The Sweet and Spicy Regency Collection

by Dorothy McFalls

  What in blazes was her aunt saying? May couldn’t trust her hearing. Surely Winnie wasn’t refusing what promised to be a brighter future. Sires could provide for Winnie. He had more money and connections to the best medical practitioners.

  “What is this?” May asked, feeling shocked . . . truly shocked. “What will you do, Aunt?”

  “I will manage.” She continued to glare at her brother. “As I have often managed, alone.”

  No. This could not be. They didn’t have the funds to afford their home, their food, or her aunt’s medical care. Winnie had to accept Sires’ help. There was no other way.

  Before May could launch a protest, Mr. Tumblestone raised his hands and stepped forward. Thankfully, he had tucked the ring back into his coat pocket. “Miss Sheffers, will you stroll in the garden with me?”

  “I do not believe this is the best time.” Even if it were, she had no desire to lead him on a merry chase. No matter what, she would not consider his suit.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t easily dissuaded. He captured her hand and gave her a little tug. “Please—I believe we should discuss our future.”

  After May failed to twist her hand from the trap of his grasp, she relented. “Very well, sir. I shall stroll with you for but a moment.”

  There was a bench out back under a spindly oak. Tumblestone led her there and pulled out a handkerchief. Always thoughtful, he laid the linen on the bench’s seat and invited May to sit upon it. He crossed his arms and waited for her to get settled.

  “I do not know you,” he said bluntly. “I do not know your nature, and your background, quite frankly, worries me. After seeing what I have in regard to your temperament, I worry about our future.”

  May opened her mouth to explain there would be no future for them, but he shot her such a sharp look she closed her mouth again.

  “Let me tell you what has brought me here to make what most would consider an outrageous decision.” He paused until May gave a little nod. “You don’t know your uncle well. I suppose it is no surprise, though. You have spent very little time with him. Despite what you think, he is a good man.”

  May scoffed at the thought. Her uncle was a bounder of the worst kind. He was a bully and a tyrant who took enjoyment from tormenting her to the point of tears.

  “Five years ago I would have lost my lands. The reason is no longer important. What is important, though, is how your uncle supported me until the debts were cleared. I owe him everything I have.

  “When he came to me in need of help, I gloried at the opportunity. Your aunt is ill. Dying, possibly.”

  “I know only too well my aunt’s condition.” May turned her gaze down to the neatly scythed grass growing under her feet.

  “Though the earl has a difficult time expressing it, he too is deeply concerned. He also knows that your aunt will not come to live with him willingly. They are cut from the same stone, those two. He had hoped that if your aunt saw you married and settled nearby, she would naturally follow.”

  A lump settled in May’s throat. “Winnie’s welfare is very important to me. I would never do anything to hurt her.”

  “Then agree to marry me.” He sounded so reasonable. “If your aunt doesn’t wish to live with her brother, she can live with us.”

  The temptation to accept was great. With one simple word, May could vanquish her troubles.

  But marriage? The lump in her throat threatened to strangle her. Her dreams, her silly womanly dreams of love, marriage, and happily-ever-after had somehow become hopelessly entwined with that handsome rake, that devil who had already set his cap for another. The pain ripped at her heart.

  “Please, Mr. Tumblestone, do not rush me.” May needed time alone to think. “Give me a few more days before asking me to make such a decision.”

  How had it happened? She never wanted it. It felt like the worst thing in the world, in fact. But the truth was wedged between her and Mr. Tumblestone like a very sharp sword, keeping the only rational option at bay. No matter how hard she tried, she could not deny what had become only too real.

  She was hopelessly in love with Radford.

  Chapter 11

  A raucous clamor erupted from the front of the cottage and drowned out Mr. Tumblestone’s response to May’s plea for time. A sudden shout of laughter turned her attentions from his withering gaze.

  “Portia said I might find you sitting under your favorite tree,” Iona called out as she bounded down the narrow path through the side yard, her skirts raised. A goodly portion of material was bunched in her fists. She looked delightfully young and playful, running at breakneck speed.

  Iona hadn’t behaved so unladylike since before her come-out three years earlier. May couldn’t help but wonder, while feeling a bittersweet pang for the past, what intrigue had prompted this burst of hoydenish behavior.

  “You must come around right away. You simply must—” Iona crashed to a hasty halt. Her face paled and she dropped her skirts. “Oh, dear. I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.” Iona’s sweet lilting voice had flattened into the soft, proper tone both women had been trained to make great pains to use. “Forgive me for intruding.”

  Although Iona made a great show of being embarrassed, she made no move to leave. Mr. Tumblestone bristled at the intrusion and looked ready to bite Iona’s head off. He restrained his irritation, May supposed, only because he was making a grand effort to paint such a pleasant picture of himself and marriage.

  His hands tightened into large fists. With a stiff back, Tumblestone gave a short bow. “Lady Iona,” he said. “A pleasure to see you again. Please, do join us.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly stay,” Iona said and fluttered her hands about her breast. “What I mean to say is that you must come and see. You may come too, of course, Mr. Tumblestone.”

  May rose from the bench, her curiosity peaked. “See what?”

  “Lord Nathan has a new phaeton and Lord Evers has followed in a handsome landau. You simply must come and see.”

  May found it hard not to get caught up in Iona’s infectious enthusiasm and join in the fun. Though she had never been a great fan of coaches, she always did enjoy a friendly ogle.

  Even Iona appeared surprised when May abruptly sobered.

  May clasped her hands while her gaze bounced between Iona and Mr. Tumblestone. For Aunt Winnie’s sake, she needed to curb her impulses.

  “Mr. Tumblestone,” May said and cast a longing eye toward the front of the cottage. “Perhaps we should continue this discussion inside? I am sorry, Iona, but I cannot join you today. Perhaps another time?”

  “But it is the fair’s last day today and the weather is ever so lovely.” Iona refused to budge and it would be rude to leave her standing in the back garden alone. “Perhaps you would wish to come as well, Mr. Tumblestone? You would be most welcome, I assure you. There should be plenty of room in Lord Evers’ landau. Oh, please say you will come.”

  “What is this about a fair?” Uncle Sires ambled toward them. “Child, you must know there is a group at the door inquiring after you.” His gaze latched on Lady Iona’s. “Oh, I see you have already announced yourself, my lady,” he said rather rudely.

  The earl and the Duke of Newbury had never rubbed well together. May’s finding such a close friend in his daughter and acceptance with the Newbury family had only rubbed salt into the tensions separating the two men.

  “Lord Nathan and Lord Evers are escorting Lillian and myself to the country fair in Widcombe. I had hoped May and Mr. Tumblestone were available as well.”

  “A fair in Widcombe?” Sires rubbed his chin.

  “I had already declined the offer, Uncle.” May had no desire to be scolded unfairly since she had done the mature thing and refused the tempting invitation.

  “You refused? Stupid child,” he muttered. “Of course Tumblestone will escort my niece to the fair. The delightful couple could use some time away from the doddering old folks in this cottage.”

  Iona looked about r
eady to choke. May had a difficult time keeping from sputtering a laugh herself. Tumblestone was Uncle Sires’ age. The old farmer was doubtlessly hoping to escape back into the cottage and return to the doddering old folks instead trying to get away from them.

  “I would be delighted,” Tumblestone said, not sounding at all pleased. He entwined his fingers with May’s and forced a vicious smile.

  Regardless of anyone’s wishes, Sires had made up his mind. He handed May twenty pounds and declared she should spend the miniature fortune on useless baubles. May stared at the boon, feeling utterly flummoxed.

  “Promise to keep a close eye on these two lovebirds, Lady Iona. I cannot allow anything untoward to happen that might besmirch the child’s reputation or rush the wedding date.”

  May glanced up, expecting to find the ground above her and the clouds at her feet. Uncle Sires was acting so out of character, it made her head ache.

  Even Iona was at a loss for words.

  But her uncle wasn’t the sole cause of May’s topsy-turvy feelings. She had no idea what to think about riding in a landau with Mr. Tumblestone by her side while having to watch Radford pet and coo over the delicately beautiful Lillian.

  The afternoon promised to be torturous. And yet, her heart could not help but slam against her chest in silent anticipation. Spending another afternoon in Radford’s company was her dearest wish . . . and her greatest fear.

  * * * *

  Why in blazes had he let Wynter talk him into this mess? Though the weather was pleasant and the air fresh, Radford longed to be anywhere but in Widcombe, spending time with not only the woman he was to wed but also with the woman he could not seem to get out of his mind. Unfortunately, those two women were not one and the same.

  So far, he had a miserable time riding in his landau with Lady Lillian pressed to his side and twittering on about the fashions she’d spied in the Edgar’s Building shop windows that morning. He had a miserable time watching Miss Sheffers sit without letting her back touch the squabs and averting her gaze from both himself and the scowling Mr. Tumblestone. She was dressed in a lovely gown with a white-and-red spotted pattern that was cut specifically to display her generous contours.

  If she wore such a garment every day, the poor gel would be overset with marriage offers. There was a lovely gem hidden underneath those ill-fitted, faded gowns after all.

  The realization made Radford all the more miserable. Why in blazes had he agreed to step one foot out of his house?

  The country fair in nearby Widcombe was crowded into the Widcombe Crescent common, a large grassy expanse, and spilled over into the neighboring fields. Many familiar faces filled the crowd. It appeared as if over half of Bath had decided to join in the frivolities.

  Wynter and Lady Iona led the way past singing acrobats, street performances of popular morality plays, and street stands selling savory smelling meats and sugarcoated pastries.

  “There is an ancient lady at the edge of the field, I am told,” Wynter explained. Mischief sparkled in his bright blue eyes. “She will tell your future for a mere two pence. Isn’t that a lark? We must all let her peek at our palms.”

  “The devil, you say?” Tumblestone did not sound at all pleased. “Tis a sin to deal with fortune tellers or witchcraft. I shall not partake in this folly . . . nor shall Miss Sheffers.”

  “Indeed?” Radford drawled, trying his best to make the word sound bored instead of strained. The brutal pace Wynter had set pained his foot since pride had kept him from bringing his cane. He stopped on the path to catch his breath.

  “Do you agree, Miss Sheffers? Are you not curious what future this old woman sees for you?” He slanted a pointed glance in Tumblestone’s direction.

  May turned her head away, apparently too smart to fall into the trap Radford had ungallantly set for her. A free spirit like May would undoubtedly enjoy the amusements of an old gypsy witch. “Would be a waste of money, my lord,” she mumbled.

  “What nonsense, May,” Lady Iona said. “Your uncle gave you ample funds to waste today.”

  “Not on sinful behavior,” Mr. Tumblestone snipped.

  “I don’t see what the fuss is about,” Lady Lillian said. She dug her claws into Radford’s sleeve. “May doesn’t need a gypsy witch to read her palm. I daresay such a skill is inborn with the likes of her. The old witch might even be her grandmother. You can divine your own future, can you not, May? It is in your blood . . . your father’s gypsy blood.”

  Her father a gypsy? “Preposterous,” Radford blurted. “Her mother is the daughter of an earl.”

  “Believe what you like,” Lillian said with considerable spite. The emotion was most unbecoming on the lady’s youthful features.

  Iona stuffed a fist into her mouth. Wynter blushed and muttered incoherently. No one really knew what to say. Radford half expected Miss Sheffers to burst into tears and run away.

  Yet, the young miss was much too strong to do something as weakly feminine as that. Instead, Miss Sheffers stood her ground and stared up her nose at the taller, lovelier Lady Lillian. Without speaking one word, she effectively erased any lingering doubts from Radford’s mind.

  This was Miss Sheffers, the one woman who ever dared call him a fool and who read not only the most horrid novels but soaked up all the classics. Above all, this was the woman who had forced him to see the harm he was doing to his body by rejecting that infernal cane. How could such a gently bred, courageous woman be tainted with feral gypsy blood?

  “What a spiteful thing to say,” Radford scolded in a soft tone in a desperate attempt to break the tense silence. “You should not utter such lies, my lady.”

  “You think I lie?” Lady Lillian squared her shoulders and looked immensely pleased with herself. “Ask May yourself. If she denies what I say, then you will witness firsthand a truly accomplished liar.”

  Tumblestone was taking a keen interest in what Miss Sheffers might have to say for herself. “Well, miss? Deny the lady so we may continue on. People are beginning to stare,” he said.

  May’s violet-colored eyes darkened several shades. She opened her dainty mouth a number of times to speak but never made a sound.

  “This is foolish. Apologize, Lillian, for saying something so vicious,” Iona quickly came to Miss Sheffers’ defense.

  “I will not.” Lillian tilted her head up. Tears were threatening her eyes.

  Radford could only shake his head. No matter how hard he tried, his comprehension of the female species never improved.

  “Perhaps we should continue then,” Wynter suggested. He sounded as uncomfortable as Radford felt. Moving on and putting the accusation behind him suited Radford just fine.

  Unfortunately, Tumblestone had other thoughts on the matter. “Miss Sheffers, say something. Deny or affirm what the lady claims.”

  May’s nervous glance danced from face to face. Finally she sighed, her shoulders slumped in defeat. “I can do neither,” she said. “You will have to speak with my uncle if you wish to know the truth.”

  Ah. Another mystery surrounds the dear elfin princess.

  Radford found himself perversely intrigued. He hoped his man-of-affairs returned soon with all her dirty secrets uncovered.

  With nothing left to discuss, Radford took Lady Lillian’s arm and plodded a slow but steady path down the line of booths.

  There was a gypsy witch waiting to be consulted.

  The old woman was hunched and wrinkled. Her shaky fingers were gnarled like the limbs of an ancient oak. Her patched clothing flowed about her, displaying an array of bright colors. She wore a woolen kerchief on her head and had a large golden hoop piercing her earlobe.

  Lady Lillian laughed nervously as she slipped the witch a few coins and offered her hand. The cloudy-eyed woman stared not at Lillian’s palm but into her face. She stroked Lillian’s long fingers and hummed softly for several moments.

  “You are so lovely, dear. You turn so many men’s hearts, do you not? But what is beauty? What will it bring you?
Oh dear, not much. Many frustrating years will pass before you find happiness,” the witch bent forward and whispered in a thickly accented voice.

  Lillian snatched back her hand and clutched it to her chest. “Is that all you have to say, you old fraud?”

  The old woman shrugged. “Do not despair overmuch. You are yet young.”

  Iona took Lillian’s hands and cooed gentle words to the sensitive girl while Wynter slipped the witch two more coins. When she reached out to take his palm, Wynter captured Radford’s hand, peeled off his glove, and held it for the old woman to peer into.

  “What in the devil?” Radford protested.

  “Just listen to what she has to say.”

  Funny thing, the witch had nothing to say. Her eyes grew wide as she stared deep into the center of Radford’s palm.

  “Perhaps I’m supposed to be dead already,” he quipped.

  “Oh no,” she said, shaking her head violently. “You have a very strong lifeline. Only,”—she traced a path down the center of his palm with her crooked finger—“you are not living it.”

  “Not living it? Then what am I doing here, if not living?”

  “Hiding, I suppose. Hiding from everything that should be important to you. Use that limp as a shield, do you not?”

  She pulled on his arm with a surprising burst of strength, forcing him to crouch down so she could whisper into his ear. “Beware, my lord. There is no hiding from your heart. The universe will not allow it.”

  Just like Lady Lillian, Radford drew his hand back as if the witch had stung him. Something wicked curled in his stomach as her words wound their way through his body. He shook himself and gave a short laugh. The witch was good. Her theatrics rivaled the best actors he’d ever seen grace the stage.

  “How droll,” he said. He laughed again to cover up a sense of foreboding sneaking up inside him, warning him that the witch had hit the mark. “You have earned your money.” Radford tossed her a few extra coins before jamming his hands into his pocket and returning to Lillian’s side.

  He lavished his pretty lady with attention and listened with only half an ear while the gypsy witch promised Wynter he would soon make his father proud and find love in a surprising quarter. Lady Iona’s reading was just as benign and vague as Wynter’s.