The Virgin and the Unicorn

by Joan Smith

  “Anything to help you guard the black trunk,” she explained.

  “I knew there would be limits to your amiability. What we must do now is have a waltz.”

  “I do not see how that can help!” she objected.

  “We must keep up an appearance of normalcy. Pavel will run upstairs, give five light knocks on my door, which will bring Slack to inquire for the password, ‘C’est moi.’ You will tell Slack that Papa’s key has been stolen and he must on no account leave the room for so much as an instant.”

  “C’est moi,” Pavel said, to make sure he had the words right.

  “Just so.”

  “Right, I am off then. Carry on.”

  “That is just what we were about to do,” Rotham said, placing Miranda’s hand on his arm to lead her to the ballroom.

  Chapter Seven

  “What is that strange music the Breckenbridges are playing?” Rotham asked, as they progressed toward the ballroom.

  Miranda looked at him in astonishment. “Were they not dancing it at the Congress in Vienna, Rotham? It has been all the crack in London since the czar and King Frederick’s visit. Fancy a smart like you not recognizing the waltz,” she said, with a great air of superiority.

  “Fancy anyone mistaking that racket for a waltz.”

  “Of course it is a waltz. We are not so backward as you think. We have been trying it since last winter.”

  “No doubt you will get it right, in another year or two. Someone ought to tell the fiddlers the waltz is played in three-quarter time.”

  “Why do you always have to find fault with everything?” she grumbled.

  “Because, my little cabbage, I am an idealist. I like to think the world could be perfect, if only we all gave it our best effort.”

  He gathered her into his arms for the waltz. She held herself stiffly, determined not to fall under his sway. Miranda admitted to herself that Rotham was attractive, and of course, he was the premier catch in the neighborhood. That conferred an aura of glamour on him. A girl felt special when she was with Rotham. She could see all the other girls and their mamas looking at her with green-tinged eyes. She would be talked about tomorrow, her behavior scrutinized for signs of forwardness and Rotham’s for tokens of susceptibility.

  She said, “A pity you do not practice what you preach—about everyone being perfect, I mean.”

  A couple collided with them just as Rotham was attempting a turn. It was Madame Lafleur and a neighboring squire.

  “A thousand pardons,” she laughed gaily. “We are learners, milord. We have you to thank for bringing us up to date, non?”

  The collision put them off their pace. When they recovered, Rotham said, “I believe you were hinting at a lack of perfection in me, Sissie. Was that a slur on my dancing? I cannot believe you are criticizing my jacket, for it is considered one of Weston’s finest efforts. The czar himself complimented me on it.”

  She gave him a condescending look, though she was impressed with his boast. Imagine, she was dancing with a jacket admired by Czar Alexander! “How very superficial you are, Rotham. I was not talking about your dancing or your jacket but your manners. Trudie was right about you.”

  “It is my party after all. I am responsible for its imperfections.”

  “I thought it was ours,” she reminded him.

  “So it is, but I was disparaging myself for not doing better by my guests. How often are you going to throw Trudie in my face? I scarcely knew Trudie. I stood up with her at a few country-dances. I called on her twice.”

  “Three times, counting the last time, when you jilted her. You only stayed two minutes.”

  Rotham was bumped from behind by an energetic couple. He trod on Miranda’s toes and apologized brusquely. “I did not realize there was an optimum length for a jilting visit. I had matters to attend to in London.” He was angered that this chit had the audacity to call him to account. What business was it of hers?

  “The very serious business of flirting your way through the Season. You left in mid-April, just as the Season was beginning.”

  “Can we not discuss something other than Trudie?”

  “We are not discussing Trudie. We are discussing your being so far from the ideal. The topic should be pleasing to you, as you are the center of it.”

  Now he was an egotist! He swallowed his ire and gave her his most killing smile. “There is nothing so enjoyable as being an object of criticism. Do you read the Bible, Sissie?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then no doubt you are familiar with the precept, let him who is without sin cast the first stone. Have you never carried on an à suivie flirtation with any of the local bucks?”

  “Of course I have, but I did not break their hearts.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes. “Are you quite certain of that? I wager those stormy seas of eyes have capsized a vessel or two.”

  Miranda felt a warm wash of pleasure surge through her. She had never thought of her eyes in terms of stormy seas or breaking men’s hearts, though now that she considered her few flirtations, she admitted that Jeremy Faraday had been quite smitten. He had looked like a whipped pup when she’d dropped him.

  “I did not do it on purpose at any rate,” she protested.

  “Ah, but when you are the possessor of such eyes, you must handle them with care. They carry an obligation, like wealth or power. You do the harm unwittingly. I felt my own hull beginning to quiver when you pitched yourself into my arms. In my bedroom—on my bed,” he added, to lend it a wicked air.

  “I called you papa, so you would not think I was—”

  “Throwing yourself at me? It was a wise precaution, but very naughty of you all the same, to throw such powerful temptation in my way. I am only flesh and blood after all.”

  This was going too far. Miranda could not repress a gurgle of laughter. “I doubt you will flounder, Rotham. The whole country knows of your exploits. You have had greater temptation than me. I lay no claim to being a femme fatale. My only practice has been on locals. Your hulk must be made of stern stuff to have avoided rupture all these years.”

  “If that is a compliment, I thank you. I take leave to doubt the word ‘hulk’ was used in innocence, however. Hull is what I said. A nautical term—”

  He was required to dodge as a portly matron in puce and her red-faced partner bore down on him. “That was a close shave. We were nearly scuttled. I was about to point out that I am not Methuselah. ‘All these years’ has a nasty ring to it. You were in danger of igniting a fire, and a fire can burn down a castle as well as a barn.”

  “You are mixing your metaphors. We were discussing sinking ships.”

  “So we were, but one is usually consumed by the flames of love, not drowned in it.”

  “You sound like a cheap novel, Rotham.”

  “I see you are familiar with the genre.”

  The music came to a stop, and they walked off to the edge of the room.

  “That was—interesting,” Rotham said. “I thrive on danger. I wonder if we might take the Breckenbridges to London and start a new dance craze. Saint Vitus' Dance, we shall call it. Shall we have a glass of wine to aid our recovery from that steeplechase?”

  “Very well.”

  With the jealous eyes of the local gentry on her, Miranda was not averse to walking off with Rotham, but she reminded herself she must not fall in love with him.

  It was not until they were in the corridor en route to the refreshment parlor that she remembered the serious business going forth at Ashmead. It seemed incredible that she could have forgotten it.

  “Should we not be doing something about discovering who has the key to your room?” she asked, rather reluctantly, for she was enjoying her brief flirtation with Rotham.

  “You are right, of course. I am too easily distracted by a beautiful lady.” His eyes gazed into hers, sending delightful shivers up her spine. “My besetting sin. Well, one of them at least. Let us go to the study and see if the key has been ret
urned.”

  “It would not be put back yet. It has not been used.”

  “It will be a quiet place to think, and talk,” he said, and led her down the corridor to Lord Hersham’s oak-lined office. He looked in the desk drawer and examined the key ring.

  “It is not here,” he said. “The best way to learn who has it is to catch him—or her—red-handed. It was stolen for the purpose of getting into my room. Slack will be on guard.”

  As he spoke he poured two glasses of wine from the decanter on the desk and handed Miranda one.

  “By her, I assume you mean the comtesse?” she asked, accepting the wine.

  “That was my meaning, but now that you mention it, we must not forget Madame Lafleur is also here this evening. It would be interesting to get a peek in her reticule.”

  “Louise and Laurent called on her this morning,” Miranda mentioned. “But, of course, you know that. You followed them.”

  A smile quirked his lips. “I have led you a merry chase, have I not?”

  “We were in Rye to deliver the invitations anyway. You did not take us much out of our way. A pity Madame Lafleur is not younger, and you could have one of your flirtations with her—distract her while you rifled her reticule, I mean.”

  “You are inferring my flirtations have an ulterior motive. They don’t. They are an end in themselves.”

  “I only meant you could put it to good use.”

  “I know what you meant. Getting a look in her reticule is not a bad idea.”

  “We should check Louise as well, but she is not carrying an evening bag. She might have the key in a pocket, or hidden down her bodice,” Miranda suggested. She had already chosen Louise as the culprit.

  Rotham lowered his brow. “If you were about to suggest I have a flirtation with her to rifle her bosom, I pray you hold your tongue.”

  “I was not going to suggest that! Trudie never said—” A glare from his dark eyes stopped her. “You need not look so fierce, Rotham. You are a horrid flirt. I know you kissed Trudie behind the lime tree in the park. That is why she took the notion you were serious about her.”

  “You country girls get everything wrong—the waltz, a stolen kiss. Times are changing. A man does not marry every girl he steals a kiss from.”

  “A good thing, or you would be a bigam—triga—”

  “Polygamist, I believe, is the word you are rooting about your poor little mind for. You make me sound like Bluebeard. It was only a little kiss.”

  “That is not what I heard,” she replied, with a bold toss of her head.

  “The well-known fury of a scorned woman, exaggerating her wrongs. She was not averse, I promise you. All I did was—this,” he said, pulling her into his arms to try for a kiss.

  The abrupt movement caught Miranda unawares. She suddenly found herself held tightly in Rotham’s arms, with his dark head looming above hers. His handsome face wore a mischievous grin. It looked diabolical as his head lowered to hers. It was only a quick kiss, a sudden pressure against her lips, the intimate grazing of flesh on flesh, then he lifted his head, smiling, but he still held her tightly in his arms.

  “There now, is that anything to get upset about?” he asked.

  She tilted her head back and gazed into his eyes. Miranda had always thought his eyes were a deep, navy blue. At this close range, they looked like dark opals. There were specks of gold and silver shimmering in them. She wondered if it was a reflection from the lamp.

  “No, certainly not,” she said, and laughed nervously. “I had a better kiss than that from Pavel in the woodshed when I was six years old.”

  “Did you, by God? Then I cannot let the reputation of the philandering Hershams down. You are all grown up now, Sissie, and deserve a better cause for complaint.”

  His arms tightened, crushing her against his hard chest, as he lowered his head. Miranda felt a rising panic and wrenched her head aside as she tried to push him away. His arms held her like leather bands. While she struggled, he moved one arm and lifted her chin, twisting her face back to his.

  He saw the glitter in her eyes and gazed into them, trying to determine whether it was fear or anger. He had no wish to frighten her. His first good intentions of not enjoying a flirtation with Sissie had died aborning when he learned of her ruse in his bedroom. She was not quite the innocent miss he had taken her for. As she had been playing off her tricks on him, he had no hesitation to reciprocate.

  “Get your hands off me, you lecher!” she exclaimed.

  Anger. It was definitely anger. That was all right, then. He held her chin up by main force and pressed his lips firmly on hers. It was his experience that an unwilling lady soon succumbed to masculine insistence. He gave it his best effort, moving his hands over her back in a reassuring way, while his lips made nibbling, encouraging motions against hers. The harder she tried to escape, the more he persisted. It became a test of his manhood, his desirability to women. Dammit, what was the matter with her? Was she frigid?

  Miranda knew Rotham did not care for her. For him it was only a game. He was merely insisting on exercising his noble prerogative. The arrogance of it! Yet she was not entirely immune. There was some secret pleasure in his ardent insistence.

  She had never been kissed in this fashion before. It was strangely exciting. A tumultuous flutter in her breast warned of the danger in this game. When she remembered the month of Trudie’s tears and recriminations, she feared she was heading down the same path and gave a final push that sent Rotham reeling back.

  She tossed her head and glared. “You have finally succeeded in achieving perfection in one category, Rotham. What a perfectly rude, common, vulgar, repulsive creature you are. You ought to know better than to treat a young female guest in your papa’s house so shabbily. Hersham would take you to the woodshed and give you a good thrashing if he knew what you were about.”

  Rotham just stared, trying to assimilate the flood of insults that poured over him. Repulsive, him? Bad enough he could not battle down her resistance, the final degradation was that she suggested Papa would thrash him, as if he were an unlicked cub. And to put the cap on it, she was right. He had behaved wretchedly.

  “And you, madam, are a perfect shrew!”

  “What did you expect, that I would sigh and moan like—”

  He shook an imperious finger under her nose, “If I hear the name Trudie thrown in my face once more this evening, I shall—”

  There was a discreet coughing sound from the doorway. It was the butler, standing with a perfectly impassive face. He had seen worse. “If you will pardon the interruption, your lordship, Lord Pavel has sent word down by a servant requesting your presence immediately abovestairs, in your lordship’s chamber. A matter of the utmost importance, I understand.”

  Rotham and Miranda exchanged one horrified look. Rotham seized her hand and they took off, nearly capsizing the butler.

  “Someone has got the black trunk!” Miranda exclaimed, as they darted upstairs.

  “Impossible! Slack has a gun.”

  They turned right at the top of the stairs and pelted down the corridor. At the end they saw Pavel’s head peering out the door, waiting for them.

  “It is not gone!” Miranda gasped.

  “No, it’s still here,” he replied. “It is Slack. I believe he’s been poisoned.”

  Chapter Eight

  They all went to Rotham’s room and closed the door. When Miranda had been in the room before, she had been too busy fainting and acting to take much notice of it. It was a fine and lofty chamber, with heavy masculine furnishings and green velvet hangings on the canopied bed and windows.

  “What kept you?” Pavel demanded querulously. “I sent word down to you ages ago. I could not leave the room unattended with the black trunk here, so I rang for a servant.”

  “We had left the ballroom,” Miranda explained. “Boxer found us in your papa’s office. We came up at once.”

  “Slack is in your sitting room, Rotham,” Pavel continued. “I
believe the poison was in the tea, or the food. He had been eating a snack. He was just as he is now when I arrived. The outer door was closed. I gave the five knocks and the password. When he did not answer, I tried the knob and walked right in.”

  Rotham opened the door, and they followed him into his sitting room, which Slack had been using as a bedroom during this period. Slack lay sprawled on the chaise longue on the other side of the room. On the sofa table before him lay the remains of a cold collation: mutton, bread, cheese, sweets, and a pot of tea.

  “He ain’t cold, but he has not moved since I got here,” Pavel said, gazing fearfully at the inert body.

  Rotham examined his valet, touching his cheek and feeling his pulse. “His pulse is sluggish. He has been given a sleeping powder.” He poured some tea in the saucer and tasted it. “This is the culprit, I fancy.”

  “Should we call a doctor?” Miranda asked.

  “Best to be sure, but I believe he is just sleeping soundly. Ask Boxer to call Makepiece, Pavel, and if the doctor would be so kind as to use the kitchen door. We do not want to disturb our guests.”

  “At least the embroidery is safe,” Pavel said. “It is plain as a pikestaff that whoever stole Papa’s key arranged for Slack to get the drugged drink. He obviously used the key—the door was unlocked—but he did not take the embroidery. He was after something else. What is it you ain’t telling us, Rotham?”

  Rotham did not immediately rush off to check any drawers or hunt for a different purloined item. “He was after the embroidery. Thank God he did not take it. Have a peek around the ballroom while you are belowstairs, Pavel, and see if anyone is missing.”

  “Who should I look for, in particular?”

  Rotham rubbed his hand over his chin. “Madame Lafleur, Laurent, Berthier, and Louise as well. This was not the work of a neighbor, but someone who is staying here.”

  “I shall be back in two shakes of the lamb’s tail,” Pavel said, and scooted off.

  “We could ask the servants who ordered the supper,” Miranda suggested to Rotham.