The Spinster's Guide to Scandalous Behavior

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “Fine,” she huffed, turning her back on him so she didn’t have to see his lopsided smile. She nodded stiffly at Mrs. Wilkins. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to spend one night in town.” And she supposed it didn’t matter either whether she spent her last few shillings on a room or kept them as a safeguard. It wasn’t as though she really needed the money to return to London. Wilson had promised to try to delay her discovery as long as he could, but once her father realized she was gone, she didn’t doubt he would follow behind, determined to fetch her back. She intended to be fully ensconced in her house by then.

  Chained to a table leg, if need be.

  “Oh, I am ever so glad you decided to stay with me.” Mrs. Wilkins took her by one arm and began to lead her toward one of the houses that lined the street. “Your aunt stayed here with me in town the past two years, you know. I charge five shillings a night for a proper bed, and it includes meals. Laundry is extra, if you’d like it.”

  Nodding helplessly in response to the woman’s chatter, Lucy peered over her shoulder. Lord Branston was disappearing into the darkness, without so much a good-bye. Infuriating man. He was the only person she knew in Lizard Bay, and yet he was taking the first opportunity to slip away with nary a clue as to where she might find him.

  “Do you know where Lord Branston is going?” she interrupted.

  “Oh, on toward home, I suspect.”

  “Home?” A flare of anger unfurled as they made their way up onto the sagging porch and stepped through the front door of the boardinghouse. “Do you mean to say he is going to Heathmore without me?”

  “Oh, no. He has his own house, just outside of town.” Mrs. Wilkins clucked in apparent sympathy. “It’s strange, I say. It’s large enough for twenty, but he keeps mostly to himself, and keeps no servants to speak of. Brings his laundry to me for washing, but makes his own meals and such. ’Tis unnatural for a man to prefer to be alone. Well, except for the vicar. He lives alone. Of course, he’d got God, hasn’t he?” Mrs. Wilkins tugged Lucy down a hallway and gestured to a threadbare parlor that lay to their right. “Here’s where we take tea in the afternoons, two o’clock sharp.” She waved a hand vaguely to the left. “And there’s breakfast at eight here in the dining room. Now, we’ve a lovely bed abovestairs, but we’ve a room on the bottom as well. Your aunt preferred the bottom, on account of her knees, which bothered her on rainy days. Do you have a preference?”

  But Lucy’s mind was gone, drifting away to the more pertinent question at hand. Lord Branston had his own house, if Mrs. Wilkin’s gossip could be trusted. A large one, too.

  So why in the blazes was he trying to take hers?

  From the Diary of Edith Lucille Westmore

  July 1, 1816

  Never trust a vicar further than you can throw him.

  Once again, Reverend Wellsbury has proven himself imminently untrustworthy. When the newly married Mrs. Wilkins confided in me that her husband had flown into a rage and beaten her for no greater transgression than breaking the eggs, I did what any self-respecting spinster would do. I poisoned the man’s pudding.

  Now, I am not saying I intended to do Mr. Wilkins harm. Not permanent harm, at any rate. But for some reason, Reverend Wellsbury chose that day to visit the Wilkins residence. Two bites of that pudding and the vicar spent a fortnight in the privy. I felt terrible, of course. Visited him in his sickbed, even offered him an apology. But the man’s arrogance knows no bounds. He told me he had intended to give Mr. Wilkins a lecture on how to be a better husband and that I had ruined everything. Moreover, he informed me he can manage the souls of this parish without my interference, thank you very much.

  Well, I told him a man who beats his wife deserves more by way of punishment than a bloody sermon.

  And then I offered him some more pudding.

  Chapter 11

  Eight o’clock the next morning saw Lucy up, dressed in her gold wool walking gown, and ready for battle. She’d fallen asleep quickly the night before, the second volume of her aunt’s diary open across her chest, two nearly sleepless nights catching up with her.

  She had awakened at dawn with the rash on her neck itching like the devil. It was almost enough to make her regret refusing Lord Branston’s offer to stop yesterday at the chemist’s in Marston. But not enough to make her admit it out loud.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t shake him from her thoughts. She kept reliving the kiss in her mind, picking the experience apart, trying to examine its various pieces. In doing so, she’d reached a more muddled conclusion than the one she’d leaped to two nights ago. Yesterday, in the coach, he seemed truly hurt at her determination to avoid speaking to him. Either he was trying to earn back her trust, in order to further his own goals, or she’d misinterpreted something about their interaction in the hallway. Had she overreacted to his comments in the aftermath of the kiss? It was clear a strong sense of humor lurked beneath Lord Branston’s crooked smile, given his propensity for terrible limericks. Had he been trying, perhaps, to lighten the mood, rather than truly meaning to accuse her of negotiating a better price?

  With some much-needed sleep to untangle her thoughts, she was no longer quite as sure.

  But whether he was an upstanding citizen or a plotting blackguard, the truth was, she didn’t know whom to trust. Lord Branston might be the closest thing she had to an acquaintance here in Lizard Bay, but with his actions in Salisbury, he’d given her far more reason to distrust him than not. Until she saw Heathmore with her own eyes and sorted out the secrets Aunt E had hinted about in the letter, she intended to keep her options close and her putative enemies at arm’s length.

  As she opened the door from her room and prepared to head downstairs for breakfast, she half imagined she heard the blasted man’s voice rumbling up from the first floor. Her mind insisted on conjuring a mental picture of that compelling, crooked grin.

  Determined to see him—if only to once again have the pleasure of refusing his offer of assistance—Lucy hurried down the dark stairs. As she reached the bottom, she tripped over something and pitched shoulder first against the wall with a loud oomph. She glared down at the floorboards, wondering what she had stumbled upon. A fluffy gray cat stared back up at her from the threadbare runner, its yellow eyes blinking soulfully. Its fur was matted with burrs, as though it had no one to brush it out.

  Well, that someone wasn’t going to be her. Orphans were her specialty.

  Orphans and felons.

  She wasn’t going to get involved with cats.

  “Shoo,” she muttered, then glanced down the first floor hallway, straining for a glimpse of Lord Branston’s broad shoulders. She was almost disappointed to find no evidence of the man anywhere in sight. Had she dreamed she’d heard his voice? It hadn’t been the only thing she’d dreamed about him either. The man had thoroughly crept beneath her skin, and somehow crept into her dreams as well. Disconcerted by the direction of her thoughts, she waved her hand at the cat. “Shoo!” she said again, louder now.

  The cat didn’t “shoo.”

  Instead, it stood up and began to wind its way around her ankles.

  “Stop that.” She stepped over it, only to encounter another cat waiting just beyond, this one an orange and black calico. As she approached, it yawned, and then it, too, began to rub its face against her skirts.

  She skirted the edge of the wall until she finally was able to step into the dining room. She could smell toast and eggs and tea, as if breakfast had started hours ago. Her mouth was already watering. But as she turned toward the table, she discovered a rather rude shock.

  To start, breakfast appeared to be over.

  And second, there were cats everywhere.

  Four stood on chairs, stretching high on hind legs, snatching bits of coddled egg off china plates. She counted five on the dining table, lapping from saucers of cream. At least two were rolling about under the table playing—although Lucy allowed they might have also been mating.

  Who could tell, in this melee
?

  And in the middle of it all stood Mrs. Wilkins, a smile on her wrinkled face.

  “Have I missed breakfast?” Lucy asked. She was sure that last night the woman had said eight.

  “Oh, no, you are right on time.” The older woman picked up an empty saucer. “ ’Tis just feeding time is all.” She motioned Lucy in with her chin. “Come on in and I will get you a plate.” She began to bustle about, waiting on the rest of the animals.

  “Are these all yours?” Lucy asked as she approached the table. Bits of cat hair and fluff rolled across its surface, making her stomach turn.

  “Of a fashion.” Mrs. Wilkins nodded toward a brown tabby, rather more rotund than the rest and sitting in the center of the table washing his face with one paw. “Only Peter here is truly mine. The rest used to live down by the wharf, eating the castoffs of the day’s catch. But fishing’s been a bit off lately, and the poor souls need someone to look after them.” She clucked in concern. “They keep multiplying, though. Two of them have litters of kittens, at present.”

  Lucy picked up a cat from one of the chairs and then sat down herself before another stealthy creature could claim it. “Let me see if I understand the way things are done in Lizard Bay,” she mused, settling a napkin on her lap. “Orphans must sleep by themselves in the church, but you open your house to the town’s strays?”

  Mrs. Wilkins chuckled. “Oh, I offered a roof to those boys, right enough. But the Tanners are tough little nuts. Don’t like the idea of charity. And between you and me, I suspect they like to sleep in the church because they can run up and down the aisles at night and make all the racket they want.” She ran a gnarled hand along Peter’s back, making the cat’s tail arch high in the air. “And you’ll have to get up a mite earlier to see them. The boys come by nigh on seven o’clock every morning.” She gestured to the table. “This here is just what’s left over from their breakfast. Lord Branston came by to collect them for school about ten minutes ago, as he does most mornings. He’s the only one who can convince young Danny to go half the time. He practically had to drag the lad along today.”

  “Oh.” Lucy blinked. So she had heard Lord Branston. Despite her determination to steer clear, she couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed she had missed him. “Why did Danny not want to go to school today?”

  “I believe it was because of long division.”

  Lucy smiled at the evidence that, if nothing else, the orphans of Lizard Bay were getting a proper—if unappreciated—education. “Well, I suppose I can understand the sentiment. I preferred to run up and down church aisles over mathematics myself.” She accepted the cup of tea Mrs. Wilkins handed her and offered the proprietress a wry smile. “But those boys will have need of some math skills if they continue on the illustrious route to thievery.”

  Mrs. Wilkins chuckled. “I am not sure they teach that at university.”

  Lucy blinked. “University?”

  “Lord Branston has pledged to pay for each of the lads to go eventually.” She nodded approvingly. “Lizard Bay’s first graduates, they’d be. And what a sight that would be.” Her mouth firmed. “But to qualify, they need to commit themselves to a proper round of study now. The older lads seem willing. But young Danny’s been a bit harder to convince.”

  Lucy leaned back in her chair, stunned. Had she really heard correctly? The town’s unruly, unkempt orphans were being groomed for higher education? And moreover, the blackguard Branston had pledged to pay their way?

  “He asked after you, you know.”

  Lucy’s gaze jerked up to meet the old woman’s, still trying to sort through the incongruous images of the man as simultaneous philanthropist and scoundrel. “Danny?”

  “No, Lord Branston.”

  “Did he?” Lucy’s cheeks heated.

  Mrs. Wilkins nodded. “Told me to tell him if you seemed to need any help.”

  “I don’t need help from Lord Branston,” Lucy replied, though her heart kicked over with the knowledge he’d asked after her.

  “He asked me to give you this.” Mrs. Wilkins placed two gold sovereigns down on the table beside her. “And to convey his apologies on behalf of young Ethan.”

  Lucy stared down at the coins, swallowing. “Which one is Ethan?”

  “The second to youngest. Apparently the lad confessed his crime this morning, and so Lord Branston covered the cost of the theft out of his own pocket.”

  Lucy exhaled slowly. Did this mean she was now in Lord Branston’s debt? Or was it young Ethan who carried that cross? And blast it all, did Branston have to be so . . . so . . . damnably pleasant? Aunt E had said in her diary that men weren’t to be trusted, but how was she supposed to maintain her resolve in the face of such infuriating niceness?

  “That was rather kind of him,” she admitted reluctantly.

  Her stomach chose that moment to grumble.

  Nothing quiet and demure about that.

  “Oh, you poor dear.” Mrs. Wilkins bustled to fill a plate from the sideboard. “You missed dinner last night, arriving so late. You must be starving. I hope you like sausage. They are a local variety and were your aunt’s favorite.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Well, except for that period a few years ago when Miss E decided to form the Lizard Bay Vegetarian Society.” She shook her head. “Never did take on the way your aunt had hoped.”

  Lucy slid the coins into her dress pocket, grinning in spite of herself. That, at least, had a familiar ring to it. “There was a time when I refused to eat meat as well,” she admitted, accepting the plate Mrs. Wilkins passed her. “I was convinced of the need to save all the animals of London.”

  “Why, you sound just like Miss E.” Mrs. Wilkins scooped up a black and white cat that had begun to circle Lucy’s plate in anticipation of its spoils. “She had a big heart where animals were concerned. People, too, I suppose. Feeding the cats from the wharf was her idea.”

  Lucy picked up her fork, feeling a tug of something that might have been nostalgia. “I didn’t know my aunt very well. I last saw her when I was six years old.” She thought of the next two volumes of her aunt’s diaries, tucked in her bag abovestairs. She wasn’t anywhere close to the end, but the pages she’d progressed through were offering more fascinating glimpses into her aunt’s secret life. “I’ve only got bits and pieces that I’ve . . . er . . . heard.”

  Mrs. Wilkins bustled about, collecting dishes and warming up to her gossip. “Well, Miss E was a handful, I’ll tell you. No one else like her, from London to Marston. She wasn’t beautiful in the usual way, mind you, but she had a way of warming men’s hearts right up whenever she walked into a room.”

  Lucy looked up, startled at the notion that beauty and attraction needn’t be linked. “Do I really remind you of her?”

  “Well now, let’s see.” Mrs. Wilkins put her hands on her hips. “There’s your hair, of course. A bit shorter than most women wear it. Miss E was fond of the modern styles herself.”

  Lucy lifted a hand to her short, rebellious strands. “It . . . er . . . isn’t really a style—”

  Mrs. Wilkins laughed. “When you stepped off that coach without a maid in hand or even a proper chaperone, that was our next clue. Miss E valued her independence. Tell me, child, how much trouble do you usually get up to?”

  Lucy’s cheeks heated, thinking of all the trouble her letter-writing campaign to prisoners had caused back at home. “More than enough.”

  The older woman nodded in apparent approval. “Your aunt stirred up trouble wherever she went, too. The Vegetarian Society was only one of the causes she tried to introduce here in Lizard Bay. Before that there was the Fisherman’s Wives’ Relief Fund.” She began to count on her fingers. “The Christian Ladies’ Temperance Society.” She chuckled. “She created that one for Lord Branston, back in 1850. Made him join as the sole member.” She counted another finger. “Oh, and the Safe Orphans Act of 1852.”

  “My aunt passed an act?” Lucy asked, incredulous. “I thought only Parliament could do that.”<
br />
  “Oh, here in Lizard Bay, we see to our own rules and laws. Miss E didn’t think Parliament’s laws regarding orphans were good enough. She was always going on and on about those idiots up in London.” She began to bustle about again, clearing more dishes and cats from the table. “She wanted more protection for the Tanner lads, and so after their father died, she convinced us all to agree to her notion that every single person in town was responsible for the care, feeding, and moral upbringing of the rascals. Made us sign a paper and everything.”

  Lucy laughed, enchanted by the notion of her aunt’s industry. Given her own unproductive experience with trying to evince a governmental change in the conditions for London’s prisoners, she didn’t doubt her aunt’s method was probably far more effective than the usual way of going about it. “It sounds as though my aunt was fond of good causes.”

  Mrs. Wilkins nodded. “She was kind, that way. To nearly everyone. Well, except for the vicar. Never did understand the animosity between those two.” She waved off a trio of cats that had somehow made their way back onto the table. “I would have done anything for Miss E, you know. ’Twas her money that set me up in this posting house, after Mr. Wilkins passed on.”

  Lucy sobered, remembering the entry she’d read in her aunt’s diary as she drifted off to sleep last night. “Er . . . if I might ask, Mrs. Wilkins . . . what did your husband pass from?”

  Please don’t say pudding.

  “Oh, it was the blood poisoning that took him. Five years ago, I’d say. He was a fair enough husband, after a bit of a rocky start.” Mrs. Wilkins began to move about again, collecting dishes and sweeping the never-ending sea of cats from the table. “Miss E saw to that, too. Showed him the right way to treat a lady the first year we were married, and what could happen to a man who forgot it.” She nodded approvingly. “All the men in town took notice. The women of Lizard Bay will forever owe her a great debt.”