The Incomparable Miss Compton

by Regina Scott

  God, how he needed a capable wife.

  As the morning progressed, he began to think more and more that Sarah Compton could be that wife. Reports from his other sources trickled in throughout the day as he worked with his fellow Parliamentarians. From the snippets of information, he learned that Sarah was an orphan and a graduate of the Barnsley School for Young Ladies in Somerset. Her family was an old and reputable one. Her only known relatives were the aunt and uncle who would be Miss Persephone’s parents. She had apparently made a brief appearance on the social scene some eleven years ago, only to mysteriously disappear. It was not until he spoke late in the afternoon with burly Micky McGaffin, a Bow Street runner who was not above an extra quid in his pocket, that anyone was willing to hazard a guess why.

  “Any number of reasons a lady runs off quiet like,” the red-headed runner offered as he ambled beside Malcolm in a quiet corner of Hyde Park where they were unlikely to be observed. “Money troubles, family troubles, suitor troubles.”

  “From what I can learn,” Malcolm replied, “her aunt and uncle are rather wealthy, her parents were long dead by the time of her Season, and her list of suitors is remarkably short.”

  “That only leaves one thing, then, in my mind,” McGaffin said. He paused to spit as if to lengthen the silence. “She went and got herself in the family way.”

  Malcolm jerked to a stop. He seized the surprised fellow by the front of his coat and lifted him off the ground. “If you ever sully Miss Compton’s name in my presence again, I won’t be accountable for my actions. Do I make myself clear?”

  McGaffin’s blue eyes bulged from their reddened sockets. “Perfectly clear, yer lordship. No disrespect intended. Lots of very fine ladies find theirselves in trouble that way.”

  “Not Miss Compton, I assure you,” Malcolm replied, releasing him so quickly the fellow stumbled. “There must be another reason. I suggest you find it.”

  McGaffin bowed. “Right away, me lord.”

  Watching him hurry away, Malcolm shook his head. He had never before felt a murderous rage rush over him like that. It was as if something deep inside him refused to believe anything bad about the woman. More, something was quite furious that anyone would even think anything bad about her. He shook his head again. No doubt he had been working too hard lately. But with the people free from last year’s Gagging Acts that had banned public meetings, and the rising talk of Parliamentary reform, he feared the Tories would move to enact stricter laws against free speech. The fools in the Commons only made things worse with their cries for radical change. If he could only get both sides to see reason. The more that comments were suppressed, the more dangerous they became. Yet the harder he focused on his work, the less time he could devote to other thoughts, such as the very interesting Miss Compton.

  He did, of course, have another call to make. He had promised Lady Renderly a visit, however unpleasant that prospect appeared.

  It was nearly as bad as he had feared, with the woman complaining on a variety of subjects while her poor daughter sat chewing her narrow lower lip. Malcolm tried to remain polite, but when the subject of Miss Compton came up, he was once more hard pressed to keep his temper.

  “I told Elspeth you had no interest in that whey-faced spinster,” Lady Renderly proclaimed. “And I knew you’d see through the Compton chit in a minute. She isn’t nearly as pretty as they say. Poor blood lines.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Malcolm managed, trying to think of a way to leave before he disgraced his reputation of civility.

  “You should notice,” she scolded. “Do you want your children sullied? Timidity, sir. It runs in their veins. Look at the elder Miss Compton. Scared of her own shadow.”

  Malcolm frowned. He could not help but glance at Elspeth, who lowered her gaze with a blush. “Reticence would appear to be a congenial trait,” he offered. He thought he saw a brief smile flash across the girl’s face, but her mother reached out to rap his knuckles with the gold edge of her quizzing glass. Malcolm had to fight the impulse to strike back.

  “I’m speaking of cowardice, if you please,” Lady Renderly informed him. “There is a difference, sir. Miss Sarah Compton ran away from her Season like the cur she is. She would make you a wretched wife.”

  “Your consideration for my happiness overwhelms me,” Malcolm replied. Inspiration struck. “And since you are so solicitous, I must admit to a peevish digestion. Makes me quite dyspeptic. Violent even. Poor blood lines, I suspect. So, instead of inflicting myself on you further, I will take my leave.” He rose and bowed to Elspeth, pitying her from the core of his being. “Your servant, Lady Elspeth. If you have need of my services, please let me know.”

  The girl glanced up with gratitude in her smile. “Thank you, Lord Breckonridge. I will remember that.”

  He had escaped before her mother could wonder at his meaning.

  The following day a very humble Micky sent him word that Miss Compton had apparently left the Season all those years ago to go home and care for her ailing cousin. The story didn’t match that of Lady Renderly, but he preferred to believe Micky anyway. Having therefore no unsatisfactory reports of the lady, he knew he had to make an appearance. Surely he owed her as much. Leaving Parliament early, and raising no few brows in the process, he presented himself on her doorstep at three in the afternoon.

  He was not a little surprised to find several gentlemen there before him, though they most likely were there to court Miss Persephone. One strapping blond fellow obscured the crimson velvet drapes on the window of the little sitting room into which the elderly butler had shown Malcolm. A scrawny, dark-haired lad attempted to lounge on the crimson and gold lion-footed sofa in front of the black marble fireplace. The bright-coated Barrington, today in a wool superfine coat of an impossible shade of lime, clashed with the crimson-hung wall against which he leaned. But Malcolm could not help noticing that while the gentlemen exhibited various stages of ennui and frustration, the room itself was spotless. Miss Compton knew how to manage a household.

  Neither Sarah nor her cousin were in evidence, however, although the butler brought the callers lemonade on a tray, his hands shaking so badly the liquid sloshed over the tops.

  “Miss Sarah will be down shortly,“ the man murmured in a throaty voice to Malcolm.

  “What about Miss Persephone?“ the blond fellow demanded, snatching a glass off the tray.

  “She’ll be down when she pleases,“ the butler replied with far less charity. As he left the room, Malcolm noticed he walked with a limp. That she’d keep such a fellow spoke of the loyalty Appleby had mentioned. Small wonder her servants liked her.

  Malcolm attempted to talk with the other gentlemen, but he had no sooner made their acquaintance then two left to be swiftly replaced by three others, including the Duke of Reddington. Reddington looked worse than Malcolm had ever seen him -- green eyes hooded, tanned face lined. Even his usually impeccably tailored gray morning suit hung loosely on him. Malcolm nodded as the gentleman made his way to his side. The others engaged Barrington in conversation.

  “Bit of a crush,” Malcolm observed wryly.

  “I’ve seen worse,” the duke replied, eying the empty doorway with ill-disguised annoyance. “She’s deucedly good at playing out her hand.”

  “I’m surprised you put up with it,” Malcolm observed. “Is any woman worth such a price?”

  The duke shook his head. “Have you ever seen her smile? It’s like the sun at the end of winter. She is accomplished, intelligent, spontaneous. She can be charm itself. Her one failing appears to be that she knows it.”

  Suddenly Barrington stiffened, long nose up like a hound to the scent. His two conversation partners, one short and squat, the other tall and muscular, shoved each other in an attempt to reach the door. Before either succeeded, Miss Persephone Compton floated into the room. She favored each of her callers with a pleasant smile, and they all started talking at once, clustering around her like bees to a bright, fragrant flower, elbowing
each other to get closer. The duke shook his head, clucking.

  “Lost, every last one of us. I wonder who’ll win her favor today?”

  Malcolm watched as Miss Compton allowed Barrington to monopolize the conversation. Barrington was obviously so overcome that he stuttered. The other two laughed. Miss Persephone smiled sweetly, laying a hand on his arm in encouragement. As Barrington turned a shade of red to match the walls, the other two glared.

  Behind them, Sarah entered the room. While the younger Miss Compton was dressed in a frilled gown of pink sarcenet, with bows along the draped hem, Sarah wore a simple gown of gray poplin. He’d have wagered it only deepened the color in her expressive eyes. It certainly did nothing to hide her womanly curves. She calmly joined the group, offering a smile here, a comment there. The short fellow lost his scowl. The tall fellow’s arms relaxed from where they were crossed over his broad chest. Even Barrington managed to utter a full sentence to her. As Persephone giggled over something the tall fellow bent to whisper in her shell-like ear, Sarah saw the other two seated nearby. Looking up, she caught Malcolm’s gaze on her and rewarded him with a blush. Malcolm found himself heartily glad he had come to see the elder Miss Compton.

  Beside him, the duke straightened. Persephone was making her way in their direction, her rosebud lips warm in greeting, her violet eyes alight. The duke’s wide mouth settled in a satisfied smile. That quickly changed as the girl spoke.

  “My Lord Breckonridge, how good to see you.”

  Malcolm sketched a short bow. “Miss Persephone, always a pleasure. Excuse me while I pay my respects to your cousin.” He moved past, but not before he saw her frown as well. In a moment, he was at Sarah’s side.

  “My lord,” she murmured in her husky voice, curtsying.

  He swept her an elegant bow. “Miss Compton. Good of you to receive me.”

  She took a seat in one of the two chairs placed near the door. He took the other, noting that the position afforded an excellent view of the rest of the room. Sarah was eying her cousin, who had engaged the duke in conversation. Neither seemed pleased by the event. The rest of her suitors looked positively green. Barrington’s hue matched his coat.

  “Your cousin is quite the success,” he commented.

  Sarah nodded. “Quite. Yet you appear to be immune, my lord. Or are you merely trying to awaken her interest by appearing disinterested?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Malcolm assured her. “I prefer my women mature and sensible, like present company.”

  She did not blush but regarded him steadily, eyes slightly narrowed so that her long brown lashes hid their color. “And do you think the characteristics like maturity and sensibility compliments, my lord? They strike me as something one might say if one did not want to speak one’s true opinion.”

  He quirked a smile. “If I were speaking about an act, I might agree with you. However, I assure you, I meant them as compliments of the highest order.” He reached out and squeezed her hands where they lay folded on the poplin of her lap, marveling again that they felt so small within his own. “Have no doubts who I have come to see, Miss Compton.”

  As he pulled back his touch, a blush crept over her round cheeks. “My lord, you flatter me,” she murmured. “But thank you. And do not think I am unaware of what a sacrifice this visit is. Isn’t Parliament in session this afternoon?”

  “It is,” he said, pleased she would think of that. Her awareness of his needs would only help their union. With the thought came the realization that he fully intended to offer for her, and the sooner, the better. It appeared he had made his choice without knowing it. He smiled to himself, and she cocked her head.

  “What is it, my lord?”

  “Merely that I realize you and I have a lot in common,” he replied.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? I would not have guessed. What do you find that we share?”

  “An appreciation of how much work it takes for others to live a life of ease,” he extemporized. “The desire to make a difference in that world. The tenacity to make things happen.”

  “You see all that in me?” She appeared surprised.

  “Like knows like, my dear,” he replied, certain of himself. “I’d also wager you’re tired of your cousin’s circus. Tell me you have wanted a place of your own.”

  “What lady has not dreamt of her own establishment?” she replied. “I will remedy that when my cousin is safely wed.”

  He was surprised to feel a finger of fear crawl up his spine. “You are spoken for, then?”

  She smiled. “In a way. I hope to teach. Lady Wenworth has offered me a place in the Dame School on her estate.”

  He remembered Appleby saying she was friends with the Darbys. Surely this position was only a way to rescue her from a drab future. His proposal would be even better.

  “Do you like children, then?” he asked.

  Her smile deepened, revealing her enchanting dimples. “Yes, I do, which believe me is a surprise after raising Persephone.” She seemed to recall herself and bit her lip before continuing. “That is to say, I believe I will enjoy teaching.”

  She looked so delectable that Malcolm could suddenly imagine any number of things he’d enjoy teaching her as well. His thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for she blinked rapidly, color fading. Before she could respond, however, Persephone appeared at her side.

  “My but how serious you look,” the girl proclaimed. She smiled charmingly. Behind her, the duke and her other admirers looked far less amused. The short fellow crowded territorially behind her, his taller peer at his heels. Barrington craned his neck to see around them both. Only the duke kept his distance, mouth in a thin line of distaste.

  Sarah’s blush returned. “Lord Breckonridge and I were just discussing teaching,” she offered her cousin as if she had somehow been caught at some prank.

  The girl affected a serious look, but Malcolm could see she put it on as she might a new gown. “Oh, yes, teaching. Sarah is frightfully good at it. Look at all she’s taught me.”

  “You need no teacher, Miss Compton,” the taller of her beaus protested. “I vow you are perfect as you are.”

  Malcolm refused to add to the exaggerated praise. Sarah kept her eyes on her hands. Persephone did not so much as look at the fellow.

  “But are you not a teacher yourself, Lord Breckonridge?” she continued. “You teach the other Lords how to vote. Your prowess on the floor of Parliament is legendary.”

  “You are too kind,” Malcolm said, fully meaning it. Sarah looked acutely uncomfortable, and the duke, who had rarely spoken a word in defense of an act himself, looked ready to eat Malcolm with a bit of vinegar.

  “Not at all,” Persephone murmured, eyes for him alone. “What you do is amazing. I vow I could never declaim before an audience.”

  “You give yourself too little credit,” Malcolm quipped, watching her audience watch her.

  “Here, here,“ the short fellow piped up. Immediately the tall fellow chimed in. Even Barrington managed a word in her defense, though it took him several tries to do so. The duke alone raised an eyebrow for Malcolm’s benefit. Sarah made a study of her hands, mouth tight as if she would otherwise burst into laughter.

  “Perhaps,” Persephone continued, seemingly oblivious to the currents eddying around her. “But only men get to make pretty speeches in Parliament.” She pouted. “We women must be content to influence from the home.”

  Malcolm cocked his head. “I think you would have no difficulty in that arena either, Miss Persephone.”

  She smiled, but to Malcolm, the look held little charm and a great deal of calculation. “I’m glad we are agreed on that score, my lord.”

  “And you, Miss Compton,” he said, returning his attention to Sarah to find her watching him with narrowed eyes. “Would you be content to influence from the home as well?”

  Persephone gave her gossamer giggle. “Oh, my lord, Sarah has never been known to have strong opinions.”

  “I have
strong opinions, cousin,” Sarah corrected her with quiet firmness. She put up her chin, which, Malcolm noticed for the first time, had a decided point to it. “I simply keep my opinions to myself. In answer to you question, my lord, I do not believe a wife should be seen and not heard. If I had an opinion on a matter, I would state it. I would not change my opinion simply to suit my husband’s whim. However, if he could convince me that he had the right of it, I would not be shy in supporting him.”

  “She is quite loyal,” Persephone seemed to feel compelled to assure him. “That I cannot argue with. But I fear, Cousin Sarah, that you are too shy to be so bold in stating your opinion. Isn’t that why you left the Season so many years ago? Why, you cannot even stand to stay a Season in London now. You are forever nattering on about returning to the country.”

  Had Lady Renderly hit the nail on the head after all? If so, he could see no sign of the shy girl Sarah must have been. Indeed, she took her cousin’s teasing sitting as still as a queen faced with a recalcitrant peasant. And the supposedly charming Miss Persephone Compton came off the decided loser. She treated Sarah like an elderly aunt, or the poor relation, Malcolm realized with a pang. The woman deserved better. Small wonder Lady Wenworth wanted to rescue her. He felt an overwhelming urge to do the same.

  “But surely you would not leave us, Miss Persephone,“ the tall fellow begged. Barrington and the short fellow both spoke at the same time, drowning each other out. Persephone turned to reassure them that she adored London. Malcolm easily ignored them, turning to Sarah to find she had once more paled.

  “I hope you are enjoying the metropolis more this Season, Miss Compton,” he told her.

  Sarah’s smile to him was strained. “In truth, I have not had an opportunity to see much of it, my lord. I find my time devoted to chaperoning my cousin. However, I will admit that I enjoy the country.”