willing to lose?”

  “How much are you willing to lose?”

  Emma turned to John. “You seem to have married a gambling woman.”

  “Had I known, you can be sure I would have weighed my actions more carefully.”

  Belle gave her new husband a playful jab in the ribs as she leveled a quelling stare at Dunford and asked, “Well?”

  “A thousand pounds.”

  “Done.”

  “Are you crazy?” John exclaimed.

  “Am I to assume that only men can gamble?”

  “Nobody makes such a fool’s bet, Belle,” John said. “You’ve just made a wager with the man who controls the outcome. You can only lose.”

  “Don’t underestimate the power of love, my dear. Although in Dunford’s case, perhaps only lust will do.”

  “You wound me,” Dunford replied, placing his hand dramatically over his heart for emphasis, “assuming I am incapable of the higher emotions.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Dunford’s lips clamped together in a thin line. Was she right? He really had no idea. Either way, in a year’s time he’d be a thousand pounds richer. Easy money.

  Chapter 1

  A few months later Dunford was sitting in his sa
lon, taking tea with Belle. She had just stopped by to chat; he was glad for this unexpected visit since they didn’t see quite as much of each other now that she was married.

  “Are you certain that John isn’t going to come barging over here with a gun and call me out?” Dunford teased.

  “He’s too busy for that sort of nonsense,” she said with a smile.

  “Too busy to indulge his possessive nature? How odd.”

  Belle shrugged. “He trusts you, and more importantly, he trusts me.”

  “A veritable paragon of virtue,” Dunford said dryly, telling himself he was not the least bit jealous of his friend’s marital bliss. “And how—”

  A knock sounded at the door. They looked up to see Whatmough, Dunford’s unflappable butler, standing in the doorway. “A solicitor has arrived, sir.”

  Dunford raised a brow. “A solicitor, you say. I cannot fathom why.”

  “He is most insistent, sir.”

  “Show him in then.” Dunford turned to Belle and gave her a what-do-you-suppose-this-could-be shrug.

  She smiled mischievously. “Intriguing.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Whatmough ushered the solicitor in. A graying man of medium stature, he looked very excited to see Dunford. “Mr. Dunford?”

  Dunford nodded.

  “I cannot tell you how glad I am to have finally located you,” the solicitor said enthusiastically. He looked at Belle with a puzzled expression. “And is this Mrs. Dunford? I was led to believe that you were not married, sir. Oh, this is odd. Most odd.”

  “I’m not married. This is Lady Blackwood. She is a friend. And you are?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Most sorry.” The solicitor took out a handkerchief and patted his brow. “I am Percival Leverett, of Cragmont, Hopkins, Topkins, and Leverett.” He leaned forward, adding extra emphasis when he said his own name. “I have very important news for you. Most important indeed.”

  Dunford waved his arms expansively. “Let’s hear it then.”

  Leverett glanced over at Belle and then back at Dunford. “Perhaps we should speak privately, sir? Since she is not a relation.”

  “Of course.” Dunford turned to Belle. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Oh, not at all,” she assured him, her smile saying she would have a thousand questions ready when they were through. “I’ll wait.”

  Dunford motioned toward a door leading to his study. “Right through here, Mr. Leverett.”

  They left the room, and Belle was delighted to note they did not shut the door properly. She immediately stood up and moved to the chair closest to the slightly open door. She craned her neck, her ears pricking up right away.

  A mumble of voices.

  More mumble.

  And then, from Dunford, “My cousin who?”

  Mumble, mumble.

  “From where?”

  Mumble, mumble, something that sounded like Cornwall.

  “How many times removed?”

  No, that couldn’t have been “eight” that she heard.

  “And he left me what?”

  Belle clapped her hands together. How delightful! Dunford had just come into an unexpected inheritance. She rather hoped it was something good. One of her friends had just unwillingly inherited thirty-seven cats.

  The rest of the conversation was impossible to decipher. After a few minutes the two men emerged and shook hands. Leverett shoved a few papers into his case and said, “I’ll have the rest of the documents sent over as soon as possible. We’ll need your signature, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Leverett nodded and exited the room.

  “Well?” Belle demanded.

  Dunford blinked a few times, as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “I seem to have inherited a barony.”

  “A barony! Goodness, I’m not going to have to call you Lord Dunford now, am I?”

  He rolled his eyes. “When was the last time I called you Lady Blackwood?”

  “Not ten minutes ago,” she pointed out pertly, “when you introduced me to Mr. Leverett.”

  “Touché, Belle.” He sank down onto the sofa, not even waiting for her to seat herself first. “I suppose you may call me Lord Stannage.”

  “Lord Stannage,” she murmured. “How perfectly distinguished. William Dunford, Lord Stannage.” She smiled devilishly. “It is William, isn’t it?”

  Dunford snorted. He was so rarely called by his first name that they had a long-running joke that she couldn’t remember it. “I asked my mother,” he finally replied. “She said she thinks it’s William.”

  “Who died?” Belle asked baldly.

  “Ever brimming with tact and refinement, my dear Arabella.”

  “Well, you obviously cannot be grieving overmuch over the loss of your, er, distant relative, since you didn’t even know of his existence until now.”

  “A cousin. An eighth cousin, to be exact.”

  “And they couldn’t find anyone more closely related?” she asked disbelievingly. “Not that I begrudge you your good fortune, of course, but it is quite a stretch.”

  “We seem to be a family of fillies.”

  “Nicely put,” she muttered sarcastically.

  “Metaphors aside,” he said, ignoring her jibe, “I am now in possession of a title and a small estate in Cornwall.”

  So she had heard correctly. “Have you ever been to Cornwall?”

  “Never. Have you?”

  She shook her head. “I hear it’s quite dramatic. Cliffs and crashing waves and all that. Very uncivilized.”

  “How uncivilized could it be, Belle? This is England, after all.”

  She shrugged. “Are you going to go down for a visit?”

  “I suppose I must.” He tapped his finger against his thigh. “Uncivilized, you say? I’ll probably adore it.”

  “I hope he hates it here,” Henrietta Barrett said, taking a vicious bite of her apple. “I hope he really hates it.”

  “Now, now, Henry,” Mrs. Simpson, the housekeeper of Stannage Park, said with a cluck. “That isn’t very charitable of you.”

  “I’m not feeling terribly charitable at the moment. I’ve put a lot of work into Stannage Park.” Henry’s eyes glowed wistfully. She had lived here in Cornwall since the age of eight, when her parents had been killed in a carriage accident in their hometown of Manchester, leaving her orphaned and penniless. Viola, the late baron’s late wife, had been her grandmother’s cousin and graciously agreed to take her in. Henry had immediately fallen in love with Stannage Park, from the pale stone of the building to the shimmering windows to every last tenant who lived on the property. The servants even had found her polishing the silver one day. “I want everything to sparkle,” she had said. “It has to be perfect, for this is truly a perfect place.”

  And so Cornwall had become her home, more so than Manchester had ever been. Viola had doted on her, and Carlyle, her husband, became a sort of distant father figure. He didn’t spend a lot of time with her, but he always had a friendly pat on the head ready when she passed him in the hall. When she was fourteen, however, Viola died, and Carlyle was desolate. He retreated into himself, letting the details of running the estate flounder.

  Henry had immediately stepped in. She loved Stannage Park as much as anybody and had firm ideas on how it should be run. For the past six years she had been not only the lady of the manor but the lord as well, universally accepted as the person in charge. And she liked her life just fine.

  But Carlyle had died, and the estate and title had passed on to some distant cousin in London who was probably a fop and a dandy. He’d never been to Cornwall before, she’d heard, conveniently forgetting that she’d never been here either before she’d arrived twelve years before.

  “What was his name again?” Mrs. Simpson asked, her capable hands kneading dough for bread
.

  “Dunford. Something-or-other Dunford,” Henry said in a disgusted voice. “They didn’t see fit to inform me of his first name, although I suppose it doesn’t matter now that he is Lord Stannage. He’ll probably insist that we use the title. Newcomers to the aristocracy usually do.”

  “You talk as if you’re a member of it yourself, Henry. Don’t be turning your nose up at the gentleman.”

  Henry sighed and took another bite of her apple. “He’ll probably call me Henrietta.”

  “As well he should. You’re getting too old for Henry now.”

  “You call me Henry.”

  “I’m too old to change. But you’re not. And it’s high time you lost your hoydenish ways and found yourself a husband.”

  “And do what? Move off to England? I don’t want to leave Cornwall.”

  Mrs. Simpson smiled and forbore to point out that Cornwall was indeed a part of England. Henry was so devoted to the region that she could not think of it as belonging to any greater whole. “There are gentlemen here in Cornwall, you know,” she said instead. “Quite a few in the nearby villages. You could marry one of them.”

  Henry scoffed. “There is no one here worth his salt and you know it, Simpy. Besides, no one would have me. I haven’t a shilling now that Stannage Park has gone off to this stranger, and they all think I’m a freak.”

  “Of course they don’t!” Mrs. Simpson replied quickly. “Everyone looks up to you.”

  “I know that,” Henry replied, rolling her silver-gray eyes. “They look up to me as if I were a man, and for that I’m grateful. But men don’t want to marry other men, you know.”

  “Perhaps if you’d wear a dress . . .”

  Henry looked down at her well-worn breeches. “I do wear a dress. When appropriate.”