The Incomparable Miss Compton

by Regina Scott

  Appleby nodded. “I believe so, my lord. If you need nothing else, then?”

  Malcolm waved him out then shook his head. He could not help feeling that Appleby would prove singularly unskilled at this game. Just in case the man was as hesitant in gathering information as he was in dressing Malcolm, Malcolm would send a few pointed notes to others from whom he had previously learned much. With any luck, he would soon know just how qualified Sarah Compton was for his purposes.

  He could hardly wait.

  Chapter Six

  Sarah wasn’t certain what time they left Lady Prestwick’s ball. The night seemed to stop the moment Viscount Breckonridge left, the time slowing, the people dulling. She watched the gentlemen flatter her cousin as if from a distance. She barely noticed that several others had joined the throng, including the brooding gentleman who had watched them from the doorway at dinner. Even the renewed attentions of the Duke of Reddington failed to pique her interest. The world had somehow shrunk and with it her enjoyment. She had no idea what spell Lord Breckonridge had woven over her, but she could hardly wait to go home.

  Even Norrie remarked on her change of attitude. “Sarah, this isn’t like you,” she protested when repeated questions had failed to get Sarah to answer in more than a monosyllable. “You’ve spent well over an hour in the gentleman’s company. Give over, my girl. What do you think of him?”

  Sarah rubbed her temple. “I think I shall have a headache for the first time in my life,” she murmured crossly. “I shall have to go home and brew a potion of feverfew leaves. Aunt Belle claims that always works wonders for her.“

  She looked up to find Norrie regarding her with narrowed eyes. Sarah threw up her hands. “Honestly, Norrie, I don’t know what to think about Lord Breckonridge. There were moments in his company that were delightful beyond words, and moments that drove me to distraction.”

  “Distraction, eh,” Norrie mused. “That could be auspicious or disastrous. I suppose the important thing is his intent. Did he ask to call on you?”

  “He did,” Sarah admitted, still marveling at the fact. “Though truth be told he asked in such a way that I cannot be sure he did not include Persephone in the request.”

  Norrie’s face fell. “Well, that is a leveler. I can see why you’re confused. Let us just hope the gentleman is more obvious when he visits. Would you like to go home? I can bring Persephone with us. It will only take a moment to pry Justinian away from the discussion of literature he is no doubt finding so fascinating.”

  Sarah shook her head. “You are kind, but I have my duty. I just hope this evening ends soon.”

  Unfortunately, her cousin obviously felt otherwise.

  “What a lovely evening,” Persephone remarked hours later when they at last rode home in the family carriage. “Lady Prestwick puts on the best attractions. I vow there will not be another ball to rival this all Season.”

  “It was interesting,” Sarah allowed, stifling a yawn. “Though in truth I still am not sure what to make of it. But one thing I do know. You are quite a success, Persy. You should be pleased.”

  The girl lowered her head demurely, but not before Sarah saw her smile widen in triumph. “Thank you, Cousin Sarah,” she said quietly. “I am pleased that people seem to like me. The duke was even attentive.”

  “Wonderfully so,” Sarah agreed, but her mind immediately conjured up the image of a raven-haired gentleman who had danced attendance on her instead. She forced her attention back to the matter at hand. “I hope His Grace will come calling this week.”

  “Oh, very likely,” Persephone replied. She gave a gossamer giggle that echoed against the hard wood panels and made it sound as if an entire family of pixies had been let loose in the vehicle. “Can you see his face when I refuse him? He will be beside himself.”

  Sarah blinked, feeling suddenly at sea. “Refuse him? Why would you refuse him?”

  Persephone giggled again, and this time the sound sent a chill through Sarah.

  “Because I’ve found someone better, of course. You do want me to make the best match possible, don’t you, Sarah?”

  “Of course,” Sarah said with a frown. “But I was under the impression that the duke was the best of your suitors. He is wealthy, he is titled, he is handsome and charming, and he is besotted. What more do you want?”

  “Power?” Persy said thoughtfully, elfin head cocked so that her golden ringlets tickled her dainty chin. “Position? Influence?”

  Sarah stared at her. It had never dawned on her that her frail cousin would crave such things. But the interest in her voice would not be denied. “And you don’t think you’ll have those things as the Duchess of Reddington?”

  Even in the dark, Sarah could see that Persy had made a face. “Doubtful,” she replied. “Everyone says the duke is somewhat of a recluse. He spends most of the year at his hunting lodge in York of all places. I am not convinced I can persuade him to stay in London. And I refuse to waste away in the country.”

  “I imagine even London would cloy after a time,” Sarah told her. “It swelters here in the summer and oppresses with fog in the winter. Besides, wouldn’t you miss the quiet of home? We haven’t been here three months, and I miss it already. Why would anyone want to live here all year long?”

  Persy shook her head. “That is just one of the differences between us, cousin,” she said with a sniff of superiority. “You do not mind being hidden away. I hate it.”

  “It does not follow that you must therefore hate the duke,” Sarah pointed out, ignoring the slight. “He seems a fine gentleman to me.”

  “If you like him so much,” Persy replied airily, “then perhaps you should marry him.”

  “Perhaps I should,” Sarah snapped. Then she bristled despite herself as Persy laughed.

  “Oh, Sarah, you are so good at distracting me,” she said as if she had done nothing wrong. “I remember how you’d make a game of taking that horrid medicine. ‘Pretend you’re the stable, Persy. Here comes the horse, a fine strawberry roan. He’s so tired, he needs to rest. Open up and let him in.’”

  It was so hard to stay angry at the girl, even when she needed a dressing down. Sarah smiled at the memory. “I remember. You were very good to open up. I tasted that stuff once. It was quite nasty.”

  “Completely abhorrent,” Persy agreed. “Unfortunately, I’m no longer that child, Sarah. You can’t get me to accept someone with a pretty story. If I don’t wish to marry the duke, I won’t.”

  Sarah held back a sigh of vexation. “I cannot force you to marry, Persy. Nor would I even if I could. But you must marry eventually. Do you want to end up like me?”

  It was a dire threat and an empty one. They both knew that Persy would never countenance being an old maid. Besides, there were simply too many men willing to marry her to allow her to remain single against her will. Persy merely eyed her contemptuously before turning her face to the window in dismissal. Sarah let the sigh slip out.

  She was still perplexed when she retired to bed two hours later, after making sure their butler, Mr. Timmons, had settled the house for the night. Mr. Timmons was nearing retirement. Indeed, his replacement was practicing at the Compton home while Sarah and Persephone visited London. Sarah had worked with him too many years to let the fellow shoulder all the burden of running the household. Besides, all the servants were used to bringing her their problems. Aunt Belle was too preoccupied with Persy, and Uncle Harold felt managing servants was woman’s work.

  “Bless you, miss,” Timmons had said to her tonight when she’d finished locking up for him. “One more trip up those stairs tonight would have done me in.”

  Though Sarah was just as tired, she had only smiled into his wrinkled face. Patting him on the frail shoulder, she had sent him off to his room in the corner of the basement for a well deserved rest.

  Unfortunately, she still had one more task before she could say her prayers and retire for the night, and she was far less sure she wanted to handle it. Every night she wro
te to her aunt and uncle, although she posted the packet of letters only once a week. In the letters she reported on how Percy was doing, which beau was the current favorite, and what places they had visited. She wasn’t certain what to tell them tonight.

  “Persy refuses to marry and I wish I could escape,” seemed spiteful and ungrateful. Perhaps she should try in the morning. Maybe by then she could think of something better.

  The thought of collapsing in her quiet bedchamber had never been more appealing. She could not say that Aunt Belle and Uncle Harold stinted in their material support of her, for all Uncle Harold bemoaned the cost. She had lovely clothes, even if they were all drab, dark colors that befitted her spinster status. She had a beautifully appointed room here in London as well as in Suffolk, both done in blues and golds with bed, writing desk, comfortable chair, and marble fireplace. They were no more hers than any other guest bedchamber. When she moved to the cottage that Norrie said stood next to the Dame School at Wenworth Place, she had already planned to use her meager inheritance to purchase paintings for the walls and porcelain vases and figurines to place on the mantel. Her home would look like Sarah Compton lived there.

  Unfortunately, she was not to be left alone that night. While Persy had her own maid (a young lady named Lucy as nearly puffed up in consequence as her mistress), Sarah was long used to fending for herself. She was therefore surprised to find Lucy turning down the bed clothes on her blue-hung four-poster bed when she entered her room.

  “Miss Persy thought you might have a need for my services, Miss Sarah,” she explained with a bob of a curtsy. A tiny black-haired girl a year younger than Persephone, she nevertheless had cultivated a reputation for being a knowing one. Still, Sarah was glad for the help for once. It was obvious Persephone was trying to make amends.

  “Some help with my tapes would be very welcome,” Sarah acknowledged, turning so the girl could apply deft fingers to the task of unhooking the blue silk gown.

  “Let me help you with your nightdress as well,” the little maid admonished as she finished with the gown. She bustled to the dresser and opened the drawers until she found a white lawn gown. In the meantime, Sarah pulled off her dress and chemise and loosened her stays. Before she could have counted to ten, Lucy had her in the nightdress and perched before the dressing table, where she took down and brushed out Sarah’s long, thick, straight hair.

  “I could crimp this for you,” Lucy offered, letting the strands run through her fingers. “We could set up the curls real easy. It would draw attention to your speaking eyes.”

  Sarah caught herself wondering how Malcolm Breckonridge would react to her hair in curls around her face. Letting Lucy apply the hot crimping irons to her locks would definitely be worth it if she won that look of warmth again when he called.

  If he called.

  “I could help you in other ways as well,” Lucy continued, watching her in the mirror. “I was told I have a lovely hand. Perhaps I could help you with your correspondence, like to Mr. Compton.”

  Sarah stiffened, then turned to confront the maid. “Is that what this is all about? Persy’s afraid I’ll write to her father about her behavior. She sent you to stop me.”

  “Oh, no, mum,” Lucy protested, green eyes wide. “Heavens no, mum. Why would you think so?”

  Sarah stood. “Perhaps because Persy’s never seen fit to share your services with me before. Nor have you ever seemed so eager to help. Good night, Lucy. You may tell your mistress that I will keep my own counsel, thank you very much. And if I want my hair crimped, I can jolly well do it myself, like I do everything else.”

  The maid ducked out, and Sarah stalked to the bed and climbed in. Lucy was new to the household, having only arrived when Persephone was graduated from school. The maid could not know how easily Persy manipulated people. Sarah would have to mention Lucy’s behavior to Timmons. The rest of the staff was immune to the girl’s tantrums and tearful entreaties. If Sarah wanted to keep the household running smoothly, she would have to find a way to teach Lucy to think for herself. Once one stood up to Persy, her cousin often stopped attempting to manipulate.

  She plumped the goose feather pillow and lay down her head. Did anyone stop to wonder about the woman who made sure Persephone’s life ran smoothly? If others knew the story of her background, she was certain they would believe she must harbor a deep resentment of her cousin. Persy had been given all the attention, while Sarah had worked harder than most nursemaids. Yet she could not regret her time away from London. In the quiet of the Suffolk countryside, she knew she had grown from a timid, gawkish teenager to a self-confident woman. Ministering to Persephone had taught her patience and presence of mind. As she read to pass the time, she learned things she might never have known. With no one to talk to on her lonely night vigils, she had learned to fill her mind with her own thoughts and to listen for the thoughts of God. She had also learned to analyze what she read by firelight and form her own opinions. Hadn’t Lord Breckonridge praised her for that tonight?

  And there she was thinking of him again. Small wonder he was a force in Parliament. He had certainly mesmerized her. She could not remember his thick black hair without wondering how it would feel to run her fingers through it. She could not consider his strength without thinking about how it felt to be held in his arms. She could not ponder her conversation without savoring the deep rumble of his laughter when she’d been witty or audacious. Was she therefore lost?

  She sat up and pounded down the pillow, then threw herself flat once more. That was quite enough. She was not some ape leader, some graceless, faceless spinster to feel grateful for a moment of his time. She might be nearly penniless, but she had a purpose and a future. She would focus on that and let Malcolm Breckonridge be hanged. She just had to get Persy married first. Surely she could accomplish that.

  * * * *

  She was not so confident the next day. As usual, the knocker sounded repeatedly throughout the afternoon and by the time the duke arrived at four, Persy was surrounded by no less than six suitors, all trying to outdo one another for her favors. Though two had already overstayed their welcome by an hour, none showed the least inclination to leave. The duke had engaged Sarah in fifteen minutes of meaningless conversation and taken himself off in high dudgeon. Persy didn’t even notice.

  Nor was she repentant when Sarah pointed out the problem that evening at dinner before a theatre outing with Norrie and her husband.

  “He will value me all the more if he knows I am popular,” Persy assured her calmly. “Have we heard any word from Lord Breckonridge?”

  Sarah started at the name. Indeed, she had started at every knock at the door that afternoon, only to sag with disappointment when each caller was only another of Persy’s admirers. Silly woman, she had scolded herself for her yearnings. He probably wasn’t coming anyway. And even if he was, it was only the day after the ball. It was much too much to think he would appear so soon. True, Persy’s admirers seldom let twenty-four hours go by before rushing to renew the acquaintance, but Lord Breckonridge was hardly a lovesick swain.

  “I have heard nothing,” Sarah told her cousin.

  Persy sighed, fussing with the skirt of her lavender lustring dress. “Perhaps he was not interested after all.”

  “I’m sure we are the least of his worries,” Sarah replied, feeling as if she were trying to convince herself rather than her cousin. “He has a country to run, after all. You cannot expect him to dance attendance on a woman who is not even a close friend.”

  “I suppose not,” Persy replied. Her tone was so subdued that Sarah could not help but be touched. Perhaps if Persy could care about Sarah’s potential suitor, all was not lost with the girl.

  No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Sarah cringed inwardly. She had to stop this nonsense at once. She could not get her hopes up that Malcolm Breckonridge might court her. She was long past the age of whispered secrets and longing glances across crowded ballrooms. She had other plans for her futu
re, and Lord Breckonridge would surely be looking for a woman with more social connections anyway, certainly not a reclusive spinster from the back of beyond. He must have another reason to call.

  But if he called on Persephone, she thought she would cheerfully be sick all over her cousin’s fashionable gown.

  Chapter Seven

  Appleby was tight-mouthed as he dressed Malcolm the morning after Lady Prestwick’s ball.

  “I take it the gossip was less than useful,“ Malcolm probed.

  “I regret to say, my lord,“ his valet intoned, “that Miss Sarah Compton is a singularly uninteresting female.“

  Malcolm chuckled. “I did not find her so. You learned nothing then?“

  “Nothing of import,“ Appleby replied with a dour face. “Her servants adore her. Her neighbors find her a model of decorum. She is virtuous, hard-working, and loyal to her family. She has a select group of acquaintances, including the Countess of Wenworth. I could not find a crumb of gossip associated with her name, my lord, outside of the fact that she is nearly thirty years of age and unmarried. I have failed.”

  “Not in the slightest,” Malcolm assured him with a grin. “You’ve told me exactly what I wished to know. There will be something extra in your pocket this month. Keep up the good work.”

  Malcolm would have thought it was the first time he’d praised the fellow by the sly grin Appleby effected. As Malcolm went down to breakfast, however, he had to own that it probably was the first time he’d ever praised the fellow.

  So, Sarah Compton’s servants adored her. He did not know whether that was good or bad. It might mean that she was too generous or too lax in her demands on them. On the other hand, it might mean that she ran an orderly household in which they were proud to work. He caught himself wondering how his servants liked him. He glanced at the footman who was pouring his coffee, but his face must not have been sufficiently composed, for the poor fellow’s hand began shaking and he was forced to set the pot down and back trembling from the room.