The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior

by Jennifer McQuiston

  Well, he might be handsome and young, but he was also a man. Aunt E had already proven herself correct on many things, and the pages of her diary were filled with good advice.

  The least she herself could do was trust her aunt’s judgment on the matter of men.

  “I only agreed to see you today to set the matter straight,” she informed him, drawing herself up to her full unfortunate height. She dug at her collar again. “I have no intention of selling Heathmore until I visit the property and assess its worth myself.”

  He crossed his arms, making the seams of his frockcoat strain about his shoulders. “I have already invested a good deal of money in the property. That money would need to be returned to me if we cannot arrive at a satisfactory outcome.” His smile stretched higher. “But I am nothing if not willing to negotiate. Would you consider five hundred and seventy-five pounds for the property?”

  Lucy glared at him. The nerve of the man! Just who did he think he was, trying to buy her acquiescence with a higher offer?

  And telling her she owed him money?

  Oh, but this was war. The man had no idea who he was dealing with.

  “If you have invested money in property you do not own, the folly can be laid at no feet beyond your own,” she snapped. “I believe I have already made myself clear, Lord Branston—”

  “Six hundred.” He uncrossed his arms. “Or if not that, name your price.”

  Damn it all, but he was tenacious. And apparently wealthy enough to toss money around as though it were a pittance. Either that or he knew something about the property’s value she didn’t. In her letter, Aunt E hinted that Heathmore had secrets.

  What did Lord Branston know about the property that she did not?

  “Why aren’t you offering this to my father?” she asked, trying to temper the bitterness that wanted to creep into her voice. “He was eager enough to accept your initial offer of four hundred pounds. Presumably for six hundred pounds he would deliver me and my dowry along with the property, tied up neatly in a bow.”

  Lord Branston raised his brows, two auburn slashes of surprise. Hazel eyes slid down the length of her body, making her momentarily forget about the discomfort of her borrowed clothing. Her breath caught in her throat as his gaze slowly climbed back to her face again. “Are you offering yourself as part of the trade, then?”

  Lucy’s mouth fell open. Was he flirting with her? She had little enough experience in the process to know whether or not this exchange qualified as a flirtation.

  He was a scoundrel. A thief.

  And still her heart leaped treacherously.

  “No!” she somehow managed to choke out. “I refuse to barter myself for any man. I want my freedom. My independence. Heathmore, perchance, offers me that.”

  His gaze sharpened to something beyond wolfish appreciation. In fact, his eyes seemed to pry beneath her skin. “You are refusing my offer,” he asked, “because you want to live there yourself?” He sounded surprised.

  Presumably he knew about the rats, then.

  “I do not yet know if I want to live there.” She lifted her chin. “But if not, I would sell the property for a price that would at least permit me to pursue other choices in life.”

  “So it is about the money then.” He sounded almost disappointed. “Six hundred and fifty pounds.”

  Lucy bit her lip. He’d gone beyond what she imagined the property was worth now. And why, oh why, had she told Lord Branston those things? Her freedom and her independence made no difference to him—indeed, they were pieces of her hopes and dreams that even her own parents refused to consider. He didn’t need to know a thing about her, beyond the fact she was refusing his offer.

  She scowled, resenting his easy wealth, given that she had just sold her hair for fifteen desperate shillings. “I won’t consider any offers until I have a chance to inspect my property, Lord Branston.” And her suspicion that he knew something she didn’t was now quite thoroughly roused. What about the property had him so fixated he had come all the way to London to continue these useless negotiations?

  Something smelled like a . . . well, like a rat.

  And not one of the ones she ostensibly owned.

  “I am afraid you have wasted your time in coming to London,” she said, summoning her best glare. “So you may as well return to Cornwall. Wilson will show you out now.”

  Except . . . Wilson was nowhere to be seen.

  Lucy glanced toward the open drawing room door, searching for Wilson’s familiar balding pate. What good was a butler if he wasn’t there when you needed someone tossed out? The servant usually hovered over her like a persistent gnat, but he’d left her alone with only Lydia to guard her reputation? Judging by the way her sister was still gaping moon-eyed at their handsome guest, there would be no help from that quarter.

  She caught the familiar sound of Wilson’s shoes then, clicking on the hallway tiles. Relief poured over her. There he was. Just in time.

  But as Wilson came through the door, Lucy realized he hadn’t come alone. Behind him came her father, his face dark as thunder.

  Oh, damn Wilson and his meddling.

  It had been this way since she was a child. She’d do something—sneak a pie from the kitchen, let loose a pair of frogs down the first floor hallway—and Wilson would somehow, some way, inform her father. He might be a treasured part of the family, but he was also a bloody spy, and it seemed as though he was always on whichever side was not her own.

  And while she might be through negotiating with Lord Branston and wish him gone, judging by the look on her father’s face, things were just heating up.

  “WHAT IN THE blazes is going on here?” Lord Cardwell stalked into the drawing room.

  Thomas found himself without a ready answer.

  Not that he needed one, given that the question was not intended for him.

  Which was six shades of wrong. He was the one who rightly deserved Lord Cardwell’s condemnation. After all, he had come here unannounced. Procured an audience with Cardwell’s young, unmarried daughter without the man’s knowledge or permission. But Cardwell’s blustering anger wasn’t being directed toward him.

  It was being aimed at his trousers-wearing daughter.

  “Father, I can explain—” she began.

  “I am not interested in your explanations, Lucy.”

  “But I only wrote to him because—”

  “Be quiet.” Cardwell’s voice boomed through the drawing room, making the fine curiosities on the mantel rattle. “You should be ashamed of yourself, greeting Lord Branston looking like this.”

  Her shoulders slumped. In spite of himself, Thomas cringed for the girl.

  Lord Cardwell turned to Thomas, shaking his head. “I must offer my most sincere apologies, Lord Branston. If I might beg your discretion over whatever she has said or done, and most particularly, for what she is wearing, my family would be grateful. Her Season has nearly begun, and we’d like to avoid any unfortunate rumors, given the delicacy of her position. Lucy is . . .” His voice trailed off, as though he himself was at a loss to describe his hoyden of a daughter.

  Quite unexpectedly, Thomas’s mind readily supplied a string of missing adjectives.

  Stubborn. Surprising. Brilliant.

  He’d come prepared to dislike her. To trick her into selling Heathmore, if necessary. He’d presumed she would be like his former fiancée.

  Spoiled. Self-centered. Beautiful.

  Instead, she had turned his preconceived notions of what a viscount’s daughter should do and say and turned them on their side.

  “Perhaps you should be apologizing to your daughter, instead of me,” he told the man.

  Cardwell’s head jerked backward. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your daughter. After, all, she’s the wronged party here. I believe apologies are customary in those situations.”

  “The wronged party?” Cardwell echoed, blinking in confusion. “She’s greeted you wearing trousers!”

 
; “Her manner of dress is irrelevant to the discussion at hand,” Thomas growled. “You attempted to sell me a piece of property that belonged to your daughter, without her authority. And yet, she is of age, is she not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I presume she is considered sane and is therefore capable of making her own decisions?”

  “Er . . . I suppose.” Cardwell’s face reddened, and his gaze slid to his daughter. “Although one has to question her decisions of late.”

  Thomas bristled at the edge of doubt in her father’s voice. Three years ago, when his sister turned up on his London doorstep—unmarried and pregnant—there had been some in London who encouraged him to have her committed to an asylum. After all, he was her guardian, even if he’d proven a poor one, and no sane woman would fall prey to such folly, particularly not the sister of a marquess. It would have been the most expedient solution to the scandal she presented, and was a decision that might have even convinced his fiancée to stay.

  But he’d refused to listen to them then, and he refused to tolerate Cardwell’s uncertainty now, no matter that it was the fashionable way to deal with headstrong females.

  “You owe your daughter an apology, Lord Cardwell.” He crossed his arms, waiting.

  “Just who do you think you are, coming into my house and telling me how to behave toward my daughter?” Cardwell blustered.

  Miss Westmore stepped forward, her face pale. “I assure you, there is no need for an apology, Father,” she said hoarsely. She cut Thomas a terse glance, though her gaze felt different now than it had during the heat of their earlier argument. More speculative, somehow. Either that or now she thought him deranged. “I think it best if you go now, Lord Branston.”

  He hesitated. His heart told him their business was not through. But if she abdicated the apology he’d just fought for on her behalf, he could allow that was her decision.

  And quite honestly, so was the decision regarding the disposition of her property.

  “Miss Westmore,” he told her. “I understand your desire to make sure you know the value of the property before you make any decisions about its sale. I only ask that, when you eventually reach a conclusion on the matter, you give me first right of refusal.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I would not depend on it, my lord.”

  Thomas gritted his teeth. He’d thought, perhaps, that she’d been wavering. There had been a moment before her father stormed onto the scene when he thought things might be leaning toward a different solution. If she lived at Heathmore herself, rather than selling it to the highest bidder, the property would be safe.

  But damn it all, there was no mistaking the stubborn glint in her eye.

  He’d seen it more than once, when someone had tried to cross her aunt.

  Not wanting to inflame the situation further, he nodded in Cardwell’s direction, who at least was glaring in his direction now, instead of his daughter’s. Then, knowing he had angered them both, he turned on his heel and left.

  That drink was waiting.

  And he still had thirteen bloody hours left in London.

  From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore

  February 7, 1813

  Though it is tempting to lay my troubles at the feet of my father, I didn’t escape London simply to thwart his wishes, or merely to avoid an unwelcome marriage. Neither did I leave only because I was afraid of Bedlam, and the horrors that might await me there.

  I left for a more important reason than that.

  I came to find myself.

  Already, I have a fair idea of who I am not. I am not someone who can change myself at the bequest of some man—be he a father or a vicar. I cannot pretend to be something or someone I am not. I may be a spinster by choice, but I will not be an unhappy one. There is plenty to keep me occupied in Lizard Bay beyond the distraction of vexing Reverend Wellsbury, and I am determined to immerse myself in the possibilities.

  If I can improve someone else’s life, perhaps I can improve my own.

  Above all, I shall make my own happiness, even if it makes others cringe.

  Chapter 7

  Locked in her room—presumably for safekeeping—Lucy did not waste time licking her wounds. No, she put her anger and isolation to a better use.

  She packed her bag.

  Her parents’ voices had shaken the house into the wee hours of the morning, tossing about words like “troubled” and “willful” and “unstable.” Mother had even proposed calling in old Dr. Bashings for an evaluation, a suggestion that sent Lucy’s thoughts spinning in a pattern that might well be argued as mad. The prophetic words from Aunt E’s diary swam drunkenly through her head. Would Father have her committed for refusing to obey him?

  And writing to Lord Branston?

  And cutting her hair?

  She didn’t know.

  But she wasn’t going to stay locked in her room and wait for the axe to fall.

  Her parents’ worried tones had settled sometime after midnight, but the resulting silence hadn’t eased Lucy’s mind. Outside her bedroom door she could hear the clock in the hallway strike the four o’clock hour. As the last chime trailed off, she mulled over her choices—scant though they were. She could forget about Heathmore, suffer her Season, and accept the repercussions of her willfulness . . .

  Or, she could seize the opportunity that now presented itself.

  She wasn’t entirely naive. She hadn’t nearly enough money. It wasn’t going to be easy. It might even be dangerous.

  But it wasn’t impossible.

  She had enough money—if she was frugal—to get herself to Lizard Bay. Once she was there, she felt sure the rest would sort itself out. She could take a position in town to cover her living expenses. Possibly even sell Heathmore if it proved the uninhabitable disappointment her father had described. But at least the decision would be her own to make.

  And at least then she would have no regrets.

  A sensible girl would wait for the first streaks of dawn to make her dash for freedom.

  Well, she wasn’t a sensible girl. Or at least, isn’t that what her parents believed?

  Her decision made, Lucy dressed hurriedly in one of her new walking gowns, fashioned by London’s most exclusive modiste for a Season she had never wanted. Feeling daring, she fastened the green stone necklace Aunt E had sent her about her throat, then slipped Heathmore’s key in a pocket, her fingers curling around the promise of it. Over the past two weeks the key had become something more than just a key to her. Somehow, by carrying it around in her pocket, it had become a symbol of hope. For her future, for her happiness. But to procure that future, she needed to do more than carry it about in her pocket.

  She needed to slide it in the damn lock and open the door to her house.

  Nearly ready now, she placed her aunt’s diaries on top of the single change of clothes in her valise. She’d only made it through the first volume so far but had already read enough to know she was more like her aunt than she’d ever imagined. These yellowed pages were proof enough of her path.

  Aunt E had done it, once upon a time. Packed her bags and left in the night, not telling anyone where she was going. Aunt E had made her choice and never looked back. She could do this. She would do this. Even Lord Branston had acknowledged her right to make this decision without interference.

  That had surprised her almost as much as her father’s more damning words.

  But not even Lord Branston’s unexpected show of support could ease her troubled mind. Make no mistake—she was quite sure she hated him. But her curiosity was roused as well. Why did he want Heathmore Cottage so badly he would come all the way to London to extend the negotiations? What secrets did Heathmore hold? Nothing about her inheritance made sense, and she was through trying to sort it out from London.

  But first she had to escape her room.

  Lucy pressed an ear to her door, listening to the sounds of the house at sleep. She felt quite sure she could pick the lock. She had plenty of pr
actice being locked in her room as punishment for her varied transgressions through the years. Hairpins were good for at least something, though their value in containing her short hair was now thoroughly moot.

  But picking the lock carried an element of danger. Had Father put a guard outside her door? If he had, she presumed it would be Wilson, and that meant she couldn’t risk it.

  So she threw up the sash on her window and leaned out, scanning the shadowed street below. Not a soul was out yet, though the milk sellers and carters sometimes used this route early in the morning, on their way to the market. That was why she needed to leave now, before there were witnesses about. She eyed the oak tree outside her window, the bark rough with promise. The leaves were not yet out, which meant it was hard to tell which branches were healthy and which were not. She’d have to trust fate, she guessed.

  Just yesterday, hadn’t she wished for a chance to climb a tree again?

  Well, wish granted.

  She tossed out her bag, wincing as it crashed off the limbs. Then, with a muttered oath instead of a prayer, she swung a leg over the sill, yanking at the heavy skirts of her walking gown as they tangled about her feet. This was not going to be as easy as the last time she had done it. Then again, that had been more than four years ago.

  And she had been wearing trousers at the time.

  Somehow, she launched herself into the branches of the tree. And somehow, though she sacrificed some skin on her palm and a patch of lace on her sleeve to the effort, she managed to lower herself to the ground. As her boots touched down, the breath left her lungs in a slide of relief. Giddiness washed over her.

  She had done it.

  Now all she needed to do was walk the dangerous, dark streets of London and reach the train station without being gutted by a brigand.

  She picked up her bag and turned around, only to run smack into a silent wall of servant.

  “Going somewhere, Miss Lucy?” Wilson’s big voice cut through the quiet of the street.

  Lucy scrambled backward, her heart thudding against her ribs. Damn Wilson to hell and back. She should have known he’d guess her plans—he had an uncanny way of knowing exactly what was running through her mind. Well, she had clearly miscalculated this time.