Mistaken Kiss: A Humorous Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt Book 2)

by Kathleen Baldwin

  Harry smacked both hands on the table. “Sadly out there! Ought to be me cast as the hero. I’m the one what truly loves her.”

  “You’re too short. Aside from that, I’m the one with the plan.” Tournsby leaned forward, warming to his scheme. “Lady Tricot is having an al fresco breakfast on the banks of the Thames. Boating accident. Might be just the thing.” He tapped his finger speculatively.

  Harry bristled up his shoulders. “I’ll spike your guns, I will. I’ll be the hero, or my name’s not Harold Erwin.”

  Tournsby laughed. “Have at it, Harry. More fun all round if you do.”

  Alex leaned back in his chair, pressed his lips together, and rubbed his chin. The whole world had gone mad. Or perhaps this was one of those particularly annoying dreams following a night of too much drink and too little sleep. With any luck, he’d wake up and vomit the whole incident away. Either way, he’d had enough.

  He stood up. “You both have room to let in your brain boxes. I wish you merry.”

  “Wait.” Harry jumped up, nearly toppling his chair, and grabbed Alex’s arm. “You’ve got to help me. Can’t very well wage war against the likes of Tournsby, not without you.”

  Tournsby grinned. “By all means, Alex. Wouldn’t want to miss a spectacle like this, would you? Will Harry save the chit? Or drown her in the process?”

  Alex frowned.

  Tournsby flicked his wrist and opened his palm, allowing the invisible answer to flutter away. “Besides, if the whole thing is an utter bore, you can pop over to see your horses. Not more than a few miles from Lady Tricot’s estate to your stables.”

  “Out of the question.” Alex folded his arms across his chest. “Not interested in watching the two of you make jackanapes out of yourselves.”

  “Suit yourself. Think of it, though. Harry here, paddling around the Thames trying to drag the vicar’s little sister to safety. Entertaining thought, eh?”

  “What ho? I could do for it.” Harry straightened his waistcoat. “Don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  Alex arched an eyebrow skeptically. “When was the last time you had a swim, Harry?”

  “Dunno. Eton, I expect.”

  Tournsby hooted. “Splendid. I shall have to pull both of them out. Now, about that blunt for bribing the servants?”

  Alex glanced up at the ornate ceiling. What he needed right now was divine help in suppressing a rather profane string of oaths he wanted to rain down on both their heads. Since he did not really expect heavenly assistance to be forthcoming, he turned and stalked out of the club, shutting his ears to Neddie’s aggravating guffaws.

  Chapter 9

  It Fell To Earth, I Know Not Where

  WILLA LOOKED DOWN at her slippered feet as she stood in the wet grass. These were not shoes for traipsing across a field, and yet here she was in the middle of Lady Tricot’s huge lawn wearing kid slippers.

  The morning rain had dampened some of Lady Tricot’s plans. Fortunately, the rain stopped at precisely eleven o’clock, in plenty of time for the breakfast, which began at two in the afternoon. By three o’clock, the sun was out, beaming golden warmth on the damp grounds. Steamy moisture snaked up from the grass. Humidity, coupled with the wet breeze off the Thames, dampened Willa’s muslin gown. She fluffed out her skirt, hoping to create a drying effect, but to little avail. She was wet through and through, no help for it.

  Dozens of guests gathered under Lady Tricot’s enormous maroon-striped marquee and dined on her generous buffet. Those not eating gathered in Turkish tents for cards or conversation. A violinist, a mandolin player, and a flutist wandered around the grounds playing for clusters of guests.

  Willa stood beside Lady Tricot’s daughter, watching a juggler spin six balls into an ever-widening circle. “Are they authentic gypsies?”

  Alfreda nodded. “Mama adheres quite strictly to her themes. She sent inquiries all over the south of England. I expect she would have shipped gypsies in from the continent had she not heard of this troupe traveling through South Sussex. She can be quite determined once a notion takes her.”

  Willa glanced at the young woman she had originally thought frail and reserved. In this setting, she looked more like a powerful elfin princess. Although slender, she towered over Willa by at least six inches. Alfreda did not hunch, but carried herself with the bearing of a soldier.

  “It’s remarkable how different you appear when not in your mother’s presence.”

  Alfreda smiled. “I knew at once I liked you. You do not dissemble much, do you?”

  Willa adjusted her new spectacles, trying to get a clearer image of her companion’s face. Alfreda did not appear to be offended. “I’ve been told I speak my mind too freely.”

  “Not for my taste. I’ve no patience with small talk. Drat, here come those pesky musicians again. Mother’s orders, I suppose.” She mimicked her mother’s mannish stance. “Follow m’daughter. Play something romantic on that fiddle, d’you hear me? Make the eligible men stand up and take notice, eh?”

  Alfreda’s imitation was superb and Willa couldn’t help but laugh.

  The young lady shook out her pale blue gown. “I confess, the air is so wet I feel as if I’m standing in bathwater.”

  Willa nodded. “Embarrassing is it not? I cannot keep my gown from sticking to me like a plaster.”

  Alfreda laughed. “Come, I’ve had enough of juggling. Shall we try our hand at archery? Mama set up targets as a small concession to me.”

  Willa’s smile faded. If she could see the target at all, it would be nothing short of a miracle. “I would very much like to try, although I must confess I have never attempted the exercise before. I wonder with my eyesight—”

  “You are in luck. I am an excellent teacher, and in this muck, we’re sure to be the only ones at the course.”

  Willa certainly hoped so. She would not like to put an arrow through an innocent bystander. With any luck, the targets would be extremely large. The size of one of Mr. Kemble’s elephants would be ideal.

  Sadly, they were not the size of elephants. No, not even baby elephants. The targets looked like pillows of straw with two concentric circles painted on each bag sitting atop wooden supports.

  Willa did not need any complex calculations to predict the outcome of such an exercise. “I think I might enjoy observing you shoot rather more than participating myself.”

  The elfin princess made no answer. She strapped on a leather arm protector. Willa rightly deduced that she would not be allowed to merely watch.

  Alfreda pulled back the largest of the bows and let fly her first arrow. It thwacked into the straw. Willa squinted. The shaft appeared to be sticking out of the exact center.

  “Your turn,” her hostess commanded.

  Willa took a deep breath and tried to pull back the string of her small bow with the same prowess Alfreda had demonstrated. The arrow wobbled up. She realigned it. Squinted at the target. Tilted her head to sight down the shaft, but her head bumped the string, catching a tendril of hair as she pulled back further. She eased up on her fingers, but the string snapped forward. The arrow flew. Several strands of her hair yanked out at the same time.

  Willa listened carefully for the cries of a wounded guest. The arrow might have flown anywhere. She squinted in the vicinity of the target. Not there.

  Alfreda shaded her eyes with her hand. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen a shot quite like that one.”

  “Where did it go?”

  “Just over there.” Alfreda pointed at the top of a small yellow striped tent where the feathered shaft of Willa’s arrow shamed her by waving cheerfully in the breeze. “The fortune-teller’s tent.”

  “Oh dear. I wonder if she predicted that?”

  Alfreda laughed. “Who would have thought you could get such distance out of that little bow. The arc was quite remarkable. Showed some strength. With a little practice, you might become quite good.”

  Willa smiled. “You are too kind. I nearly killed your fortune-teller. You mig
ht as easily conclude England will be a safer place if I never pick up a bow again.”

  “No. No. It’s all a matter of focusing on the goal. See what I mean?” She deftly pulled back another arrow. It whizzed straight forward and landed in the target right beside her previous arrow. “Do not think about the arrow or the bow. Concentrate only on the goal. I find this a useful stratagem in all areas of life.”

  “An interesting philosophy.” Here was an arena in which Willa felt safe. Philosophy. She would not maim or kill anyone if she effectively distracted Alfreda with a discussion on philosophy. “How does one apply this ideology to other aspects of life? It seems quite impossible to reach a goal without first considering the means to achieving it.”

  The warrior elf set her weapon down on the archery table. “I will illustrate. Do you see that gentleman down by the dock on the canal?”

  Willa peered in vain in the direction Alfreda indicated. “No, I’m afraid it’s too far away. New glasses, but still, it’s all a blur.”

  “Lord Tournsby.” Alfreda tilted her head to one side and folded her arms across her chest. “A complete wastrel. My goal.”

  “You mean to shoot him?”

  Alfreda laughed. “Not just yet. No, I mean to marry him.”

  “Marry?” Willa shook her head, wondering if she’d misheard. “I met him at the opera. I wouldn’t want to disparage the fellow, but he seemed...You are... And he—”

  “Yes.” Alfreda nodded. “Just so. A perfect match. He hasn’t a shilling to call his own. And I want nothing more than to get out from under my dear mother’s thumb. A fellow like that will take my dowry, set me up in his estate, and promptly run off to town, leaving me to do as I please. Which is exactly what I want.”

  Willa saw any number of flaws to this reasoning and very much wanted to enumerate them. She began with the most pressing point. “He’ll exhaust your funds. You’ll both end up destitute.”

  Her majesty, the elf queen, arched one eyebrow. “That’s the beauty of it. He can’t. Entailed in a quarterly trust. My father was a very clever man. I adored him. He detested gamblers and spendthrifts. Set up my trust with ironclad caveats. My husband may use my dowry to pay off his debts if he wishes, but the living is protected. A man with very specific goals, my father.”

  Willa pinched up her brow. “After having a father you admired and respected so well, could you marry a man you did not?”

  Alfreda shrugged. “My primary goal is to be left alone. Free to live my life as I please. I’ve calculated Lord Tournsby is most likely to do just that.”

  “Highly probable.” Willa nodded. “And so, you’re focusing on your goal. But I don’t understand how you expect to marry him without considering the bow that will fling you into his arms.”

  Alfreda beamed. “How quick you are. That’s it, precisely. I do not consider the means, only the goal. You may be certain, I will hit my mark.”

  “Without preparing a stratagem?”

  “Exactly!”

  Willa smoothed the feathers on the shaft of her arrow into perfectly even peaks. “You and my aunt have quite opposing viewpoints.”

  “Lady Alameda? Yes, a devious woman, I’d say. You realize she’s spreading a rumor that she intends to make you her heir?”

  Willa nearly dropped the arrow. “I knew she was up to something!” She glanced away, embarrassed, angry. “But why? It’s patently untrue. She has no such intention.”

  Alfreda shrugged. “Impossible to discern Lady Alameda’s motives.”

  “As you said, a devious woman.” Willa straightened her spine and squared her shoulders. “Well, she may find herself in too deep this time. I shall set the record straight.”

  Alfreda handed her the bow. “Good. For I rather think Lord Tournsby has set his sights on the pot of gold he thinks you’re sitting on.”

  “I will gladly disabuse him of that notion.”

  “Thank you.”

  Willa nocked an arrow into place, pulled back the bow, and focused on the target.

  The elfin princess spoke softly. “Think only of your arrow piercing the black circle in the center of the bag.”

  She did. Willa was scarcely aware of releasing the arrow, barely felt the whip of the string near her cheek. She saw it before it happened, the shaft embedded in the center of the bag. Thwack. There it was. Dead center.

  For a moment everything in her world tipped sideways. All of her training seemed useless. Socrates had not prepared her for this. She felt an overwhelming desire to calculate the circumference of a circle, any circle, except the one into which she’d just shot her arrow. Or add up a column of figures. Except she couldn’t, someone was clapping.

  She turned. Alex. Her breath caught. Only he wasn’t the one clapping. He was frowning, staring with amazement at her arrow sticking out of the target. The breeze ruffled through his brown curls, and Willa labored to make her lungs perform properly.

  The clapping man was his friend, Mr. Erwin. “Good show, Miss Linnet. Outstanding marksmanship. Must have been shooting since you was in leading strings.”

  She shook her head. “No. Never before today.”

  Alex came closer and scrutinized her carefully. “New spectacles?”

  Willa nodded. “Yes, perhaps that explains it.” Although she knew in her heart, it was something more, something irrational, and considerably more perplexing. She would analyze it later.

  “Hhmm.” Alex nodded and continued to frown skeptically. “Still. Unusually good shot.”

  She swallowed. “Pure luck. An anomaly. No explanation.”

  Alfreda made a start. “A perfectly good expl—”

  “Miss Tricot, are you acquainted with my friends?” Naturally, they knew one another. All the same, they nodded and performed the expected pleasantries. Willa inhaled deeply. She did not want to discuss Alfreda’s philosophy on goals, nor how one obtains them without really trying.

  Willa adjusted her gown, which was sticking to her in a most embarrassing fashion. Drat the humidity. Drat Aunt Honore for insisting that she wear this flimsy muslin. And drat her overly abundant breasts. At least the gown was green. She held on to the vain hope that the fabric could not be seen through. Although the weave was loose enough she could use it to strain curds. She glanced up and realized Alex was watching her adjusting the bodice.

  The familiar hot flush rushed up into her cheeks. She sighed and threw up her hands. “There’s no hope for it, is there?”

  He smiled crookedly. “Very little.”

  The heat in her face reached full bloom. “My aunt’s choice.”

  “No doubt.”

  At least he stopped staring, but she wondered at his frown. Had she said something?

  Dashing up from the banks of the inlet, Lord Tournsby hailed them. He arrived at the archery tables nearly out of breath. His collar points were restrictively high, and his neckcloth a frothy extravagance that must be suffocating him. Despite all that, he bowed elegantly. “Lovely day, is it not?”

  Willa watched their faces carefully as Lord Tournsby greeted his hostess’s daughter. He was not unmoved by Alfreda’s beauty, and she did not seem displeased with the pompous lord. The universe appeared to be completely devoid of logic or good sense today.

  It did not surprise Willa that the Romany musicians arrived, rapidly fiddling. They achieved the impossible by blending a raucous jig and a love song into one melody. Willa shook her head.

  Lord Tournsby turned his attention to her. “This is a happy coincidence. I was just thinking I might enjoy a sail around the inlet. Perfect day for it. Lady Tricot provided several boats down by the landing. Happy to row you?”

  Harry sputtered. “What? You can’t. I was just on point of asking myself.”

  “You may ask yourself all you like,” Tournsby muttered, smiling at Willa and Alfreda. “I got the job done.”

  Alex put a hand on Tournsby’s shoulder. “Enough boats for all of us, I imagine. Wouldn’t want to miss watching you row, Neddie, old man.”r />
  Tournsby grimaced.

  Willa fell in with Alex’s scheme. “Yes.” She looped her arm around Alfreda’s. “We’d all love to come.” She had a counter plan of her own. So much for thinking only of the goal.

  Chapter 10

  The Past Is But A Dream, The Future Is Uncertain

  ALEX HAD ONLY a few moments to put his plan in action. Tournsby would not win this bout. This next parry would block the blighter’s scheme completely.

  Musicians followed close behind, as the five companions strolled down the lawn toward the quays. The mandolin player strummed loudly and sang in his native language. His full vibrato resonated across the grounds, making it difficult to carry on a conversation.

  Alex leaned close to Willa’s ear. “That wouldn’t be one of your arrows would it? Atop that tent?”

  She nodded. “My first attempt. I’m quite relieved no one came to any harm.”

  He shrugged. “Are you certain? It’s quite possible the fortune-teller died of heart failure. Or she may, at this very moment, be in there quaking in her shoes. Afraid to step foot outside her fortress for fear she is under attack.”

  Willa squinted up at him. “Oh, now you are bamming me.” She smiled back at him. “Still. I suppose the proper thing would be to stop in and apologize.”

  “I’m not precisely certain what etiquette requires of you in this situation. Surely, penance of some kind.” He gave her his most pinched studious expression.

  She shook her head at his severity. Copper corkscrew filaments fluttered out of place, and the moist air tightened each delightful little curl. He couldn’t help but smile. She returned his ridiculous adoration with a frown, a pretense of annoyance. Nevertheless, he wanted to keep hold of her attention. He found he enjoyed her over-serious scolding expression almost as much as he liked seeing her face filled with warmth.

  She turned away from him, to Alfreda and expressed her wish to visit the Gypsy’s unfortunate tent.