The Misadventures of Lady Ophelia (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 3)

by Christina McKnight

  Bloody hell, he longed to rush into his father’s office and shove the report in the earl’s face. He’d been Colin’s number one naysayer since he’d spoke of the plan nearly three years ago. It was a success. If only Colin could convince his father to allow him to make similar changes at Tintinhull. If he did, both Colin’s Barony and his father’s Earldom would fill their coffers ten-fold in the coming years.

  Colin chuckled. Even with the proof right under his nose, the earl would refuse the plan solely on principle. He knew best…and Colin’s “whimsical project” at his own estate, no matter the proof of success, would not sway his father.

  Not that the Coventry Earldom was in need of funds…no, the first earl—Colin’s grandfather—had made certain his son and grandson would want for nothing in the years after his death.

  Colin ran his hand through his hair and massaged the back of his head.

  This was astounding news, yet it would mean less than nothing to his father.

  A muffled shout followed by stomping sounded through the closed door of the room Colin had converted into his study while in London.

  His workspace was next to his father’s private office.

  A door slammed, and the shouting began once more.

  “What in the blazes?” Colin mumbled, pushing to his feet and dropping the report back to his desk. Now was not the time to show his father the latest yield reports if he was already angry.

  Colin strode from behind his desk and pulled his door open.

  His mother stood in the hall, her arms crossed, and her head shaking from side to side.

  “What is it, Mother?” he asked.

  Her pinched expression made her normally pale, smooth skin appear wrinkled and aged, and it should have been Colin’s first clue as to what had infuriated his father.

  She threw her arms wide, in her usual helpless gesture. “Molly, of course. What else could have your father so up in arms?”

  Molly.

  Colin had gone a full four hours without thinking of his grandmama and the promise he’d made to her.

  “You best join them. It is you they are arguing over.”

  “Me?” Colin asked.

  His mother turned to leave but paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Yes, he discovered you and Molly have been asking about London in search of a certain book.”

  “How is he aware?”

  “Does it matter?” She shrugged and moved down the hall toward the stairs.

  His mother was correct. It didn’t matter how the earl had learned of their activities over the past week. Molly had been warned, hell, even Colin had been warned, but they’d both ignored his father demands.

  With heavy footsteps, Colin moved to the office door. His cold fingers clenched into a fist, and he knocked.

  The irate voices inside immediately halted, and his father shouted for him to enter.

  How the earl knew it was Colin, he didn’t know.

  Colin pushed the door wide to see his father and grandmama standing before the hearth, each with hands on their hips, feet planted wide, and scowls on their faces.

  Except for their varying heights, the pair was identical…and not only in their appearances, but also their stubbornness, determination, and sense of righteousness.

  The most peculiar thing was, neither realized it.

  They’d been at odds for so many years, each on their own side of this argument, they’d forgotten their bond—a connection that had started at his father’s birth, or likely, before.

  “What do the pair of you think to accomplish with this scheme of yours?” his father hissed, clearly demanding Colin’s response but never taking his glare off Molly.

  “Ye damn well know—“

  “Watch your words!” the earl shouted, cutting Molly’s retort short. “Colin?”

  “Molly asked a favor, and I was merely appeasing an infirmed woman.” The answer was rubbish, and everyone in the room knew it.

  “Are you even sick and in need of a London physician?”

  Molly’s shoulders stiffened, as much as a woman with her hunched stature could. “Ramsey, ye know damned—no, do not interrupt me,” she seethed when the earl opened his mouth to chastise her once more about her language. “Ye know I’m ill. I not be have’n much time left.”

  “Then why are you spending it on this lark?” his father questioned. “You know as well as I that Porter sold that book. He wanted it gone. Why do you want it returned so badly?”

  “Because ye be determined ta prove that your father was an unsavory, dishonorable man!”

  “He was a common smuggler, a free trader with no respect for the laws governing this great country! He wanted the book gone. If he’d wanted any of us to possess it, he wouldn’t have sold it for a mere few shillings.”

  It was the same argument, the same hurtful words hurled back and forth, and the same subject that never found a resolution or a truce between the mother and son. Colin’s heart ached for the pair, who should be spending their time loving one another, but only fought every opportunity they got.

  “Enough,” Colin said, slashing his hand through the air and moving closer to the pair. “Father, you believe grandpapa was a no-good thieving smuggler?” His father nodded. “And Molly, you are determined to prove he was not only a smuggler but also a valuable ally of King George II?”

  “Ye know exactly what I be say’n all these years.” She turned her pleading stare on her only grandson. “I won’t be go’n ta me grave with anyone think’n otherwise.”

  “Father.” Colin turned his own pleading look on the earl. “What is the harm of asking about London for Fair Wind’s book?”

  “His name is Porter Parnell, the first Earl of Coventry, not Fair Wind.” The earl shook his head, running his hand through his soft brown hair. “I have no intention of reminding all of England of our less than noble past, and you should not either. You will need a wife before long, and the grandson of a smuggler is not an attribute most London misses want in a husband.”

  “Your pretty, senseless wife did not mind wed’n the son of a bar wench,” Molly retorted. “If’n me and my Porter’s past in Sheerness makes ye feel less of a nobleman, then I have other concerns for ye. It be because of Fair Wind that ye have this fancy house, your hoity-toity society friends, and the title ye use.”

  The earl sighed and turned to stare into the hearth. “I have worked tirelessly to ensure that my Earldom—Colin’s legacy, might I remind you—is not tarnished by our family’s scandalous past.”

  The mention of Colin’s future was the one thing that softened Molly’s determination—every time—however, his future did not negate Molly’s history and ensuring that her dear, beloved husband was not shrouded in dishonor for all eternity. While Colin was still unsure what to believe, he believed in his grandmama.

  “Father, if we are discreet and draw no attention, what is the harm of searching for the book?”

  The earl twisted around to face Colin, Molly now at his side.

  His face was a mixture of unease and anguish. “What if you find exactly as I’ve proclaimed for years?”

  “Then that is what we find,” Colin conceded. “However, I think we owe it to Porter to at least try and prove what Molly asserts is correct. Imagine how the Coventry Earldom will rise if it is proven Porter was an ally to the king.”

  The earl glared between his son and his mother, obviously torn. No matter how much they argued and fussed, Ramsey loved his mother—and his son. “You have seven days—and Mother remains close to home in case she is in need of a physician.”

  Colin and Molly nodded their agreement to the terms.

  “And when Mother’s treatment is complete and the doctor gives her a clean health record, she returns to Tintinhull—no more debating, and no more sneaking behind my back.”

  His father’s brow rose when neither Colin nor Molly answered.

  Molly clutched at Colin’s arm. “We have seven days?”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; “And you will not stand in our way?” Colin confirmed.

  “As long as you are discreet, I will allow you your foolish quest.”

  “Thank you, Father.” It was more than the earl had ever compromised on before, and Colin damn well didn’t plan to squander the time. “We will keep to your terms.”

  “See that you do.” The earl strode to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. “Now, if you will both excuse me, I have actual work to accomplish today.”

  Molly’s back stiffened, and Colin feared she would lash out and ruin what little truce they’d agreed to only moments before.

  “We will not keep you any longer.” Colin tugged at Molly’s arm, signaling it was their time to depart. “Also, I received word from my steward in regards to the crop rotation plan. I will have the report brought to you.”

  The earl had already begun riffling through the many files on his desk, his attention elsewhere. “Fine, fine.”

  Colin had little hope his father would actually read the reports, but at least the earl hadn’t outright refused him.

  Molly took up her cane that leaned by the door as they departed.

  He pulled the door shut behind him and paused, his lips turning up in a satisfied grin.

  “We did it, Molly.”

  “We ain’t done nothin’ yet, me lad,” she clucked, shaking her head. “We still need ta find that blasted book.”

  “I will visit the Duke of Atholl again. See if he remembers anything further about the tome and its whereabouts.”

  “See that ye do, but stay clear of that fiery-haired sorceress.”

  Colin chuckled as Molly tapped her forehead, chin, chest, and back to her nose.

  He swore her superstitious ritual was becoming more and more complex by the day; luckily, she made no move to spit on the rug-covered floor.

  Chapter 8

  To say that Ophelia was pleased with herself, at least thus far today, would be an understatement. She’d located the information she sought, found Lord Hawke’s book, and escaped her family’s townhouse without notice. After fleeing up the servant’s stairs, she’d located her maid, and they’d slipped out the front door to find the Atholl coach still in the drive.

  It had all been simple.

  On any other day, Ophelia would have been convinced it was too easy.

  But she hadn’t time to dwell on the subject.

  Perhaps she could convince Edith and Luci to allow her to take a more active role in the Mayfair Confidential, more than simply taking the information they gave her and writing the posts.

  Even her friends would admit she’d done a marvelous job in their absence. She needs must dampen her jovial mood before exiting her carriage, though, lest the man suspect she’d gone to nefarious lengths to return his book and thus cast Ophelia in a less than proper light.

  She glanced out the coach window at the massive townhouse. A plaque mounted to the stone exterior proclaimed the house Knightsbridge. A noble property situated across from Hyde Park in a most elite area.

  Lord Hawke, while only a baron, must have a wealthy, prestigious family, indeed.

  Even her father, a duke in a long line of Atholl dukes, did not possess the sheer wealth needed to obtain such a grand residence in London proper.

  “I will remain here, my lady?” her lady’s maid inquired.

  “Yes.” Ophelia gave her a confident smile. “I should be but a moment. I need return something that belongs to Lord Hawke.”

  “Very well.” The girl didn’t question her further, and Ophelia was happy for it.

  Daring to arrive at a gentleman’s home unannounced was highly inappropriate. However, besides having the book delivered by a servant, there was no other way.

  …and this was the only way she’d be able to see the handsome man again. Maybe then he would be banished from her dreams, thus casting her back into reality.

  Her footman opened the carriage door, set down the steps, and assisted her departure.

  She hid the book in the folds of her skirts. The last thing she wanted was to make it necessary for the servants to lie for her if her father discovered the book missing—or, Heaven help her, he found out she’d called on a gentleman without his consent or her mother’s accompaniment.

  There was little chance Ophelia would allow such a trivial detail to stop her.

  However, that did not stop her pulse from racing or her face from flushing as she walked toward the door. Blast it all, but she’d forgotten her fan in her haste to depart, and there was little she could do as her skin reddened to a shade similar to a ripe tomato.

  Taking a calming breath, Ophelia raised her gloved hand to knock, making certain the book was still hidden in the folds of her skirts.

  Her knuckles hadn’t even rapped against the door when it swung open, causing Ophelia to yelp in surprise and hop backwards.

  Likewise, the butler stared back at her with rounded eyes, his mouth gaping. He hadn’t expected to see her standing on the stoop any more than she had predicted the door to open with such gusto.

  “Miss,” he said, his manners righting themselves quickly. “I do apologize. Lady Coventry is not receiving guests. Would you like to leave your card?”

  Bollocks!

  She’d forgotten her fan…and her calling card.

  Her pride from a few moments before dimmed quickly.

  Ophelia was not giving up, no matter if she made a cake of herself before Lord Hawke. “Actually, I am here to see Lord Hawke, and…Molly,” she said, pasting her most sincere smile on her face. At the butler’s furrowed brow, she continued, “If Lord Hawke is not at home, I can return at another time…”

  “The dowager and Lord Hawke are in residence.”

  It was good news, but the butler still appeared puzzled by her request to see the pair. He did not show her in, nor turn her away, but stood staring as if she certainly must have more to say.

  “Ah, yes, the dowager, please forgive my informal request.” Her smile faltered slightly when the man continued to glare. “When I met the dowager, she was…”

  Ophelia clamped her mouth shut. She was rambling, and just about announced Molly’s harebrained antics in the Atholl drive. It would not do to inform the butler that the first time she’d met the older woman had been with her cane aimed at Ophelia’s head.

  Swallowing hard, Ophelia kept her stare on the servant, refusing to look away or show any weakness. “…she was waiting in Lord Hawke’s coach.” It would have been wise to refrain from mentioning Molly at all, but it was too late for that now.

  “May I inform Lord Hawke and the dowager who is calling?”

  A name…her name. Her missteps were adding up too fast for Ophelia to keep track of; no fan, no calling card, and utterly dismal manners.

  “Lady Ophelia Fletcher, daughter of the Duke of Atholl,” she added as an afterthought, in case the man did not remember her name.

  Finally, the butler stepped aside, opening the door wide enough for Ophelia to enter. “Do come in, my lady.”

  She stepped into the foyer and was instantly surprised by the grandness. A silver chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, holding what must be over a hundred tiny candles. Matching sconces adorned the walls in every direction. Three shelves stood proudly, each arranged precisely with trinkets, books, and objects Ophelia could only assume were of great historical value, though she recognized none of them. The floor beneath her shone as if it had been polished only moments before she arrived, and the balustrade was crafted of the darkest wood she’d ever beheld. A rug covered the floor in the center of the foyer and was certainly worth more than all of the carpeting in the Atholl Townhouse combined.

  Lord Hawke lived a life of luxury Ophelia could only dream of.

  But then why was he desperately searching for an old book on smuggling in Kent?

  Footfalls sounded, drawing her attention to a corridor leading to the left of the stairs, though the hallway was too dim to see anyone.

  The butler gestured in the
opposite direction. “My lady, this way to the dowager’s receiving room. I will inform my lady of your arrival.”

  “Actually, it is Lord Hawke I am here to see,” she replied. It would not do to have Molly causing a scene the likes of which her servants would be unable to stop. It had been one thing to raise her cane at Ophelia in her own driveway with Lord Hawke coming to her rescue, but who would prevent the old woman from bashing her over the head at Knightsbridge? “I have something that belongs to him.”

  “Lady Ophelia?” She glanced over the butler’s arm to see Lord Hawke striding her way. “What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

  She glanced at the floor as a heaviness settled in her arms. Had it been unwise to come?

  Belatedly, Ophelia remembered she had proper business here, she hadn’t come out of some foolish fancy or on a whim.

  Ophelia turned to face the lord, her chin notching up and a grin overtaking her lips. “I found the book you were searching for.” With the volume, about the size of her adventure novels, proudly displayed before her, she took a step in his direction.

  Her sense of accomplishment soared once more when he hurried toward her and snatched the tome from her hand then grabbed her arm with the other before pulling her toward a room off the foyer.

  Lord Hawke pushed into the room, all but dragging Ophelia behind him, then kicked the door shut.

  He released his hold on her at the same moment, and Ophelia stumbled a few steps before he reached out and steadied her.

  Lord Hawke turned the book over and over in his hands, touching the binding, running his finger along the embossed cover, and he even bent forward to smell the thing. She wondered if he caught the scent of the ocean in its leather-bound exterior, too.

  “Where did you get this?” His glare refocused on her. The words were a breathless whisper as if she’d presented him with a map of Atlantis or the fabled Trojan horse. “Your father said…”

  Ophelia clasped her hands behind her back and rocked on her heels. “I went and saw Oliver. He told me my father had purchased the book. With that information, it was easy enough to locate the book in my father’s study.”