by Carrie Lomax
Bobbing in the water, Miriam felt the weight of her skirts lighten. They swirled around in the sandy silt churned by waves and feet. She turned her face to the sun. Lord Richard wasn’t coming today. Freckles be damned.
“Look out!”
Miriam rolled aside. The ruined hat, now a toy, plopped where her face had been a moment before. Lizzie laughed hysterically. “Good aim, Spence!”
“That’s my head you were aiming at!” Miriam laughed and tried to kick water at him but was hampered by her skirts. She recognized Spencer Laughton as one of Lizzie’s many distant cousins. The Laughtons had taken a family mill and, over two ruthless generations, turned it into an enterprise stretching from Chicago to New York. Lizzie’s mother was a Laughton, as well.
“Aye, and I’d have nailed you too if Lizzie hadn’t shouted warning!” Spencer splashed away, out of range. A dark scowl flitted over Lizzie’s face. Miriam turned to glance over her shoulder. A tall, well-formed man dressed in white linen sauntered up the beach. A frisson of anticipation skittered through Miriam. She forced her attention back to Lizzie.
“Hmph. If he thinks he can just show up late and pretend that everything’s all right, Lord Fancypants has another think coming.” Lizzie turned and dove in the water toward Spencer. She popped out of the water and kissed him square on the lips.
A beat of collective astonishment settled over the beach. Even Spencer’s eyes had grown wide as wagon wheels. He alone looked pleased. The youngest child whooped, and the spell broke.
Miriam glanced up the beach to where the Englishman had stopped. From this distance and with so short an acquaintance, she could detect no sign of irritation. Instead, he casually bent to pick up something from the beach. She felt cold standing there ankle-deep in the water, so she splashed her way out and worked her way up the shore in the direction of her tent. By the time she collapsed in its shade Miriam was panting. Mrs. Kent cast fluttered nervously at her side as they spread Miriam’s sand-crusted skirts wide to dry.
“May I sit?” a man asked in a wonderfully accented, low voice. Miriam could close her eyes and listen to him talk all day. His voice vibrated through her. Miriam had been waiting for so long for something to happen to her, and now she began to wonder if Lord Northcote was it. Lizzie was done with him. She had said as much herself. Surely that made it all right?
“By all means,” Miriam replied as though she wasn’t shivering in sodden, sand-spattered linen. Mrs. Kent cast them both a baleful glare and wrapped a sun-warmed blanket around her shoulders.
He was silent for several minutes. “I would guess that Lizzie has told you that she and I have parted ways.”
“Yes, she has indicated as much.” Perhaps it was simply the harsh light of the beach, but Lord Richard appeared off, his expression pained, his skin slightly ashen. It seemed an odd phrasing: I would guess. Maybe the English had a slightly different way of discussing delicate matters. She had heard that Americans were considered overly forthright. Lizzie more than most.
“Well. It is true,” he continued, shifting his weight back onto his palms. Lord Northcote possessed admirable arms. His were corded with muscle and sprinkled with dark hair. He sounded oddly resigned.
“Did you not want the association to end?” Miriam asked as delicately as she could.
“On the contrary, I am thoroughly pleased by it.” Lord Richard glanced at her. “Lizzie washes into one’s life like one of those waves and recedes just as quickly. I am free to pursue a closer acquaintance with you, Miriam.”
Miriam felt her heart swell and pump erratically in her chest. “Me?” she finally squeaked.
The man’s thick lashes lowered and rose like curtains. Tiny crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. “You, Miriam. What do you think our falling out was about?” Lord Northcote reached out one large, warm hand and enfolded her fingers within his. He placed something hard in her hand. “May I call on you this evening, Miss Walsh?”
“Yes,” Miriam replied breathlessly. “Yes, please, do.”
Lord Northcote pushed off the ground and rose in a fluid motion that made Miriam’s heart flip. He bowed and sauntered away, unconcerned by the awkwardness his presence had brought to the stony beachfront. Miriam opened her hand looked down at the object in her palm.
An oyster shell. Oysters were supposed to be an aphrodisiac. Innocent girls were not supposed to know of such things, but she was well-read in the classics and girls at school had liked to pass around scandalous reading material. Had Northcote known she would recognize the significance, or was Miriam reading too much into it?
“Miss Walsh?” Mrs. Kent hovered nearby. “Miss Walsh, it is past time to be headed back to our lodgings.” The older woman wore a pinched, worried expression.
“You don’t like him, do you?”
“I do like him, in fact, what little I know of him. But I do not like Lizzie and never have, as you well know. That he has been…” Mrs. Kent trailed off. “If they were involved, then it does not speak well of him. You deserve someone who is entirely honorable, not someone who flits from girl to girl in the space of an afternoon.”
The thought turned Miriam’s stomach. Lizzie was great fun but careless of the consequences of her actions upon others. Worse, she had a temper and a mean streak. Together the women disassembled the makeshift tent.
“You aren’t having trouble breathing?” asked Mrs. Kent worriedly.
“No. The sea air is beneficial.”
“Mrs. Kent, I would like to see Lord Richard again,” Miriam said as she shook the sand from her still-damp skirts and accepted a small stack of poles. Her nurse labored to hoist the heavy roll of tent canvas.
“This evening is your aunt’s Dance Beneath the Stars,” Mrs. Kent huffed warily. “I expect you may have a dance with the Englishman before retiring. There are always more ladies than there are partners. Mark my words, though, Miriam. Handsome men bring nothing but heartbreak.”
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The Duke’s Stolen Heart: London Scandals 4
“It appears, my lord,” the Duke of Havencrest’s footman spoke nervously after clearing his throat, “That the lady has decline your invitation to dine.”
“Indeed.”
Havencrest did not turn away from the window where he gazed down upon the light snowfall that had already turned gray in the street below. How dare she refuse him? A common thief did not refuse a duke. Two days prior he had sent her a letter.
Dear Miss Lowry,
I believe you have something that belongs to me.
You are invited to supper tomorrow at eight to discuss arrangements for its return.
Cordially,
The Duke of Havencrest
Although the object in question was not, technically speaking, his, Havencrest intended to have it. A mere thief—no matter how clever—could not hold out indefinitely. Not when Bow Street wanted her for pilfering London’s ladies’ jewels all throughout the fall season. The cheek of Miss Lowry’s refusal cracked his statue-still face into a ghost of a smile.
Dear Lord Havencrest,
I find my diary is full.
Yours,
Miss A. Lowry
The brevity of her dismissal wounded Havencrest’s pride. The more he reflected upon it, the more the venom of her rejection stung. It is just like a woman, he wrote back, to deny a man what is rightfully his.
Havencrest tore that note, and a half-dozen after it, into pieces he fed to the fire. What might be sufficient inducement to a woman of great intelligence, uncertain wealth and a valuable set of skills unusual amongst the highest echelons of society?
Fear. He knew her secret—or strongly suspected it—and Malcolm Hepworth Dunn, fifth Duke of Havencrest, was not above using all the immense power of his station to frighten the little thief into compliance with his wishes.
Miss Lowry,
Light fingers cannot assuage a heart heavy with guilt.
My residences, this evening, or you shall receive an interesting visit
from Bow Street.
In all sincerity,
The Duke of Havencrest
Her reply had come within the hour. Her brazenness punched like a boxer’s blow to his temple. His heart thudded heavily as he read.
Your Lordship,
What makes you think I feel guilt? Bow Street is welcome to visit me at my residence with Lord Evendaw and his family in Clermont Street. I encourage you to broach the topic of a visit with Lady Evendaw, whom would undoubtedly welcome a visit from such an esteemed personage as yourself. In fact, I cannot imagine what a man of your stature might want with a simple American visiting from abroad. Nothing proper, I expect.
Regretfully,
Miss A. Lowry
Havencrest retreated to his country seat to brood through the lonely holidays. Boxing day, his greatest pleasure, came and went. Miss Lowry, the minx, had called his bluff to expose her. Intelligent women, his father had always observed half in warning, were twice the trouble for half the pleasure. It was best to stick with the stupid ones. Miss Lowry was clearly cleverer than most.
“Sir,” prompted the footman after a long silence. “Do you wish to dine alone?”
“No. However seeing as Miss Lowry has elected to leave me to my own devices, it appears I shall have to.” He moved away from the window in decisive strides. Few good decisions had ever been made with an empty stomach. “Ready my cattle. The phaeton will do if the streets are not too snow-packed.”
The footman bowed and backed away to do his bidding with a hint of fear behind his expressionless features. Malcolm found the great dining room, like the rest of his home, empty and cold. He attacked the soup as though it were a mortal enemy, and devoured the fish course like a famished whale. He sawed through exquisitely prepared lamb with unnecessary savagery. A carrot nearly escaped beneath a scrap of gravy. Malcolm stabbed it with his fork and lifted it to his mouth, thinking.
He needed…leverage.
Miss Lowry pretended to be unafraid of the Bow Street Runners hired to discover whom had relieved London’s highest ladies of their pearl strings, ear bobs, bracelets and hairpins at every ball and the occasional opera since last September. Why ought she to feel any threat when the idiots had already made one wrong arrest and nearly hanged an innocent woman? After which, the thefts had stopped instantly. It had to be someone within Darby and Mrs. Cartwright’s orbit. Someone with no particular goodwill toward either the man or his paramour, who yet had access to the best of London’s social events. An innocuous young lady, newly arrived, demure and too clever by half. Any lackwit could see Miss Lowry was the culprit. Her letters proved it. No innocent woman would offend a duke so readily.
An American could be forgiven for failing to understand the gravity of her error. But Miss Antonia Lowry was more than a simple foreigner in a strange land. She was an actress of the highest caliber. Malcolm’s father had trained him to spot such women from a field’s distance. After Malcolm’s mother had died he had raised his son with excessive skepticism of any creature bearing soft breasts and wide eyes.
What makes you think I feel guilt? Miss Lowry had asked. Hardly a denial. More of an oblique confirmation. Malcolm smiled grimly as he settled into his box and lumbered off through the gloom of a January evening in London. By the time he was done with her, Miss Lowry would feel far more than guilt. She would feel the lash of a whip at her back in punishment if he had anything to say about it.
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