Miss Quinn's Quandary

by Shirley Marks

  Moments later, a maid entered and set a tea tray on the low table in front of them. “You see, here is our tea now.” Ivy took up the pot and filled their cups. “Now where were we? Oh yes, London.

  “I’ve convinced that dreadful nephew of mine to open his townhouse on Curzon Street for us.” She leaned closer to whisper in confidence. “I’m glad none of my blood runs in his veins. A simple ghastly sort, he is. Enough about him.” With the wave of her hand she dismissed the subject. “Having no daughters of my own deprived me of sharing such activities as come-outs, and such. But I can spoil you to my heart’s content, my dear. Now, about our trip.” She gazed wide-eyed at Larissa. “I can’t tell you how terribly excited I am. I simply cannot wait to leave.”

  “But I have only just arrived,” Larissa interrupted while Aunt Ivy drained her cup.

  “Of course, we’ll wait for a few days. Give you time to rest up. Katherine, she’s my maid, is still busy packing.”

  “You’ve three trunks standing already.”

  “I know, dear. Katherine will see to it I do not forget anything. She has been with me forever. I’m sure I couldn’t manage without her. She is very talented with a needle, and can make the plainest frock a modiste’s delight.” Ivy took up the pot and refilled her cup. She regarded Larissa’s drab brown serge with an alarmingly critical eye. “We will need new gowns and dresses made for you, my dear. An entirely new wardrobe might suit you, along with the new ball gowns we shall require for your come-out. We shall take care of everything as soon as we are settled in London. Do tell me, do you know how to dance?”

  “Well,” Larissa set her cup on the saucer and held them firm upon her lap, “we did learn the Scottish Reel and Country dances at the seminary.”

  “The Quadrille?”

  ‘No.

  “The Waltz?”

  “No!” Larissa gasped and placed her hand at her throat. “I have heard it is the most scandalous of dances. Miss Simmons would never allow such depravity to corrupt her students.”

  “I’m sure you will have your chance to dance it.” Aunt Ivy’s eyes sparkled with excitement and she gave a girlish giggle. “Do you speak any foreign languages?”

  “French and Latin.”

  “Latin? That’s useless. Only dead Romans speak Latin.”

  Larissa momentarily considered the idea of dead Romans speaking Latin until her aunt interrupted.

  “Do you sew or embroider?” her aunt continued.

  “Yes, I am accomplished in both. Miss Simmons required every student to be capable of repairing and sewing her own clothes.”

  “Well, we need not go that far. Just that you know how is quite enough. Your musical abilities?”

  “I am accounted to be fair on the pianoforte.”

  “All right, then. We shall engage a dancing master as soon as we arrive in Town.”

  Larissa did not feel elated after her dance lesson with Monsieur Dubois. She felt tired. How long had she been in London now? Two weeks? Or was it three?

  “I don’t think I will ever get used to these city hours,” Larissa sighed. If not for her growling stomach to keep her awake, she’d want her bed instead of the dining room. “Sleeping late, eating late, and attending parties until the small hours of the morning? Aunt, are such things actually done?”

  “Not only are they done, dear, in the beau monde it is the only way to live.” Ivy placed her arm around Larissa’s shoulder. “One must be fashionable to be in favor.” Ivy’s eyebrows rose high over her wide eyes. “And one always wishes to be in favor.”

  “I suppose you know best, Aunt,” Larissa confessed. She didn’t have the slightest notion what it took to stay in favor with Society. Larissa tried to ignore the continual rumbling of her stomach and lifted her book to pass the time until supper.

  “Homer?” Ivy cried, catching the name on the spine. “Oh, my dear, you should not be reading that. You do not want to come across as a bluestocking.”

  “Aunt, one’s interest in books and art does not make one a bluestocking. Does it?”

  “No. But thinking and having opinions tends to foster such an impression. One must give an unfettered, vacant impression.” Ivy displayed her best imitation. “That’s what the gentleman of quality want, not a girl with ideas bobbing about her head. No, no, no. That would not do at all.”

  “No?” Larissa questioned, still not fully understanding the details.

  Ivy gave a sigh. “Not that you need concern yourself yet. You should not feel you must marry this year.”

  “Marry?” Larissa felt a jolt of panic rush through her. “Aunt, I have only just turned eighteen. Marry? The thought never entered my mind.”

  “Of course, if you find someone you wish to marry … then that would be another matter entirely. But there are so many things one should know.”

  Larissa remained silent, waiting for her aunt to divulge her pearls of wisdom.

  “Your words, your tone of voice, how to address your betters. The use of the fan, shoulders, and eyes.” Ivy wrung her hands in her lap. “So much to remember. There is so little time.” She looked at Larissa who regarded her with undivided interest. “Do not worry. I will not disappoint you. You shall be ready, when the time comes.”

  “I’m not worried, Aunt.”

  Ivy took one of Larissa’s hands and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Oh, my dear, if you only knew.” Her eyes widened. “There are things you must know when in the company of men. What to say, what to do. What not to do,” her voice squeaked.

  “Not to do?”

  “Places to avoid.”

  “Avoid?”

  “Oh, yes. Being alone for one thing. You must never be alone with a man.”

  “Never? Is it really that bad?”

  “Always have a proper chaperone.” Ivy’s hand flew to her cheek as she contemplated the implications of such an action. “It would ruin your reputation to be caught without one. Men can be such …

  “Yes?”

  “Such … base creatures. Animals.” A flush crept up Ivy’s neck, spilling onto her cheeks. “The very worst place—the dark walk at Vauxhall Gardens. You mustn’t ever let a man lure you there.”

  “No, of course not,” she agreed, not wanting to cause her aunt further distress. Still, Larissa was not exactly clear what horrible thing would happen if she were to do what her aunt had expressly warned against.

  Chapter Six

  The Earl of Rushton viewed himself in his full-length glass. He shifted from his right to his left with military precision, admiring the results of the diligent labors of his valet, Georges.

  All in all, Uncle Cyrus seemed pleased with his new wardrobe. A dark blue fitted coat of superfine, cream knee breeches and cream stockings with black slippers. In the center of his crisp, snow-white cravat, which Randall instructed Georges to starch lightly, sat an ostentatious sapphire, a silent reminder of his wealth.

  Randall found the earl resistant to his new hairstyle. Rushton proclaimed the effort to be venturesome, to say the least, and fought Randall at every step of its undertaking.

  “Cut locks cannot be replaced,” his Uncle Cyrus cautioned, feeling the horror of cropping the lengthy strand he used to feign a full head of hair.

  “A wealth of hair cannot be simulated, Uncle,” Randall had responded. “You must make the most of what you have. Women will accentuate your positive qualities.”

  “And what if the gentler sex deems it appropriate to point out my inadequacies?”

  Randall gave a thoughtful smile. “Those would be the women to avoid, wouldn’t they?”

  Rushton’s eyes shot open in realization. “Ah, just so! You are right once again.”

  “Trust me, Uncle,” Randall said in total confidence. “As an eligible earl at Almacks, you won’t be ignored.” After that discussion, the length of hair in question had been removed.

  Rushton fingered his cravat and managed to tear himself away from his glass. “Well, let’s be off, shall we? Soon the Season will grin
d to a halt and then where will I be?”

  “Uncle, the Season has only just begun.”

  “I plan to put every moment to good use. My marriage to your Aunt Constance was arranged, but we grew to love one another, and it was that love,” he punctuated the statement with a forefinger, nearly stabbing Randall’s face, “that grew over the years. I know now that love is the only reason to marry. I know the ton would not find it fashionable, but what do I care!

  “Young or old, rich or poor, it shall not matter to me, for I plan to marry for love. If love eludes me, then I shall not marry. I never intended to replace your Aunt Constance, God rest her soul.” Rushton crossed himself. “But I believe she would understand my wanting to remarry.”

  “I’m sure she would, Uncle. I don’t think she would want you to remain alone.” Randall felt eternally grateful he did not feel the need to join his uncle in the petticoat line.

  Almacks. The weekly gathering of the fashionable and titled. He dreaded being here. It had been two years since Randall had set foot inside its auspicious doors. And just as he had expected, not much within those hallowed walls had changed.

  There were the same types of young girls and their matchmaking mamas. Different names, different faces, but they would all look and act the same as the last time he attended.

  Randall and his uncle proceeded through the room, reacquainting themselves with the elite guests who were lucky enough to be in attendance. Randall noticed Rushton kept his observant eyes focused mainly on the fairer sex in the crowd.

  From across the room, Randall recognized Lady Dorothea Brookhurst. She had been a beauty years ago when he had first set eyes on her. How she had blossomed!

  Randall had never seen such loveliness and grace combined in one woman. Luckily he was not a stranger to her and he need not wait for an introduction. There was no sign of men inundating her. He did not know why, but decided not to question his good fortune and did not delay making his move.

  “Excuse me, Uncle Cyrus. I see someone I need to reacquaint myself with.”

  “Of course, my boy. Do go ahead.” Rushton waved him on.

  Randall could feel his lips curve into a gracious smile. He was well pleased indeed. Smoothing a hand over his fine waistcoat, Randall shifted and straightened a crease in the arm of his jacket before advancing across the room.

  As he neared Lady Dorothea, he thought her radiant hair surely must consist of the rays of the sun. Her eyes, of celestial blue, glistened. Her lips would cause the reddest of roses to pale. He need not go on to see that she was a delight to behold. The grace of her arms only hinted at the lithe movements of her body. Every turn, sway, and dip bespoke her statuesque elegance.

  “Lady Dorothea,” he greeted and sketched a bow.

  “Why, Sir Randall, is it not?” she remarked, surprised. “It has been an age, has it not?”

  “It has been quite some time since we last met.” His eyes met her cool stare. “Would it be presumptuous to inquire if you have an opening on your dance card?”

  Dorothea ran her finger down the dance card. She inscribed Sir Randall Trent.

  “The next waltz,” she announced to his ultimate delight.

  Randall could not believe his luck, a waltz! “I shall return shortly to claim my dance then.” In parting, he took her gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips. Moving away from Lady Dorothea, Randall scanned the room for his uncle.

  “Is that you, Trent?” Sir Thomas White made his approach, followed by Donald Sinclair.

  “Sir Thomas,” Randall greeted. “Is that Sinclair with you?”

  “What the devil are you doing here?” The surprise on Thomas’ face was only surpassed by the amazement on Donald Sinclair’s.

  “Wouldn’t have thought you’d step into this place unless your life depended on it,” Sinclair added.

  “Or unless you think it’s time for a wife.” Randall knew Thomas must have thought that even further from the truth.

  “You’ve nearly got the whole of it. It’s my uncle who is here to find a new countess.”

  “Ah, Rushton,” Thomas recalled, pointing him out on the dance floor.

  Sinclair peered around to look. “Who is that exquisite lady with your uncle?”

  Randall craned to catch a glimpse of Rushton’s dance partner. All he could see was the smile on his Uncle Cyrus’ face. Dressed all in white, his dance partner was lovely with her golden hair swept atop her head. Not the almost white-gold of Lady Dorothea’s hair, but guinea gold.

  “Rather. She is a pure confection,” Thomas gasped.

  Donald Sinclair gave a sigh and grasped his chest near the area of his heart. “I believe I am in love.”

  “Sinclair, you’re in love with anything wearing a white frock,” Thomas accused.

  The country dance brought Rushton into closer range. So close that Randall could see the fair face of his uncle’s dance partner. It was then Randall felt all cheerful expression fade.

  It couldn’t be. It couldn’t possibly be.

  Miss Larissa Quinn?

  Chapter Seven

  What happened to rusticating in the wilds of Westmoreland?

  A lie. Clearly another lie she’d told. And why not? Randall had lost count of how many falsehoods Larissa Quinn had told during the short amount of time they had shared. Now she was dancing with his Uncle Cyrus.

  What stories would she be telling him? Was she now passing herself off as an heiress? Or perhaps a princess from some far-off land?

  “Sir Randall? Sir Randall?” Sinclair repeated. “Do you know who that creature of sheer loveliness is?”

  “Ah—I know of her.” Randall wanted the acquaintance between Larissa and his uncle to be nipped in the bud. He would not stand for his uncle to continue with her. Uncle Cyrus had to be warned, and warned right away. “You must excuse me, gentlemen.” In set determination, Randall started across the room to deliver the unpleasant news.

  “Wait a bit, Trent.” Sinclair took hold of Randall’s sleeve. “You’re not leaving without me.”

  Randall pulled his arm free. “You are more than welcome to her, my friend.” Randall noticed how Sinclair’s face brightened. Did Sinclair consider him a threat? Randall’s solitary interest in the chit was keeping her away from his uncle. Sinclair could have Miss Quinn all to himself.

  As far as Randall was concerned, it was Larissa who should take care. Describing Donald Sinclair as a rake might be going too far; he merely enjoyed the ladies. However, Randall noticed Sir Thomas White was the first to approach Larissa. Sinclair’s unnecessary concern about Randall’s intentions had caused him to be fourth in line.

  Randall found his Uncle Cyrus and ushered him away from where Larissa held court.

  “I find her most agreeable,” Rushton muttered. He glanced several times over his shoulder to glimpse Larissa.

  “Agreeable?” Randall took hold of Rushton’s shoulders and squared his uncle in front of him. “Listen to me, Uncle, she’s persona non grata.” Randall saw the faraway expression in Rushton’s face and interpreted it as a potentially ominous omen. “Someone to stay away from. Very far away from.” Randall could see by the vacant look on his uncle’s face he still wasn’t making any progress.

  “Know her, do you?” Rushton remarked in a knowing way.

  “Let me just say if I had known she was on the ship up the Severn, rather than keep her company, I’d plunge into the drink and take my chances with a pack of circling sharks.” Randall checked his uncle’s expression. “You do take my meaning, don’t you, Uncle?”

  Still looking in Larissa’s direction, Rushton held a steady, affable smile on his face. “I heard what you said, dear boy.”

  “Not what I said, my meaning. She’s not one to be trifled with, I tell you.”

  Rushton stared toward the heavens and continued in a moist, emotion-filled tone. “Your Aunt Constance used to go on about that—meaning, morals, life’s lessons and such, God rest her soul.”

  “Uncle Cyrus!”
Randall was now all but shouting.

  “What is it?”

  “Miss Larissa Quinn,” he reminded.

  “Ah, yes!” Rushton glanced across the room at Larissa for a reminder. “I find her quite agreeable indeed. Very charming.”

  “No, not her, my warning about her. You do understand the point I’m getting at, don’t you?”

  “Yes, oh yes. I got the point, dear boy. Just as well, I’m probably too old for her anyway.” Rushton went on thoughtfully. “I defer to your judgment. I entirely agree she is more suited for a much younger man.”

  Thank goodness, Randall thought in relief, his Uncle Cyrus had given up any thoughts about furthering his relation with Miss Larissa Quinn.

  “Excuse me. Miss Quinn?” It was a scant hour later when Randall made his respectful approach. His actions mimicked the many suitors who came before him.

  Clearly shocked by his presence, Larissa stammered, “S-sir Randall, is it not?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” He smiled. “You remembered.”

  “It is unlikely I should ever forget.” Her words were innocuous, but the tone spoke volumes.

  “Would it be possible to speak to you alone for a moment?”

  “Alone?” Larissa glanced around. For whom, Randall was not sure. “Is it allowed?”

  “We shall be on the terrace, in plain sight of the entire room.”

  “I am promised for the next set,” she said, catching her lower lip with her teeth.

  “I assure you, we shall not be long.” Randall held his arm out and waited.

  Larissa placed her hand lightly atop his arm and allowed him to escort her into the night air.

  Once away from the other guests, Randall spun to face her. “What the devil do you think you are doing here?”

  “I see no reason you should speak to me in that tone. I have not done anything wrong.”

  “Haven’t done anything wrong?” Randall glanced into the ballroom making sure they had not drawn unnecessary attention. “Do you know what would happen should word get out about…about.” His voice softened to a whisper, “The incident at The Blue Boar Inn?”