But even while his mind whirled with all the reasons he could walk away, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t…imp, don’t.”
She pulled away from him. He pulled her back. He couldn’t stand it.
“I’m sorry, imp. I’m sorry. Please, don’t cry.”
She stilled against him, but the tears still came. He could hear it in the ragged catches of her breath. He held her, rocking gently, until her breathing smoothed into a steady rhythm.
“Won’t you tell me what this is about?” he asked softly, turning her in his arms.
She pulled back to look up at him. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I know, but I haven’t any choice.” He wiped a lingering tear from her cheek. “Can’t you see—”
“You do have the choice,” she cried, pulling out of his arms. “You could stay here. You could let me go alone.”
“No,” he replied resolutely. “I cannot.”
“You won’t trust me to see to this myself.”
“This has nothing to do with trust.” He frowned at her. “Or perhaps a great deal to do with it. Why won’t you tell me the reason you’re crying?”
“I just did.”
“No, not all of it.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “We’re right back to where we started.”
“We wouldn’t have to be, if you’d talk to me.”
“And will you talk to me?” she asked with a hint of accusation. “Will you tell me how William knew of this, or why you’ve experience with counterfeiting, or why—”
“No.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Damn it, I don’t want you involved in it. In any of this.”
“As I don’t want you involved.”
“It’s entirely different,” he snapped.
“No, it’s not.” She shook her head and moved past him to the door. She paused with her hand on the handle.
“I don’t want you to come,” she repeatedly quietly. “You won’t be welcomed.”
The words wounded, deeper than he would have expected or cared to admit, and in a force of habit, he lashed out in return.
“Lack of welcome never discouraged you. Consider it my revenge.”
Even as regret had him forming the words of an apology, she nodded once and left.
Seventeen
There are all kinds of embarrassment—humiliation, mortification, shame—and it occurred to Mirabelle as she made the trip to her uncle’s house that she was destined to experience each and every one in the course of a single month. First the fall down the hill, then being tormented by a thirteen-year-old, crying in front of Whit, and now the worst, his visit to her uncle’s home.
She’d rather fall off a dozen hills and be set upon by an entire tribe of infantile monsters when she reached the bottom than have any member of the Cole family witness how her uncle lived—and how she lived when forced to be under his roof.
There had always been rumors of her uncle’s behavior—whispers of the reclusive baron’s fractious nature and fondness for drink—but eccentricity from the titled was tolerated, and his secluded lifestyle kept the full extent of his sins from becoming public knowledge. His reputation—and hers by association—remained essentially intact.
What would Whit do once he learned the truth—that her only living relation was a dissolute scoundrel? Not a counterfeiter, mind you. That absurd piece of business could be cleared up. The remainder of her uncle’s offenses, however, could not be denied.
She remembered the time he’d paid for several prostitutes to visit from London. And the memorable dinner at which Mr. Latimer had jokingly offered the baron twenty pounds to take her off his hands. Mr. Hartsinger, overseer of the nearby asylum, St. Brigit’s, had then not so jokingly upped the bid to thirty.
In the eyes of many, both occurrences would be enough to ruin her.
If Whit found out…Her heart stammered painfully at the thought.
Whit had worked so hard to rebuild his family’s good standing in society, and an association with a man like her uncle, or a ruined woman, could undo much of the progress he’d made. Would he distance himself and the rest of the Cole family from her?
It might not be fair that a person be judged by the actions of their relatives, but it was the way of the ton. Whit knew that well enough. It had been the actions of his own relatives, after all, that had so damaged the Cole name initially.
And now he would see. He would know. He would judge.
And there wasn’t a single blasted thing she could do about it.
She had spent the whole of the night frantically trying to find a way out of the situation, but nothing short of running off with the gypsies—or bribing the gypsies to run off with Whit—had occurred to her. The best she could do was to arrive early and attempt to elevate at least some small portion of the house to habitable. With any luck, Whit would be too preoccupied to care overmuch about the condition of the old manor. With an enormous amount of luck, Whit’s presence might induce her uncle and his guests to restrict their revelry to the merely embarrassing, rather than the unforgivable.
The idea that they might behave well was nearly laughable. Nearly.
Her pride, she knew, was going to suffer tremendously. She could accept that or, at the very least, learn to accept it.
So long as she wasn’t banned from Haldon.
She pressed the back of a shaking hand across trembling lips and wished, as she had wished for years, that her mother and father had cared enough to will her into the care of someone like the Coles.
She’d been seven years old when her parents had died in an outbreak of influenza. In life, they had been indifferent toward their only daughter, choosing to have her raised the ton way, by a series of servants.
In death, that indifference proved cruel. They’d warded her to an uncle they barely knew. But the man was a baron, and apparently her mother and father had felt that the title was all the character reference required.
Upon arrival at her uncle’s, she had been swiftly relegated to an out-of-the-way room in the back of the house, assigned a disinterested governess, and otherwise ignored by the baron and his staff alike.
After two months of such treatment, Mirabelle had taken it upon herself to seek out her uncle and demand a room with a properly functioning fireplace, regular meals, and, if it wasn’t too much to ask, a mattress with its insides on the inside. She was, after all, the daughter of a gentleman and a member of the baron’s family.
Her uncle had responded with the back of his hand, an action that had so shocked Mirabelle she had been rendered mute and unable to move. For a moment her head had felt curiously detached from her body and she numbly wondered if she would be forced to spend the remainder of her life on the floor of her uncle’s study. But he had quickly dispelled that notion by coming around the desk, grabbing her arm and dragging her forcibly out the study’s door. Only when it appeared as if he might follow her, did Mirabelle regain her senses and bolt—down the hall, out the front door, and into the woods on the eastern side of the estate’s property.
She had run until she could no longer feel her legs. Until she thought her lungs and heart might burst inside her chest. Until she had turned a corner, lost her footing and tumbled straight down a hill, and into the arms of lovely lady in a crisp white dress that smelled of starch and mint.
The woman had held Mirabelle until the tears stopped. She had checked her over for any serious injuries and admonished her gently for running about the countryside and rolling down hills like a wild animal. Now she would have a bruised eye to show for it, silly child.
Then she had introduced herself as Mrs. Brinkly, governess to young Lady Kate—a small, blonde-haired sprite of a girl who had stepped forward and shyly offered Mirabelle the remains of a sticky bun—more sticky than bun at this point—encased in her little fingers. Mirabelle had accepted the treat gratefully and the silent invitation for friendship that came with it.
Such was her introduction to the Cole famil
y. A kind twist of fate that had made all the difference.
Their estate of Haldon sat not two miles from her uncle’s home. Upon hearing that their neighbor had been made guardian to an orphaned child, Lady Thurston had groaned in disgust at the absurdity of the inebriated baron raising a young girl. She immediately saw to it that Mirabelle received an open invitation to Haldon Hall. While visiting, Mirabelle was properly fed, clothed, and educated. The countess had even insisted that Mirabelle accompany the family to London for a come out, and subsequent Seasons.
She’d spent the majority of her childhood in the company of the Coles, and to Mirabelle, Haldon and its inhabitants were straight out of a fairy tale.
But if Haldon had been a shining castle filled with knights and fair maidens, her uncle’s home had been a dungeon complete with ogre.
It still was, she thought with a grimace as the stone building came into view around a curve in the road. And it was every bit as glum and unwelcoming as Haldon was bright and gracious. With its pillared front entrance, two rows of windows and multiple chimneys, the old stone building may have carried the hallmarks of respectable—if limited—affluence from a distance, but one needed only to draw a little closer to discover the truth. It was dark, dank, and in disrepair. The pillars were buckling, the windows were cracked, and the chimneys were crumbling.
There were no gardens to speak of, just the moldering ruins of an old half wall and gardener’s cottage out back. Nary so much as an herb patch was to be found on the grounds. Her uncle didn’t care for vegetables, and she suspected he had lost his sense of taste to spirits some time ago. It would explain why he complained routinely to the kitchen of the lack of food, but never of the food’s near inedible nature. Quantity surpassed quality in importance as far as he was concerned.
With her valise in hand, she hopped down from the carriage. She’d brought only two gowns with her from Haldon, and those only because Whit was coming. She’d have made do with the very old dresses she kept at her uncle’s home otherwise.
“Shall I carry that for you, miss?”
She smiled and shook her head at the waiting footman. She’d never let any of the staff enter her uncle’s home. “Thank you, but no. You should return. I’m certain Lady Thurston could use your help with all the guests packing and leaving today.”
“Very good, miss.”
She watched the footmen swing lightly back onto the carriage before it rolled away. Then, straightening her shoulders she turned and headed toward the house.
An enormous dog—the sort that looked as if it might fit a person’s entire arm in its mouth—was chained at the side of the front steps. A massive beast of questionable lineage, it was fond of snapping at women’s skirts and men’s ankles as they hurried past, (though whether its purpose was to discourage unwelcome guests or all guests was something Mirabelle had never been able to work out.) It had always put her to mind of Cerberus guarding the gates to hell.
Christian, the stable hand and her only friend at the house, had always found this immensely funny. He got along famously with the beast and often took it on long walks in the fields.
Mirabelle had attempted to befriend it as well, bringing it scraps and choice bones from the kitchen. But nothing seemed to work.
As she climbed the steps, the dog lunged and snapped, missing her by a good two feet, but making her jump all the same.
“Ungrateful wretch,” she muttered as she pushed open the front doors and made a mental note to have Christian put the animal elsewhere while she was in residence.
She wasn’t surprised to find no one available in the foyer or any of the immediate surrounding rooms to help her with her luggage. Her uncle’s staff was every bit as disinterested in their work as the Haldon staff was proud of theirs.
She’d heard one or two of Benton’s more democratic residents refer to Baron Eppersly as “a great champion of the downtrodden.” In truth, her uncle’s propensity for employing the old, the infirm and—primarily—the disreputable, had nothing to do with generosity and everything to do with cold calculation. A body in dire need of food and shelter was unlikely to voice complaint over the trifling matters of irregular pay and a few careless swats of a beefy hand.
Fear, however, was a long way from gratitude, and desperation hardly qualified as a skill. As a result, most of the skeletal staff at the house spent the majority of their time either begrudgingly seeing to the baron’s demands or doing nothing at all.
“There she is!”
Mirabelle jumped at the deep bellow that echoed from the top of the stairs, but as it was one of the few voices she didn’t fear at her uncle’s home, she turned to greet its source with a smile.
On any other occasion, Mirabelle might have made a concerted effort to avoid the likes of Mr. Cunningham. The man was loud, coarse, and outrageously crude. He also, for reasons that eluded her, invariably smelled overwhelmingly of vinegar and bad cabbage.
And wasn’t it a sad statement of her predicament, she thought, that she should be relieved to see him now? But then, in comparison to the rest of the guests, Mr. Cunningham was very nearly good company. For all his repulsive habits, he was a good-natured sort. She might have even gone so far as to call him jolly. He’d never been one to carelessly toss cruel insults in her direction, and he’d always had the manners to at least keep his hands to himself.
“Mirabelle, my girl,” he bellowed, and as always, ignored the fact that she had long ago reached an age where it was no longer appropriate for him to use her given name. “Good to see you! Good to see you!”
As the sound and smell of him drew closer, she took an instinctive step back, and wondered, not for the first time, why anyone who spoke with enough volume to wake the dead would find it necessary to always repeat himself.
“It’s good to see you as well, Mr. Cunningham. Are you headed out?”
“No, no. Not feeling quite the thing, you know. Not quite the thing.”
“I’m sorry to hear of it,” she said with at least some level of sincerity. “Nothing too serious, I hope?”
“Not at all. Not at all. Touch of the ague, I think. Deuced time to come down with it.”
“It is,” she replied, because she felt as if she ought to say something. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Well, since you asked, my girl—would you send someone up with a bit of broth? I rang the bell, but no one came. Not a soul!”
She’d have been surprised to learn someone had. The odds of a functioning bell pull outside her uncle’s bedchamber and study were slim. The odds of a servant troubling themselves to answer a bell that had originated outside her uncle’s bedchamber or study were slim to none. And the odds of both events occurring at once were non ex is tent.
“I’ll see to it, but just the broth? Isn’t there anything else you’d like?”
“Well, I wouldn’t object to the broth being carried up by the blonde maid with the generous bosom.” He brought his hands up to cup in front of his own appreciative chest. “Wouldn’t object a bit. Sight like that would perk any man up, eh?”
His face lit up, and in a way that had Mirabelle taking another step in retreat. She knew that expression.
“Perk a man up! Right up!” He laughed boisterously at his own joke, sending a cabbage-soaked breath in her direction. “Don’t you get it, girl?”
“I do,” she gasped.
“Not that I’d be able to do much more than stand to attention, mind you,” he admitted over a lingering chuckle. “Or that she’d pay one jot of notice if I did, not with the likes of Lord Thurston in residence. I did hear right, didn’t I, girl? Thurston will be joining us?”
“Yes. Unless he falls off his horse and breaks his neck on the way over,” she added, and with just enough hopefulness to have him chortling.
“I’ve caught sight of his lordship once or twice at Tatter-sall’s. Deuced good-looking man—the rotter—don’t tell me you wouldn’t care for a bit of what he could offer.”
“Only i
f the bit is his head, and it’s offered on a platter.”
“Oh-ho, I don’t believe it. Don’t believe a word of it. You may be able to fool others, girl, but not me. Known you since you were knee-high, haven’t I? Practically an uncle!”
“If only,” she murmured. If she had to have an embarrassing uncle, she’d have preferred this one. “I’d wager the baron would trade me for that roan mare you’re always bragging about.”
“My Gertie? Trade my only child for a mere niece?” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t make any sense. Any sense at all. And she throws fillies besides—doubt you’d be as accommodating.”
“Sadly, I do lack that particular skill.”
“Well, you’ve the look of a woman who’ll bear strong sons, and that’s nothing to thumb your nose at. Nothing at all.” He leaned forward, squinting his eyes. “Why aren’t you married yet? Must be nearing twenty by now.”
She was stunned into silence for a moment before breaking into laughter.
“Bless you, Uncle Cunningham.”
She left him to discover if a certain blonde maid wouldn’t mind a bit of harmless ogling.
As it happened, the maid in question was only too delighted at the chance to be ogled, and Mirabelle wondered if the pert young woman would be ending the evening a bauble or a few coins wealthier. Not her concern, she told herself, and hardly the most scandalous thing to have happened at a house party—particularly when said party was hosted by her uncle. She put it aside and focused on digging up a few maids and footmen to clean and air out a room for their last-minute guest, Lord Thurston.
They finished just in time. She was coming down the steps, her arms full of the old linens, and a grumbling maid trailing behind her, when a knock sounded at the front door. Since the maid didn’t offer to answer the summons, Mirabelle handed over her burden and instructions to see the linens laundered—which she rather doubted would happen—and saw to the door herself.
Though she’d spent the whole of the morning preparing for his arrival, seeing Whit standing on the steps of her uncle’s home made her heart jump painfully. Feeling near to panic, she envisioned slamming the door and locking it behind her. If she’d thought for a moment that such an act might induce him to leave, she would have done it without compunction. But he’d only find another way in. Pity Christian had already removed the dog. That might have at least slowed him down.
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