Ready Set Rogue

by Manda Collins

  “When was the last time you actually visited her, Quill?” Serena asked pointedly. “For someone who claims to have known her so well, you weren’t exactly the most doting of nephews, were you?”

  “I visited,” Quill protested, feeling heat creep up his neck. “I was here last summer, I think.” Or was it the summer before? He’d been busy in London for the past few years with the lords and dealing with repairs and updates to the farms at Kerr Castle, the seat of the Kerr marquisate in Dorset. But he’d managed to write to her once a month like always, hadn’t he? And it wasn’t as if he was her only nephew. He had male cousins. Not to mention Celeste’s own living sisters and brothers. There was no need for him alone to have come visit so often.

  But you were her favorite, an insidious little voice whispered in his head. You and Serena. She was here. Where were you?

  “Not enough,” his cousin said flatly. “I don’t blame you. You have responsibilities as the head of your family that the rest of us don’t. But you cannot simply waltz in after she’s made preparations and set into motion what she wished to happen after she was gone and cut up rough because you weren’t consulted. You weren’t here. And this competition—however crass you might think it is—is how she wanted to dispose of Beauchamp House.”

  * * *

  It was crass.

  That, he admitted to himself, was the part that pained him most. That his aunt—who for all her dislike of going out into company in London was as elegant as anyone he’d ever known, his own mother included—would have put up her home as the prize in a crude competition amongst a group of strange women. It wasn’t anything he could ever have imagined the Lady Celeste Beauchamp he’d known doing.

  “But why did she do it?” he asked Serena, who clearly had been privy to more of his aunt’s thoughts on the matter than he had. If he’d ever got an inkling of such a thing from her witty letters to him over the last year he’d have dropped everything and rushed to the south coast at once. “Why these women in particular? And why give up Beauchamp House? I know grandfather gave it to her outright, but surely she was aware of its history as part of the Beauchamp properties.”

  Serena suddenly looked exhausted and gestured for him to give her the rest of his port. And since there didn’t seem to be another glass, he poured a bit more and handed it over. Closing her eyes as she savored the wine, Serene gave a sigh of appreciation and set the glass down. Taking a seat in the well-cushioned chair across from Celeste’s desk, she rubbed the spot between her brows.

  “You know that Aunt Celeste was a bit of a bluestocking in her youth,” she said finally, looking up at him with eyes so much like Celeste’s.

  “Of course,” Quill responded, taking a seat behind the desk. He’d always thought it was a masculine desk for his aunt, but there was something commanding about it. And taking a seat behind it for the first time showed him why perhaps she’d kept it on moving into the house. It would be difficult to manage a household from a delicate ladies’ desk like the one his mother had in her sitting room. “It was from her that I first learned about Greek and Roman myths. Not to mention Latin.”

  Serena laughed. “Me too. She was determined that her nieces as well as her nephews would have a working knowledge of the classics.”

  “Always banging on about what passed for female education in England.” Quill nodded in agreement. “She was nothing if not a determined follower of Wollstonecraft. If she told me once, she told me a thousand times not to marry an empty-headed society chit.”

  “Which you’ve managed to avoid,” Serena said. “Along with matrimony of any kind.”

  “Not for want to effort on Mama’s part,” he retorted with a grimace.

  “Well, if you remember our aunt’s views on education,” Serena continued, “then you will also recall how much she prized feminine success in languages, the arts and sciences.”

  “So, what, these four are here to be educated according to some guidelines set forth by Aunt Celeste?” Quill asked, frowning. It made sense, he supposed. But there was the matter of Miss Wareham—she had no need for an education considering her profession.

  Suddenly, it came to him. “No, Miss Wareham is the one who will teach the others. It’s why she was carrying all those blasted books.” He grinned. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “You really do think you know everything, don’t you?” Serena asked exasperated. “Miss Wareham is the daughter of Lord Alton Wareham, former classics professor at Oxford. She’s a gifted translator and scholar of ancient Greek in her own right. She is here because Aunt Celeste read one of her translations of Sappho and thought it was far more nuanced than any she’d read by the dozens of men who attempted it.”

  Quill frowned.

  He’d known she was some sort of scholar. No woman clasps a trunk of books to her bosom with that sort of ferocity without knowing their value. And some sense had told him they weren’t novels. But Sappho? He thought back to the few Greek poetess’s verses he’d read and felt a spark of interest flare. Perhaps there was more to the prim Miss Wareham than he’d originally thought.

  “Shall I ring for some smelling salts?” Serena asked with a knowing look. “Or better yet a block of ice to cool your heated thoughts?”

  “Certainly not,” he responded resisting the urge to run a finger beneath his collar. “So, Miss Wareham is a classics scholar. And she’s to teach the others?”

  “Hardly,” his cousin retorted. “They are all experts in their own right, and that is why Aunt Celeste chose to leave the house to them. Or so I’ve surmised. She only asked that I come live here with them for the year while they get acclimated, and didn’t tell me about her purposes in leaving it to them. Though she did praise them all as accomplished ladies whose expertise is to be commended.”

  “That sounds like Aunt, at least,” Quill said begrudgingly. “And this … competition?”

  He had difficulty even saying the word, the concept was so vulgar. If word of this got out, the entire Beauchamp family would be the laughingstock of the ton, not that he was generally given to caring what the gossips said. But as the head of the family, he did have a responsibility to prevent the sort of talk a scandal like this could cause.

  “They’re all to spend a year in residence here, working on some project in their chosen field,” Serena said. “If any of them should move away before the year is up, she’ll forfeit her inheritance. There are of course exceptions for the death of a close family member or medical catastrophe. But any or none of them could inherit according to the terms of Aunt’s will, depending upon their ability to remain here. At the end of the year they should each have some new project completed that will contribute to the body of work by female scholars and artists. I suppose that, ultimately, is Aunt’s purpose in choosing them.”

  “It’s absurd,” Quill said with a shake of his head. “But not, I suppose, entirely outside the realm of things I would expect from Aunt Celeste. She was nothing if not a champion of her bluestocking causes.”

  “So you’ll agree that you’ve behaved like an ass and will apologize to Miss Wareham, then?” Serena’s look was one he well remembered from childhood. He hated it when she was right.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” he said raising his hands. “I didn’t know the full story when we met on the road. And though I am persuaded that she is here as the result of a legitimate invitation from Aunt Celeste, I still don’t necessarily condone having four strangers inherit Beauchamp House.”

  “Oh, give over, Quill,” Serena said rising. “You’re worse than Jeremy when he’s trying to wiggle out of a bath. Just admit you were wrong and go back to London. There’s nothing for you to do now but wait and see.”

  But he wasn’t convinced that she was right. “Perhaps I will just remain for a while and get to know them. It would hardly be polite if the head of the family were to avoid them all. I am nothing if not cordial, after all.”

  “What rot.” But Serena didn’t try to talk him out of it. “I suppos
e if you’re going to stay, I’d better have Mrs. Bacon prepare a room for you. Though I daresay Greaves has already done so. You always did have the servants wrapped around your little finger.”

  “Because I’m irresistible,” Quill said with a wink.

  He hoped that was still the case. Because he was going to need every wile at his disposal to convince the four potential heiresses to give up their claims on Beauchamp House.

  Chapter 4

  “How did you manage to meet Lord Kerr on your journey?” Sophia asked as she thumbed through the books that Ivy had just unpacked from her trunk.

  Across the room, the lady’s maid who’d been assigned to Ivy on her arrival was brushing out the mud-streaked traveling cloak she’d worn earlier, having already unpacked the few gowns, underthings, and shoes she’d packed. Well aware of the quality of the other girls’ gowns, Ivy suspected that compared to their bags, hers had been quite sparsely packed. Even so, she wasn’t one to dwell on such things. And she wasn’t here to discuss fashion, she reminded herself.

  At Sophia’s question, however, she glanced nervously at the servant. The last thing she wanted was to be the subject of gossip below stairs. But when Sophia noticed her glance, she shrugged it off. “She’s going to learn the full story from his valet anyway, aren’t you Polly?”

  The maid blushed. “I’m sure I don’t know, miss.” Turning to Ivy, she curtsied and said, “You let me know, miss, if you need help after your bath. I don’t mind helping. I’ve never been a lady’s maid before so I want to do things right and proper for ye.”

  “Thank you, Polly,” said Ivy with genuine gratitude. It would appear that she and Polly would both be learning how to deal with new situations. “You may go now, if you like. If I have any questions, I’ll ring.” It was a polite lie, but she was comfortable with it. If she was going to have a maid, she wasn’t going to give the girl a hatred of her on the first evening by ringing in the dead of night.

  As soon as she was gone, Ivy glanced up to see all three of the other ladies looking expectantly at her.

  “Fine,” she said with a huff and gestured to the small sitting area in the corner of her enormous bedchamber. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a cup of tea while we have this uncomfortable conversation.” Upon learning Ivy had missed supper, the maid had insisted on ordering a plate of cold food and a pot of tea sent up.

  Despite her missishness around her new acquaintances, Ivy was starving and bit into one of the delicious watercress and cucumber sandwiches. Likely realizing that they’d not get any information until the newcomer was comfortable, Gemma played mother and poured for them all.

  “The food has been excellent so far,” Lady Daphne said as she picked up a lemon tart. “Lady Celeste must have employed a very skilled chef. Our own chef at home demanded five hundred pounds per annum but my father said he was worth every penny. Perhaps Lady Celeste paid more. Though this house does not seem to be as nice as ours, the food is better than even Pierre’s.”

  Ivy exchanged looks with Sophia and Gemma who both widened their eyes at the beautiful blonde’s pronouncement.

  “Daphne, dearest,” said Gemma casually stirring sugar into her tea, “it isn’t generally the thing to discuss how much one pays one’s cook. Or to speculate upon the salary of the cook in a home where one is a guest.”

  Quite sure the family cook at home would have retired immediately if such a sum were offered to her, Ivy tried to imagine what five hundred pounds would look like spread out on a table, and failed.

  “You keep saying things like that,” Daphne said with a puzzled frown, “but if one doesn’t discuss such things openly, how do they know how much they should pay? It makes no logical sense. If I were setting up a household, I would very much wish to know how much I should pay my cook. Otherwise I’d risk paying too much. And though I enjoy good food, I wouldn’t want to fall prey to a schemer.”

  “It’s not polite,” Sophia said patiently. “Like telling the footman that his legs look quite strong.”

  Ivy choked on her tea, prompting Gemma to pound her on the back.

  “But my father says that about horses all the time,” Daphne protested. “I don’t see what’s so bad about it. Doesn’t a footman need strong legs to help him carry things?”

  “People are not horses,” Gemma said on a laugh. “Really, perhaps it should be a good thing not to speak about anyone’s … ah … parts from the waist down.”

  “That sounds like a sensible idea,” Ivy said, wondering how on earth Lady Daphne managed to mix in polite society without saying something that would ruin her.

  But Daphne waved off the warning. “I already know not to talk about buttocks and penises,” she said. “I’m not a complete simpleton.”

  After the other three had recovered from their coughing fits, she continued. “I suppose I shall add legs to the list of things I shouldn’t speak about. Really the list is quite long. It’s a wonder I find anything to speak about at all. At least there is nothing about maths that can get me into trouble.”

  “I daresay none of us would know them if there were,” Ivy said with a smile. It must be very hard to live life in Lady Daphne’s skin, she reflected. For she could tell it wasn’t a lack of intelligence that kept the other lady from knowing what not to say, but a genuine lack of understanding what made it so objectionable. She herself found societal strictures to be quite ridiculous at times.

  “Perhaps we should return to my earlier question,” Sophia said looking slyly at Ivy. “How did you manage to arrive here in an entourage that included the Marquess of Kerr, Miss Wareham?”

  Sighing, Ivy knew she’d have to tell them or they’d speculate. “I missed my place on the mail coach at the Fox and Pheasant, and his lordship kindly offered to convey me to Beauchamp House. There’s really nothing more to it than that.”

  “He seemed quite angry when you arrived,” Daphne said. “And serious about keeping us from inheriting Beauchamp House.”

  “Though from what Lady Serena said about a competition, it doesn’t appear that any of us is assured of inheriting,” Sophia said, her light brown brows drawn. “That was the first I’d heard of anything like that.”

  “Me too,” Ivy said. “I thought we each were to inherit a share of Beauchamp House. But it sounds as if we only inherit if we can remain here for the entire year.”

  “I certainly have no plans to leave before the year is out,” Lady Daphne said fiercely. “Have you seen the library? It will take that long at least for me to catalog the mathematics collection.”

  “Nor do we,” said Sophia, clasping her sister’s hand in hers. “I plan to paint to my heart’s desire while I’m here. You’ve not seen it by day, Miss Wareham, but the light is incredible reflecting off the sea.”

  “The cliffs here are well known for the number of fossils they’ve produced,” Gemma added with a grin. “So his lordship can quite discount any notion of running the Hastings sisters off.”

  “And I’ve only just arrived,” Ivy said firmly. “He might be unhappy with his aunt’s decision on how to bequeath her property, but clearly Lady Celeste wanted us here, and no amount of complaints on the Marquess of Kerr’s part will convince me to leave.”

  “Then we’re agreed,” Sophia said with a decisive nod. “Now, we should leave you to finish settling in.”

  “We’ll see you at breakfast, Miss Wareham,” Gemma said, giving Ivy an impulsive hug. “I’m glad you’re here. Now we can begin living our year in scholarly retreat properly.”

  “I wish you would all call me Ivy,” she said as she followed the trio to the door. “My given name is Aphrodite, of course, but my baby sister could only manage ‘Ivy’ out of it, so Ivy it is. And I think it suits me better, to be honest. I am far too prosaic to be an Aphrodite.”

  “The goddess of love, was she not?” asked Sophia with a speculative look. “I can see you that way. Do promise me you’ll pose for it? I’d love to capture all that lovely auburn hair.”
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br />   “Do not start that, or we’ll be here all night,” Gemma said tugging her sister to the door. “Good night, Ivy.”

  The rest of the ladies exchanged their good nights, and Ivy shut the door behind them.

  * * *

  Turning, she gazed around at what was to be her inner sanctum for the next year. With fine carpets and expensive wall hangings, it was far more finely furnished than her own bedchamber at home in Oxford. And for a moment, she felt a pang of homesickness that no amount of silken finery or expensive trinkets could soothe. She’d longed to escape her mundane existence for so many years that she’d never imagined that once achieving her dream she’d feel frightened by it.

  She let the tears flow for a few minutes and then pulled out her handkerchief, blew her nose, and shook away her doldrums.

  If she had to face Lord Kerr over the breakfast table, she’d do it after a good night’s sleep so she could rebut his arguments properly.

  Gathering her nightgown and underclothes, she headed for the dressing room and the hot water Polly had left for her.

  Once she’d washed and prepared for bed, Ivy took one more look out at the moonlit view from her window then moved toward the large bedstead.

  The bed had already been turned down—Polly again, she supposed. And as she climbed up onto the soft mattress, Ivy noticed a tidily folded missive on her pillow. Had it been there before, when the other ladies were here? Or had one of them left it?

  Propping the pillow against the headboard, she settled back against it and stared at her name written in a fine copperplate on the message. Breaking the seal, she began to read.

  My dear Miss Wareham,

  If you are reading this, I have died under mysterious circumstances. And I must beg you to do your utmost to discover who has robbed me of the chance to meet you and the other three young ladies whom I have chosen to invite into my home, to compete for the chance to call it your own. It was my greatest wish to meet the four of you. To welcome you as fellow scholars, and to share with you my own love of language, mathematics, art, and investigation of the natural world. But for some weeks now, I have become aware that someone near to me has wished me dead before that meeting could happen. At first I thought the accidents were merely accidents. An imagined shove as I stood on the cliffside. My own clumsiness when the heel broke off my shoe as I descended the stairs. A weak shelf that allowed books to crash down upon me in the library. But now it has become clear to me that there is someone who wishes me dead. I am quite certain I am being poisoned, and I fear each day will my last.