She pushed away from the door and headed toward her room. She would have to write to Clara at once warning her and Emmett of this imposter pretending to be Mr. Tempest. There was little else she could do at the moment. She certainly couldn’t return to London until after the ball. There was entirely too much to accomplish. With the appearance of this charlatan, it was more important than ever that she receive the bonus Winfield had promised her for having the ball held at Fairborough. Garret and Tempest’s days could very well be numbered. Even if accepting that bonus did now seem the tiniest bit wrong of her, it would go for a good cause. She was not about to allow her employees to lose their livelihoods without some sort of financial compensation.
Besides, the Midsummer Ball was a tradition at Fairborough and was important to Winfield and his family. Miranda would do all she could to make certain it was an evening to remember.
Then she would deal with the fraudulent Mr. Tempest.
Then she would confess all to Winfield.
In the meantime, it might be best to keep her distance. The man was entirely too tempting to resist. But then, hadn’t someone told her that wicked men usually were?
Chapter 25
“I think it looks quite marvelous.” Lady Fairborough gazed around the newly rebuilt grand entry of Fairborough Hall and gestured with the notebook that had become permanently affixed to her hand in recent days. “There’s an element of, well, magic about it, I would say.”
“Exactly as we intended,” Miranda said with a satisfied nod.
“I couldn’t be more pleased with the progress here, even if the hall is not completely finished. But, as we do want everything restored to its original appearance, that cannot be helped. It was really foolish of any of us to think . . .”
In the last week, Mr. Clarke’s men had been split between work on the house itself and preparations for the ball, as had most of the servants from the manor. Ferns and palms and all manner of tropical foliage had been gathered from the Fairborough conservatory—untouched by any damage from the fire—as well as borrowed from the conservatory at Millworth and arranged to form a sort of living corridor leading guests from the front entry to the grand stairway. Interspersed with the foliage were white painted, simple, tall, square pedestals with chandeliers affixed to them to provide adequate lighting while still being far enough away from the plants to prevent any possibility of fire. Here in the grand entry, as well as on the ground and first floors leading into the ballroom, all the walls were covered in dark blue dyed muslin with silver spangles glued on in a random manner to give the impression of the night sky. Here too the walls, as well as the ceiling, were hidden by blue fabric dotted with spangles. The enormous chandelier that Lady Fairborough had selected in London to replace the one lost in the fire had been delivered some weeks ago but only uncrated and hung in recent days.
But the ballroom was little more than a large open space leading guests to the terrace. While the tall French doors had been installed, they would be taken off their hinges tomorrow and removed. Guests would freely flow from inside to the out-of-doors, the idea being that one might not be sure if the stars one was under were real or an illusion. Each doorway was flanked by large urns, which would be filled to overflowing with fresh flowers. That was a final touch and could not be arranged until hours before the first guests arrived.
Below the terrace, much of the lawn was hidden by a temporary wooden floor for dancing. Tables and chairs had already been placed on the tennis and croquet courts. Fairborough’s kitchen had been cleaned of the lingering effects of the smoke and was now operational. All in all, preparations were very nearly completed for the Fairborough Hall Midsummer Ball.
Something of a pity, really.
As long as Miranda’s head was filled with the myriad details of turning a half-finished construction site into the magical location for a century-old tradition she didn’t need to consider the implications of the fraudulent Mr. Tempest. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out who he was or what he had to gain from his impersonation.
The question of what to do about Mr. Tempest led directly to the question of what to do about Winfield. Yet another thing she could not get off her mind. When she wasn’t thinking about Tempest, she was thinking about Winfield. When she wasn’t thinking about Winfield she was dreaming about him. Oh bother, it was all so blasted complicated and she had no—
“Miranda? Are you listening to me?”
Miranda’s attention jerked back to the older woman. “Yes, of course.”
Lady Fairborough arched a disbelieving brow.
“My mind might have wandered for a moment . . .”
“My dear girl, your mind has been anywhere but on the matters at hand ever since Winfield returned yesterday.”
“Oh, I daresay—”
“What is even more puzzling”—Lady Fairborough’s eyes narrowed—“is that you seem to be avoiding him as well.”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Lady Fairborough.” Winfield’s mother was far more perceptive than Miranda had realized. It did seem best, at the moment, to stay as far away from him as possible. Being around him just muddled her mind and made her long to be in his arms. Miranda busied herself adjusting a potted banana tree and adopted a casual tone. “I have simply had a great deal on my mind, that’s all. The ball is tomorrow and there is still much to accomplish.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.” Lady Fairborough started up the stairs and Miranda trailed after her. “I didn’t for a moment think that it was because someone was unsure of his or her feelings.”
“Lady Fairborough.”
The older woman stopped and glanced back at her. Miranda met her gaze directly. “I am not the least bit unsure of my feelings.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “And Winfield’s?”
Miranda shrugged. “That is another question, isn’t it? One only he can answer.”
“How very interesting. Well, we shall see, won’t we?” Lady Fairborough continued up the stairs. She reached the top, looked around and nodded with satisfaction. “One cannot discount the influence of magic, you know.”
“Magic?” Miranda’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Look around, Miranda.” Lady Fairborough swept into the ballroom, pride sounded in her voice. “We have created nothing less than magic here. Why, anything can happen in a setting like this. Tomorrow night will certainly be a night filled with magic.” She sighed. “It’s a pity the queen isn’t coming, although she would have been a great deal of trouble.”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Not at all. I really never expected that she would come. It was scarcely more than a rumor that she would attend in the first place.” She shrugged. “Besides, as I said, it would have been a great deal of trouble and we still have more than enough to do without a royal visit.” She glanced down at her notebook.
“Lady Fairborough,” Miranda said abruptly. “Might I ask you a question?”
“Of course. Anything, dear,” the older woman said absently, her gaze shifting from her notebook to the blue spangled fabric on the ceiling.
Miranda drew a deep breath. “Do you think complete and total honesty is important between a husband and wife?”
Lady Fairborough glanced at her. “Complete and total honesty?”
Miranda nodded.
“That was not the question I was expecting.” She chuckled. “However, I do think complete and total honesty is without doubt the worst thing that can happen between two people. It leads to comments like him saying your favorite gown makes your waist look wide or you pointing out that perhaps if he had ever learned to drive properly, your carriages wouldn’t lose quite so many wheels. That sort of thing.”
“I see.”
“However, before one marries, relative honesty does strike me as a good idea.” She picked a stray thread off the fabric. “Is whatever it is you’re hiding so very terrible then?”
“Oh, I didn’t say—”
“
Did you poison your first husband?” she asked in a casual manner.
Miranda gasped. “Of course not!”
“Are you secretly married to an Italian count?”
Shock widened Miranda’s eyes. “Lady Fairborough!”
“Have you ever been employed by or managed a brothel for wealthy gentlemen of society?”
Miranda gasped. “I cannot believe—”
“Have you changed your name after committing a heinous crime?”
Miranda stared at the older woman.
“I thought not.” Lady Fairborough shrugged. “If we can eliminate all of those possibilities, then I can’t imagine your secret to be at all dreadful.”
“I am the architect of Fairborough Hall,” Miranda blurted.
“Don’t be absurd. He died nearly three centuries ago.” Lady Fairborough thought for a moment. “Perhaps a bit less, but I really cannot be certain.”
“No.” Impatience sounded in Miranda’s voice. “I mean I am the architect who designed the plans for the rebuilding.”
“Oh, I see.” Winfield’s mother smiled. “How delightful.”
“Delightful?” Miranda stared. “You’re not shocked that I am doing work that has always been the purview of men?”
“Perhaps I would have been before I met you. Before the fire, really.” She directed a firm glance at Miranda. “Losing much of what you hold dear puts everything in a much different perspective. I might well have been a little shocked if I hadn’t known that you don’t merely represent Garret and Tempest but you run the firm as well.”
Miranda drew her brows together. “How did you know that?”
“Your mother told me.” Lady Fairborough checked something off in her notebook, then proceeded across the ballroom floor to the open doorways leading to the terrace.
Miranda hurried after her. “How did my mother know?”
“I have no idea.” Lady Fairborough’s gaze scanned the terrace. “I have long made it a point not to question where other people get their information, but mothers do tend to know everything. One can rarely hide something from one’s mother.”
“But . . .” Her brothers, of course! They must have told Mother everything. Her jaw clenched. She would have to kill them. All of them. Slowly and with a great deal of satisfaction on her part.
“Although, if I recall correctly, didn’t you say you intended to tell your family yourself?”
“I did tell them.” Miranda ignored the slightest twinge of guilt. “Some of them, anyway. When did you see my mother?”
Lady Fairborough cast her a chastising look. “I thought you only had one question?”
“One just seems to lead to another.”
“It always does.” She waved off the comment. “I saw your mother when I went into London to tell my son he was being something of a . . . of a . . .”
“A twit?”
“Exactly.” Lady Fairborough stepped onto the terrace and frowned. She waved her notebook at the scaffoldings still in place on the ground on either side of the terrace. “I assume those will be taken down before the festivities? They’re not at all in the spirit of the event.”
“They’re just finishing up work on the windows. They’ll come down tomorrow.” She paused. “One more question.” Miranda held her breath. “Should I tell Winfield the truth about my work?”
“Under other circumstances, I would say that particular revelation could wait until after the two of you are wed. However . . .” She thought for a moment. “My son has had three fiancées who were not completely honest with him. With them, as it turned out, it was not overly significant. But with you . . .” She smiled. “He is in love with you, my dear. Your deception might well hurt him deeply.”
“And he would think I didn’t trust him,” Miranda said under her breath. “I am willing to give up Garret and Tempest, but I do wish to continue my work.”
“As well you should.”
“What if he forbids it? As my husband, that would be his right.”
“Precisely why you should tell him before you marry. But I can’t imagine him forbidding you to do anything, nor can I imagine you not standing your ground.”
“He has very strong opinions on what women should or should not do.”
“And I doubt if that has changed. But Winfield is not an idiot. Your love of your work makes you who you are, the woman he has fallen in love with. You have a gift, Miranda, and my son has recognized that. You have proven to him, to the world really, that you can do this as well as any man. And to that I say bravo!”
“Thank you, but—”
“And I would be quite disappointed if you were to abandon work that you love and do so well.” She studied the younger woman. “Let me tell you something about myself. I have spent my entire life doing and being exactly what and who I was supposed to be. I married well, as I was expected to do, raised my son, ran my household and I’ve been a perfect hostess, wife and mother. I never ran off to Paris to live in an attic in Montmartre and create wild, improper works of art. I never had mad, impetuous affairs with foreign princes and counts with unpronounceable names. I never swam nude in a mountain lake while a poet composed sonnets about the color of my eyes.”
Miranda stared.
“All of which is far more unforgiveable in the eyes of society than what you have done.” She thought for a moment. “Do not take my comments for regret. I have quite enjoyed my life although I do wish I had done more. And once Winfield is settled, I intend to.”
“You do?” Miranda said cautiously.
“There are things in this world I will never do, but there are any number of things I wish to see. And I intend to drag my husband along with me. We shall see the pyramids and China’s Great Wall and buffalos in the wilds of America. And when we return”—she squared her shoulders—“I intend to vote.”
“I’m not sure I would tell your son that. About voting, that is,” she added.
“Oh, but telling Winfield will be the most enjoyable part of it.” She flashed Miranda a wicked smile.
Miranda laughed, then sobered. “You’re right though, I do need to tell him everything. Especially . . .”
“There’s something else, isn’t there?”
“I’m afraid so.” Miranda explained the appearance of the fraudulent Mr. Tempest.
“That is a problem. And I can certainly see why you don’t wish to involve Winfield in this. At least not yet. But you do need something of a plan, I think.” Lady Fairborough’s brow furrowed in a considering manner; then her expression brightened. “I have it. You, my dear, need a professional.”
“A professional?”
“An investigator.” Lady Fairborough nodded. “You need to uncover the truth about this man as quickly as possible. Although nothing can really be done until after the ball.”
Miranda shook her head. “I have no idea how to find an investigator.”
“Nor do I, but I would wager Camille does. She can no doubt supply the name of someone who will be both efficient and discreet.”
“That is a good idea.” She should have thought of it herself. At once, it was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The moment she disposed of the problem of the imposter, she could tell Winfield everything. Then, of course, she’d probably have to do battle with the stubborn man. Still, there was nothing quite as much fun as arguing with him although this was much more important than any of their previous disputes had been. This one she did not intend to lose.
For both of them, the stakes were entirely too high.
This was absurd.
Win paced the floor of the Fairborough library. It was good to be back in his own home even if it was not entirely finished. The wiring for the electricity had been completed in the family’s wing, as well as in the newly rebuilt portion of the house, but would not be operational until the generating system was fully installed. As much as he hated to admit it, the prospect was vaguely exciting. If, of course, it didn’t burn the house down. Again. But he had
greater concerns at the moment.
He and Miranda had been avoiding one another since Chapman’s visit. She had obviously been too busy to give him more than a second thought, which was understandable but no less annoying. Aside from that, the matter of the fraudulent Mr. Tempest was surely weighing on her mind. Win had thought it wise to keep his distance until he decided exactly what his next step would be. But it had proven harder than he had imagined, as all he wanted was to be with her. The days were bad enough, but the nights . . .
Still, he had finally reached a decision. He could wait no longer to resolve things between them. The ball was in a few hours and he would confess everything to her before the guests arrived. It might not be a good plan, but it did seem to him, that no matter how furious she might be, the hours of enforced gaiety at the ball would serve to ease her anger. At least he hoped so.
He had no idea exactly what he would say although he had attempted to rehearse any number of variations on the same theme. Nothing struck him as quite right. Still, he hoped the words would come when he needed them. They always had with women in the past. But this was no ordinary woman. This was Miranda, the one woman, the only woman, who had captured his heart.
The one woman, the only woman, who could destroy it.
“Miranda!” Camille waved from the terrace and started down the stairs toward her.
Miranda stood on the dance floor and waved back. She had been studying the scene laid out before her with a fair amount of pride and more than a little satisfaction. The musicians were setting up on one side of the terrace. The scaffolding was in the process of being taken down. The urns were being filled with flowers. She had just inspected both the tennis and croquet courts and all looked, well, perfect.
The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) Page 30