Her breath caught. Sir Bartholomew.
Or rather, the man from The Tangled Fleece. So startled by his presence, she almost forgot her father had abandoned her, not even introducing the two of them. She hoped she did not blush.
Sir Bartholomew, or whoever this stranger was, removed from one of the parlor chairs and bowed. When their eyes met, he appeared as arrested as she. His eyes widened, and his smirk turned to a frown.
“Miss Abigail Walsley?”
“Yes. And you?”
His smirk returned. “You should know very well who I am.”
Shaking her head and lacing her fingers at her waist, she said, “I’m afraid I don’t. Have we met before?”
“Mr. Percival Randall.” He sank into a slower, deeper bow, flourishing his hand.
Abbie thought for a moment. The only Randall who came to mind was one of her aunt’s neighbors, Freddie Randall, though she knew of him as Lord Monkworth and had never actually met him. Aunt Gertrude spoke of him often enough. Amiable fellow, she had said.
Shaking her head again, she said, “Your name isn’t familiar. I do apologize. Would you care to sit? My father will bring tea shortly.”
Confused but accustomed to playing hostess to the varied guests who called on her father at the vicarage, she waved to his previously occupied chair and took a seat opposite him.
Mr. Randall accepted the chair, his smirk broadening. “I had hoped this to be an easy matter to settle, but I can tell you’re going to play coy. Denial, I admit, was not the approach I anticipated.”
Spine straight and hands clasped in her lap, Abbie asked, “Would you please speak plainly? I’m not in the habit of playing coy, and I have nothing to deny, at least not that I’m as of yet aware. Why have you called on me?”
He studied her, made to speak, then studied her further. In the time it took him to take her measure, she had nearly lost herself in the depths of those hazel eyes. It was unnerving to be in the same room as her hero, especially since he was not really her hero. Had other writers suffered such encounters? Fearing she was blushing, she reached a hand to the knot at her nape. All in order, no loose strands.
“I shall, as you instruct, speak plainly,” he said. “You informed Lord Dunley that you were betrothed to me.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. There could be no doubt she was flushed now. She could feel the flame in her cheeks.
“I did not!” Abbie defended. “I would never! I don’t even know you.”
“Hardly material in this matter. You knew of me enough to compromise my name.”
“No! No, no, no, I said nothing of the sort. I don’t know you or of you and thus gave your name to no one.” A feeling of dread settled into the pit of her stomach. If the floor could swallow her, she would gladly sink. Had Lord Dunley misunderstood her, or was this man some sort of spy sent to ascertain if she were truly engaged? She had to be careful what she said for fear of the latter. “What is this about, Mr. Randall? Help me to understand.”
“I received a letter from Lord Dunley naming me as your betrothed. He gave strict instructions for me to find a way to break off the engagement, complete with bribery, I might add. I confess I am uncertain if you’ve set about this intentionally, hoping to catch a husband of me—in which case, you will be sorely disappointed—or if there has been a mistake. Has Lord Dunley confused your true betrothed with me? If so, we can make quick work to remedy the situation.”
Oh, this was too much. What had Lord Dunley done? What had she done? Abbie stared down at her hands, not sure how much to say.
“Do you have the letter with you?”
After a moment’s pause, he said, “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Pulling the letter from his pocket, a pocket she could not help but notice came with a bespoke ensemble that matched his eyes, he handed her the paper. He and his coat were far more thrilling than whatever missive she held. London tailoring through and through, not a sign of a stitch or seam. It was the most expensive suit she had ever seen. The man who went with the suit filled it admirably, a lean and unpadded physique. Not that she should be staring at his physique when there was a letter to read.
She looked over both the seal and the address on the back before reading. Could Lord Dunley have forged it in hopes of ferreting out the truth of her betrothal? She did not believe so. The letter looked well-traveled, not as though it had been handed directly from the viscount to a spy. Although she knew little of Mr. Randall, he appeared earnest.
That his lordship could have connected this man to the description she had given beggared belief. Yes, if she could have given a more exacting description of her fictitious beau, he would look like this man, but what she had told Lord Dunley had been wholly vague.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Randall. I never gave him a name. I gave the vaguest of descriptions, something along the lines of brown hair, hazel eyes, and knightly. That could fit hundreds of men in England. I did mention I met my betrothed in East Hagbourne, which seems to be the connecting factor, but this is truly a matter of mistaken identity, one that can be easily rectified. Inform Lord Dunley that he has the wrong man.”
Mr. Randall rubbed his chin in thought before taking the letter and folding it back into his pocket.
“It’s become rather more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t see why. Tell him he has the wrong man, and return to wherever it is you’re from, East Hagbourne or otherwise. You’ll not be bothered by my affairs again. I apologize for the confusion, but this is all a silly mix-up easily rectified.”
He tugged another letter out of his pocket and handed it to her.
As she read the words of Lord Camforth, the blood drained from her face. “I’m certain it’s not as bad as this. Write to your father and inform him that there was a mistake.”
“Miss Walsley.” He paused to clear his throat. “It’s worse even than this. The best way, in fact the only way, I can see of resolving this problem is to announce your true intended. Regardless of your reasons for keeping the engagement secret, invite him to meet Lord Dunley, a supper party perhaps. Send an announcement of some sort to the London newspapers. Have the banns read. Let it be known who your intended is and thus clear my name from this debacle. Even then, it could be messy, as it could look as though I’ve been cuckolded, but it’s the best solution at present.”
“I hardly see how a confusion with your father and the viscount is cause for such pomp. Send a letter to both informing them of their mistake, and all will be well.”
Mr. Randall laughed hollowly. “You fail to understand the magnitude of this. Everyone in London thinks we’re engaged. I couldn’t walk into my gentleman’s club without being congratulated by all and sundry. This has ruined my prospects with a certain young lady I was courting, broken an arrangement I had with a friend, and judging from my father’s letter, spread across far more than London in a stream of gossip-filled letters. My word is nothing—a rogue’s word against a young maiden who has claimed we are engaged. Only you can undo this.”
Hiding her face in her hands, she could not decide whether to weep or laugh. If he were a spy, and she did not believe he was at this stage of the conversation, then so be it, for she had only one confession to make.
“I’m not engaged to anyone, least of all you, Mr. Randall.”
He took his time processing the words. He folded the letter from his father, tucked it into the pocket with the other letter, and stared awhile at a spot on the wall behind her before speaking.
“At least you didn’t intentionally name me,” he said with a faint smile. “I won’t question your reason for lying, but this must be undone. To clear my name, you’ll have to admit you lied. Letters, an announcement, whatever it takes.”
“I most certainly will not!” To do so would ruin her.
“Then produce another betrothe
d. Pay someone to do it, anyone, a local farmer. You must clear my name of all this. Thanks to your admirer, Lord Dunley, we’re in a bind.”
“He’s not my—”
He held up a staying hand. “I see manners will get me nowhere. Let’s skip the secrets and get to the root of this, then. Why aren’t you betrothed?”
Abbie huffed. “That is none of your concern, and I will not pay someone to pretend to be engaged to me. When I find someone with whom I can be happy and who will allow me certain freedoms, I will consider a true betrothal; until then, I do not wish to bribe someone to lie. Please leave before my father returns. This is all too humiliating.”
“Certain freedoms?” He gave her a sidelong look before saying, “While I realize your life is not my concern, I have been pulled into this. Why not marry the viscount and be done with it? He is, after all, titled.”
“Not if he were the last man on earth. He only wants me so I can be a nursemaid to his mother. I have a life of my own, I’ll have you know. I admit that I lied and told him I was betrothed since I did not think he would take no for an answer, which this situation proves. But I’ll not take that back, at least not until his attention is elsewhere. With me no longer going to the estate to see Lady Dunley, I can only hope she finds a new companion onto whom she can push her son. When that occurs, I’ll cry off my fake betrothal.”
Leaning a shoulder against the chairback, Mr. Randall propped an elbow onto the arm of the seat and drummed his fingers on his thigh. For so long he remained silent, Abbie wondered if the conversation were at an end, though to what end, she was unsure.
“How?” he asked, those long fingers moving from his thigh to his lips where they tapped a thoughtful rhythm. “How will you cry off? My reputation must remain intact or I’ll disappoint my family and ruin my marriage prospects. You clearly had a plan before I came along. What was it?”
She folded her hands one on top of the other. “Well, I have thought about this, yes, and I think I’ll pretend that my betrothed and I had a disagreement, and so I broke the engagement.”
“What kind of disagreement? This cannot make me look bad. I can’t look like a brute or heartbreaker.”
“This isn’t about you. You’re not my betrothed.” When he raised his eyebrows, she added, “I suppose you have a point, though. A mutual agreement not to move forward, then. My betrothed and I can disagree on where we wish to reside or something important of that nature that does not cast him in a negative light. Satisfactory?”
“No. You said you have to remain engaged until Lord Dunderhead finds someone else. That could be, what, five years from now? This is a ridiculous idea. Had you hoped someone would come along before then so you could elope? The logic of women…” He shook his head.
Abbie harrumphed and crossed her arms at her waist. “It could be any day, weeks at most. His mother does not do well alone. At worst, she’ll hire a companion and leave her son to return to London where he spends all his time anyway. I believe his proposal was only because she knew I wouldn’t be hired as a companion. She panicked, I think.”
“And so, that leaves me staying here anywhere from a few days to several weeks before you cry off in an amicable fashion because we can’t agree on the color of the curtains?”
“Oh no; you can’t be serious!” She laughed. “You can’t stay here and court me! You just can’t. You need to leave, go on with your life, and I’ll sort this out.”
“As smoothly as you sorted us into this mess? I don’t think so. This is my name you’re toying with now. Even if it wasn’t your intention that I was dragged into it, I am involved, and I must come out of this as marriageable as I was before. No, make that more marriageable than before the, er, misunderstanding.”
“Why are you so concerned with being marriageable? I can’t imagine you having difficulties.” The dreadful, telltale blush returned.
“Ah, the tables have turned. Now, you’re inquiring into matters not your concern. Suffice it to say, I’ve been given an ultimatum I cannot ignore. Marry I must, though I have a little under two years in which to find a bride. As long as Lord Dunce doesn’t take two years, and presuming I get out of this a hero unscathed by scandal, I’ll be pleased.”
She was afraid to ask but ask she did. “So, what does this mean?”
“It would seem, Miss Walsley, we are engaged.”
Chapter 6
Had Percival not dined on occasion with Mr. Merriweather, he might have been intimidated by the squinty glare of the Reverend Walsley, who watched his every move as though he might elope with Miss Walsley after the third course. The invitation to join the two for supper at the vicarage had not come with a disclaimer that Percy would be scrutinized and cross-examined. He was not surprised. In fact, he found it an endearing quality, raising his estimation of Mr. Walsley. The man was a devoted father who wanted the best for his daughter, not something the marriage-minded parents he was accustomed to meeting in London could boast.
The best part of supper, regardless of the unusual circumstances by which he came to the table, was his certainty that the Walsleys were genuine. Who aside from this pair would not take advantage of having a well-connected bachelor at the end of a hook? Despite his original doubts of their sincerity, he believed Miss Abigail Walsley’s story. This confusion may have come about because of her lie, but he did not take her as a woman accustomed to lying, much less manipulating.
Mr. Walsley cut his meat with a knowing glance to Percy. “Tell me. How did the two of you meet?”
Percy sputtered into his wine.
Miss Walsley set down her cutlery, her cheeks blossoming into two roses.
“By Hacca’s Brook,” Percy said, setting down his glass, his eyes on Miss Walsley rather than the vicar. “A rare day of sun had me desiring a walk through East Hagbourne, not to mention I needed an escape from my sister-in-law.”
His temporary betrothed did not look up from her plate when she added, “Yes, by the brook. I was, um, admiring the flora.”
“Just before you fell into the stream.”
“Before I what?”
She stared at him in such horror that he bit back a laugh.
Mr. Walsley did not hold back, however, chuckling at his daughter before saying to Percy, “That is exactly what I would have expected of her.”
Surprised by this insight into the young miss, Percy asked, “Is she habitually clumsy?”
“I am not clumsy!”
The vicar leaned back in his chair, smiling. “How many times this month have you spilled the ink?”
“Well—well, that’s different.”
Both men raised their eyebrows, but Percival suspected for different reasons. Only two courses into dinner, and he was already learning more than he ever imagined he would about this enigmatic web-weaver.
“What’s this about spilled ink?” he asked. “An avid letter writer? Nervous calligrapher?”
Mr. Walsley’s brow crinkled as he looked from his daughter to Percy. “Do you not know she’s a writer?”
He shook his head, studying the woman across from him. “She’s not mentioned it, no, but it makes sense. On occasion, she’s been known to weave fanciful tales.” Rather than look abashed, Miss Walsley glared at him. He flashed her a smile in response. “What is it that you write, my dear?”
“Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.” The roses returned to her cheeks as she eyed her plate.
“Anything you write is of interest to me. Come now. Confess.”
Mr. Walsley watched them as he returned to his meal.
The answer came so softly, Percy almost missed it. “Novels.”
“Novels, did you say?” He leaned forward, focusing on her with rapt attention. “What might be the content of these novels?”
Miss Walsley refused to make eye contact, looking everywhere at the table except him, her hands likely wrin
ging in her lap, as they had disappeared from the table. For whatever reason, Percy found her fetching when discomfited. She looked less like a governess and more like a young country miss who had yet to discover the fashionableness of ennui. She wore this look well.
In an even lower whisper, she said, “Chivalric romance.”
“With knightly heroes?” His smile broadened.
A nearly imperceptible nod answered him.
“By Jove. I should have known.” Percy clapped and laughed. “And when will I have the pleasure of reading your prose?”
She looked up then, blanching, but she was saved by a young footman carrying in the next course. Her relief was palpable. Did one of her knights have brown hair and hazel eyes?
Once the plates had been exchanged, Mr. Walsley asked, “And what of you, Mr. Randall? What is it you do?”
“Aside from saving damsels from Hacca’s Brook?” Percy asked rhetorically, directing his smirk to Miss Walsley. “I’m a gentleman.”
“That may very well be, but what do you do in East Hagbourne? Spend your days walking the village and avoiding sisters-in-law?”
“Only one sister-in-law. I’ve two other siblings, both younger and of my father’s second marriage. I hope they’ll marry spouses who approve of me, for Freddie’s wife thinks I’m—” Percy stopped abruptly.
Good heavens. What was he about to say? That the woman thought him a wastrel and a rake? He would have to do better than this.
Clearing his throat, he said, “That is to say, she thinks I spend too much time, er, reading. Yes, I spend far too much time indoors reading, and so she encourages me to walk about town when I visit. I live in London, but I do visit my brother often enough, typically spending a winter month there.” A quick glance to Miss Walsley’s expression set him straight. “Although this year I visited in the summer. Obviously.” He hid behind his wine and took far too long of a drink.
Mr. Walsley steepled his fingers. “And is it your intention to take my daughter with you to London?”
“I hadn’t thought—that is, it’s not something we’ve discussed.” He looked to her, hoping her novelist brain would think of something witty to say. When she did not come to his rescue, he said, “You see, I had hoped to sort out a few private affairs before officially announcing my intention. Come here, ask for her hand properly, that sort of thing.” His laugh sounded forced. “Perhaps I’ll find a place here to call home. Wouldn’t that be divine, darling?”
A Dash of Romance (Romantic Encounters: An Anthology Book 1) Page 5