“Or mayhap even running,” Lawrence commented in a dry undertone.
. . .
“We are horribly late.” Lawrence fretted, all but hauling his nephew up the stairs of the Enderby house on St. James. “Hester will never forgive us if we have spoiled her numbers for dinner.”
“It is most frustrating,” Adam said, drawing off his gloves as they stepped into the entry way. “I would not have stayed for the refund of our tickets, but to do otherwise would have marked us as suspicious. The Professor has a stomach ailment?” He gave a snort of disbelief.
“All those deuced buttons on that damned dress, and all for nothing in the end!” Lawrence agreed, as he mounted the stairs.
“Lawrence! Lord Brand!” Lady Enderby exclaimed as the two men reached the landing. “We were just about to go into dinner.”
“Forgive me, Lady Enderby, it was my fault, a sartorial matter,” Adam began, mischief in his eyes. “As my uncle was saying, buttons are-
“He found a button missing and there was naught to do but change,” Lawrence broke in, flashing his nephew a warning look. “His valet all but wept. No less than a dozen cravats wasted too! Brummel is to blame, for setting so high a standard.”
“Indeed, he goes too far,” Lady Enderby agreed. “They say his valet polishes his boots with fine wine.”
“Ah, if Brummel could have but seen me earlier, he would have laughed himself silly,” Adam added, heeding a warning dig from his uncle’s elbow. “In consideration of my charming hostess, I had no choice but to make certain my attire was worthy. Forgive us for delaying you.”
“Well,” Lady Enderby preened at the compliment as she rushed them into the company. “No harm done, I suppose, but Lord Brand I must introduce you to . . .”
“Lawrence!” The silver-haired woman exclaimed as Lady Enderby brought Adam and his uncle to her side.
“Adrienne,” Lawrence smiled in delight. “I would not have allowed this young scapegrace to detain me for a moment had I known that you were coming out from hiding.”
Lady Enderby smiled in satisfaction. “So there is no need for introductions?”
“Old friends,” Lawrence replied warmly.
“Certainly older than we would care to admit.” Lady Wodesby chuckled.
“Then I shall have dinner announced.” Lady Enderby bustled away, leaving the latecomers to fend for themselves.
“My daughter, Miranda,” Lady Wodesby introduced, drawing her forward.
“This cannot be,” Lawrence said. “Adrienne, this is impossible! Surely you cannot have a daughter old enough for a Season.”
“You always were the most shameless of flatterers, Lawrie,” Lady Wodesby declared, fluttering her fan like a schoolgirl. “Is this your son?”
“Alas, I never married. Would that Peter had not secured your hand first, it might have been different, of course. This is my nephew, Adam.”
“Helen’s son? The resemblance is remarkable; certainly he has her eyes and the Timmons chin. . .” Lady Wodesby observed, taking the arm that Lawrence proffered and strolling with him toward the supper room.
“And Miranda is the very image of . . .” Lawrence’s voice drifted back.
“How discomfiting to be disassembled piece by piece,” the young woman said. “And then be discarded altogether. I know nothing beyond your given name, Sir.”
There was honesty in her eyes, Adam decided, although it was difficult to believe that there was a matchmaking hen in London who had not supplied her chick with such vital information. But then, upon further examination, it was apparent that Miranda was not the downy fledgling that his uncle had supposed. Most of those newly-hatched debutantes could not hide their lack of experience, even though they affected the feathers of the world-weary. Not a one in the flock would have dared to venture a conversational sally upon being abandoned with half an introduction. Yet this young woman did not seem the least bit unsettled at being left in his company.
“When did you arrive in London, Miss . . . ?” Adam asked.
“Wilton,” she supplied. “Is my lack of Town bronze so apparent? Or did I leave some straw hanging in my hair?”
Twenty? Twenty-five? Perhaps older? Adam found it hard to determine with any certainty. Not an Incomparable, at least by current standard. Her lips were too wide to be in vogue, the blue of her eyes more like a summer sky than the current icy ideal. Clearly she had eschewed parasol and bonnet too often; the sun had lightly toasted her skin and bleached strands within the strawberry blonde of her hair to the color of ripening wheat. Fortune had blessed her with one of those countenances that seemed immune to change. At seventeen or sixty, Miss Wilton would draw the eye. But while her prettiness might capture a man’s notice, it was her piquant expression that would arrest his attention. Her face was unfashionably alive with interest and amusement.
“No straw,” Adam said, “not even a bit of chaff.”
“Then what gave me away as a country greenling?” she asked. “My gown? I fear it is some time since Mama and I last visited our modiste.”
“Not at all, Miss Wilton.” Adam hastened to assure her. “Your gown is of a classic style, modish for any season. That shade of emerald is an excellent choice for you.” To his delight, she turned an adorable shade of pink.
“I hope you do not think that I was fishing for a compliment, sir,” she murmured.
“Ah, but you should, Miss Wilton, if only to avoid being revealed as countrified. You must fish assiduously for flattery, effect an air of outright boredom and never, ever, under any circumstances, blush at anything you hear. To do so shows a lack of sophistication.”
“And such cynical sang froid is valued above all,” she remarked, with a smile that somehow conveyed a combination of distaste and amusement. “I begin to recall why I prefer the country life, Mr. . . . ?”
“Chapbrook.” Adam gave the family name and waited for a reaction, but there was not so much as a glimmer of recognition in those depths of blue. It was too bad of him not to say more. Inevitably, she would find out that he was the Marquess of Brand. Yet, he could not resist the omission. “And why do you favor field and farm? I had thought that every woman longs for routs and levees and balls that last till dawn.”
“Oh, I love to dance,” Miss Wilton said.
Adam shook his head. “Tsk. . . tsk . . . Miss Wilton, the hay is showing.”
“I find dancing . . . tolerable,” she amended in lofty tones.
“Much better,” Adam approved. “But you still would rather be in the hinterlands?”
“There is far more freedom there, Mr. Chapbrook. In Town, I cannot so much as gallop my horse without some biddy running to tell Mama that I am making a scandal of myself. There are always eyes watching, searching for some sin that may be stewed into a tidbit of gossip.”
“Rumor has ever been the grist for society’s mill,” he agreed, suddenly conscious of surreptitious glances, whispered words behind the screen of fans, an eddy of ominous undertones beneath the flow of conversation.
“‘Tis almost a tangible force, this social cannibalism. They fete you, feed you, then eat your reputation for breakfast,” she said lightly
Although her tones were mocking, Adam detected an underlying tinge of bitterness. Wilton? Wilton? There was a nagging familiarity to the name, but try as he might, he could not make the connection of memory. The announcement of dinner precluded any further exploration in the mines of recall, but eventually, he knew, the nugget would come to the surface. “May I escort you to the table?” he asked, offering his arm.
“Would the confession that I am ravenously hungry put me beyond the pale?” Miranda asked, astonished at her own audacity as they strolled to the dining room. In the past, she had found it necessary to supply no more than a sentence or two before relinquishing the reins of conversation. Most men were well content to steer the subject to themselves and remain on that road.
“Absolutely,” her partner informed her. “Young women subsist on nectar an
d ambrosia. Occasionally, in tribute to their hostesses, they may allow a few morsels of food to pass their lips.”
“How much constitutes a morsel?” Miranda asked. Never before had she enjoyed this bantering back and forth with a stranger It was almost like talking to Damien; except that she was quite conscious that this man was not her brother. Though he was not quite as tall as the lanky Damien, Mr. Chapbrook was somewhat broader built. Solid muscle rippled beneath the tight cut sleeves of his evening jacket, no padding there, she would wager. Nor anywhere else; his closely tailored attire left little room for doubt. “If a morsel consists of less than a fair cut of beef, I fear that I may be about to disgrace myself.”
“Then as it appears we are seated next to each other, I shall guard my plate,” he whispered solemnly, as she took her seat to his left. “Lady Enderby is not known for the generosity of her table.”
Her answering grin caught him off guard. Not a social snicker, nor a simpering polite gesture, but a wide expression of pleasure transformed her face. Suddenly, Adam felt the corners of his mouth stretching dangerously upward, well beyond the bounds of the urbane smirk that Polite Society deemed proper. He was precariously close to outright laughter. However, it appeared that poor Miss Wilton was already one foot over the edge. Her shoulders were trembling, and her bottom lip was gathered mercilessly beneath her teeth. For a few seconds, it appeared that she had succeeded in barricading it in, but the gate could not be held.
Ringing with delight, the melodic sound of Miss Wilton’s laughter floated across the stagnant pool of conversation. Lyric and light as a soft zephyr, it nonetheless caused ripples of consternation that deepened into a veritable maelstrom of murmurs. Quizzing glasses glinted in the candlelight as all eyes focused on the spectacle of honest emotion. The panoply of reactions chilled Adam; for among the stares and glares, there were few smiles. Beyond the bland facades, he sensed the cold calculation of predators scenting blood. They would make her suffer for this compliment to his riposte, unless . . .
Adam began with a tentative chuckle, his deep baritone joining in counterpoint to her delicate alto. Little more than a look at Miss Wilton’s face was necessary for hesitant mirth to graduate into genuine laughter. The sparkle in her eye proved to be an irresistible inducement. As their voices twined in a humorous duet, Adam found himself forgetting about the other people at the table, losing sight of everyone but the girl in the jewel-green dress, the pulsing dance of the emerald that adorned the long, slim column of her throat, the gleam of her hair like a sheaf of wheat satin wrapped in a nimbus of light. Even as the gale diminished and the last gasping chuckle faded to an echo, Adam could not shake this bewitching sense of communion.
“Will you not share the joke, Lord Brand?” A high-pitched voice broke the spell.
“Forgive me, Miss Belgrave,” Adam said, using the process of being seated to shield his befuddlement. Unless he could gather his wits, his aching side would be for naught. “It was the type of humor which builds itself sentence by sentence,” he explained to his other seatmate, and by way of raised voice to the rest of the table. “I could not hope to repeat the effect again, nor would I. I fear I have discomfited Miss Wilton entirely too much.” His apologetic glance swept the company. To censure Miss Wilton, they would have to condemn him as well. Luckily, the Brand title and newly restored fortune sufficed to put him well above reproach. Just as he had hoped, the buzz of table talk began anew interspersed with the rattle of china as the first remove appeared.
Chapter 2
Maddening though it was, the deity of Decorum demanded that Miranda speak to Lord Quimby, who was seated on her left. A few words about fences and foxes were all that was needful to send that elderly Master of the Hounds yapping apace about the woeful state of the Hunt. No more than a nod or a sympathetic murmur was necessary to keep him on the conversational trail, while her own thoughts were free to wander far afield. How could she have so lost herself? Had not her ill-fated Season been lesson enough? What was it about Mr. Chapbrook- no – she recollected ruefully- Lord Brand that had induced her to forget everyone else in the room? Caused her to lose her hard-won wariness?
The thin, bland-tasting turtle soup might as well have been water and Miranda found herself near to choking as her glance met Brand’s. Strong as spun steel, yet delicate as Arachne’s gossamer, the strand between them was woven by those brown eyes, rich and dark as earth, ripe with secret promise, ensorcelling . . . the thought gave Miranda a start. Sorcery? Was her mother so desperately set against Martin that she would dare to enspell her own daughter?
Miranda cast a look towards Lady Wodesby. However, the older woman’s attentions were fully directed at Lord Brand’s distinguished-looking uncle. A compulsion so powerful required tremendous concentration, especially to beguile one born of the Blood. Therefore, it was scarcely possible that Lord Brand was the focus of intense witchcraft. If there was a spell working, the source must be within the man. How else could this untoward attraction be explained?
Brand? Chapbrook? Though neither name brought any immediate magical association, Miranda sought within herself, tracing through the tangled web of relationships within the Seven Covens. The names and lines of descent of the Families were well known to her. Indeed, the complexities of kinship were as much a part of her education as the first simple incantations.
Unfortunately, the DeBretts of Mages had been about the only thing that Miranda could conjure, requiring neither talent nor craft, only the gift of an excellent memory. But try as she might, she could recollect no Brand scion anywhere on the branches of Merlin’s tree. Surreptitious study revealed nothing more than the skill of an excellent tailor whose handiwork displayed Lord Brand’s physical attributes to advantage. His fingers were long and well-shaped, but bare of the talisman ring that was as much a part of an adult mage’s attire as smallclothes. Yet, if there was no sorcery afoot . . . ?
A clammy hand came to rest on her knee, interrupting her jumbled thoughts. Quimby! From the smile on the old satyr’s lips, he knew full well that she would not dare risk yet another scene. But as the crabbed fingers crept slowly up towards her thigh, her father’s voice echoed in her mind.
“The first rule of magic, dear child, is belief. It is far simpler to work a spell in concert with Nature’s intent than against Her. Sometimes, one can even charm a credulous subject without the risk entailed by the use of magic powers.”
Miranda forced a smile, modulating her voice carefully so that only Quimby could hear. It would seem that at least some part of her training might finally be of use. “Your estate is in Devon, Lord Quimby, is it not?”
“Aye, my dear. Perhaps ye’d care t’come and see it one day.” The lord leered, mistaking her composed demeanor for complaisance.
“No doubt you were acquainted with my Great-Aunt Ceres, Lady LeFey.” The hand’s crawling invasion halted as Miranda continued. “She was a notorious beauty they say.” Her lips curled upward, but there was deadly purpose in her eyes as she trapped Lord Quimby with a basilisk gaze.
“L . . . Lady LeFey,” he stuttered. “Your aunt?”
“On Mama’s side, of course. They say I resemble Auntie, not in looks, but in other ways.” Miranda added significantly. “It is quite a reputation to live up to, as one might well imagine.”
Lord Quimby nodded dumbly.
“I doubt the tales could all be true, though. There are so many stories that it is rather difficult to credit them all. And some seem much too absurd to be real.” Miranda went on with a sigh. “Nonetheless, my Mama vows that they are entirely authentic, especially the anecdote about Lord Ratherton and Aunt Ceres. Mama was but a babe in arms at the time, but she was not the only one that I have heard it from. Apparently Ratherton was a notable rake; one of those disgusting creatures who was not above forcing his attentions when they were unwelcome. Did you know him, Lord Quimby? You are of an age.”
Once more the lord nodded and from his ashen expression, Miranda determined that the rumors
about Ratherton were not entirely obscure to the elderly lecher. It was time to shoot the bolt home. “Perhaps you can confirm if it was all invention, milord? Mama claims that his lordship dared to lay an unwelcome hand on Aunt Ceres. Auntie laid a curse for the insult and part of him just shriveled away, the legend goes. For some reason, Mama never said which piece, though.” Miranda tapped her cheek thoughtfully as she paused to let her words take effect. Suddenly, her thigh was unencumbered. “I always wondered if it was the trespassing fingers that were affected. Were Lord Ratherton’s digits in any way unusual, milord?”
Lord Quimby shook his head and stared down at his hands, both of which were now trembling visibly upon the table.
“I thought it a fabrication,” Miranda said, her voice as frothy as new-poured ale. “But then one can scarcely go and ask Ratherton’s children or grandchildren. That would be intolerably rude.”
“Ain’t none,” Quimby said, his voice shaking. “Ratherton died without issue, for all that he’d had a quiversful born on the wrong side of the blanket before he offended LeFey. Wife left him, said that he couldn’t . . .” He halted, recalling the company.
“How very sad, but entirely coincidental, I am sure,” Miranda said, schooling her expression to the proper mixture of innocence and regret. “Still it is a most curious tale, do you not think so?”
Lord Quimby did not answer. He was staring downward as if his gaze could somehow pierce through the table linen. His chair was precariously close to tipping him into the lap of the lady on his left. It was all Miranda could do to keep from bursting into laughter, but she had already made that error once. Rarely did she ever make the same mistake twice.
Having thus secured her left flank, Miranda returned to the conundrum of Lord Brand. Had her judgement failed, she wondered? So much for her vaunted powers of discernment. Never before had she given her confidence so quickly, but then, no man had ever clouded her senses with such dispatch. Sadly, Miranda was reluctantly forced to allow that Lord Brand’s omission of his identity had likely been deliberate. How could she have been so foolish as to forget Society’s spiteful diversions? If she had made the error of addressing him as “Mr. Chapbrook” within range of Honoria Belgrave’s ear . . . Miranda suppressed a shudder.
The Would-Be Witch Page 3
