The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London Book 1)

by Adele Clee

  “I see what you mean. A lady left without provision would be keen to take possession of the property,” he agreed. “And there is no stipulation preventing the sale of the manor. I wonder where she lives now?”

  Disappointment flared once again.

  While living at Morton Manor had caused Nicole nothing but misery these last six months, the independence that came with ownership would have solved all her problems. Of course, her friendship with Rose was the only good thing to come from the whole debacle.

  But Rose was still missing. And the weight of the burden hung like a thick iron chain around her neck.

  The carriage rattled to a stop on Howland Street, and they knocked at number twenty. A maid answered. Fine beads of perspiration littered the young woman’s brow. It took a moment for her to catch her breath. Upon learning that a peer hovered on the doorstep, she immediately invited them in and rushed to find her mistress.

  Mrs Wild came to greet them. She tried to appear pleased, but her grim lips betrayed her inner thoughts.

  “My lord. What a pleasure it is to welcome you into our humble home. I only wish it were under less harrowing circumstances.” The woman sucked in a breath in an effort to suppress the tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  Nicole’s heart raced. The solicitor became ill over an hour ago. Surely, he’d not left to meet his maker?

  “I trust Mr Wild is still with us?” the earl asked with some hesitance, evidently thinking the worst, too.

  Indeed, it was not an insensitive question. Mrs Wild’s eyes were red beneath the bottom lids. The surrounding air brimmed with a tense energy. The woman clutched her stomach when she spoke as one would when the pain of hunger became too great. However, judging by her round figure, that was not the case.

  “Yes, yes. He is resting in his chamber.” Mrs Wild nodded. “But he has never looked so pale.”

  “Is it possible to see him? Perhaps we can help.”

  The woman glanced back over her shoulder at the bare wall. “I suppose it can’t hurt. Follow me. But you must excuse the slight odour. I’d open the windows, but the stench outside is equally pungent this morning.”

  They climbed the stairs to Wild’s bedchamber. Mrs Wild opened the door a fraction and peered around the jamb. From the gut-churning smell, it was evident the solicitor had emptied the entire contents of his bowels and stomach.

  “Mr Wild,” she whispered. “Lord Stanton is here to see you.”

  A mournful groan resonated in the room beyond. “What? S-send him in.”

  Mrs Wild turned to face them. “Are you sure you want to go in there? What if it’s contagious?”

  “We shall be fine, Mrs Wild.” Oliver pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Nicole. “I suspect your husband has consumed something that disagrees with him. That is all.”

  “As long as you’re sure, my lord.”

  “Miss Flint may remain outside if she so wishes,” Oliver said.

  He was teasing her, for he knew she had an inquisitive mind and was eager to examine the situation herself. Else why had he given her the handkerchief? She brought it to her nose and inhaled the scent that made her knees tremble.

  “Not at all.” Nicole offered the earl a confident smile. “I have a strong constitution, Mrs Wild, and can tolerate most things.” She’d coped with Jeremy’s foul tirades and fiery temper. Had eaten food fit for a dog when Mrs Gripes was in a bad mood.

  “I would have expected nothing less,” he said staring at her with those soulful blue eyes.

  With slow, light steps they entered the room.

  The heavy drapes covered the window. The only light came from the solitary candle burning on the side table near the bed. Mr Wild was lying back against a mound of white pillows. He looked frail without his fancy periwig. His eyes were grey, lacked life and brilliance. His sallow complexion was a clear indication he had lost a lot of fluid. Thankfully, the chamber pot he clutched at his side was empty, though the odd involuntary spasm suggested another expulsion was likely.

  “My lord,” Mr Wild croaked as he raised a withered hand. “Come in. I am only—” He paused and coughed into a linen towel. “Forgive me, my … my throat is as dry as the ink on my newspaper.”

  “Please.” The earl raised his hand. “We will keep you but a moment and then you must rest.” He gestured to Nicole. “Excuse the hurried introduction, but this lady is Miss Flint.”

  “Flint? Ah, the heir to Morton Manor.”

  Nicole studied the solicitor’s expression. From his relaxed facial muscles and sleepy gaze, he was not at all surprised by her appearance. Therefore, he could not have met the other Miss Flint this morning.

  “Indeed.”

  “Well, your business must … must be urgent else you’d not have taken the trouble to come. I … I trust Andrews told you where to find me.”

  “He did. But we are here merely out of concern.”

  Mr Wild’s eyes brightened, if only momentarily. “Oh.”

  “Do you recall what happened when you first took ill?” Nicole said. If the earl suspected treachery, it stood to reason someone wanted Mr Wild out of the way.

  “I’d finished my … my morning tea and was about to check the day’s appointments.” Mr Wild thrust his head over the chamber pot and heaved. Three times he retched but failed to rid his body of the irritation.

  Nicole stepped forward and used the towel to mop the man’s brow. “The tea you drank, did it taste the same as usual?”

  Mr Wild sucked in a breath. “I complained to Andrews, told him the water was stale.”

  “And when did you begin to feel ill?”

  “I was read-reading the diary, but the words kept dancing about on the page. The pain … in my stomach … forgive me.” He closed his eyes. “I'm so … so tired.”

  Nicole touched her fingers to his wrist. His pulse was steady and even. “We should let him sleep. We can call again tomorrow.”

  With a grim expression, the earl nodded. They crept out of the room and down the stairs.

  Mrs Wild met them in the hall. “Do you think he’ll recover?”

  “I would refuse any other visitors until his condition improves.” There was a hint of apprehension in the earl’s tone that was sure to worry Mrs Wild.

  Nicole put her hand on the woman’s arm. “He needs rest and must take plenty of fluid. Small sips, but often. Mint tea is said to rid the body of whatever irritant is causing the problem. Some say sucking on the leaves helps.”

  Mrs Wild forced a smile and nodded, albeit weakly.

  “Miss Flint is knowledgeable in most things,” the earl said offering his support. “Whatever she suggests has merit.”

  “Of course, my lord.” Mrs Wild curtsied. “And I thank you both for coming.”

  As soon as they took their seats in the carriage, the earl could no longer contain his frustration.

  “What the devil is going on?” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There are so many complications to this mystery my mind is jumping about like a hungry flea.”

  “Then you think someone deliberately poisoned Mr Wild’s tea so he would be out of the office today?”

  “Don’t you? It appears he has ingested something that disagrees with him.”

  “If you suspect foul play, then the only possible culprit is Andrews.” The clerk didn't seem like a man capable of committing such a heinous crime. “You can tell the character of a man from his eyes. Mr Andrews looks upon the world with wonder. Those with a penchant for evil have a vacant look. Their eyes are nothing but cold glass spheres with the power to hold you in a vice-like grip.”

  The earl frowned. “There is something about your comment I find disturbing.”

  “Why? Did your father not have a hard, deathly stare?”

  “Sometimes. His harsh words stung like a whip, but his eyes often lacked conviction. What disturbs me is that you speak from experience. I saw the flash of fear in your eyes as your mind conjured the image.
”

  Nicole sighed. The earl was incredibly perceptive. “One’s memory can make a situation appear far worse than it was in reality.” She was not referring to her own situation. Now was not the time to discuss her brother’s failings. “Any form of injustice rouses anger in one’s chest. Thinking about the awful things that might have happened rouses fear.”

  “In my father’s case, the story reads like a Shakespearean tragedy. The man’s flaws and moral weaknesses brought him just as much pain as he inflicted on others. He died on his own, with his family despising him.”

  Nicole felt a sliver of pity, for no one wanted to die alone. “And while his part is over, we are still performers in his play.”

  “The question is, are the lines already written and how many acts are—” The earl stopped abruptly. “The play, of course.” With a sudden burst of excitement, he thrust forward, captured her face between his hands and planted a kiss on her lips. “That’s it!”

  Stunned, Nicole blinked rapidly.

  “Devil take me, I knew I had seen that woman before,” he continued, sitting back in the seat. With a wide grin, he perused Nicole’s faded green dress. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Miss Flint, but your plan to hide in this carriage has been scuppered. Indeed, who knows, I may get to call you my mistress after all.”

  Nicole struggled to make sense of his ramblings.

  “Oh, and why is that?” She liked seeing him smile, and he appeared ecstatic.

  “Because tonight, I am taking you to the theatre.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Oliver had underestimated the depth of his obsession for Nicole Flint. That fact became apparent as he watched her descend the stairs. The scowl marring her pretty face failed to banish the intense craving that had grown inside him from seedling to sapling to something far more sturdy and robust. While waiting in the hall of Stanton House, he’d heard her stomps and grumbles. Though as he surveyed the beauty standing before him, he struggled to understand her complaint.

  “Well?” She threw her arms out wide, giving him a perfect view of her ample breasts squashed into a gown that was evidently too tight. “Now can you see what a ridiculous idea this is?”

  Oh, he could see. Thankfully, there was nothing wrong with his eyesight. And yet he would have paid a king’s ransom for a monocle to assist in a more thorough inspection.

  “Are you speaking of the gown?” He stepped closer, drawn forward by the magnificent spectacle. “Or does it have more to do with your irrational fear of stepping out of a carriage?”

  “Of course I’m speaking of the gown.” She glanced down, forcing his attention to all the places he should not dare to look. “Beth tied my stays so tight I can barely breathe. Besides, there is nothing irrational about preferring to stay indoors.”

  Mounds of soft, creamy flesh swelled up from the neckline. Bloody hell. He’d contained his rampant thoughts up till now. When it came to dressing Miss Flint, white silk definitely did not convey innocence. She looked every bit a scandalous mistress — dazzling, defiant, deliciously tempting.

  “You must bear it for an hour or two, no more.”

  She raised a brow. “Are you speaking of the dress or the theatre?”

  “Both.” It would be just as difficult for him. How the hell was he to keep his hands off her?

  “Well, I appreciate your honesty.”

  “There’s no other option open to us.” He didn’t need her to attend. But he wanted an excuse to spend time in her company. He wanted to show her that the role of mistress would be far more fulfilling than that of a paid companion. “Unless you’d prefer to walk away, happy in the knowledge that an imposter has inherited the house that should belong to you.”

  “We do not know that she is an imposter.”

  “The lady is not who she claims to be.” Of that he was certain. “And tonight, we will find proof.”

  “If you expect to find her at the theatre, then you must believe she’s an actress.” Nicole tugged and fussed with the low neckline, and it took every effort to keep his gaze fixed on her face. “If she is an imposter, she played the role of Miss Flint extremely well.”

  “Oh, our fake Miss Flint is not an actress. But we shall find her at the Haymarket tonight.”

  The footman had returned with news confirming that Miss Charlotte Brooke was playing Catherine in a production of Henry V at the Haymarket. Before leaving for the Continent, Oliver had entertained Miss Brooke in her dressing room on a couple of occasions.

  “If memory serves me,” he continued, “Miss Flint is a maid to one of the best actresses ever to grace the stage.”

  “A maid?” Nicole scrunched her pretty nose. “Surely not. The lady is too graceful, speaks far too eloquently for a servant.”

  Oliver considered her point. Equally, the lady standing opposite oozed charm and sophistication. Perhaps it was time for an honest discussion regarding Miss Flint’s mysterious background.

  “Do not sound so surprised. You’re a gentleman’s daughter posing as a paid companion.”

  There, he’d said it. Now he need do nothing but gauge her reaction.

  She opened her mouth, paused and snapped it shut.

  “I am not blind, Miss Flint.” And at the present moment, he was extremely grateful for that. His gaze dropped to the sumptuous valley — a path he longed to explore. The sight was more inspiring than any natural landform he’d ever seen. “You have received tuition in all social graces. You have the deportment of a duchess, the manners of a marchioness. Well, you do when a man with shackled wrists and a handkerchief stuffed in his mouth isn't chasing you down the stairs.”

  The corners of her mouth curled up a fraction. “Many ladies find themselves in unfortunate positions. Many have no choice but to work for a living.”

  Was that an admission? “Then you do not deny the fact?”

  “Not at all. But whether I was born a lady or a servant matters not anymore.”

  It mattered to him. Or did it? If he discovered her parents were weavers from Whitechapel, would he be reluctant to pursue a liaison? Hell no! But if her parents were landed gentry, what then? To take a lady to his bed was another matter entirely. Still, he wanted her. Regardless of what obstacles came his way.

  “So your parents are no longer with us?” He scoured the recesses of his mind in an attempt to think of a family with the name Flint.

  “My mother died five years ago, and my father quickly followed.” She bit down on her bottom lip and blinked rapidly. Water filled her eyes, and she tried to shake it away. “It was a long time ago. One day life is full of hope and possibility. The next … well, suffice to say things have not gone entirely to plan.”

  Oliver placed a gloved hand on her arm. “They say time is a great healer, but often our memories are as raw as the day they were created.” He spoke of his mother’s death, not his father’s. Like Rose, she had been a bright light in the darkness. A bearer of truth, not deceit. For the first time since he’d buried all the painful memories, he felt a sharp stab to his heart. “Loved ones are often missed, but never forgotten.”

  She covered his hand with her own. Though vastly smaller in size, the heat from her palm seeped through his gloves to soothe him. Most ladies would have pressed for an explanation. But she simply looked into his eyes and communicated a sense of togetherness, of solidarity.

  He’d wanted to bed her since their first meeting at the manor. But he’d been thinking with his cock. Now every fibre of his being needed to join with her so desperately.

  “Well,” she said with a sigh. “We cannot stand here all night dredging up the past. If we’re to go to the theatre, I must find something to protect my modesty. Do you think I’ll receive a few disapproving glares if I wear a shawl?”

  He imagined the scenario if she bared all. Every scoundrel would seek an introduction merely to appraise the newcomer. With sleight of hand, they would pass their calling cards, make sure she knew exactly where to find them. The more dissolute would se
ek an opportunity to capture her on her own, pull her into their box and press their advances. After all, a man’s mistress was fair game.

  God damn, he’d be sparring in the stalls before the play had even begun. He’d be brawling in the pit with any man who so much as looked at her in the wrong way.

  “Market sellers wear shawls,” he said bringing his thoughts back to the present. “Ask Beth to find you a silk wrap to drape over your shoulders. See if she can secure it with a brooch.”

  “A brooch?” Nicole narrowed her gaze. “Did you not say that a mistress was supposed to expose her bounties to the world? Is one not required to dress scandalously?”

  He had said that. Numerous times. But he was a damn fool. And the thought of declaring Nicole his mistress seemed distasteful to him now.

  She deserved so much more than that.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicole had heard talk of the lavish interior of the Haymarket Theatre. Jeremy and Rowena were frequent visitors when the cards were kind, and his creditors appeased. But their family box was now the property of Lord Callum. Won in a game of faro along with Jeremy’s racing curricle and an Arabian horse named Chance, of all things.

  And so, Nicole had only ever glimpsed the resplendent building from the outside.

  Rowena’s obsession with Parisian fashions meant there were few modistes in London willing to extend them credit. A new gown for Nicole came far down on the list of necessities. Below her sister-in-law’s subscription to La Belle Assemblée. Below the two pugs that saw Rowena sobbing on Jeremy’s shoulder, insistent she would simply die if she didn’t have them. What was the point of wasting funds on Nicole when Lord Mosgrove had already offered an extortionate sum for her hand?

  Lord Mosgrove was a man besotted. With an estate that boasted ten thousand acres, he had no need of a dowry. Many ladies were willing to overlook his foul breath, hooked nose and sunken eyes. Yet, to her misfortune, the gentleman had developed a passion for fiery hair and an impertinent tongue.