The Wish Club

by Stella Cameron

  Struan swept up a towel. “You’ll keep your hands off that girl.”

  With water dripping from his hair, his face, and his torso, Max turned on Struan. “What did you say?”

  “I said, you will keep your hands off Kirsty Mercer.”

  Max took the towel and began drying himself. “Didn’t you just tell me that as long as I marry the right woman, I may find what I want and need to find elsewhere?”

  “Not with Kirsty Mercer.”

  “That is not your decision to make.”

  “Arran would kill you if you compromised that girl. I would kill you.”

  “I would be twice dead.”

  “Do not joke about such a matter. Her family are of great importance to this family.”

  “They are peasant tenants. Below notice. Unworthy.”

  “Stop it. What has come over you? You brought that girl into this house because you said it was a waste of a good brain for her not to have a chance to better herself.”

  Max dried beneath his arms and tossed aside the towel. “You know as well as Uncle Arran does—as well as I do— that I brought Kirsty into this house because I want her— and not only as an assistant. In fact, I don’t give a damn about her being my assistant. I want her.”

  “But you said—”

  “I lied. I want her the way you want Mother. I am driven to have her, the way you were driven to have Mother.”

  “Don’t bring your mother into this.”

  “Why? Because Mother is a lady and above being mentioned in a conversation dealing with desire. With carnal desire, as well as love.”

  Struan readied himself for the biggest struggle he had ever had with Max. “You do love her, then?”

  “You know I do. You’ve warned me away from her many times.”

  “And you defied me by waiting until I left for Cornwall this year and installing her in this very house.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Of course he did. And of course he would fight for what he wanted. He, Struan, had encouraged him to pursue what he considered important and he considered this girl more important than anything else. “Max, listen to me.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. You don’t just want to bed the Mercer girl, you want to marry her, don’t you?”

  By the stubborn set of Max’s mouth, Struan doubted he would get any useful answers, but he pressed on. “You are determined to have her at any cost.”

  “I am, and I will. I am now all she has. She is as much my responsibility as you have considered Ella and me yours.”

  “Not so, dammit!”

  Max took a fresh shirt from his wardrobe. “Yes, her future is in my hands.”

  “You will not turn that lovely girl into your ladybird.”

  Max was silent as he put on his shirt and buttoned it.

  “You will do nothing to hurt her. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Indeed you do. I am touched by your sense of honor toward one so lowly.”

  “How dare you taunt me so? That you would accuse me of caring less for a man or woman because they did not have the fortune of a high birth is outrageous. You know better of me.”

  Max tucked in his shirt and slicked back his soaked hair.

  “This weekend,” Struan said. “Only two days from today the ball takes place at The Hallows. You will be attentive to Lady Hermoine. By the end of the evening I want no doubt as to where your affections lie. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Very clear.”

  Struan was tempted to hurl something, but contained himself. “There is a way out of all this misery. Help us to find Kirsty a suitable husband. A man of breeding and education, but one who does not have designs on a high place in the land.”

  “And I do?”

  “Yes, you do. Your uncle and I hope to see you in politics one day. You are what this country needs. But more of that later. Will you help us find a good husband for Kirsty? Someone who will love and appreciate her for who and what she is? Someone who will have no interest in her parentage or growing years, but who will give her the chances she needs? A parson’s son, perhaps? Or a parson. I’ve asked that the new man from the village—Pottinger his name is—be invited to the ball. He hasn’t a wife, and he ought to have one. Very suitable.”

  He didn’t care for Max’s stare.

  “Will you help?”

  Max tossed his towel beside the bowl. “I shall do my best to see Kirsty as happy as she deserves to be.”

  • • •

  Feeling guilty for eavesdropping, Kirsty hovered by the outer door to Max’s rooms. She’d arrived in time to learn that they intended to find her a husband. The new pastor from the village was the prime candidate. Kirsty had seen him once. An earnest young man, he was also a boor and very interested in himself.

  Max had made his decision. He didn’t want her, not even as his mistress.

  She wanted to flee. But where could she go? The same answer came—as it had so many times since the previous day: she had nowhere to go anymore. This castle had become her home until she was passed along like a trunk, or an old chair, to someone else who needed such an item.

  She’d best make her presence known. “Hello,” she called. “Mr. Rossmara? It’s Kirsty Mercer. Ye sent for me.”

  Rather than Max, it was the viscount who came to the partly open door to his son’s rooms and ushered her inside. “Come in, come in. Max didn’t mention that he’d summoned you.” He sent a significant and displeased glance in the direction of Max’s bedchamber. “He’ll be out shortly.”

  “Thank ye,” Kirsty said.

  “Yes, well—” Evidently the viscount quickly forgot what he’d been about to say because he folded his hands behind his back and looked thoughtful.

  Max came from the bedchamber. His cravat was clumsily knotted and he shrugged hastily into a jacket. His hair was still wet but his growth of red beard had disappeared.

  “I’m sure you’ll understand, Father, if I choose not to help—” He saw Kirsty and stopped talking.

  “Absolutely,” the viscount said, and his laughter was un-characteristically hearty. “Time to get Kirsty to the dowager and Mrs. Bastible for that dance instruction I’m told has been arranged. You have quite the champion in the dowager duchess. She is determined to broaden your experience.”

  Surprised, Kirsty took a backward step.

  “Come, come now, child,” the viscount said kindly. “I understand you’ve let it be known that you haven’t learned to dance. We can’t have that with you going to a ball on Saturday. The most important ball to be held in these parts for many a moon.”

  “The only dance in many a moon,” Max said, sounding gruff.

  “I came t’see Max,” Kirsty said. “He asked me to do so.”

  “Because he wanted to take you along for your dance lessons no doubt,” the viscount said. “We shall all help out. A girl ought to dance well enough to have a good time at a ball. Especially a girl as pretty as you. You’re bound to be sought after. Dance card will be filled in no time.”

  Panic welled in Kirsty’s chest. “I’m only going t’watch t’people.”

  “Rubbish! You’ll dance the night away like all the other young girls. Max here will have his betrothed on his arm. But there will be other, less fortunate gentlemen present.”

  “I am not yet betrothed,” Max said.

  Struan put a hand beneath Kirsty’s elbow. “Let us lead the way to the music room. Come along. You, too, Max. You’ll be needed for this exercise.”

  She heard Max follow but would not let herself look back at him.

  They proceeded toward Revelation, the tower in which the marquess and his family lived.

  “I’m sure I shouldn’t be able to learn nearly enough to accept an invitation to dance within two days, and I’d no’ like t’look the fool.”

  “You couldn’t look the fool,” Max said at once, from behind her.

  “That reminds me,” the viscount said. “You’d better go to yo
ur great-grandmother and see if she’s ready, Max. Then accompany her and Mrs. Bastible to the music room.”

  “But surely—”

  “Do as I ask, there’s a good chap,” the viscount said, and Max left without another word.

  They seemed to travel a vast distance through the castle, and Kirsty wondered if the dowager would be able to walk so far at all. “This part of the castle is older than the rest, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the viscount told her. “The marquess has always preferred it here. So does his wife. Did you know she’s a painter—she paints what she calls representational art. Shapes representative of people without clothes, so I understand.”

  Kirsty gasped. “Wi’out clothes? I don’t suppose ye’ve been allowed t’see them, or ye’d know if they were people.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen them. It’s just that I don’t always see the people in them. But no matter, they are becoming quite famous. Not, of course, that anyone knows they’re painted by a woman. The marquess will be delighted to see us. At least he can order us about, even if he cannot play. He’ll have great pleasure in criticizing my own poor efforts.”

  They climbed a spiral staircase of wafer-thin stone steps and entered a great room at the top. “Have you been to the marquess’s music room before?” the viscount asked.

  Kirsty whispered, “No,” and walked into the most beautiful room she’d ever seen. Dark blue silk carpets graced glistening wood floors. Beautiful old tapestries hung on towering, paneled walls. In the center of the room stood a piano, and a second piano all but filled a curved casement where red velvet draperies were pulled aside. The marquess sat at this second piano picking out a tune with his good right hand.

  Kirsty looked upward and made a slow revolution. The ceiling was all arches and garlands of leaves and musical instruments made of plaster and painted soft colors that were picked out with gold. She pressed her hands together. Chairs covered with more tapestry stood around a lovely table with patterns in the wood. A bright fire burned in a white-marble fireplace. On couches everywhere stood cases for instruments. Kirsty recognized fiddles, very grand fiddles, but not some of the others.

  “Kirsty,” the marquess said when he saw her. “Welcome. What a fine surprise—”

  “Here we are,” the viscount cried in a very loud voice. “Come for Kirsty’s dancing lessons. Max has gone to make sure the dowager and Blanche are on their way. Then we must all concentrate on getting this young woman ready for her first ball.”

  The marquess closed his mouth and nodded.

  “You choose suitable pieces, Arran. You’ll have to tolerate my poor efforts at the keyboard, but we shall manage well enough.”

  “We’re going to teach Kirsty to dance,” the marquess said as if he was trying the idea out rather than making a statement. “She dances very well, you know.”

  “She does?” the viscount said.

  “Never saw a better reel.”

  “I doubt they dance our sort of reels at a ball, my lord,” Kirsty said, growing deeply anxious. “And as I’ve told ye, I certainly couldn’t learn enough not to embarrass everyone—not in only two days.”

  “Certainly you can,” the marquess said. “We shall teach you several dances. You will accept invitations to dance those, but plead that you are already taken for others— dances you don’t know. And when they come along, you should pop off for refreshments.”

  “Very good,” the viscount said. “I doubt the Reverend Pottinger engages in a great deal of dancing, but you should accept any invitation he makes, then tell him you are thirsty if you don’t know the dance.”

  “Pottinger?” the marquess said.

  “New chap in the village. Bound to be invited. Very suitable for Kirsty, don’t you think?”

  Kirsty could not believe the manner in which the viscount was attempting to manipulate the lives of herself and his son. “Have ye met Mr. Pottinger?” she ventured.

  The viscount stared at her. “Met him? Well, not exactly, but I’ll make a point of introducing myself to him and then introducing him to you. You’ll sweep him off his feet.”

  She was of a mind to ask if Mr. Pottinger was likely to sweep her off her feet, but at that moment the door burst open and Max entered, carrying the dowager duchess. He took her to a couch and set her down with extreme care. She patted Max’s arm and appeared extremely pleased with events. Mrs. Bastible puffed in behind her and sank into the nearest chair.

  “Mrs. Bastible wasn’t aware that there were to be dancing lessons today,” Max said to his father. “In fact, she seemed very surprised.”

  “Blanche is forgetful,” the dowager said in a firm voice. “ I was aware of the lessons. Now, let us begin.”

  “We won’t need you after all, Max,” the viscount said. He seated himself at the piano in the center of the room. “Arran is more than capable of guiding Kirsty around. You must have work to do.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Max said. “Arran isn’t up to dancing, are you, Arran?”

  “Well—”

  “Never mind,” the dowager said. “Blanche plays very well, don’t you, Blanche?”

  Mrs. Bastible said, “It’s been so long since I played.”

  “You are entirely too humble. You shall play. Arran will point out your mistakes. I shall give directions for the dance. Struan shall partner Kirsty. And you, Max, shall go about your own business. Good afternoon to you.”

  • • •

  Max made his way very slowly from Revelation to Eve. He had been summarily dismissed because his father was terrified he might fail to manipulate Max into a marriage he didn’t want.

  In his study Max went not to his own desk, but to Kirsty’s, where he sat in her chair. Idly, he pulled open drawers. Each was neat, everything placed squarely with those things that would be most frequently used being the easiest to reach.

  He stretched his feet beneath her desk, and kicked something aside. Leaning down, he discovered Ella’s old Parcheesi board, and a piece of cloth wrapped around something. He lifted both and set them on top of the desk. Upon unrolling the cloth he found a silver game piece, a lady, in two pieces. Her head screwed off. He peered inside but found nothing but a piece of very old satin. On closer inspection he decided this was one of the pieces that had disappeared, then reappeared. Each of the pieces was unique in that they wore gowns from different eras. This was an Elizabethan lady.

  He turned his attention to the game board, lifted it, and turned it over several times. An odd board, thick enough to be a box rather than a board, very light.

  He remembered the board as being heavy.

  Max examined each side with great care.

  A box.

  It was a box.

  Covered with dyed leather, the sides of the board were actually the sides of a box with an extremely tight-fitting lid. Taking up a sharp paper knife, he made a space for his nails, and pried off the lid.

  The box was empty.

  It could be that the game pieces were intended to be stored inside the board. They would certainly make it heavy. He put the one he held into the box. There wouldn’t be room for all the silver ladies in their ornate gowns.

  He gazed straight ahead, thinking. But of course, both the game pieces, and the so-called board, were hiding places for other things. Or they had been.

  The board had been one of the few possessions Ella had when the viscount rescued her from that nightmare in London’s Whitechapel. As soon as he could, he would get a message to his sister—who could not be far short of confinement—and ask if she’d been aware of anything hidden inside her Parcheesi set.

  Oh, it was probably nothing at all. And the so-called missing pieces could have rolled beneath furniture and been retrieved by a maid during cleaning.

  Max set the board and piece under the desk where Kirsty had left them.

  There was a conspiracy afoot, not a subtle conspiracy, to make sure he and Kirsty Mercer spent very little time together until they could both be safely and
irrevocably entangled with the mates that had been chosen for them.

  The Grabham ball was in two days. Max had a decision to make, and very little time in which to make that decision.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Mairi jiggled on her toes, waiting for the modiste to declare that she was finally satisfied.

  “Voilà,“ the woman said at last, standing back, her head to one side and her hands clasped before her.

  “Does she mean she’s finished, then?” Mairi asked Kirsty, who managed to remember enough of the French words Max had taught her to thank the modiste, and to dismiss her.

  “At last,” Mairi said, when the woman had left. “Now let’s get ye out o’ it so we can do your hair and put on a little o’ that paint Mrs. Bastible brought.”

  “Och,” Kirsty said, “my hair always looks t’same. Why not leave the dress on—indecent as it is, and I’ll no’ be wearin’ any paint, thank ye.”

  Ignoring her entirely, Mairi commenced to undo the back of the gossamer blue gown. Its low-cut bodice folded into many tiny tucks that crossed over Kirsty’s breasts to form a deep V. “It’s a tiny waist ye’ve got,” Mairi said. “Ye dinna need these stays at all, ye lucky thing. Kirsty Mercer, this is a dress for a kelpie. We’re t’use the headdress, and for that we’ll need t’do your hair.”

  Kirsty felt mutinous. “I’m no’ a fairy and I dinna want my hair any different.”

  “The dowager duchess hersel’ gave me instructions,” Mairi said, peeling the dress down and waiting for Kirsty to step out of it. “And Mrs. Bastible, bless her sweet heart. There’s many who dinna like that lady, but I do. She’s always kind t’me.”

  Kirsty stood shivering in her chemise, stays, and petticoats. Mairi proceeded to remove several layers of the latter. Then she went to pat the stool before the dressing table. “Come along then, fairy princess. I remember when I helped the marchioness. She wasna the marchioness when she first came here. A tiny thing wi’ pale hair. She looked as if a wind off t’moor would blow her away, but she’s a will stronger than any man.”