“Mama, is George to stay with us or will he have Crenshaw House opened for his use?”
Lady Crenshaw sighed and gripped her hands together more tightly in her lap. “I believe we’ll find that his mother has arrived ahead of us. Surely she will be taking up residence at Crenshaw House and will no doubt insist upon George joining her.”
Mira watched with fascination as her mother’s hands relaxed with naught but a gentle nudge of her father’s foot against his lady’s slipper. It was if there were some secret language they were speaking. Taking up her fan, she hid her smile behind it before returning her attention once again to her daughter. “George is family and a very nice young man, but I am just as glad he will be staying in his own house. Besides, ’tis easier to always look your best for your beau when he is not underfoot, is it not?”
Mira was sure she didn’t know, never having had any beaux, underfoot or otherwise. However, that was neither here nor there when one contemplated the enormity of her mother’s implication. “Surely,” she said, turning to her father for support, “I should expect more than George to call on me, should I not?”
“Of course you should, sweetheart!” her father said, patting her hand. “I have no doubt there shall be dozens of gentleman callers and even more invitations to any manner of social gatherings. Wasn’t it the same for you the year you made your bows, my love?” he added for the benefit of his wife.
“I would remind you not to make me a figure of fun if you please, sir,” Lady Crenshaw said with a snap of her fan. “You know very well that I didn’t take well, and if it were not for you, I should be firmly on the shelf, even now.”
Mira laughed at what she could only assume was a jest. To her dismay, she laughed alone. “No!” she cried. “You can’t be serious. Mother, you are so beautiful! How can you not have been the belle of every ball?”
“She was the belle of every ball I attended,” her father said with an intent gaze for his wife. Hastily, he cleared his throat and said, “Wasn’t it just the other day you were commenting on the dowdy fashions of eighteen-twelve? So, there you have it! I must have been one of the few gentlemen capable of seeing past her abominable bonnets.”
With a laugh of delight, Lady Crenshaw turned her attention to the view out the window.
“You said ‘few gentlemen,’ Papa. Surely you weren’t the only suitor who begged for her hand in marriage, wretched bonnets or no,” Mira quizzed.
“To be sure, I wasn’t! But that must be your mother’s story to tell in her own time.”
Mira looked to her mother for further enlightenment, but she merely smiled and continued to watch the landscape fly past the carriage window.
“Am I not to know? How is a young lady to learn from her mother’s triumphs and despairs without the proper information?” Mira demanded.
“Miranda,” Lady Crenshaw said, leaning forward with a rustling of skirts to take her daughter’s hands in her own. “You are cut from a very specific bolt of cloth, to be sure. Never fear, my dear. Unlike myself who had no mother or father to advise me or lend me countenance, you have one of each to guide you. Besides, there is always George, especially if Harry continues to behave so unbecomingly in the drawing rooms of London. You shall not be long on the Marriage Mart, my girl,” she insisted, giving Mira’s hands a squeeze.
Mira pulled free from her mother’s grasp and allowed her hands to drop to her lap. The wave of horror that overcame her whenever she thought of her parents’ baffling willingness to fall in with the plans of George’s father was quickly followed by a new sensation: anger. She loved her parents dearly and knew they only wanted what was best for her and could never be angry with them. No, her anger was for Harry, who had allowed himself to become a fop and a dandy. What had happened to the young man with whom she had enjoyed swimming, riding, and shooting? Certainly ‘Bertie’ wouldn’t dream of engaging in any of those activities. How could he possibly with so much lace dripping from his wrists?
As she turned her own attention to the landscape outside, Mira mused on what might have happened to Harry to turn him into such a travesty. It clearly occurred whilst he was away, so perhaps something had happened to him either at Eton or on the Continent. Since her brothers attended Harrow, there was no guarantee they would know how much responsibility could be laid at the door of Eton in particular, and since they were still very much the same boys they had been prior to boarding school, she decided boarding school in general could not be the problem.
George was an alma mater of Eton as well, and as he was precisely the same creature he had been prior to his years there, it most likely had nothing to do with the school in particular. She supposed she might ask George about the rowing accident since it was clear her parents had said all they would on the subject. However, she must first weigh it all out in her mind so as not to lead George to believe her interest in Harry was anything but perfectly idle. Being that her interest was far from it, this could prove difficult to accomplish. At the same time, were she to approach him with a question of any kind, he would doubtless take it as a token of esteem, and she had no wish to encourage George in the slightest degree.
Finally, she threw up her hands in exasperation, startling her genuinely slumbering father out of somnolence, before she gave her thoughts over to the far less demanding task of mentally choosing the fabric to be made into her court gown. She owned that it was a bit hypocritical of her when she had been so hard on ‘Bertie’ and his fussy ensemble, but surely a woman was allowed more contemplation of clothing than the stronger sex. Besides, if both man and wife were entirely caught up in their wardrobes, they would soon be bankrupt. Thank goodness Mama did not feel the need for dozens of gowns or there would be little left in the coffers for Mira’s clothes once Papa had made his usual inroads. At least he eschewed lace at his cuffs … mostly.
Mira hadn’t time to dwell much longer on her attire for there came a knock on the window glass. Mira opened the window, and George made it known that the carriage would any moment be coming to a halt at the next establishment so as to take refreshment.
“Look there, my darling,” her father said as he gazed out the window. “It is not called the same yet it is … yes! The very same inn!”
“What inn is that?” Mira asked.
“Oh, it is merely an establishment at which your father and I partook of a meal on a very memorable occasion. I do hope they have since improved the place,” Lady Crenshaw said, misgiving lining her face.
As Mira wondered what defined a ‘memorable occasion,’ the carriage pulled into the yard, and the steps were let down. She was startled when it was her turn to disembark, and George offered her his arm, insisting she take it for the journey across the yard and through the front door of The Cygnet and Lute.
“You must familiarize yourself to my ways, Miss Crenshaw,” he said with an oily smile. “It would not do for the Duchess of Marcross to take herself through the door when I am at her disposal.”
It was with great reluctance that Mira took his arm. “I fail to see what your mother has to do with it as she is not present,” Mira said with a toss of her head.
“Oh, but there you are wrong, my dear. I could hardly speak before you make your bows to the queen, but it is common knowledge that you shall be the next Duchess of Marcross. Certainly your devoted parents have shared with you the news of our impending nuptials. I am persuaded they are as delighted as I am at the prospect. What could be more fortuitous than to have the daughter of my father’s former heir secure the title that should have been her mother’s?”
Indignant, Mira pulled her hand from his arm in time to prevent it being clamped tightly to his side. “I am persuaded Mother mourned not the loss, George,” she said with a humiliating emphasis on his given name. “As for my father, he would have doubtless carried his title with distinction in spite of never having expected the honor. I have heard it said that the old Duke’s first son, the one who died so long ago, was very much loved by one and all. I am so
rry he is not here to enjoy what should have been his.” And with that she pushed past George into The Cygnet and Lute.
Chapter Four
Harry watched in consternation as the Crenshaw party descended upon the very taproom he had chosen in which to break his journey over a shepherd’s pie and a tankard of ale. For the ale he was most particularly grateful as it was sorely needed to wash down the dinner lodged against the sudden lump that formed in his throat upon the sight of Miss Crenshaw. His anxiety over her welfare, as well as that of her parents, could not be as easily assuaged; there were those who wanted Harry dead for the knowledge he possessed, and he had been shot at only that morning as he had made his way via horseback to meet his secret service contact at the inn. Harry hoped the inn too public a place for a gunman to make another attempt; if not, anyone in Harry’s orbit was in danger of suffering a similar fate. Should his enemies learn of Harry’s attachment to Mira in particular, they would not hesitate to use her any way they chose as a means of coercing Harry to divulge his secrets.
Fortunately, Higgins, the gentleman seated across from him, seemed not to notice Harry’s sudden discomposure and continued with the low-toned accounting of his orders. Harry learned that when he reached London, he was to take rooms at Claridge’s under a fictitious name. Next, he was to await a specific knock on his door at which time he would depart for the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. Once arrived, he was to make his way to the top of the Great Pagoda and await further instruction.
Harry wasn’t precisely sure he knew where in the gardens the Great Pagoda stood, but his childhood memory of it assured him that it was stupendously tall and impossible to miss. He suspected his climb to the top of the stairs of the nearly eighty-year-old edifice would prove to be amongst his most dangerous assignments, though not nearly as dangerous as the line Harry just heard George cross during the course of his current conversation with Miss Crenshaw. George was Mira’s cousin and very possibly her intended husband, but Harry would not sit still while George behaved like a lecher set loose in a harem.
Harry wiped his mouth with his napkin, tossed it to the table, and sauntered across the room to the Crenshaw party, remembering just in time to add the appropriate mince to his step. Though he would much rather have charged ahead to greet the top-lofty Duke with a fist to the chin, he forced himself to go slowly and use the intervening moments to envelope himself in the ‘Bertie’ façade.
“La, what do we have here?” he asked when he could trust his voice to sound free of fury. “Why, it’s Marcross!” For more than one reason he ignored George’s out-thrust hand and opted to tap the arrogant young nobleman’s shoulder instead. “I do believe, yes I do believe it has been since Eton that we have met!”
George was stunned into silence while the Crenshaws exchanged a speaking glance. It was a sudden stroke of inspiration that prompted Harry to adopt his Grandfather Barrington’s conversational cadences, and it would seem from the expressions on their faces that the Crenshaws had most certainly met the old Squire. As no response was forthcoming, Harry cast about for a way to keep the conversation alive. A fruitful idea would be to address his comments to Mira, but that could prove dangerous as well; he knew his longing for one word of love, friendship, or even approval from her would be far too apparent, if not positively naked.
Turning his back on his beloved, he addressed her mother instead. “Lady Crenshaw, I declare, I heard a droll joke the other day. A bon mot tres amusant, if I do say so myself.” He followed this up with an obnoxious laugh in spite of the way the thundering of his heart impinged on his capacity to fill his lungs for he suddenly had the most lively sense of danger. The thought that his presence alone might put Mira and her parents in peril caused the muscles in his stomach to clench, and he swept a gaze about the room before pausing to look again on Lady Crenshaw’s curiosity-filled face.
“Har … Bertie, pray tell,” she said with an indulgent smile, “what is this tres bon mot?”
He realized with sudden horror that few of the jokes to which he had been exposed over the years were appropriate for the gentler sex. If he didn’t come up with something foolish and frivolous on the spot, his behavior would seem very suspicious indeed. Anxious to ensure Mira’s safety from unseen forces, he could not resist turning to face her. The expression in her eyes made him just as anxious to hide from her perceptive gaze; hastily dropping his own, he stared fixedly at the fan she held in her hand upon which inspiration lighted.
“Why does the fan not like the lute?” he asked, unable to hold back a genuine smile of relief.
“I couldn’t say,” the Duke drawled in blatant imitation of Harry. He did not smile.
“Because it’s not a fan of instruments!” Harry exclaimed, tacking on another round of obnoxious laughter in an attempt to distract all and sundry from dwelling overly long on the utter absurdity of his attempt at humor. George’s predictable negative reaction notwithstanding, Harry was humbled and more than a little pleased at the kindness of the Crenshaw family, all of whom managed a chuckle and smile of encouragement. From her parents he would have expected nothing less, but for Mira to favor him with something as benevolent as a smile at an utterly inane joke uttered by an equally inane man was a gift indeed. Perhaps there was hope for ‘Bertie’ after all.
With a cough to conceal his crow of delight, Harry turned away from the Crenshaws and came face-to-face with Higgins whose severe expression and rigid stance implied the reality of the peril Harry had sensed earlier.
“That was a right funny ditty,” Higgins said with a barely perceptible jerk of his head towards the entrance.
“I’m to be damned by faint praise, am I?” Harry murmured with a cock of his brow and another visual sweep of the room that revealed nothing untoward.
“You’re sure to be some kind of damned if we don’t scarper out of here,” Higgins said under his breath.
“Right!” Harry said, clapping his arm about Higgins shoulders and pivoting the two of them about to address the Crenshaws. “Your Grace, Sir Anthony, Lady Crenshaw, Miss Crenshaw,” he said with a nod of his head for each. “Sadly, I must bid you adieu! It seems, yes it seems, I am meant to be elsewhere!” he twittered. “Until London,” he added with a last veiled glimpse of Mira from the corner of his eye.
“Nitwit,” George muttered as he placed his well-shod foot directly in the path of the now-hastening Harry who was sent sprawling to the floor just as a loud crack split the air and general pandemonium ensued. Harry recovered quickly and rolled under the table to come to rest against Mira’s feet, fetchingly encased in kid boots he noticed to be covered in the sweetest ribbon roses. Before he could formulate a plan, the owner of the boots lowered her face, pale and wide-eyed, beneath the table.
“Harry! What is happening?” she asked in a harsh whisper, the sound of sobs and screaming a crazed din in the background.
With her fear-filled face so close to his own, Harry was bereft of thought. His wants were in command of his actions, and what he wanted was to keep her safe. What he longed for, and had for quite some time, was to have her close. Rising to a crouch, he took the hand that held aloft the tablecloth and tugged her down to the floor at his side. She opened her mouth to say he knew not what, for he quickly hushed her so as to better determine the state of affairs beyond the confines of the table legs. He heard Sir Anthony tell his wife to get down, then commend the safekeeping of his women folk to, of all people, the now hysterical George who called out to his cousin not to leave him. If there were a more useless article in the room, it would have to be Higgins, whom, he assumed, had taken a bullet. Harry fervently hoped Higgins had made his escape, but either way, Harry was on his own.
“Harry!” Mira cried. She rose to her knees to face him, and he became suddenly aware that the thundering of his heart was not from fear but brought on by the proximity of the redheaded beauty at his side whose gaze, even now, met his in a frankly disconcerting way. The danger that awaited him beyond the tablecloth was nothing com
pared to the danger beneath, and his face burned with the turn his thoughts had taken.
Yet, he could not deny the pure beauty of his situation. Their position afforded them a privacy he might never again know in her presence. He would not forgive himself if he did not take advantage of what could be his only opportunity to demonstrate his yearning. Finally, tormented by conflicting desires, he threw caution to the wind and kissed her full on her bow-shaped mouth.
Harry wasn’t sure if the ringing in his ears had been as loud the last time she had slapped him; her petite hand couldn’t have been much smaller when he had kissed her in days of old. However, it definitely pained him more this time, of that he was certain.
“Why, Harry Haversham, you haven’t changed a bit!”
Alarmed by the way the curve of her lips belied the smolder in her eyes, Harry delayed his response. He narrowed his gaze upon her and fell to pondering the solutions to a number of difficulties: how to gracefully extricate himself from his hidey-hole without getting shot; how to get a heavily blushing Mira from under the table without anyone guessing what had transpired; and how to convince the love of his life that he was a mere fop and a fribble without forever putting paid to his intended role as the love of hers, each of which had to be accomplished in a trice or all was lost.
“Pray, I do say, pray forgive me, Miss Crenshaw!” Harry squeaked. “I suppose I must have got caught up in the moment. I thought perhaps I was to die this very moment, and as I have never kissed a girl … ”
Lord Haversham Takes Command Page 4