Lord Fairborough snorted.
“Still, it’s not like him to be in a foul mood for long.” His mother’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. “He is usually such a cheerful sort.”
“Unless, of course . . .” Lord Fairborough began. His wife shot him a hard look. “Never mind. I obviously have no idea what has occurred. Nor am I intelligent enough to comment on it even though I may well have a valid opinion and exceptionally helpful, even, dare I say, wise advice.”
Lady Fairborough’s eyes narrowed in a menacing manner. “Do you really think so, Roland?”
He stared at his wife for a moment, then blew a resigned breath. “No, of course not.”
Miranda stared at her soup. Mock turtle and one of her favorites. But her appetite had vanished, swept away by the direst sense of disaster. She had to do something.
“If you will excuse me.” She rose to her feet. “I find I am not hungry after all. And it has been a very long day. Indeed, I am really quite exhausted. So, if you will forgive me, I believe I shall retire for the evening.”
“Yes, of course.” Lord Fairborough nodded.
“You do look tired.” Lady Fairborough studied her sharply. “Rest is probably the best thing for you.”
Miranda forced a smile and took her leave, trying very hard not to look as if she was fleeing. Although fleeing had a great deal of appeal. She had no idea what to do now, although she did have something of a plan. First, she would fling herself onto her bed and weep for a bit. She didn’t think she had cried since the day John died, but she certainly wanted to cry now. Her throat ached and her eyes burned.
She reached her rooms, closed the door behind her and collapsed onto the bed. And waited. She sniffed. Nothing. She forced an odd sort of tentative sob. Still nothing. She certainly wanted to cry, certainly felt like she should. The very thought that she had lost the man who might possibly be everything she had ever wanted, the man who might well be her soul mate, was devastating.
The answer was obvious. She sat up. When John had died she could do nothing about it and so she had cried. But she could certainly do something about this. And she would. Good Lord, she really was a different woman. Well, then it was time to start acting like it.
She got to her feet and paced the room. She was not about to let Winfield Elliott stalk out of her life in a foolish, silly fit of, well, pride, really. She was certainly willing to compromise, if compromise was what it took. She could indeed close or sell Garret and Tempest, which would not mean she could not still continue to do her work. Oh, there would be a battle about it, of course, but they did battle so well. She would also have to tell him there was no Mr. Tempest, at least not in the position of architect. She would indeed have to confess everything and hope that he loved her enough to forgive that tiny little deceit. After all, it wasn’t really personal. She’d been deceiving the entire world, not just him.
A knock sounded at the door.
“Yes?”
The door opened and Lady Fairborough poked her head in. “Miranda, my dear, I was wondering if I might have a word with you.”
“Of course, do come in.”
Lady Fairborough closed the door, crossed the room to one of the two slipper chairs positioned near the bay window. She sat down and smiled expectantly.
“What did you wish to talk about?” Miranda said slowly.
“I actually have nothing to say.” The older woman paused. “I thought perhaps you might like to talk.”
“Not really.”
“Oh, well then, I suppose . . .” Lady Fairborough studied Miranda for a long moment. “You should know I have never seen my son in this sort of state because of a woman.”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to discuss the nature of her problems concerning Winfield with his mother.
His mother’s brow rose.
Although apparently Miranda had no choice. “I don’t mean to be blunt—”
“Don’t be absurd,” Lady Fairborough scoffed. “Under certain circumstances, blunt is called for. Indeed, blunt can be quite efficient.”
“Very well then.” Miranda sat down in the other slipper chair and studied Winfield’s mother. “What do you think you know?”
“Very clever, my dear.” The older woman chuckled. “I couldn’t have played it better myself.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t know nearly as much as I surmise. I don’t know exactly what happened between you and Winfield in London, but might there have been a proposal involved?”
Miranda nodded. “Something like that.”
“And a rejection?”
“Apparently Winfield and I differ on that. One of us thought it was not so much a rejection as it was, oh, caution.”
“And the other one got his nose all out of joint and went back to London in a huff?”
“That’s fairly accurate.”
“I see,” Lady Fairborough said in a sage manner.
“I have no desire to be fiancée number four.”
“Which does not mean you are not willing to marry him?” Hope sounded in the older woman’s voice.
“Exactly.” Miranda huffed. “But he certainly didn’t see it that way.”
“Frankly, my dear, what way could he see it?”
Miranda stared. “I thought you understood my side of this.”
“There are no sides here. We all have entirely the same purpose.” She cast Miranda a chastising look. “But you know as well as I do, Winfield is a traditional sort. And he expects that certain things are done in a certain manner. One becomes engaged before one marries.”
“That hasn’t worked out especially well for him thus far.”
“Be that as it may, he still believes in the natural order of things. It is difficult for him to understand why a woman would not wish to be engaged.” She shook her head. “Although when it comes to my son, I certainly can.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t mistake my words, I think Winfield has become a son to be proud of and will make a fine husband. But goodness, Miranda, fiancée number four will be the object of unrelenting gossip and speculation.” She rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “Will she come to her senses and end it with him? Will one of them do something unforgiveable and will yet another engagement come to an end? Will Lord Stillwell finally make it to the altar? Surely you’ve considered that?”
“Absolutely not,” she lied. “Gossip is certainly not a concern.”
“It should be. Whether we like it or not, it is a fact of the world in which we live. And you know full well, the attention would be squarely on him as it would be expected that he would be the one to create a problem. Why, a fourth fiancée would be a gift from heaven to gossips. Beyond that, I can’t imagine this wouldn’t be the subject of any number of wagers.”
“You do have a point.”
“Regardless of my son’s feelings, I commend you for not being willing to subject Winfield to that.” She paused. “Now what are you going to do?”
“Well, I had considered following him into London.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t do that.” Lady Fairborough shook her head.
“Why not?”
“For one thing, I have never seen him like this. Who knows what stupid thing he may say or do under these circumstances. Such things are nearly impossible to forgive.”
“Regardless, it does seem to me that the sooner all this is resolved the better.”
“I’m not sure I agree with that either.” She shook her head slowly. “In many ways, Winfield is exactly like his father. If you go after him, if you are the one to make the first overture, he will gain the upper hand and you will never have it back.”
Miranda stared.
“It’s not the way to begin a life together, my dear,” Lady Fairborough said firmly. “Regardless of the world’s view of women as somehow inferior, it has been my observation and my experience, that the most successful marriages, the ones in which both husband and wife are truly
happy, are the ones in which they are indeed partners and equals. No man will ever admit that, of course, and yet it is the truest thing I know.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“And that is the mark of an intelligent woman. Few men will admit they don’t know what to say and most of them will say something anyway, stupid though it may be.”
“Then what do you suggest I do?”
Lady Fairborough smiled slowly and in that moment looked eerily like her son. “Nothing.”
Chapter 22
Win paced to and fro in the parlor of the home of Lord Waterston. He’d come the minute Chapman had finished his report, although he really wasn’t sure why he was here.
His first day in London had slid into the second, the second to the third and so on until an entire bloody week had passed. It might well have been the longest week of his life. Win fully expected to miss seeing Miranda less and less with each passing day. To be less and less, well, hurt really. With the kind of dreadful gnawing sort of pain that no amount of whisky could dull. Thank God, he had never known love before. He surely wouldn’t have survived. Thus far he only missed her more.
It did seem ironic that three women he didn’t love had agreed to marry him but the one woman he did love wouldn’t. Oh, she didn’t phrase it that way. No, she had some ridiculous aversion to an engagement, but she did not, in the strictest of definitions of the word, refuse to marry him. Still, the effect was the same.
He’d been down this road before, but this was different. He’d been infatuated with his first fiancée, selected his second because she was such a sensible choice and had come very close to falling in love with his third. And as different as all three women were, they did have one thing in common. He had trusted them, which was, for the most part, a mistake. It wasn’t merely that he had made poor choices, but he had given them the gift of trust and been betrayed. How could he trust her if she didn’t trust him?
Nor had he ever had to fight for a woman. Couldn’t remember ever wanting to. No, the women in his life had come and gone with relative ease. Even those he had been engaged to. There was embarrassment and annoyance and even a touch of anger, but he had gotten over it quickly enough. He suspected he would never get over Miranda, which only raised the question of whether or not he wanted to. And if he did, why was he here?
She hadn’t said she wouldn’t marry him, but she certainly hadn’t said she would. Regardless, he would not marry her until he was certain he had her trust. Until she trusted him enough to confide in him about her work. Until she trusted enough in a future with him to fully give up her past. Until she trusted him enough to agree to an engagement. Because, damnation, he wanted an engagement.
He wanted to announce to the world that this was the woman he intended to marry and then, blast it all, he wanted to do so. He wanted a wedding—his wedding—planned at Fairborough Hall that would take place as expected. He wanted to say vows in front of God and their families and anyone else who might be interested.
Miranda had won far too many of the battles between them. Electrification, for God’s sakes. This one she would not win. The Midsummer Ball was in two weeks and he would stay in London until then if necessary. Aside from all else, it was a practical matter. He had a great deal of business to deal with, as well as Grayson’s affairs. And it would give her time to decide if he was what she wanted.
What he absolutely refused to do was go running back to Millworth with his tail between his legs just because he missed her. And wanted her. And loved her.
No, if she wanted him back she could, just this once, bow to his wishes. He was the man after all.
“Lord Stillwell.” Adrian strode into the room, took his seat behind the desk and gestured for Win to take the chair in front of it. “I must say I was expecting to see you before now.”
“Why?” Suspicion sounded in Win’s voice.
“Our last encounter left me, and my entire family for that matter, with the impression that you intended to marry my sister as she is, as you announced, such a remarkable creature. I assume you are here to ask my permission.”
“No, I’m not.” He paused. “Would you give it? Your permission, that is?”
“If that is what Miranda wants, I would indeed. Not that it would make any difference to her, I suspect.” Adrian chuckled. “She has certainly changed in recent years. Oddly enough, none of us seemed to notice until the other night. But then, I suppose, she didn’t allow us to see it either. So . . .” He considered Win curiously. “If you are not here to ask for my sister’s hand in marriage, why are you here?”
“I know.”
Adrian shook his head in confusion. “What is it you know?”
“I know the identity of the elusive Mr. Tempest.”
“I see,” Adrian said slowly. “Does Miranda know?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Do you intend to tell her?”
Win hesitated. “I haven’t decided yet. I suppose it all depends on what you have to say.”
“Ah, yes, well, I thought it might.” He paused. “Might I ask how you uncovered this information?”
“I paid a gentleman a great deal of money to ferret it out.”
Adrian nodded. “And the name of this gentleman?”
“You can’t honestly expect me to tell you that?” Win scoffed.
“I had hoped.”
“It seems entirely unwise of me to do so. After all, you went to a great deal of trouble to conceal the truth and you did so in an exceptionally clever and skillful manner.”
“Ah, Chapman then.” Adrian nodded knowingly.
“I should have figured it out myself. I know very few investors who are willing to allow anyone to continue to borrow without demanding complete repayment at some point over the course of nine years. Investors who are not related to the borrower’s wife, that is.”
Adrian chuckled. “I suppose that might have been something of a clue. If one had all the facts and a desire to know the truth. Fortunately, my sister had neither.”
“Why would she? I suspect she had no idea of the size of the original loan and therefore no idea that the amount did not diminish but instead grew.”
Adrian grimaced. “John was not at all good with money.”
“Apparently.” Win paused. “Why did you keep this a secret from your sister?”
“It wasn’t my idea.” Adrian thought for a moment. “John didn’t want Miranda to know he had come to me after his own brother had refused his request for funding. Although that made sense after his brother’s death as the Garret family fortune was surprisingly depleted. But John had no idea at the time. He was annoyed and more than a little embarrassed. He asked me not to say anything to Miranda and I agreed. It was business after all and none of her concern.”
“And you decided to go by the name of Tempest?”
“Clever of me, wasn’t it?” Adrian chuckled.
“Because The Tempest is the work of Shakespeare’s in which Miranda is the heroine?”
“It was my little joke and it seemed right somehow to include a reference to Miranda in the name of the firm.”
“More than you realize,” Win said under his breath. “Are you aware that Miranda is the true architect at Garret and Tempest? And apparently was even before her husband died.”
“Not in the beginning, but the idea had crossed my mind.”
“She claims the architect is Mr. Tempest, which makes perfect sense given the name of the firm.”
“Very clever of her.” Adrian nodded. “John Garret was a good man, but I never thought he was especially gifted in that regard. Indeed, when the firm began doing moderately well, I had a few inquiries of my own made.”
Win raised a brow. “Chapman?”
“No.” Something in his tone said more than words could that Adrian would not reveal more on this particular subject.
“Why didn’t you tell her the truth after Garret’s death?”
“Why would I? If I told her
then I’d have to tell her why the debt had continued to increase.” He shook his head. “Garret was dead and it seemed pointless to tell her he was not quite as wonderful as she had thought. At least not when it came to finances.”
“Are you aware that, since his death, in those months in which there was no profit generated, she made her payment to you out of her own funds? An inheritance or some sort of family trust, I believe.”
Adrian stared. “I had no idea.” A slow smile crossed his face. “Good for her.”
“I said she was a remarkable woman.”
“That’s not all you said.” Adrian studied him for a moment. “You do realize one doesn’t murmur phrases about ‘every little boy’s dream’ to the brothers of the woman he is about to—” A pained expression crossed Adrian’s face.
“Escort home?”
“Yes.” Relief sounded in Waterston’s voice. “Let’s go with that. So . . . do you intend to marry my sister?”
“Yes.” The moment he said the words, Win knew he had not given up. She might not agree to an engagement, she might not trust him, but he would win her hand and her trust. She would bloody well marry him even if it took him the rest of his life to convince her. “However, she does not seem especially inclined to marry me.”
Adrian stared. “She turned you down?”
“Yes and no.” Win sighed. “She refused my offer of engagement, but she says that does not mean she won’t marry me.”
Adrian’s brow pulled together. “That makes no sense.”
“Exactly my reaction.” Win shook his head. “She says she does not want to be my fourth fiancée.”
“Oh, well, now I understand. I can see where that might be awkward for her,” Adrian said mildly.
“Awkward for her?” Win scoffed.
“You do seem to have made a habit of breaking engagements.”
“On the contrary, Waterston,” Win said firmly. “I have never once reneged on my word. Each and every time I asked a woman to marry me, I fully intended that we would be wed. As much as it is difficult to admit it, I was never the one to change my mind.”
The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) Page 26
