Her Cool Charms (Brides for the Earl's Sons Book 2)

by Isabel Simonds

  “I will make it my duty to inform him,” she said to herself. Then she headed right, towards a place where Hansom cabs would usually stop.

  She was waiting there, a well-dressed family beside her, when she saw someone coming up the street, and gaped. It couldn't be!

  It was him again – Stilton's servant.

  She shivered. She was sure it was him now – he had the same lumbering aspect as the shadow she'd seen earlier, and he was tall enough to have been able to cover her mouth with his hand as he had done. He was wearing a wide, threadbare cloak and she could well believe that, at his belt, he wore a knife.

  Without thinking about it, she started to run.

  Chapter 15: Surprising occurences

  “WELL, DASH IT,” BRADFORD said, looking up from his place at Salford's. “I wonder where she is?”

  He had arrived early, knowing he would have to wait for her, but unable to not do so.

  I haven't felt this impatiently excited since I was a boy, at Christmastide.

  He grinned broadly at the thought of it. He was as happy as he'd ever felt, since he was a boy, and it was she who caused all that.

  He could barely wait until he saw her.

  “Sir? Would you care to order?” the proprietor asked, pausing by his chair, brow raised.

  “Not yet,” Bradford said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He had been sitting here for half an hour and ordered a lemon cordial. He had to do something soon, or the proprietor was going to get vexed. As it was, the poor fellow looked somewhat uncomfortable.

  “As you will,” he murmured, withdrawing graciously, though Bradford could see it was an effort. He shifted in his seat again and drew out his watch. Checked the time. The intricate filigree hands pointed to twenty minutes after the meeting-time.

  “Dash it,” he murmured. “Where is she?”

  He thought it seemed unlike Lady Mirabelle to be late. And, since she'd had a card delivered to his address at five the previous evening, confirming the appointment, it seemed unlikely to him that she'd forgotten. Or that she wouldn't come.

  He smiled, recalling his pleasure when the card arrived. He'd kept it, setting it down on his writing-desk in the bedchamber, a small smile of fondness on his lips. At least he had some tiny part of her with him, he'd thought, fondly.

  The sound of voices brought him back to the present, along with a delicious smell of onions and something else, meltingly warm. He realized he was ravenously hungry. The guests across the room were receiving platters of their lunch, and he stared at it wistfully.

  “She must be coming soon,” he told himself. He stayed there a minute or two longer, then pushed back his chair, feeling restless.

  “Sir? Are you leaving?” the proprietor asked. He sounded hopeful. Bradford shook his head, grimly.

  “Not yet,” he said. “I know it's irregular. But I'll be back in a moment. I'll settle the bill when I return. Yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” the man replied unhappily.

  Bradford walked briskly down the street a way. He had no idea why he'd come out here – restless discomfort combined with worry, he guessed. But what he was planning to do out here, he'd no idea.

  He walked briskly down the street, past rows of shops, some closed for the luncheon hour, and people seated on benches, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. He couldn't feel at ease. Something was badly bothering him.

  He walked down the street, not really knowing where he was, but feeling driven by some sort of need to keep moving. As he did so, he caught sight of someone walking hastily down the other way.

  He stared. It was a woman, dressed in a blue outdoor coat and bonnet, the ribbons trailing behind. She was walking awfully fast, almost running. Her purse swung from her arm as she moved purposefully forwards, and as she came closer, he noticed that her eyes darted about, as if she was terrified, and that they were blue, or gray, like the sky after rain...

  “Mirabelle!” he said, aloud. He ran towards her, and they met. She stopped hastily, then collapsed forward, hands on her knees, and drew a heaving breath.

  “Lord Bradford,” she said, gasping for air. “I...I was delayed. I...sorry,” she added, fanning herself with her hand, clearly desperate for air. “I...” she gasped again and he moved, gently placing a hand on her shoulder, moving her so she could lean against the wall, a little in the shade.

  “Mirabelle?” he said, disbelieving. “I...what is it? You're not late. Please. What happened?” He was really worried now. She was white, deathly pale, but for two high spots of color on her cheeks. Her chest heaved, and he guessed she must have been running for some distance, for she looked truly exhausted. What had happened to her?

  “Nothing,” she sniffed, as her breathing regained its normal pace again, slowly. “I...sorry. Can we go in?”

  “Of course,” he said. He took her arm and helped her down the street back to Salford's. As they went, he noted, her eyes darted back and forth, and she glanced back, almost as if she thought she was being followed.

  “Milady,” he said, as he took her coat in the doorway and hung it up on the hook, following it with his own. “You're sure you're well?”

  “Yes, I'm well,” she said quickly. “I just need to...sit down,” she added slowly, clearly still exhausted.

  “Of course.”

  Bradford took her arm and let her lean on him as he guided her back to the forlorn table past the proprietor, who looked at him with wide, affronted eyes.

  “A carafe of watered wine, sir,” Bradford said quickly. “And...a lemon cordial, milady?”

  “Y...yes,” she said. “That sounds good.”

  “Very well,” Bradford said, fixing the proprietor with a glance that warned him not to ask any questions. “Wine, and two lemon cordials.”

  The man seemed to get the message, for he hurried off.

  “Now, milady,” Bradford said, turning back to her, feeling his brow twist with concern. “What happened? You don't need to tell me, of course. But...if there is anything – anything at all – I can do...”

  He trailed off as she shook her head.

  “No,” she said, her voice a tired whisper. “There's nothing anyone can do. Now now.”

  Bradford frowned. That sounded like something dire was about to happen. He lifted his glass, which had just arrived, and sipped, giving them both time. The cordial was excellent and he sipped again, sweet and refreshing, then set it down, regarding her.

  “You're ready to order luncheon?” he asked.

  She looked up at him from where she regarded her hands on the table before her. Then, surprisingly, she laughed.

  “Yes, Lord Bradford,” she said. “I am ready for lunch.”

  Bradford frowned, feeling a small smile lift the corners of his own mouth. Quite why that amused her he didn't understand, but he was glad it did. He was surprised by how much it lifted his mood just to see her smile.

  He squinted up at the board over the counter, where the fellow had chalked the menu for that day. It included the famous fish, and he raised a brow.

  “I'm having fish pie,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  He lifted a hand, summoning the proprietor, who hastened to fulfill their request. When he had gone, Bradford found himself regarding Mirabelle steadily across the table. With her face pale, cheeks flushed hectic from exertion, eyes solemn and sad, she was nevertheless the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

  “If I can help,” he said humbly. “I will.”

  She paused. Wet her lips. It looked like she was going to tell him something. He tensed, waiting. Then, just as he thought he'd imagined it – that she would never intimate anything – she spoke. “I need someone to come with me,” she said.

  Bradford felt something settle in his chest. Relief, perhaps? A feeling of absolute rightness spread through him. “Of course, milady,” he said without hesitance. “I will go with you wherever you wish to go.”

  Her eyes met his and a smile of distant sweetness twisted her lips. He
felt his heart twist with it and wished, not for the first time, he could reach across and take her in his arms.

  “Lord Bradford,” she said simply.

  She looked down and he looked away, clearing his throat. Suddenly, the overwhelming power her physical presence had on him was too much for him. She was there across the table, close enough to smell her rose perfume. Her legs were beside his under the table and he tensed, aware suddenly of their proximity, of how easy it would be to loop his foot round one of her own.

  He looked up and she was watching him. He felt his heart melt as his gaze locked with her soft blue one. She didn't look away and nor did he. She smiled.

  On the table, her hands moved and slid towards his. He took them. Her fingers were delicate and cool and he held them in his own. Looked at her face.

  The proprietor arriving with the lunch barely disturbed them. Bradford felt his arm nudged painstakingly aside as a plate of steaming lunch appeared by his side. He didn't look down. He didn't think. All his world was settled in the pale blue of those eyes.

  She smiled, shifting, and broke the eye-contact.

  “I suppose we should eat,” she said softly.

  Bradford nodded. He couldn't speak. His throat was tight with feelings. Here, opposite him, was the woman he would never have believed could care for him as he did for her. She was older, mature, experienced. She looked at him fearlessly, with a gaze as proud and untrammeled as his own. More so.

  He loved her like he'd never thought could be possible.

  “Yes,” he managed to say. “We should eat.”

  After luncheon, they talked. She told him a little of what she needed him to do – places, times, numbers – nothing of what they would actually do, or where they were going.

  “Bring three men,” she said afterward. He frowned.

  “You think...” he trailed off, hesitantly.

  “I think these people have the likelihood of being very dangerous,” she said.

  “Yes, milady,” Bradford nodded. “We'll bring four.”

  He surprised himself by how utterly calm he felt. He had no concern whatsoever about the matter of facing danger. He wouldn't, he thought dazedly, have reacted if she'd told him they were going to face the Prince's own Guard alone tomorrow. He wasn't worried.

  All that mattered was that he would be with her. And that she trusted him. Nothing else, he thought, the realization filtering to him through a haze of wonder, really mattered besides that.

  Chapter 16: Desperate times

  Mirabelle walked dazedly up the steps to her house. She was, she realized, likely still in shock. The world moved by without really touching her, like part of her heart was numbed.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Oh! Milady!” Hensley appeared at the door, her face a picture of surprise. “I was just getting worried for you! Your guest has just arrived...I put her in the parlor.”

  “Tell her I'm indisposed,” Mirabelle whispered. She couldn't see Marguerite now. She walked past her maidservant and headed blindly to the downstairs parlor. She shut the door behind her and sat down heavily on the chaise, and wept.

  Taking out her handkerchief, sniffing, she felt better.

  The meal with Bradford had taken the edge off her terror, but her fear was still inside her, frozen, like ice. Like ice, it stole her vitality. She felt weary, and worn-out.

  “I need to sleep.”

  The thought was overwhelming. She leaned back on the chaise and closed her eyes. Someone tapped on the door.

  “Mirabelle?” Marguerite's voice called, worriedly. “Are you alright?”

  “I'm well,” Mirabelle called hollowly through the door. “I just need to rest. I feel dizzy,” she added, as a stab at an explanation.

  “I can call the physician?” Marguerite called insistently. “You shouldn't be here alone.”

  “I have Hinsley,” Mirabelle replied softly, not even opening her eyes. She wasn't sure what had done it, exactly: the relief, or the terror, or the thought that soon it would be over. Or the time spent with Bradford.

  It was all so confusing.

  “I'll go, then, and let you rest,” Marguerite called back after a moment. “I'll call again tomorrow after breakfast, to make sure you're well.”

  “Thank you,” Mirabelle whispered.

  Then, to her relief, she heard Marguerite's footfall on the wooden floor, slowly heading down the hallway. She lay where she was, utterly exhausted.

  The clock struck five on the mantelpiece, but she knew she would retire to bed soon. She made herself get to her feet and went up to her bedchamber. There, she pulled the bell-rope to summon Hinsley.

  “Milady?” Her maid appeared, eyes round with concern. “Can I get something?”

  “Draw water for a bath, please, Hinsley,” Mirabelle said. “And if you could help me get read for bed?”

  “Of course, milady!” Her maid looked worried. “I can fetch Doctor Bates, if you'd like..?”

  “No, there's no need,” Mirabelle whispered. She wasn't sick! All she wanted was to be alone. And sleep.

  “Yes, milady.”

  The bath was drawn and Mirabelle lay back in it, looking up at the ceiling. The hot water enfolded her, washing away the torments of the day. She felt cleaner. More relaxed. The water was faintly scented with lavender-oil, something Hinsley had got into the habit of doing when they were more prosperous and, thankfully, still did. Mirabelle let the scented water wash away her worry.

  I am about to do something either heroic or foolish.

  She couldn't quite believe she was going to go with Lord Bradford to confront Alfred Stilton.

  “I must have lost my senses,” she whispered.

  Any one of those decisions – confronting the man, or being alone with Lord Bradford in a closed carriage – were the hallmark of a distempered mind. Or so anyone else in society would tell her. Ladies did not – absolutely did not – make business agreements, never mind with untrustworthy felons seeking to rob them. And even worse, they did not ride alone in carriages with men.

  But then, she thought, smiling sourly, ladies didn't generally have to protect themselves against said untrustworthy felons, who sent men to threaten them at gunpoint. And ladies didn't find themselves with no-one to turn to except men of dubious reputation who would agree to see them unchaperoned.

  “Well,” she said grimly, flipping over in the water, “these are desperate times.”

  She lay for a while, letting the torments of the day wash off her. Then, before the water was too cold to make it pleasant, she got out, leaving a trail of damp footprints as she tracked from the bath towards her bed. She hastily drew on her nightgown, laid there to warm by the fire by Hinsley, and slid between the warm-scented sheets.

  By the time Hinsley came up to check on her and take away the bath, she was drifting in and out of sleep.

  Her dreams that night were troubled, awful dreams of being lost in alleys, dark and menacing. She tried to find her way, but there was nothing she recognized. She walked through dark trackways alone, until she found herself face-to-face with someone. She tried to see who it was. It was very important to see them...

  She felt her eyes flutter and realized that the warmth on her face was sunlight, because it was morning. She was in her bed at Dalford House, and the sunlight shone through from a new day.

  “Well,” she said, standing and drawing her nightgown about her. “Today it is.”

  She slipped her feet into silk slippers and went to the bell. She summoned Hinsley, who came in to help her dress.

  Her maidservant seemed as quiet as she was, and Mirabelle sat silently on the stood by her dressing-table, looking out at the morning while Hinsley brushed out her long hair. As she watched, the sun rose over roofs of dark slate, pouring over them and touching them with licks of white, like paint.

  “It's a fine day,” Hinsley murmured, setting the brush down gently on the table.

  “Yes,” Mirabelle whispered softly. “It will be.
”

  She took breakfast until nine, then headed downstairs. She would have an hour to wait until Lord Bradford got there.

  Having nothing else to do, she took a book off the shelf in the downstairs parlor, asked for a dish of chocolate to be sent up and sat and read. It was something she hadn't done in far too long. She felt calm, but at the same time it was all strangely surreal. If she let herself think about the enormity of what she was about to do, her mind would shatter with the weight, or so it seemed.

  So she sat and read French novels and drank chocolate.

  “Milady?” Hinsley's voice broke into her reverie.

  “Yes?”

  “There's a coach outside. A gentleman wished to speak with you.”

  “Tell him I'm coming,” she said. Her own voice sounded as if she spoke in a dream. She stood and walked to the fireplace, then out of the door and down the stairs.

  It seemed as if her nerves were tingling, every sense fine-tuned, feeding her a richness of information she'd never before noticed. The hollow hardness of the stairwell below her feet, the golden of the sunlight that poured through the porthole window, the way the sound echoed in the entrance-way, with its high stone-faced ceilings.

  “Milady?” a familiar voice said. She reached out a gloved hand.

  “I'm coming.”

  He helped her down the five stone steps that led up to the house, and together they walked to the coach. He helped her in. Then he got in opposite her and shut the door.

  She stared at him. The surreal shell had broken open, and now reality was rushing back. He reached for her hands. She kept hers where she had them, on her knee. He leaned back, a sorrowful expression tracking briefly across his face.

  “We will go directly to the place?”

  “Yes,” she said, her own voice sounding like a stranger's. “Yes, we shall.”

  The coach rattled out into the morning sunshine.

  Mirabelle tried not to study the man who sat opposite her. Tried not to notice, with startling clarity, how handsome he was. Tried not to make her eyes feast on his face, storing up every little piece of it, lest she never see him again.