The questioning Miss Quinton

by Kasey Michaels

  Patrick raised his hands and applauded softly before declaring with maddening calm, “Well done, Miss Quinton. You have put me well and truly in my place. I commend you. Now, why don’t you stop trying not to pout and be a good little girl and run to get your cloak. I, out of the goodness of my heart, have taken it upon myself to give you an airing in the park this afternoon.”

  Victoria looked at Sherbourne as if he had suddenly sprouted an extra head, disbelief written all over her expressive face. “Why would you want to do that?” she asked, suddenly suspicious of his motives.

  “Ah, Miss Quinton, I am crushed, truly crushed,” he answered sadly, shaking his handsome blond head. “Having seen your uncle’s insertion in the Morning Post more than a week ago, I have been in danger of spraining my neck searching for you at every social gathering, but to no avail.”

  “You have?” Victoria breathed incredulously, her heart skipping a beat or two as she fleetingly entertained the idea that he might have been looking for her because he felt the same strange attraction that she did every time she thought of him.

  “You are amazed, I know. So was I. At any rate, at long last my dullard brain realized that you had precious few acquaintances in town, a circumstance that would seem to make gaining any worthwhile invitations plaguey difficult. Remembering your uncle with kindness, I said to myself, ‘Patrick, what would a gentleman do in such a situation?’ I, of course, then replied, ‘A gentleman would offer his services to the lady without delay’—especially when you consider that I am not without some reputation in this city.”

  Victoria sniffed derisively, giving up any lingering notion that he saw her in any sort of romantic light. “It is precisely that reputation which keeps me from accepting your charitable offer, sir, as I harbor no secret desire to become notorious. I may not get out into Society, but I too read the newspapers. Your name, like that of Mr. Standish, always seems to feature quite prominently in some of the columns.”

  “Notorious? Why, Miss Quinton, I do believe I am insulted,” Patrick replied lightheartedly. “After all, I am considered quite the rage, you know.”

  Walking across the room to sit herself down on the settee before her quaking limbs failed her completely, Victoria retorted acidly, “Rage, you say, Lord Wick-ford? Yes, that word does seem to describe the reaction your presence evokes. Besides,” she ended pettishly, “I do not believe I should like being indebted to you in any way.”

  Patrick didn’t seem capable of taking the hint and going away, for he merely acknowledged her insult with a nod before sitting down in the same chair he had occupied on his earlier visit, seemingly settling in for a lengthy chat. “I am boorish, of course, to remind you, Miss Quinton, but you are already indebted to me.”

  “How?” Victoria questioned dubiously. “Surely you cannot think I owe you some sort of recompense for having set my uncle onto this mad scheme to inveigle me into Society in order to unmask the Professor’s killer?”

  Sherbourne pulled out his pocket watch and checked on the time, shaking his head and muttering something about keeping his horses standing too long in the breeze before answering. “You seem to have conveniently forgotten that it is I who have so graciously allowed you to retain the Professor’s collection in order to aid your amateur sleuthing, Miss Quinton. But never mind,” he added, waving his hand dismissively, “for it was not nice in me to remind you, was it?”

  Several thoughts went flashing through Victoria’s mind in the next few moments. For one thing, she hadn’t had so much as a free moment in the past weeks in which to continue her perusal of the Professor’s collection—which had thus far unearthed over five hundred pounds hidden randomly among its pages, and little information of any merit.

  Secondly, she spared a moment to deliver a mental kick to herself for being so lax as to forget that, in some perverted way, she did owe Lord Wickford a favor in exchange for his courtesy.

  And finally, although she did not linger very long on the thought, she realized that the last, the absolutely last thing she wanted was to wave goodbye to any chance of ever seeing this same Lord Wickford again.

  “Yes, Miss Quinton?” Patrick prodded wickedly, as Victoria’s mouth had opened and closed several times without the young woman uttering a single sound. “Go right ahead, my dear lady. I have been keeping count, you know, and it is your turn to insult me.”

  “Why would you want to set yourself up as my knight-errant?” she asked baldly, surprising herself as much as him with her question.

  It was a good question, though, Patrick admitted to himself. Just why was he going out of his way to help this peculiar young woman? Was he becoming altruistic in his declining years? Perhaps he would soon feel himself compelled to do “good works,” just as his father had done once he had enjoyed seventy years of libertine, rakehell ways, hoping against hope that turning over a new leaf would perhaps gain him his entry into heaven.

  Finally, unable to come up with any answer that lent him the least satisfaction, he quipped, “One drive through the park does not constitute an act of gallantry worthy of such a title, madam. A tastefully beribboned medal for bravery perhaps, considering the fact that I shall be opening myself to listening to your less than flattering remarks about me for the length of time it will take me to introduce you to a few of the more influential hostesses, but that is all. Now, Miss Quinton, are you going to come with me or not? If my new team is left standing much longer, my groom will scold me unmercifully all the way home.”

  “What’s this? A ride in the park? Sounds like a jolly fine idea to me, Puddin’. What are you waiting for? Go tell Willie to fetch your bonnet, and then you can be on your way—right after me and his lordship here have a little sip of something while we wait.”

  “Yes, Uncle Quinton,” Victoria breathed fatalistically, looking up to see her uncle already heading for the decanter that now stood on the table in front of the settee. At least the final decision had been taken out of her hands—allowing her to feel she had won a small victory. “But don’t talk too long, as his lordship’s horses are standing in the breeze,” she added, silently praying that Quentin couldn’t do too much damage with his bragging tongue before she could seek out her bonnet and return to the room.

  “Nonsense, Miss Quinton,” Sherbourne contradicted pleasantly, already rising to his feet. “I’ll just step outside and instruct my groom to walk them a bit. After all, it’s been quite some time since I’ve had a chance to speak with your uncle. I’m sure he has much to tell me about what you’ve been up to since last I saw you.”

  “I know,” Victoria conceded gloomily, heading for the door as she muttered under her breath, “and that is precisely what I’m afraid of.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE PARK WAS A RIOT of lush greenery and colorful spring blooms, the whole scene washed clean by an early morning shower so that it smelled delicately of fragrant flowers and warm sunshine.

  It presented such a delightful picture that it could only be deemed a pity that Victoria’s visual appreciation of this beauty was limited to a range of slightly less than twenty-five feet in any direction.

  Beyond that point, everything appeared to her as a sort of vague greenish mist below and even vaguer bluish mist above, although she wasn’t about to admit that to the man sitting up beside her in the dashing vehicle she was convinced had been expressly designed by some perverse devil who knew about her unreasoning fear of high places.

  So it was that—chary of confiding in anyone, and most especially the Earl, who she was sure would roast her unmercifully if he discovered her shortsightedness—she had spent the past ten minutes politely looking in any direction Patrick Sherbourne indicated, striving earnestly to comment intelligently on each one as he graciously pointed out the most interesting of the many buildings, monuments, and personages of merit they had passed along the way.

  “Oh, do look over this way, Miss Quinton,” Patrick was saying now, after they had been in the park only a few moments. “Why,
I do believe it’s Lord Storm exercising that extraordinary bit of blood and bone near the fringe of the park. Yes, yes, that’s who it is all right, and there’s the Duke of Avonall and his marvelously outspoken grandmother, the Dowager Duchess, over to our left, driving in that magnificent dark blue landaulet.”

  Victoria obligingly turned in the direction he was indicating, truly wishing she could see these intriguing sights, and squinted hopefully into the distance, eventually singling out a largish blue blob that she believed to contain the famous Duke and the Dowager Duchess. “I thought I had read somewhere that the Duke was taller,” she commented, leaning forward a bit in the hope her eyes would focus better that way.

  “He’s sitting down, Miss Quinton,” Patrick put in unnecessarily, trying hard not to smile as Victoria stared intently at the equipage he had pointed out—the one containing the immense person of Mrs. Imogene Throgmorton and her constant companion, her beloved sheepdog, Hercules.

  The chit can’t see more than an inch beyond the tip of her nose, he thought in amusement, though he was sure she would rather die than admit it. For all her protestations to the contrary and all her efforts to impress me with her disdain for the foibles of Society, she is just as vain as the rest of her species. Like asking my opinion of her new appearance earlier—a question that must have cost her pride dearly—it just goes to show that all women, plain or beautiful, have the same desire to be accepted, even admired, by the opposite sex.

  Stealing a look out of the corners of his eyes, he inspected Victoria’s profile—or at least as much of it as he could see, thanks to the sloping brim of her attractive bonnet—and decided that her face was really quite provocative. Piquant—that was the word he had been searching for ever since he had stumbled upon her intently inspecting herself in the drawing room mirror. Piquant, and rather endearing in a strange, unsettling sort of way.

  Watch yourself, Sherbourne, he warned himself silently, realizing that he was beginning to actually like this bright blue spinster with the poker-straight posture and the soft, unfocused amber eyes.

  Puddin’, her uncle had called her, an endearment that conjured up feelings of warmth and comfort and sweet deliciousness—hardly an apt description of the atrociously clad young woman who had only recently spared no effort in accusing him of being a possible murderer! Surely a change of hairdo and a new gown couldn’t make that much of a difference in the girl.

  “Does the Prince Regent often take the air in this park?” Victoria asked now, having tired of pretending an interest in the occupants of the blue vehicle which had passed nearly out of sight anyway—or at least she thought so.

  “Not really,” Patrick answered silkily, promptly giving in to the imp of mischief that had invaded him the moment he realized his thoughts had been taking him in a direction that did not suit his vision of himself as a carefree man about town. “But if by some chance his vehicle should happen by while we are here, I’ll be sure to point him out to you. Even you couldn’t miss ‘His Royal Immenseness’.”

  Victoria’s eyes snapped brilliantly as she whirled to face him, demanding, “And what is that last remark supposed to mean, sir?”

  “It means, Miss Quinton,” he responded jovially, “that you are as blind as the proverbial bat. Please, madam, end my suspense. Do you wear spectacles, or have you merely accustomed yourself to bumping into things? No, wait, I believe I have it—you have memorized the positioning of the furniture in your house, down to the last plant stand and footstool. Of course, it’s that superior mind of yours. No wonder I didn’t suspect anything earlier. My, what an enterprising young woman you are, to be sure.”

  “If you are quite done?” Victoria inquired repressively before bracing herself to do battle and exploding indignantly, “I knew you were no gentleman! My eyesight is none of your concern, and certainly not open to discussion.”

  Patrick looked at Victoria as she sat stiffly beside him, clearly incensed at his audacity in pointing out what seemed to her to be a serious flaw, felt an involuntary twinge of pity for having amused himself at her expense, and then firmly quashed it with his next words. “Here now, Miss Quinton, don’t climb up onto your high ropes on me, for after all, it was not I who mistook a dog for a duke.”

  Victoria turned once more on the seat to confront her tormentor. “I did what? Ohhh, you knew all along that I can’t see clearly at any distance and you—you deliberately encouraged me to make a complete fool of myself.” Twin flags of color flew brightly into Victoria’s cheeks as she unwittingly showed the Earl more animation in that moment than she had at any time since they had first met.

  “Yes,” he admitted blithely (for he was, in truth, rather pleased with himself), his laughing eyes sparkling like black diamonds. “I did, didn’t I? I really am quite a dreadful person, just as you thought.”

  Suddenly, unbidden, Victoria began to see the humor in the situation. Her chin wobbling a bit as she fought to withhold her amusement, she could only ask weakly, “Was—was it really a dog?”

  “A rather large, shaggy sheepdog, actually,” Patrick informed her, desperately striving to keep a rein on his dignity. “His, er, his name is Her—Hercules!” he added in a rush, just before his sense of the ridiculous got the better of him and he laughed aloud.

  Victoria pressed one gloved hand to her mouth, trying with all her might to maintain some semblance of sanity in the midst of this totally insane conversation, but her efforts were without success. “His honor, the Duke of Hercules!” she could only gurgle incredulously, giving up the effort and dissolving into giggles—possibly the first spontaneous display of amusement she had shown since her nursery days.

  When at last their shared laughter had trickled away, they looked at each other and smiled warily, aware of having established a sort of wary truce between them at long last. As if to test this new, fledgling friendship, Patrick, his expression sobering somewhat, leaned forward confidentially and said, “You know, being shortsighted is not something to be ashamed of, Miss Quinton. Everyone has something about themselves that they would rather not advertise to the world, but physical limitations or oddities really have very little to do with the worth of a person in the long run.”

  “It’s very kind in you to say so, sir,” Victoria began, finding the subject of her shortsightedness uncomfortable, “but then how many debutantes have you seen going down the dance in spectacles?”

  “You have missed the point entirely, as usual,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “Why, look at Lord Byron, for example. For Lord’s sake, the man has a clubfoot—if you will forgive my ungentlemanly reference to a portion of the human anatomy. But does that stop him from being the toast of London? No, madam, it does not, and a clubfoot is far more evident than a pair of spectacles!”

  Lifting her chin slightly as she turned front once more, Victoria said tightly, “You think I’m being foolish, don’t you? Foolish, and horribly vain.”

  “If the slipper fits—”

  “But I can’t help it! Don’t you understand? I know I’m no beauty, even you said so. I shall be nervous enough just attending the theatre, or some rout party. I simply cannot conceive going into Society with an unsightly pair of spectacles stuck to my nose!”

  Sherbourne nodded, seeming to accept her words as he pulled his vehicle out of the line of carriages and drew the horses to a stop. “All right,” he conceded equably enough, “if you insist. In that case, however, I must tell you that, because of my admiration for your extreme courage in trying to ferret out the Professor’s murderer, I feel it only fitting to volunteer my services whenever you go into company. After all, it wouldn’t do to have this Society you seem to hold in such awe observe you trying to engage in an uplifting discussion with some potted plant, now would it?”

  The park suddenly seemed to be cloaked in a vivid red haze as Victoria lost her temper in that complete, heedless way only those who are usually even-tempered can do. Her coldly glittering amber eyes narrowed dangerously as she moved her face c
loser to Sherbourne’s, and she spoke her next words through clenched teeth: “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, every horrid, humiliating moment of it?”

  “No, I—”

  “Don’t try to deny it!” she riposted swiftly, shutting him off. “This is just some sort of twisted game your type indulges in, playing with people as if they are puppets, making them dance on strings for your edification.”

  “Miss Quinton, please,” Sherbourne interrupted, “you are in danger of becoming overwrought. I—”

  But Victoria was beyond heeding. Angrily waving his words away, she continued in a fierce undertone, “Well, let me tell you, Lord High and Mighty Earl of Wickford, I shall have none of it! It was bad enough that you thought to amuse yourself at my expense, taking me out for a ride in the park just to poke fun at me, proving yet again what I already know—that I have been spinning daydreams in believing I should ever be able to enter Society in any but the most elementary way. But when you—”

  “I did not,” Patrick objected when Victoria stopped momentarily for breath. “Well, maybe I did—a bit—but I really didn’t mean any harm, honestly. Please, Miss Quinton, if you would but let me get a word in edge-wise—”

  “No, I won’t,” Victoria answered belligerently. “You don’t deserve it. As I said, I can live with what you have tried to do to me. After all, my hopes were not all that high in the first place. But I will not have you raising Uncle Quentin’s hopes by volunteering to present me to Society. That dear man has a heart of gold, which is the only reason I have allowed him to dress me up like some Christmas pudding and try to launch me as if I really were somebody worthy of presentation. To raise his expectations the way you have by showing up in Ablemarle Street this afternoon and treating him like some bosom beau, just to dash them all at the end—why, I think it is the most deceitful, odious thing anyone has ever done!”

  “Hav-ing a spot of trou-ble are you, Wick-ford?” a smoothly drawling masculine voice asked, stopping Patrick from indulging in what was his fondest desire at that moment—kissing the infuriating Miss Victoria Quinton square on her pouting full lips until she was too limp with passion to utter another word.