The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  “I most certainly shall explain meself fully to the marquess,” Miss Dahlia said in a tight, almost strangled accent that fascinated Arran to silence. “I ’ave hinformation of the greatest hinterest to you, me lord. I ’ave ‘esitated to come to you because I don’t want to risk bein’ misunderstood. I wouldn’t want you to think for one moment that I ’ave any personal motives for wantin’ you to be aware of a most distressin’ matter that ’as come to my attention.”

  Arran realized his chin had slowly jutted forward, and pulled it back. “You don’t say.”

  “Oh, but I do, I hassure you. ’Owever, I believe we should speak of this alone.”

  No glance in the dowager’s direction was necessary. “Whatever you can say to me, you can say to the Dowager Duchess of Franchot, a dear family friend, and to Mrs. Blanche Wren Bastible, who, in addition to being the dowager’s companion, is my wife’s mother.”

  A pleased warble issued from Blanche, and at least the dowager didn’t pound her stick again.

  Dahlia lowered her blackened lashes and her lips trembled again.

  “Come along now,” Arran said gently. “It can’t be that bad.”

  “I’ve come ’ere at great personal risk,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to think my motives self-servin’, but, hafter all, a female who is dependent upon the kindness of strangers is always in a difficult position.”

  The baggage wanted money.

  “Blackmail,” the dowager snapped. “The lowest form of criminal behavior. Extorting gain from the real or perceived misfortunes of others. I say you tell the creature to leave at once, Arran.”

  Dahlia’s black lashes rose, and they were gifted with a hard, dry-eyed stare. “Watch out who you call criminal. The pot calling the kettle black, that is. And I’ve got information to prove it.”

  Arran experienced an unpleasant tightening in his gut. “I think that’s enough small talk, Miss Dahlia. If you have something to say, say it. I’m a busy man.”

  “Oh, of course you are. Too busy to spare time for the likes of me. After all, I’m nobody but a poor young thing forced to accept the kindness of my dearest mother’s dearest friend.”

  “Yes,” Arran said, his patience exhausted. “What is it you think would make you feel better about revealing whatever it is you have to reveal?”

  “Well.” Considerable batting of her impressive lashes followed. “Well, what do you think your family honor is worth?”

  Dumbfounded, nevertheless Arran stood his ground and managed to maintain a calm expression.

  The dowager’s face showed no emotion at all. Blanche had been with her mistress long enough to pick up the cue and show nothing of what she might think or feel.

  “Well,” Dahlia said, with more than a hint of cockney creeping into her voice, “speak up, then. What’s it worth to you?”

  “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about,” Arran said, “but I think it’s time for you to leave.”

  “That’s up to you.” Dahlia rose. She smoothed her gloves and slipped the handle of her reticule over one wrist. “But I’ll leave you with somethin’ to think about. The journal’s safe for now. It’ll be safe for as long as I decide not to show it to anyone. If I do decide—and it’s not you I’m showing it to—well then, it’ll be very dangerous for the Rossmaras.”

  “Journal?” Arran said. “Which journal would that be?”

  “Um.” Dahlia frowned and swayed from the waist. “Well, it’s a journal that’s been hidden for a long time, only now I’ve found it.”

  “What’s in this journal?” the dowager asked, underscoring her question with a single sharp tap of her cane on the carpet at her feet. “Speak up. No more shilly-shallying. What is it that you want? What is it that’s in this journal that you think is worth blackmailing the Rossmaras for?”

  “I want Mr. Max Rossmara to ask for my ’and in marriage instead of that self-satisfied cow Hermoine. She may have ‘lady’ in front of ’er name, but she’s no lady, if you know what I mean. I’ll be good for ’im and ’e’ll be good for me. We’ll ’ave plenty of fun.” She winked, and her right eye remained shut a very long time.

  Arran sat down.

  Dahlia smiled as if hugely pleased with herself. “Surprised you, ’aven’t I? Well, I know ’ow to make sure I get plenty, and ’old on to it. And I fancy ’im.”

  “She’s mad,” Blanche whispered. “I’ll ring for Shanks to get rid of her.”

  “Tell me what’s in the journal,” Arran said.

  “Well, now, I can’t do that, can I? Not too much, anyway, until the preacher’s done ’is business. When ’e ’as, you’ll get the journal, and you can make sure it disappears. But I’ll give you a taste. Some people may not be who they think they are. It could just be that there are some who think they’ve a right to grand titles and all that goes with ’em, when they really don’t ’ave any right to any of it. And it could be that there’s a record of just who should be king of the castle, so to speak.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Despite the hour—noon—when Kirsty opened the door to the Green Salon, the room was in near darkness. Heavy draperies had been closed over each of four floor-to-ceiling casements, and no lamps were alight. Even the fire had burned too low to cast more than a faint reddish glow on the hearth. Rather than the original arrangement—that she and Max should arrive here at ten—she’d received word to come alone two hours later.

  “Shut the door,” the Dowager Duchess of Franchot said, her tone autocratic. “Then come over here where I can see you.”

  Kirsty could see virtually nothing, but did as she was told and went forward, attempting to focus on the figure sitting in a large wing back chair to one side of the fireplace.

  “That’s better,” the dowager said. “Now I see you well enough. Pretty thing, aren’t you. I saw that when you were in bed with Max.”

  Kirsty blushed, and felt the heat of it to her very toes. She curtsied and said, “You wanted t’speak with me.”

  “I dislike restatement of the obvious,” the dowager said. “Now, let’s get down to business. We are in an extremely delicate situation, Kirsty Mercer. I find myself forced to interfere in the business of others—something I detest, and avoid whenever possible—but interfere I must, for the good of my dear friends, the Rossmaras. Our families are deeply intertwined, y’know, and the Rossmaras may be in trouble. That is a situation I cannot simply sit back and watch without giving them the benefit of my considerable life experience. I am an expert in human nature and behavior, and if ever I saw an occasion when human nature and behavior are at odds, well then I’m seeing it at present. I mean to ensure that right prevails. Will you help me, Kirsty Mercer?”

  Mesmerized by the drone of the old lady’s voice, Kirsty took a moment to fully understand the question. When she did, she said, “I would do anythin’ t’be o’ service t’the Rossmaras. My family has made their livin’ on Rossmara lands for generations, ma’am.”

  “Yes, yes, so you say. Commendably forthright of you to mention it. But what I find myself confronted with is a situation that will require some diplomacy. Perhaps some covert diplomacy. Is my language too complicated for you?”

  “I understand ye perfectly,” Kirsty said. “Although, o’course, I’ve no idea what ye have in mind.”

  “I’m told that Max has retained you for some sort of position. Or so he’s put it about.”

  Kirsty’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, and she saw the old lady’s face more clearly, an ancient, but well-preserved face. The eyes were bright and sharp, and didn’t waver in their regard of Kirsty.

  “When the tutor left to assist with the children in Cornwall she assumed you would be performing the duties she’d assigned for you to perform.”

  “True enough,” Kirsty said.

  “Sewing and so on. You are the tutor’s maid, aren’t you? Or some sort of nursery assistant under her direction?”

  These elevated people often knew so little about the people who worked
for them. “I was the tutor’s assistant, Your Grace. I helped with the children’s lessons.”

  “Really?” The dowager fussed with the gold chains around her neck until she located her lorgnette. She peered at Kirsty through this, starting with a long study of her face, then continuing to sweep every inch on the way to her subject’s feet. “Of course you would have attended the village school, I suppose?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Scotland has reason to be proud of its educational record. No other country can boast to have taught its people to read and write as a due for more than a century.”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “But such minimal accomplishments hardly qualify you to instruct the children of a marquess, young woman. Particularly as their needs grow demanding.”

  “Max taught me,” Kirsty mumbled. “From when he came t’Kirkcaldy, he shared what he learned wi’ me.”

  “Speak up!”

  “I said—”

  “I know what you said. I’m not deaf. You mean Max Rossmara spent time teaching a little girl, a tenant’s child? Starting from when he would have been how old? Ten?”

  “Thereabouts, madam.”

  “Why would a boy like that—full of spirit and with no time for such things—take the trouble to teach you anything?”

  How did you explain something as special as she and Max had had to a lady such as this? “I canna tell ye. He was verra kind t’me. And there weren’t any laddies his own age t’pass time with.”

  “So you expect me to believe he sought you out and insisted upon contributing to your education?”

  “No, madam. I followed the poor lad around and pestered him somthin’ terrible wi’ my questions. And he was kind enough t’answer. We were friends. All through the years, we were friends.”

  The dowager raised her stick and pointed it at a chair. “Sit there.”

  Kirsty sat, and was grateful to do so.

  “Are you an intelligent girl?”

  The old lady’s direct manner unsettled Kirsty. “I’m not unintelligent. Max always said I enjoyed lessons more than he did. He used to tell me that sharing his lessons with me helped him do his homework, but I doubt that’s the case. He was just bein’ kind.”

  “And I doubt that. Did you actually teach the marquess’s children?”

  Kirsty hesitated before saying, “Yes, Your Grace. It was the marquess himself who recommended me for the position. They were simple enough lessons at first, of course. I’m particularly fond of geography, so I took over that area of their instruction. And I shared a good deal of responsibility for their mathematics.”

  The dowager fell into a deep silence, staring into the embers of the fire and letting her chin rest on her chest.

  “So it isn’t outrageous to think of your being retained in some sort of administrative capacity for Max?”

  The question was fired sharply at Kirsty, and she tensed. “I wouldn’t think so,” she said. “I’ve a great interest in farmin’ and the business of managin’ estates like this one. Not that I’m t’do more than deal wi’ wages and keepin’ books, and writin’ correspondence, and the like. I’ll find it a challenge, and I do well wi’ a challenge. I’ve started studyin’ what’s been written on rotatin’ crops . . .” She was saying too much. “I’ll be happy to do whatever will make Max—Mr. Rossmara happy.”

  “Whatever will make Mr. Rossmara happy,” the dowager said in her raspy voice. “Whatever will make Mr. Rossmara happy?”

  Kirsty bowed her head. “I didna mean what ye’re thinkin’.”

  “I know you didn’t, but you’re a quick-witted girl, and you understand me very well. Remember the scene I witnessed last night. We’re in a pretty fix, Kirsty Mercer. I don’t suppose you understand that as well as I do. You probably see the business as a simple one. It isn’t. There are too many personalities involved now.”

  “I’d never want t’do anythin’ t’hurt Max—Mr. Rossmara.”

  “Call him Max to me. It’s natural to you. But be certain you don’t call him by that name elsewhere. You love him, don’t you?”

  The stress of the night and the morning had stolen Kirsty’s appetite. Now she felt weak. She put a hand to her cheek and tried to breathe deeply.

  “Don’t you?” the dowager persisted.

  Kirsty whispered, “Aye. I’ve never loved another. I never will.”

  “Has he given you some reason to expect that you might have some future together—of an intimate, and a permanent nature?”

  “Och, I canna bear t’talk o’ it. I canna bear it, madam.”

  “Buck up, girl! Of course you can bear it. Answer my question.”

  Kirsty sank back in the chair. “When we were bairns— that is, until I was sixteen and he was twenty-two—we were close. More and more close as we got older. Not the way ye might think. Max is honorable. But we knew we loved each other. Not the way some do—not until right at the end, anyway—we didna do anythin’ about it. My father and mother started t’worry, I know they did. I think my father spoke t’Max, told him he wasna right for me—or me for him, rather. But we made a promise t’each other before Max went t’Yorkshire that year.”

  “Promise?” The old lady leaned sharply forward. “What do you mean, a promise.”

  Despite an ache deep inside her, Kirsty laughed. “Dinna get yoursel’ in a dither. We promised we’d always be friends, and that we’d be together again. And we made up a . . . och, just silly things young folks do an’ say. But I’d be lyin’ if I said I didna miss him somethin’ fierce when he didna come back—or when he came back but kept his distance from me. I was young. It seemed as if my heart would break in little pieces. I hurt so just thinkin’ about him up here and never comin’ near me when we’d been so close. But I came to know he was bein’ wise. It wouldna have done if we’d spent time together then.”

  “Interesting,” the dowager said quietly. “You’re thoughtful. It’s a great pity you aren’t of better breeding. You’re a lady at heart. I’ve encountered such things before, but not quite like this, not quite like you.”

  Kirsty didn’t answer. She recognized the compliment padded inside the insult and had no response to make.

  “So you decided Max had made the right decision when he stayed away from you, yet, when he approached you a matter of days ago—with what must have seemed an extraordinary proposition—you accepted that proposition. Why would you do such a thing if you knew it was wrong?”

  “I’ve told ye,” Kirsty said, “I love him. I’m only human. He gave me the chance t’be near him, and I couldna turn that down. Besides, why is it wrong if I’m able t’do the work?”

  “Does he love you now?”

  “Och! Och, madam, I canna speak for Max on such a thing. He cares for me, I know that. He also knows his duty, and he’ll put that duty above all else, so ye’ve nothin’ t’fear.”

  The old lady’s dry laugh chilled Kirsty. The laugh, followed by silence in the close room that smelled of dried rose petals, spent wax, and the sparking soot that clung to the chimney breast.

  “I’ve been sitting here a long time today,” the dowager said. “Sitting here and thinking about how I should manage this little contretemps. And manage it, I must, since I cannot trust men to manage such a thing without bringing another disaster upon our heads.”

  The temptation to ask what the other disaster might be was heavy upon Kirsty, but she resisted.

  “I could bring pressure to bear to have you sent away from the castle,” the dowager said. “They would defer to me if I insisted, but that would only cause more, rather than less trouble. Max might simply follow you. Your people . . . well, it wouldn’t do. No, I have given all this a great deal of consideration and I know what must be done. But I shall require your cooperation. Did you . . . That is, did Max . . . Oh, of course he did.”

  “Madam?”

  “Even I find this difficult. When Max, er, had his way with you last night, was there any attempt to avoid the possibil
ity of a child?”

  Kirsty’s entire body flamed. “He didn’t,” she muttered. “Oh, that foolish boy,” the dowager said. “When will men learn some control?”

  “I meant that he didn’t have his way wi’ me. We held each other, and we kissed. And he did touch me, but—”

  “Enough. My goodness, I’m an old lady and not strong. I do not wish to know the minutiae.” She coughed delicately. “But perhaps I should be strong and allow you to explain fully. Then I should know exactly what took place.”

  “Well, he didna risk getting me with child, Your Grace.”

  The Dowager Duchess of Franchot convulsed into spasms of coughing.

  “I’ve lived around animals all my life, so I know full well how the wee animals come about, an’ Max didna do that t’me with his Part, so there won’t be a bairn.”

  “Well, we must be thankful for that.”

  “I do have t’tell ye that I think ye may have stopped it from happenin’. We’d neither o’ us many clothes on t’speak of by the time ye arrived, and he did make me feel such feelings. I’d ha’ done whatever he led me t’do. It was verra pleasant, but ye’ll know that from your own experiences.”

  The dowager coughed so hard that Kirsty rose from her chair. “Can I get ye some water?”

  “No,” the old lady said between spasms. “I’m quite all right. We’d best get to the heart of what I have to say to you, before we’re interrupted. You are aware that Max may marry Lady Hermoine Rashly?”

  “I am.”

  “You must not have very pleasant interludes with Max again. At least, you mustn’t have them just yet. Do you understand?”

  “No,” Kirsty said with honesty. “Either I must, or I mustn’t. What d’ye mean, not just yet?”

  “Oh, this is difficult. I’m asking you to be strong, to make certain there is no intimacy between the two of you—at least until after he’s married and his wife has produced a child or two. Now, I know such restraint will require patience, but I will help you.”

  “Ye will?” Kirsty couldn’t imagine how the dowager would go about such a thing.