It was immediately apparent that Miss Leticia Davenport had no notion of proper pitch. Her voice warbled and wavered, sometimes alighting upon the melody, most often straying from it. The Montfort girls watched her, their eyes wide. Charlie was biting his lip, and Edward looked particularly stoic.
Even Miranda’s father winced when Miss Davenport attempted the high notes, and he was notoriously immune to such things. Lady Edgerton had a strained smile pasted upon her face, but Lady Davenport smiled and nodded in time, seeming blissfully unaware of her daughter’s lack of musicality. Either she shared the same affliction, or her daughter could do no wrong in her eyes. Or both.
When at last the ballad was ended, the listeners clapped loudly – mostly from relief that the song was over.
“Oh, thank you,” Miss Davenport dipped into a polished curtsy. “Shall I play another?”
“No, no,” their hostess said. “Perhaps later. We must give everyone a turn.”
“Very well.” Miss Davenport walked over to Edward’s chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I choose you, Lord Edgerton.”
Heavens, she was obvious.
“I have no talent to share,” he said.
“Nonsense.” Charlie, a mischievous light in his eyes, snagged three polished red apples from a bowl of fruit on the nearby end table. “Stand up, Edward.”
Edward rose, possibly more to avoid Miss Davenport’s touch than to comply with Charlie’s demand.
“Everyone is advised to duck when needed,” Edward said, his tone dry.
Gathering up her skirts, Miss Davenport hastily took her seat.
“Nonsense,” Charlie said. “I haven’t lost my skill at it.”
The two men met face-to-face in the center of the carpet. Charlie handed Edward one of the apples, and they pivoted to stand with their backs to one another.
“One. Two, three,” Charlie said, measuring each number with a step.
At the number five, they halted, turned, and Charlie flung his apples at Edward. Miss Davenport gasped, and Miranda smiled. She scooted down the divan, so that the fruit bowl was closer to hand.
Edward fired his own apple into the air, deftly caught Charlie’s, then spun them back around. A brief, sunny memory flashed through Miranda of sitting on the lawn at Wyckerly and laughing as they dropped and fumbled potatoes in their quest to perfect their juggling. It had been Charlie’s idea, of course. There had been jugglers at the local fair that summer, and he was determined to master the art – and drag everyone around him into it as well.
“Four!” Charlie called.
Miranda chose an apple and watched carefully. As soon as Charlie’s hands were empty, she tossed it to him. It had been her role that entire month to throw potatoes into the fray, and she’d been eager to fulfill it since it put her in company with Edward.
Red blurred back and forth, both men sure and confident in their throws and catches.
“Five,” Charlie said, sounding a touch breathless.
There were no more apples in the bowl, but a nice round quince would do. Miranda flung it into the mix, and the Montfort girls oohed appreciatively as Charlie caught it. The air was filled with flying fruit.
“I beg you not to make applesauce in my drawing room,” Lady Edgerton said.
“Right,” Edward said. “Three. Two. One.”
He and Charlie halted in unison, an apple in each hand. The quince thudded to the floor, and Edward’s mother let out a sigh of relief.
“Bravo,” Miranda said, applauding wildly.
Charlie grinned, and Edward looked a bit happier about the eyes. Or perhaps it was his hair, tousled from exertion, that made him seem more carefree.
“What an unusual exhibition,” Miss Davenport said. “I had no notion.”
“Lord Edgerton is a man of hidden talents,” Charlie said. “You ought to see him tame snakes and teach them to dance. Quite the dab hand.”
Miss Davenport blinked, and Miranda laughed outright. “Forgive my brother,” she said. “He fancies himself a wit.”
“And do you have any unusual talents, Miss Price?” Miss Davenport asked, sounding as if she expected Miranda to unveil something more suited to the circus than the drawing room.
“I play the pianoforte,” Miranda said.
Edward deposited the fruit back into the bowl on the table next to her, and gave her the briefest flash of a smile.
“Then I choose you to be the next performer,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took it and stood, conscious of the warmth of his touch – and the narrow-eyed look Miss Davenport sent her. Quickly, she made her way to the pianoforte and settled at the bench.
“What will you play?” Lady Edgerton asked.
“Bach – the Invention number Eight.” She loved the measured, mathematical paces of his compositions, the way the melodies turned and mirrored one another, like perfect sums in balance.
Miranda set her hands on the keyboard and began to play. Everything else fell away – sun-dappled memories and the bittersweet ache in her heart for what might have been, the iciness in Miss Davenport’s blue eyes, the prospect of unchanging years spread before her.
There were only the notes, each one falling precisely as it should, as satisfying as an equation, as perfect as the movements of the planets scribed across the sky.
***
Miranda rubbed at her nose, and turned the page of the ledger book. She had coaxed Charlie to spend the afternoon with her in Edward’s study. They both knew this was her last chance at finding the answers to the problem of the Edgerton estate’s books. Tonight was the grand ball.
Tonight, everything would change.
And so she had stared for hours at the accounts, until her eyes were numb. The paper beside her was full of worked and scribbled-out sums, and still she was no closer to finding any solutions. Frustrated, she wound a stray strand of hair about her fingers and yanked on it.
Her brother dozed, oblivious, in the plush armchair nearby, a book of poetry open on his lap. He was without a doubt the laziest poet she had ever seen. In fact, he had yet to compose a bit of verse, though he laid claim to the title.
With a deep breath, Miranda pushed back the chair and stood. Her footsteps muffled by the thick green-and-gold Aubusson carpet, she went to the bookshelves. Rows of neatly-bound ledger books lined the shelves, arranged by year. The Earls of Edgerton had been a meticulous bunch. She skimmed her fingertips along the spines, feeling the bumping, orderly pattern of life inscribed within each volume.
The pattern changed, as her fingers fell into a dip. One of the books was pushed further back than its neighbors. Miranda took hold of the top and slid it out.
“Miss Price.” The voice was loud and cheery.
She whirled, the ledger still in her hand, to see the estate manager, Mr. Fowler, at the doorway.
In his chair, Charlie gave a snort, and woke.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice blurry with sleep.
“Half three,” Mr. Fowler said. He was still watching Miranda.
Charlie closed the book on his lap with a snap, and jumped to his feet. “Half three? The ball begins at seven. Miranda, we must go immediately.”
“Yes, you must.” Mr. Fowler opened the door wide.
“I have plenty of time to dress,” she said. The ledger in her hand called to her.
The estate manager went over to Miranda, looking like a rotund crow in his plain black suit. Without asking, he lifted the book from her grasp and stuck it back on the shelf.
“Wait,” she said.
“Now miss, we wouldn’t want you to be late for the ball. You’ve done so much here already – but you young folk need time to enjoy yourselves. No need to keep fretting about the earl’s estate.”
“But this is the last – ”
“Come, Miranda,” Charlie said. “You know Mother will be fretting. Even if you think you’ll be ready for the ball, she’ll need your assistance.”
Miranda folded her a
rms. She did not want to dress for the grand ball, where Leticia Davenport would no doubt prod Edward to declare his intentions, and then spend the evening gloating and preening. No – Miranda wanted to stay here in the study and solve the mystery of the estate’s finances. Especially as she would not be welcome at Edgerton Manor once Leticia was established as Edward’s betrothed. Her final chance to help Edward was slipping through her fingers.
“Best be off with you,” Mr. Fowler said, his eyes bright.
“We’re going,” Charlie said, taking Miranda by the elbow and guiding her to the door.
She glanced back at the shelves, marking the placement of the ledger she wanted to examine. During the ball, she would slip away and return to the study. Surely after the grand announcement, her presence would not be missed.
***
“You look splendid, darling,” Lady Edgerton said as Edward entered the sitting room.
She rose in a rustle of blue taffeta skirts and lily-scented perfume to bestow a kiss on his cheek. The evening sun slanted through the tall windows, illuminating the strands of silver in her fair hair. Still, she was looking improved. Her smiles came more easily, and some of the shadows had lifted from her eyes. The house party had been successful in that, if nothing else.
He, on the other hand, did not feel splendid – not in the least – but he summoned a smile for his mother. His cravat was tied too tightly, his coat squeezed his shoulders as if it were a size too small, and his boots pinched his toes.
This evening he would fully step into the role of earl, as he ought.
He’d had no success untangling the estate’s finances, but at least he could secure a bride. The month would not be an utter failure, no matter the weight that lodged in his chest at the thought of shouldering his next, inevitable duty.
He would propose to Leticia Davenport, ensuring that the long line of Dorset Edgertons remained unbroken.
“How I have longed for this day,” his mother said, taking his hand and drawing him to sit beside her on the gold-upholstered divan. “Ever since Lady Davenport was delivered of a daughter when you were six years of age, we had hoped… well, our two families have always been close, as you know.”
“Yes.” The word stuck in his throat. He shifted, trying to keep the late sun from stabbing unpleasantly into his eyes. “I am pleased to make you happy, Mother.”
He was able to do this – to help her long-imagined dreams come true. And though there were other prospects back in London, Miss Davenport was the most obvious choice for his bride.
Lady Edgerton tilted her head, a curious expression crossing her features. “But are you not making yourself happy, as well?”
“Happy enough.”
Although his parents had been deeply in love, he had seen any number of marriages where the husband and wife simply tolerated one another. As long as there was a modicum of courtesy, he and Leticia Davenport could manage. Indeed, if his mother had not loved his father so dearly, his death would not have taken such a toll on her. There were reasons not to love one’s spouse too much.
“Hey-o!” a voice called from the hallway.
Never one to stand on ceremony or wait for such things as the butler to announce him, Charlie Price strode into the room.
“Mr. Price – welcome,” Lady Edgerton said. “You have arrived early. Is the rest of your family with you?”
Charlie bowed over her hand. “You are a vision of loveliness this evening, Lady Edgerton. As for my mother and sister, they’ll be along later in the carriage. Father is pleading his gout, as usual, and staying home. At any rate, I wanted a quick word with Edward before the festivities began.”
“Of course.” Lady Edgerton rose. “I’ll go attend to the last-minute details while you two have your chat.”
She bustled out of the sitting room, and Edward raised a brow at his friend.
“Well?” he said.
Charlie folded his arms. “Are you actually going to go through with this?”
“With what, hosting a ball?”
“With asking Leticia Davenport to be your bride. Really, Ed, we’ve both done foolish enough things, but this…” Charlie shook his head.
Doubt made Edward’s words more forceful than he wanted. “I have responsibilities now – serious ones. You may continue on your wastrel ways, Charlie, but that path is no longer for me.”
Damn, he sounded like some old prune in the House of Lords, not the carefree rogue he had imagined himself to be for years to come. Before his father died.
“I understand that,” Charlie said. “But can you truly imagine leg-shackling yourself to that harpy for your entire life? You’ll be miserable.”
Edward turned and began to pace, hands gripped behind his back. Darkness gathered in the corners of the room as the sun descended. From somewhere deeper in the house, he heard the shriek of a violin tuning up.
“She’s the best choice I have.” His voice was tight.
“Come now. What about Miss Aubrey?”
“Too young.”
“Miss Smythe?”
“Too ordinary, and her mother is a gorgon.”
“Miss – ”
“See here.” Edward rounded on his friend. “None of them are here, none of them are a match guaranteed to make my mother happy, and none of them would be any better, or any worse, than marrying Miss Davenport.”
“I’m sure she’d be gratified to hear that.” Charlie shook his head. “Isn’t there anyone else?”
For a moment, Miranda’s mischievous brown eyes and over-wide mouth flashed through Edward’s mind. But that was a ridiculous notion. Not only was she Charlie’s younger sister, she had made it clear she held him in the utmost contempt.
At least Miss Davenport professed to admire him. Whether she liked him or his title more, it was difficult to tell, but in either case she would do well enough.
“No one,” Edward said.
A shadow crossed Charlie’s face, quickly gone.
“Well then,” he said, in a semblance of his usual cheerful voice. “Good luck and all that. I suppose I’ll see you about London.”
“Certainly.”
And although Miss Davenport did not seem particularly fond of the Price family, Charlie was his oldest friend. He would not cut the man because of the whims of his soon-to-be betrothed.
***
Miranda stood at the edge of the ballroom, pretending to admire the decorations. Blue oriental vases overflowing with pale roses were arranged along the walls, and the candles set in the high chandeliers shone a warm golden light over the dancing couples, the crystal facets glimmering in the last of the twilight. On the dais at the far end of the dance floor, the orchestra Lady Edgerton had hired provided tuneful music for the score of dancers stepping the pattern of the quadrille.
Despite herself, Miranda watched Edward dancing with Leticia Davenport. The light glinted off the gold streaks in his hair, and he moved purposefully yet gracefully through the paces of the dance, cutting a striking figure in his dark blue coat and polished boots.
Miss Davenport clung to his arm whenever the quadrille required them to touch. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lavender silk gown rather low cut for the country – but perhaps baring that much bosom was fashionable in Town.
It was hot and noisy, the sound of conversation and laughter sawing against Miranda’s nerves. She folded one arm tightly across her ribs, her breath pricking her lungs as if the air was filled with tiny pins.
Edward had not yet made any announcement – but she could not bear to remain another moment in the ballroom. Charlie could tell her later all about the joyous betrothal.
Miranda whirled and pushed through the door leading into the hallway. It was blessedly cool and quiet, old portraits gazing stolidly down at her as she sped along the dark-paneled hall toward the study. There was solace in numbers – there always had been. And perhaps she would at last find an answer, though she had no notion why an old ledger would contain any solutions.
Taking a taper from the hall, she pushed open the study door. The wavering candlelight fell across the wide, now-familiar desk. There was a candle holder there, and she quickly deposited her light before hot wax dripped onto her hand.
She moved to the shelves and studied the row of books. Had it been that one, or the one next to it? Unsure, she pulled out three and laid them on the desk.
The first one, dated 1782, held no secrets. After ten minutes, Miranda laid it aside. The second, from the previous year, was more of the same – rows of figures in a precise hand, paired with descriptions of crops and rents, repairs and improvements.
Sighing, she closed the ledger and rubbed her forehead. There was nothing to be gained here. She ought to return to the ballroom, smile when she heard the news of the betrothal, and leave Edward Havens to sort out his own finances. It was none of her concern.
The candle flame flickered as a shadow paused in the doorway. Miranda rose to her feet, her pulse pounding high in her throat.
“Who’s there?” she asked, her voice ending in a squeak.
“It’s me,” Edward said, stepping into the room. “But what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the ball?”
“I…” She gestured to the ledger books on the desk.
He shook his head, then held out his hand. “Though I know you prefer numbers to dancing, I insist you return. Come, Miranda.”
“I really don’t – ”
“Don’t dance? I promise I won’t bite.”
He paced over to her, stopping too close for comfort. She smelled the faint spice of him, felt the warmth of his body where it nearly brushed hers. Slowly, he brought his hand up and drew one finger down her cheek.
Sparks trailed from that touch, and she had to close her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she asked, from the safety of that darkness.
“Kissing you.”
She caught her breath, trying not to tremble. She ought to stop him. She ought to open her eyes and slip out from between him and the desk. Yet somehow she could not.
To Wed the Earl Page 16