by Darcy Burke
Had they come to fetch her? How ironic of them to appear at the moment she actually wanted to stay.
Beatrice leapt to her feet, exhibiting the excitement for Miranda’s parents’ arrival that Miranda couldn’t muster. “It looks as though your parents are here to take you to your betrothed.”
The coachman jumped down and approached the house—alone. If Miranda’s parents were here, they wouldn’t wait for her outside. “I don’t think my parents are in the coach.”
Fitchley entered and held out his hand. “A letter for you, Lady Miranda.”
“Just a letter?” Beatrice sounded a tad disappointed.
Fitchley gave a perfunctory nod and departed.
Miranda tore open the paper and scanned the missive. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Beatrice had been right, although her parents hadn’t come to escort her. “They’ve found a potential husband and wish me to come to Wokingham at once.”
“Are you betrothed, then?”
“Not yet.” But she would be soon. Probably to Lord Walter. “Oh, I can’t leave now!”
“Well, you can’t disobey your parents.” Beatrice blinked. “Can you?”
Miranda ignored the question and began to pace. “I’ve four days until the benefit. Wokingham is a day’s journey. I can leave in the morning, arrive tomorrow night, spend a day doing whatever it is they require, and return in plenty of time.”
Beatrice made an inelegant snort. “You think you can swoop in, become engaged, and be allowed to rush back here?”
Did Beatrice not want her to come back? She didn’t seem disappointed Miranda had to leave. And did Miranda hope for Beatrice to miss her? She shrugged the idea away, unwilling to admit she might want Beatrice’s friendship. “I’ll be back in time for the benefit. I can’t expect you to oversee things.”
Beatrice visibly bristled. “It’s not as if I couldn’t manage it. In fact, perhaps it would be best if you didn’t return. I’ll be the one who’s here in the future, not you.”
Hadn’t Beatrice bemoaned the fact she wouldn’t ever get married, wouldn’t ever have to plan an event like this? And now she acted as if it was as natural to her as reading a hymnal. “My guidance is necessary, Beatrice. You’re learning quite nicely, but surely you realize this event requires experience and polish. I’m certain I will return in time. Count on it, in fact.” Throughout Miranda’s speech, Beatrice’s eyes had narrowed, but Miranda didn’t have time to smooth the girl’s ruffled feathers.
Miranda picked up her letter and her list. “I’m going upstairs to pack. Would you please inform your parents of my departure?” She didn’t wait for Beatrice’s response.
FOX timed his arrival at Stratham Hall the following day perfectly. The Carmodys’ carriage pulled up the drive as he climbed out of his landau.
He glanced down at his new coat, glad he’d let Rob talk him into having it made along with the ensemble he would wear to the benefit. How could he refuse his friend when Rob had offered to pay for it?
Fox shook his head. Pathetic he had to rely on the kindness of others. But then, he worked hard to ensure people like Rob lived with a small measure of comfort. Even if it meant he didn’t.
The Carmodys’ carriage came to a stop behind Fox’s landau. Fox stepped toward it and waved up at the coachman, indicating he’d open the door. A little bubble of anticipation worked its way up his chest. He wondered if Miranda would notice his new coat.
Pulling the door open, Fox lifted his hand to help the ladies out. He tamped down his disappointment when Beatrice appeared first. After delivering her to the ground, he turned back to the carriage and saw her maid. He searched the shadowed interior for another person.
Beatrice stood in the drive. “There’s just me, I’m afraid. And Tilly.”
Alarm constricted Fox’s lungs as he helped the maid out. “Where’s Lady Miranda? She’s supposed to be with you.”
Beatrice took in his new coat. She’d noticed, then, but it wasn’t the same. “Indeed. However, she’s gone.” Beatrice turned and walked toward the house.
Fox gaped at her back for a moment before hurrying to her side. “Where has she gone? When will she return?”
Beatrice paused part way up the steps, but the door opened before she could speak. Stratham stood framed in the entryway wearing his usual ridiculous grin. Fox took a bit of pleasure from watching the man’s face fall upon noticing Miranda’s absence.
“But where is Lady Miranda?” He looked past Beatrice, Tilly, and Fox—Fox wasn’t even sure Stratham had seen him yet—in utter puzzlement.
Beatrice stepped inside the house, her maid close on her heels, brushing past the stupefied Stratham. “She’s gone to meet her betrothed. We’ll need to continue on without her.”
Fox stumbled on the last step. Stratham noticed him now—his gaze dropped to Fox’s feet. Then he smirked. Jackass.
As he walked by Stratham into the foyer, Fox threw his elbow out, catching Stratham in the upper arm. “Surely Lady Miranda plans to return for the benefit,” Fox said, “after all she’s done.” He seemed as though he tried to convince himself of this fact as much as anyone else.
“I’m afraid not.” Beatrice handed her pelisse to a footman and loosened the ribbons of her bonnet. She perused them with a confident gaze Fox had never seen her wear before. “I will have no trouble ensuring the event is a success.”
Fox took a deep breath. He couldn’t believe Miranda had gone and wasn’t coming back. He had tried to prepare himself for her inevitable departure—and marriage—but now faced with the reality, he ached, and probably would ache no matter what.
Stratham frowned at Beatrice. “I say, I’m a bit worried Lady Miranda isn’t here.”
Beatrice’s eyes flashed. “There is no cause for concern, Mr. Stratham. I have everything well in hand. Besides, it’s not as if we can cancel. Some of our guests are traveling to attend and have likely already begun their journey.”
Stratham shrugged. “That’s no matter. You refer to Lord Norris’s friends from the antiquity society. They’re also coming to attend his party, which is very soon after the benefit. Canceling the benefit won’t put them out.”
Fox wrenched himself from self-pity and glared at Stratham. “It would put the children out, you self-centered cad.”
Stratham turned on Fox. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”
Fox stepped forward with menace. “I haven’t begun to show you vulgar.”
Beatrice cleared her throat. “While this display of male virility is, er, enlightening, I suggest we complete our tasks for the day. Fox, did you bring the items to be auctioned from the orphanage?”
Fox itched to plant the man a facer, but he forced himself to look at Beatrice and respond to her inquiry. “Yes.”
“And we’re displaying the items in the sitting room off the ballroom, is that correct, Mr. Stratham?”
“Indeed. The room is all prepared. Lady Miranda saw to it the other day.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes.
What was that about?
“I’ll have my men bring in the items.” Stratham turned to go, contemplating leaving on foot while his retainers—two of the ten he managed to keep on staff—unloaded the landau.
“Mr. Stratham, why don’t you go to the sitting room and I’ll join you shortly? I’ve a few things to discuss with Fox.” Beatrice smiled prettily, exuding a self-possession Fox had never seen in her.
Stratham gave her a bow, but before he left, his gaze lingered on her. It looked as if he’d noticed Beatrice’s newfound sense of whatever-it-was as well.
Beatrice gestured for Fox to follow her outside and then called to her maid who’d stood silent in the corner during the entire exchange with Stratham. “Tilly, you can stay inside.”
Once the door closed behind them, Beatrice turned to face him on the portico, her more usual stern expression firmly in place. “Do you think you could manage to be civil to Mr. Stratham? I realize you dislike him because of Jane, but really,
isn’t it time to leave the past behind? She loved him, you know.”
The familiar anger tasted bitter in his mouth. “I’m not certain she did.”
Beatrice jerked her head back, perhaps as a reaction to the emotion Fox probably couldn’t keep from his eyes. “That’s absurd. I knew Jane. She was ecstatic over Stratham’s proposal. It was a boon for her to land such a gentleman.”
“By ‘such a gentleman,’ do you mean a corrupt MP?” Fox could scarcely believe he’d uttered the words aloud. He’d made a point of not accusing Stratham because he couldn’t actually prove anything. Even so, he knew and the knowledge burned a hole in his mind, especially when everyone sang the rotter’s praises.
She stiffened. “Now, see here. You can’t go about denigrating Mr. Stratham’s good name.”
He should stop, retreat, leave Beatrice to think whatever she would. But the words rushed from his mouth before he could halt them. “Would it surprise you to learn Jane was forced into the marriage? Things happen in this district that would dearly offend your maidenly sensibilities, Miss Carmody.”
Beatrice’s hand flew to her chest. Her mouth gaped. “But…but Jane was happy.”
“Jane was whatever her father told her to be. I’m sure you can appreciate such an attitude.” At her widening eyes, Fox instantly regretted his loose tongue. He hadn’t meant to offend her.
Her mouth snapped shut and she nodded. “Yes, I know precisely how that can be. Poor Jane.” She stared at him a moment. “And poor you. I didn’t realize.”
Christ, he didn’t want her pity. Nor did he want to turn her against Stratham. Long ago, he’d tried to convince himself it wasn’t worth despising Stratham, but perhaps he should try again. “Don’t you go hating Stratham, too. He’s doing a service for Stipple’s End.” Saying those words made his stomach curdle.
Beatrice’s features softened and again Fox saw a hint of the beauty hidden in her stoic manner. “You said there are things I would be surprised to know. Is it possible you could be just as surprised? Perhaps Mr. Stratham is not all he seems.”
Fox could tell by the way she said it that she hoped it was true.
He recalled the night of the robbery and Stratham’s suspicion that Norris had hired someone to steal the tribute money. Apparently, Stratham thought Norris was even more underhanded than Fox believed him to be. Could it be possible Stratham was under Norris’s thumb, a reluctant participant in the corruption that beleaguered the district?
With a jerk of his shoulder, Fox threw off the notion. He didn’t give a damn. The man was an extortionist and nothing else mattered. It was past time he and Norris and whoever else was involved in the scheme paid for their crimes. And if Fox could settle his financial problems, perhaps he could be the man to see justice wrought.
But, for now, the need for money loomed as surely as the dark days of winter ahead. “Did Miranda give any indication as to how much she estimated the items would garner?” Fox knew how much money he needed and how much money he wanted—they were two different numbers—and ought to be sure he wasn’t completely off the mark.
Beatrice’s brows rose. “Miranda? Oh, Fox, never say you’ve fallen for her too?”
Fox shifted his weight between his feet. The only people who’d any notion he’d desired Miranda were Rob and Mrs. Gates, but even they didn’t know the depths of Fox’s longing. “I haven’t.” The lie burned his tongue. “You first-name her, why can’t I?”
“Because you’re an eligible gentleman.” Beatrice waved a hand. “Never mind. I don’t want to discuss her. She’s gone, and she won’t be back. Now, let’s bring in the items for the auction and get them arranged. I’ve an appointment with Mr. Stratham’s kitchen staff this afternoon, and I don’t wish to be late.”
Fox descended the steps to the drive and signaled the retainers who were still seated on the box. They jumped to the ground and went about transporting the goods inside. Fox stood on the gravel and looked up at the gray sky. Then he looked down at his now-useless coat. There was no point staying. He might as well head to Stipple’s End and start on the apple harvest. They were due to begin tomorrow morning anyway.
Sadly, it wouldn’t take long at all.
MIRANDA stood before a mirror in the dressing room of her chamber at Wokingham. She hadn’t been so finely dressed since last spring. The evening gown felt odd on her frame, as if she’d have to walk slowly and softly to avoid creasing it. A maid clasped a strand of pearls around Miranda’s throat. She tilted her face away, her gaze settling on the trunk that transported her gowns, her jewels, and yes, even some of her books to Wokingham. The books had been a surprisingly thoughtful touch by her grim-faced parents.
Anne stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Why are you frowning, my lady? You look lovely.”
“Mmm, yes, thank you.” Why was she frowning? She ought to be happy to have her things and be back in the bosom of the Society that had nurtured and loved her. Why then was she obsessed with thoughts of the children at Stipple’s End and the benefit?
Because she worried she wouldn’t be able to get back in time. The journey to Wokingham had taken an extra day because of the weather. They’d had to take shelter overnight at a posting inn and had finally arrived that afternoon.
Anne hurried to answer a knock on the door. Miranda’s mother swept into the room, a vision in dark blue watered silk and sparkling sapphires. The sight reminded Miranda of the countless evenings she’d watched her mother dress for Society events. Miranda had been so eager to have her own gowns and jewels. Desperate to be a part of the routs, parties, and balls intrinsic to their position in the ton. She’d spent most of her exile filled with the same craving. Hadn’t she? But now as she was about to reenter the world she adored, she couldn’t stop thinking about what her girls would think of it.
Her girls? When had they become that?
The duchess gave Miranda an assessing look. Her mother nodded, her features settling into a pleasant mien of approval. It was always thus.
Until Miranda spoke. “Who is the victim? Lord Walter?”
As expected, her mother’s mouth turned down. “No. And he is not a victim. He is a potential bridegroom.”
Her parents hadn’t bothered to share the name of their intended husband. Knowing it wasn’t Lord Walter, Miranda found she didn’t particularly care.
Her mother glanced at her own reflection, avoiding Miranda’s gaze. “Lord Kersey.”
Suddenly, Miranda cared. “You jest.”
“Absolutely not. Unlike you, I do not make light of such things.” The duchess turned from the mirror, her hand pressed against the jewels at her throat.
“If you are so concerned about my reputation, why align me with him?” Lord Kersey was generally regarded as a worthless dissolute cut in the image of his father, the Earl of Stratton. Miranda had been forbidden from speaking the elder’s name in polite company.
“He’s been distancing himself from his father. Many believe he is trying to improve the family name.”
Miranda pulled an ivory glove over her left hand and tugged it up her arm. “I am baffled by this turn of events.”
Despite Lord Kersey’s lack of social standing, Miranda found him more personally desirable than Lord Walter. Lord Kersey wasn’t paunchy or sallow, nor did he smell of cheese. Truth be told, she’d never gotten close enough to determine if he smelled like anything.
The scent of crisp grass, earth, and rosemary came to her. Who smelled like that?
Fox.
She missed that smell.
“Miranda, finish with your other glove. We need to get downstairs.” Her mother turned and glided toward the door.
With a shake of her head, Miranda pulled on the second glove. She glanced at her reflection once more and stared as if she didn’t recognize the person she saw. She wasn’t used to seeing herself dressed in this fashion, with her hair artfully styled and jewels sparkling at her ears, throat, and wrist.
“Miranda!” Her mother perched at th
e threshold, impatience etched into her attractive features.
Miranda followed her mother from the room and couldn’t help but feel she was walking backward.
THE people at the entrance to the ballroom clustered as thick as Bond Street on any sunny afternoon. Friendly faces greeted Miranda as she pushed through the throng.
“We’ve missed you this summer!”
“Brighton wasn’t the same without you!”
“I wish you could have been at Lord Leavitt’s house party!”
Miranda could scarcely answer all of the people clamoring for her attention. From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother’s half-smug, half-amused smile as she too was surrounded by a gaggle of her friends. After several minutes, the crowd thinned, leaving Miranda amidst a handful of girls her own age. In turn, they were surrounded by a circle of lesser-known friends.
Rebecca Jones-DeWitt leaned close. “Did you hear about Frannie?”
Miranda fanned her face, employing the device as a shield. “Yes. Is she here?”
“Goodness, no. She and Dunbar were married a few weeks ago. They’re rusticating.”
Unfortunately, Miranda feared Frannie would be rusticating forever. She scanned the ballroom for Lord Kersey, but could barely see past the circle of people who still loitered in her orbit.
Lady Georgiana Farraday sidled up next to Miranda. “We’re so glad you’re here at last. The country wasn’t too dreadful, I trust.” Georgiana’s eyes focused on the ballroom, ever seeking the latest thing.
“Actually, it wasn’t dreadful at all. In fact, I’m hoping to return.”
Rebecca gasped. “Never say so, Miranda!”
“Not permanently. It’s just that I’m—”
Georgie put up her fan and whispered to Miranda and Rebecca, “I’ve just seen Lord Kersey. No, don’t stare at once. He’s over by the terrace doors.”
Miranda swallowed her frustration at being cut off and craned her neck. Lord Kersey was easy to spot for he stood quite tall, nearly as tall as Fox. But Lord Kersey’s shoulders were very broad, and he wore the most current fashion from his magnificently tied cravat to his impossibly shiny dancing slippers. Even from this distance, Miranda could appreciate his good looks.