Fair Juno by Stephanie Laurens Page A

affectionate hug and a cheery wave, Dorothea went down the steps to the street and was handed into the waiting coach by her footman.
    Helen watched her depart, then, smiling, went back upstairs to see which of her gowns would do for Thursday.
       
    Martin strolled down St James’s oblivious of the noise and bustle that surrounded him. He had yet to learn fair Juno’s name, an aberration he had every intention of rectifying with all possible speed. Returning to town in her wake, he had expected to be able to make enquiries the next day. Fate, however, had stepped in and engineered a crisison his Leicestershire estate. His presence had been necessary; the ensuing wrangle had forced him to post down to London in search of documents, then back to the country to see his orders executed. When the dust had finally settled, three weeks had flown.
    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 havecaused 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