She had arrived outside her uncle’s study. A footman sprang forward to open the door. Miranda took a deep breath and entered the room.
The study was elegantly appointed, as were the other chambers in this townhouse. Miranda gazed at oak paneled walls decorated with moulded plaster, heavy rosewood furniture, an Axminster carpet in shades of gold and blue, and saw a different study in her mind.
That other room had lacked the added feature of her uncle pacing. Kenrick was dressed for riding in top boots and breeches, olive green coat, and a horizontally striped waistcoat. His expression was reminiscent of a storm cloud about to pelt down hail.
“You must stop ripping up at Nonie,” Miranda said, before her uncle could speak. “She is doing her best to make me into a proper young lady, as you asked her to, and it is not kind of you to scold.”
Sir Kenrick did not leave off scowling. A man in his mid-forties, he bore a marked resemblance to his young niece, though his hair was a darker shade than hers, his eyes not violet but a more ordinary dark blue. Despite the ravages of time and the inevitable consequences of a fondness for food and drink, he was still widely held by the ladies to be a most handsome – not to mention marriageable — gentleman.
Kenrick was, as a result, well acquainted with the Machiavellian nature of the gentler sex. “Your horse got out of her stall last night. She was found wandering loose this morning,” he said.
Miranda was relieved that the mare had found her way back home. She clasped her hands to her breast. “However could such a thing happen? Did one of the grooms forget to secure the stable gate? I must go and make sure poor Molly is all right.”
“Did the groom also forget to remove the horse’s gear?” Kenrick snapped. If Miranda wasn’t up to something, he’d dine on his tall top hat. “Not to mention the side door that was found unlocked.”
“Gracious! We are fortunate that we weren’t all murdered in our beds.” Miranda quivered her lower lip. If she widened her eyes much further, they would pop smack out of her head.
He had frightened her, Kenrick realized. That had not been his intent. Aggravating as the girl might be, he couldn’t seriously consider her responsible for her horse having got loose.
At least, he hoped he couldn’t. “It won’t happen again. The staff has been warned to be on their guard.”
Her uncle’s cheeks had reddened alarmingly. Aggravating as Kenrick sometimes was, Miranda had no desire to see him go off in a fit. She contemplated the imported colored marble that decorated the fireplace and pondered how she might persuade him to chew some masterwort.
Sir Kenrick, meanwhile, regarded his charge. An enterprising gentleman of many diverse interests who had been knighted for his services to the Crown, he had a great many important matters on his mind, such as what might or might not be taking place on his estates while he was cooling his heels here in Town. Though his steward was capable enough, Kenrick preferred to personally see that swamps were drained, waters cleared, field and parkland enclosed, soil scrutinized and put to its best use, tenants encouraged to improve their leaseholds. He was also anxious to perfect his design for a reaping machine to be propelled by a team of horses, his current perplexity being that the team couldn’t be placed in front of the device, lest they trample the corn before it could be cut down.
“You will remember that you and Antoinette are engaged to Lady Sylvester this evening,” Kenrick said, as he strode toward the door. “You like Antoinette well enough, do you not?”
Miranda regarded him suspiciously. “I’d hardly tell you not to rip up at her, otherwise.”
“Then you will think of her. The world is not kind to females of gentle birth and penurious circumstances. If Antoinette fails to satisfy, she will be reduced to desperate measures, may even have to find a post as housekeeper somewhere. Or worse. You wouldn’t like to be responsible for that, I think.” Content that he had expressed himself with commendable delicacy and restraint, Sir Kenrick set out to visit the Royal Institution of London, a spacious auditorium in Albemarle Street where John Dalton and Sir Humphrey Davy gave lectures in chemistry, and Thomas Young spoke on the nature of light.
Chapter Three
A long line of carriages clogged Grosvenor Square, their destination a tall elegant building with a forged iron railing and red brick façade and countless windows ablaze with light. So great was the crush of guests that quite half an hour was required to progress from the front door to the first floor reception rooms. All the Polite World was present, if only in passing; it was customary to attend several such events in one evening.
Benedict made his way through the fashionable throng. Conversation swirled around him, lamentations over the strange terms of the peace with France, and ruminations about what devilment the Corsican would get up to next, for many people had no real faith in the current cessation of hostilities, while others hastened across the Channel, eager for a glimpse of Paris novelties, most especially the Infidel, Little Bony, the Fiend of the Bottomless Pit; conjectures about the King’s application to Parliament for relief from his debts, chiefly the nine thousand pounds he claimed he had spent on the education of the Prince of Wales; deliberations upon the fact that Mr. Pitt had come to grief over the subject of Catholic Emancipation — and much speculation about the presence of Sinbad himself in these overheated rooms. Sinbad spent more time with his man of business than with his cronies Alvanley and Fox. Due to his expressed interest in workhouses and reform, it was whispered he had Radical sympathies, leanings considerably less popular than before the French troubles had demonstrated what happened when the rabble was permitted to run wild. Since Sinbad was also one of the most eligible men in the kingdom, despite a rakish reputation that would render socially unacceptable a man of lesser breeding and wealth, these minor eccentricities were overlooked. His many assets included not only an enviable fortune and a venerable title, but also properties strewn hither and yon, and a lovely mistress whose feet were firmly planted on the road to sin.
Benedict ignored the curious stares that followed him. His hostess had fallen very much under the Egyptian influence. Sphinx heads, winged lion supports and lotus leaves sprouted everywhere he looked. Wondering why his aunt had insisted he attend so tedious an event, Benedict disentangled himself from an idle conversation with a bejeweled grand dame.
“My dear Baird,” drawled a voice behind him. “Have the fleshpots grown so dull that you are driven to join us here?”
Benedict turned. Behind him stood a slender black-haired man exquisitely clad in a dark blue coat with aggressively cut shoulders, superbly tied neckcloth, white waistcoat, pantaloons of blue stockinet worn with striped stockings and strapped over varnished black shoes. “Pettigrew,” he said.
The newcomer raised his quizzing glass, looked Benedict up and down. “You don’t appear used up by dissipation. Yet it must be that your excesses have addled your wits. Else I cannot fathom why you would attend so insipid an occasion as this.”
Benedict could hardly take offense at his companion’s observation, since he had wondered much the same thing. “I might point out that you are also attending this insipid affair.”
“So I am. I marvel at myself.” Mr. Pettigrew aimed his quizzing glass at the other guests. “Lady Sylvester pleaded with me to lend her my presence, you see.”
Benedict did not doubt the truth of this somewhat malicious confidence. Percy Pettigrew wielded considerable influence among the ton, result of his ability to ferret out every secret, every intrigue. “I am delighted to see you,” Percy continued, as he lowered his glass. “By your mere arrival you have not only thrown all the young ladies into a romantic twitter but also inspired their mamas to palpitations, and only partly because of your well-known aversion to parson’s mousetrap. Someday you must tell me what it is like to have the vast majority of your female acquaintance panting to have you toss up their skirts. Has Lady Darby at last persuaded you to set up your nursery? Is that why you are here? You must not hesitate to confide in m
e. I perfectly understand why Ceci would not serve the purpose. Even the fondest of cousins, which of course I am, must admit that Ceci and constancy have long been estranged.”
Benedict chose to ignore these various provocations, including the slur upon the morals of his current mistress. “I have no inclination to set up my nursery. As my aunt well knows.”
“Everybody knows it. Odds are being taken all the same. Half the world believes you will bow to responsibility and convention. The other half is convinced you will bid us all go and be damned. I linger on the fence myself, for I recall poor Elizabeth – but I must not bring up sad memories! May we expect Lady Darby tonight?”
Benedict hoped not. He was in no mood to endure yet another lecture, the most recent having contained a warning that he would soon be too old to procreate. “Unlikely. Odette is suffering the gout.”
“Then you must allow me to render you my assistance. The season’s crop of hopefuls is thin. Over there is the incomparable Miss Adburn, who has a voice like a braying donkey, but she will do well enough if you don’t encourage her to talk. Beside her stands Miss Withers, who if a bit of a bluestocking is still well-heeled, though you need not care for that.”
The two men drew no little attention as they strolled through the crowd. In sharp contrast with his exquisitely civilized companion, Benedict wore black breeches, black coat, black velvet waistcoat with a narrow satin stripe. He looked, as many a dazzled damsel noted, both deliciously dangerous and intriguingly untamed. One maiden was put in mind of a great black panther. Another vowed Sinbad need only add a golden earring and a parrot on his shoulder to make a perfect buccaneer. Percy added, sotto voce, “And that bran-faced damsel simpering so fatuously at you is Miss Caldwell.”
Benedict was not interested in bran-faced misses in that or any moment. His attention had been caught by a damsel surrounded by a flock of admiring swains. She wore a gown of India gauze shot with silver, a sheer muslin scarf embroidered with beads, and silver flowers in her hair.
There was no mistaking that honey-colored hair, or that husky voice. What was Miranda doing here? “I’ve not seen that young lady before.”
Percy followed his gaze. “Ah, the little Russell. She is Symington’s niece, only recently come to town. There is some scandal about her antecedents, which will matter only to the highest sticklers, because she is also a considerable heiress.” His shrewd eyes fixed on Benedict. “Half the bucks in London are quite épris in that direction, and not all of them are hanging out for a rich wife.”
His assailant was a young woman of good birth and wealth? How very curious. Lest Percy’s keen nose sniff out mischief, Benedict let his attention stray. “Fortunate then that I have little taste for the infantry. Excuse me, I must make my bow to our hostess.” As he made his way through the crowded rooms, in the process deftly avoiding the various lures set out for him – even ladies who should have known better were tantalized by whispered accounts of amorous exploits so outrageous they might have been among the tales spun by Scheherazade for Sultan Shahryār in an attempt to keep her head attached to her shoulders one more night – he kept Miranda in his sight.
She disappeared through the tall French windows that led into the gardens, in company with a ridiculous young cockscomb whose neckcloth was so absurdly high that his collar brushed his earlobes and threatened to strangle him. Benedict decided that he too would benefit from a breath of fresh air. After a discreet interval, when Percy Pettigrew’s malicious attention was focused elsewhere, he stepped outside.
Lady Sylvester’s prized flower garden was embellished with various classical statues, countless exotic blooms. A number of guests sought relief there from the stifling crush. Benedict had strolled some distance along a pebbled path when he heard a familiar husky voice. Miss Russell was very knowledgeable about matters horticultural.
“But it’s so dark!” she lamented. “I wanted to see Lady Sylvester’s roses. ‘Tis said she has a prodigious elegant double yellow – Oh!” Scuffling sounds ensued. “You – you gudgeon! Release me this very instant, Mr. Cartwright! I do not wish to kiss you, sir!”
If not so experienced in matters of the heart as legend claimed, Benedict knew better than to believe a young lady’s “no” meant that she was unwilling, or to assume that it meant she was not. The unknown Mr. Cartwright was considerably less wise. He insisted that he wished to kiss her.
“No, you don’t! Take my word on it.” Benedict entered the little grove. “What is your desire, Miss Russell? Shall I horsewhip this impudent young pup?”
The coxcomb screwed his head around so quickly that he almost decapitated himself. He blanched. “Baird.”
“Just so,” Benedict said dryly. His prowess with fisticuffs and pistol was as legendary as his amatory expertise. “You have suddenly recalled an urgent appointment that requires you to immediately depart the premises. Not a word of this to anyone or I will be even more displeased with you than I already am.”
Miranda’s thwarted suitor swallowed, setting aquiver his shirt points. He loosened his grip on her arms. “Beg pardon — a misunderstanding — your servant, Miss Russell!” His self-possession shattered, he scurried away.
Benedict bowed. “Good evening, Miss Russell. You are very fine tonight. Although I rather miss the breeches, I think.”
The lush lips parted. Perhaps she would thank him. Perhaps he would tell her how she might best thank him. A kiss would do nicely. For a start. “You’ve found out who I am,” Miranda said, without any evidence of delight.
Benedict could not confess he hadn’t made the slightest effort to discover her identity. The child would be chagrined. “All London knows who you are, Miss Russell. A large portion of it seems to be at your feet.”
She studied him. “You have a very poorly run household. Not a single servant interfered with me going right out the front door.”
So they had not. Most of the servants had been asleep. Martin the footman had withdrawn to the kitchen for several fortifying swallows of Cook’s brandy, which stood him in good stead when he discovered his master snugly locked away. “You gave my staff much to talk about.”
The violet gaze flickered. “I expect your staff is accustomed to odd occurrences in the middle of the night. Now that I see you dressed – not that I saw you undressed, precisely – you are clearly a gentleman with less than conventional tastes.”
He was not so unconventional as all that. Benedict was intrigued by the idea of his companion seeing him in a state of undress. As well as the opposite.
Miranda straightened her gloves. “At any rate, it should be clear to you that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
She was about as capable as a day old chick. “Ah. I misunderstood the situation. You were encouraging that buffleheaded clunch to take liberties with you.”
“I was not!”
She glowered. He waited. She dimpled. “He was a clunch, wasn’t he?”
“Only a clunch would kiss a young lady who didn’t want kissing.” Miranda’s scarf had slipped from one shoulder to reveal a considerable amount of tempting flesh. What were her caretakers thinking, letting her go about in such a flimsy whisper of a dress? Scant surprise that amorous youngster had been inspired to take liberties.
She frowned. “Why are you staring at me so strangely, sir? Are you in your cups?”
Benedict drew Miranda’s gloved hand through his arm and led her further down the pebbled path into a little stone grotto embellished with seashells and stalactites. “We have some unfinished business, you and I.”
Many a damsel inside Lady Sylvester’s crowded reception rooms would have been pleased to stroll with Sinbad in the shadows. The young person currently on his arm was cut from different cloth. She said, “If you’re trying to get up a flirtation with me, I must tell you that I am weary of such stuff.”
Depraved, in his dotage, and now put firmly in his place. “I take it you are not an avid reader of romantic novels,” Benedict remarked.
“Not at all. In point of fact, I was rescuing that unwitting jackanapes from your very sharp hatpin. Where were you going, little one? When your horse took fright?”
“When you frightened my horse, you mean.” Her expression was unfriendly. “I must ask you not to tell anyone about that.”
Well she might. London was a hotbed of gossip, and the most avid gabble-grinders could be found among the ton. “First you must tell me where you were going, and why.”
“I would be scolded for vulgarity, were I as inquisitive as you. Oh, very well! I refuse to be sold off to the highest bidder, no matter what my uncle says.”
Benedict’s amusement fled. “Your uncle means to sell you?”
“Yes. No! My uncle demands that I must marry, but I don’t mean to marry anyone. It’s the same thing, is it not?”
She didn’t mean to marry? Benedict sympathized.
Miranda glanced up at him. “Are you married, sir?”
Benedict admitted he was not.
“Do you wish to marry?”
“Well, no.”
“I daresay everyone is plaguing you about it. They certainly are plaguing me! As for our previous encounter— If I damaged you, sir, it was your own fault. You would not let me go.”
Miss Russell seemed unaware that she should not be strolling with him in the moonlight. The child was a danger to herself, as well as to any hapless gentleman who stumbled across her path. “Yet here you are, again alone with me. Has no one ever told you that venturing into dark gardens is one of the many things a young lady should avoid, lest her escort try to steal a kiss?”
The Wicked Marquess Page 2
