What did they mean: Before it’s too late?
If the purpose of joining forces was to give him something further to think about, then his mother and hers had done their work all too well. Before it’s too late reverberated in his head over and over again.
Certainly there was always the possibility she could meet someone else. Although at the moment she was safely ensconced in the country. And if she loved him . . . of course she hadn’t said she loved him, had she? No, she had hedged about that the very same way he had until he was forced to face the truth. Had she faced it? He refused to consider the possibility that she did not share his feelings. Apparently, hope was the only way to survive heartbreak.
He had managed to get rid of the ladies by claiming a business meeting he could not avoid. Mother said she and Father had considered spending the night in London, but she had decided there was entirely too much to do in the country, what with the ball fast approaching. She was to meet Father in a few hours and return to Millworth. In the meantime, she and Lady Waterston planned to renew their friendship over tea or something of that nature. He hadn’t paid a great deal of attention at that point; indeed, he could scarcely think with before it’s too late echoing in his head. He suspected there would be continued plotting in regard to their children on the ladies’ part although he could have sworn he heard the word “vote” from one of them on their way out. No, they were obviously not done with him yet and wouldn’t be until the day he and Miranda were safely wed.
Which was exactly what he wanted. But it all came down to trust and he didn’t have hers. That was a far bigger obstacle between them than the question of an engagement. And there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about that. Adrian’s idea to give Miranda no choice but to confess the truth by presenting her with a real live Mr. Tempest was tempting but entirely too dangerous to risk.
Of course, the ladies did have a point. Nothing whatsoever would happen as long as he stayed away from her. Perhaps he was being childish after all. Or simply stubborn. Which might well be the same thing.
“Have they gone?” a familiar voice said the moment he opened the door to the library.
Win sighed. “If you have come to tell me to return to Millworth and fight for Miranda’s hand, I should warn you I have heard that lecture already today.”
“Quite the contrary, my boy.” Father sat in his favorite chair near the fireplace, a glass of whisky in his hand. “I have come to tell you to hold firm. Stand your ground and all that.”
Win eyed his father with suspicion. “Have you?”
“I have indeed. Mark my words, if you start off on the wrong foot with this woman, you will be one step behind her for the rest of your days.”
“Then your advice?”
“As I see it you have three choices. Go to her. Wait for her to come to you. Or come to some sort of a compromise. Meet her halfway as it were. Metaphorically, of course, not physically.”
“I thought you said to stand my ground?”
“Is your ground that firm?”
“I think so.” Perhaps not as firm on the matter of an engagement, which might well have more to do with pride on his part than anything else. But certainly when it came to issues of trust, his ground was exceptionally solid.
“Pour yourself a glass, then sit down, son, and let me explain to you how the dealings between men and women actually work.”
“I know how the dealings between men and women work,” Win said wryly. “I am not inexperienced after all.”
His father’s brow rose. “How many fiancées have you had?”
“I see your point,” Win muttered. He filled a glass for himself, then settled in the chair nearest his father’s.
“As I was saying, when compromise is your idea, you are standing your ground. You become a man of reason rather than emotion. Women are very emotional creatures, but they don’t like to see themselves as such. Therefore, a reasonable approach is an excellent way to go about getting nearly everything you want. Better to make the best possible deal you can rather than lose altogether. And believe me, when it comes to a woman you love, you will lose. But compromise, Winfield.” His father raised his glass. “Compromise is one of the keys to a sound marriage. It allows both parties a measure of victory and there is no actual loser.”
“I’m not sure compromise is possible in this instance.”
“Rubbish. Compromise is always possible.” Father studied him for a moment. “I don’t have all the details and I suspect there is more to the problems between you than this nonsense over an engagement.”
“It’s not nonsense.”
“Pride then.” He shrugged. “I can certainly understand why you might want the world to see you in an engagement that actually leads to marriage. You do have a lot to live down.”
Win snorted.
“On the other hand, does it matter? Really? In the scheme of things? Isn’t it more important that she marry you than you become engaged?”
“As that has proven so successful for me in the past?”
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Father chuckled.
“Your restraint is appreciated.”
Father sipped his whisky thoughtfully. “Although I do think this is the kind of thing best worked out face to face.”
“You think I should return to Millworth?”
“Is that what your mother said?”
He nodded.
“Then absolutely not.” He shook his head. “But I do believe you should make some sort of an overture. Perhaps send her a note. I would be happy to take it to her.”
“And what would I say?”
“I have no idea.” Father thought for a moment. “First of all, you should make the point that it is business, and nothing else, keeping you in London, which I assume is not entirely inaccurate.”
Win nodded. Indeed, in the two weeks he’d been here he’d accomplished far more regarding the family’s finances and investments and properties than he would normally accomplish in two months. But then again, he had nothing else to do except imbibe vast quantities of spirits and consider the prospects of a bleak future without the woman he loved.
“That changes the tenor of all this dramatically. You are no longer a sulking child who has not gotten his own way but rather a man of responsibility and duty.”
Win stared at his father. “That’s brilliant.”
“I’ve been married a long time.” He smiled over his whisky. “Then tell her you will return as soon as is feasibly possible and you do hope she understands that it is your responsibilities that keep you away and not the argument you had.”
“I like that.”
“And I would say something about regretting your disagreement, point out your affections have not changed, mention that you are certain you can overcome your differences, that you’re counting the minutes until you see her again, all you can think about is her and so on and so forth.”
“I think I can manage the rest, Father.” Win grinned, got to his feet and moved to the desk. He sat down, pulled a sheet of stationary with the Fairborough crest embossed at the top from the desk drawer, dipped his pen in the inkwell and began.
My dearest Miranda,
“So,” he said in as casual a manner as he could muster. “How is she?”
“Well, she doesn’t look as bad as you do, but then I can’t imagine anyone could. Too little sleep and too much alcohol, I suspect.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Win murmured. “The alcohol, that is. There seems to be little I can do about the lack of sleep.”
“From all appearances, I wouldn’t say Lady Garret is sleeping well either.”
“Well, well, imagine that.” Win resisted the urge to smirk with satisfaction. So she wasn’t sleeping. That alone would make him sleep better tonight.
“Of course, your mother is keeping her busy when she’s not at Fairborough, with plans for the ball.” He paused. “You do understand it will be held at Fairborough regardless of
whether it’s completed or not?”
He chuckled. “I realized that, Father, the same night I agreed to pay a bonus if the ball was held.”
“It will be the most expensive ball we’ve ever had,” his father muttered.
“But well worth it.”
I regret that circumstances keep me from Millworth, from you. More than you can imagine, I suspect. . . .
Oh yes, that was good.
“I like this one, you know.”
“You liked some of the others,” Win said absently. “The first and third I believe.”
“Not in the way in which I like Lady Garret.” His father swirled the whisky in his glass. “There is something in the way you look at her. I’ve never seen you look at a woman like that before. How could I possibly not like a woman you look at like that?”
Win smiled.
“I should warn you, marrying a woman who is nearly as intelligent as you are is both challenging and infuriating. It won’t be easy.” He chuckled. “But it is a great deal of fun.”
Miranda couldn’t quite stop smiling.
She read and reread and read again the letter Winfield had had his father deliver to her. And every time she read it she could hear his voice, feel the touch of his hand and see his wonderfully wicked smile. And her heart melted.
He said he missed her. That he couldn’t wait to see her again. Couldn’t wait to talk to her. He was amusing and dear and romantic. But he didn’t mention engagements or marriage or the questions of trust that had separated them. Which would have been somewhat disconcerting had not the rest of his letter been so wonderful.
Two days later a second letter arrived via a courier. Two days after that, a third arrived. The fourth letter was awaiting her the next day when she returned to Millworth after a morning spent at Fairborough and Miranda decided enough was enough.
This was the man she wanted, the man she wished to spend the rest of her life with, and she would not let his mother’s advice or his own stubbornness stand in her way. Blasted, annoying, wicked twit of a man that he was. She’d never really gone after anything she had wanted. Past time that she did.
The ball was the day after tomorrow and that alone was excuse enough to go to London and haul him back to Millworth. As for what else she would tell him, well, that depended on whether or not he was glad to see her. Whether or not he missed her as she had missed him. In spite of his words, this was a man who was well used to charming women. And whether or not he had meant it when he had said he loved her—she thrust that thought from her mind. Miranda wasn’t at all sure she could bear it if his reluctant admission of love was something he had simply said in the heat of the moment.
“Prescott.” She glanced around the entry hall and pulled on her gloves. The butler hurried toward her. “Do be so good as to call for a carriage to take me to the train. And please hurry. I don’t want to miss the next train into London.”
Prescott’s brow rose. “London, my lady?”
“I have had quite enough of Lord Stillwell’s nonsense.” She set her chin in a firm manner. “It’s past time he stopped acting like a child.”
“But, Lady Garret—”
She held up a hand to stop him. “I know what you’re going to say, Prescott, and yes, it is a bit unorthodox and most improper, but then what about all this isn’t?”
“Yes, Lady Garret, but—”
“You’ve known him far longer than I have, but even I realize he is entirely too stubborn to admit when he’s wrong, especially when he wasn’t entirely wrong.”
“Of course, my lady, but—”
“The carriage, Prescott, if you please?” She tried and failed to keep a note of impatience from her voice. Now that she had decided on a course of action, she was eager to set it in motion.
“I should be happy to call for a carriage to take you to the train, Lady Garret.” Prescott squared his shoulders. “But if your only purpose is to fetch Lord Stillwell, I would strongly advise against it.”
She heaved a frustrated sigh. “Why is that, Prescott?”
“His lordship returned from London this morning, my lady. He is in the library.”
Chapter 24
“He did what?” Win rose to his feet and stared.
“He hired me to be your Mr. Tempest.” Chapman sat in the chair before the desk and smiled up at him.
Adrian had suggested this when Win had met with him and, as he did hope the man would be his brother-in-law in the near future, it had not seemed wise for Win to say he thought it was a stupid idea certain to have unexpected repercussions.
“Why?”
“He didn’t confide the why to me, Lord Stillwell. He said you would understand.”
“Indeed, I do,” Win muttered. Adrian had thought presenting Miranda with Tempest the architect would force her hand, as it were, and lead to her confessing about the true creative mind behind the reconstruction of Fairborough Hall as well as Tempest’s real financial connection to Garret and Tempest. While Win didn’t tell Adrian the idea was absurd, he really couldn’t recall exactly what had been said on either side. Miranda’s brother was exceptionally generous with his whisky and their meeting had extended well into late afternoon. Still, Win couldn’t imagine he had agreed to this, although admittedly he couldn’t be certain one way or the other. “But why you?”
“Lord Waterston said, as I already knew all the particulars and my discretion in this matter could be trusted, I was the perfect candidate, although it does seem to me there are all sorts of things that can go wrong with a scheme like this. Still . . .” He shrugged. “As there is nothing illegal about it, the whys of the matter are really not my concern.”
Win eyed the other man ruefully. “I imagine Waterston has paid you handsomely for this.”
“I certainly wouldn’t do it otherwise. It does strike me as a bit, oh, dangerous. One never knows how a woman might react when confronted with a reality she thought was fictional. Indeed, while she does know her investor as Tempest, I am fairly certain she, and her cohort Miss West, decided it would suit their deception to credit Tempest as well with being the architect. Quite clever when you think about it.”
“That’s exactly it, Chapman.” Win sat down and drummed his fingers on the desk. “One never knows how Lady Garret might react to anything, and while her brother obviously thinks this is a brilliant plan, I don’t. The Lady Garret I know is not the same as the sister Lord Waterston knows. While he had a sample a few weeks ago as to the change in his sister in recent years, I don’t think he truly realizes just how different she is from the woman she once was. That lady might well be forced into a confession by being confronted with a fiction come to life. This one probably would not. And should she ever discover the truth . . .” He shuddered. “I don’t even want to think about the consequences, but murder is not farfetched.”
Chapman nodded. “Of her brother.”
“No,” Win said sharply. “Of me. And then perhaps her brother. But I would be the one she would not be able to forgive. Therefore, I think we should abandon this particular endeavor before it goes any further. There’s no harm done yet, I suppose. Lady Garret is still at Fairborough and probably won’t be back until later today. You can be gone before she returns.”
“As much as I appreciate your argument, my lord, I’m afraid that presents some difficulties.”
“Because Waterston paid you?” Win scoffed. “I shall return his payment to him and you may keep his money.”
“That’s not the only problem.” Chapman paused. “I have worked for Lord Waterston before. The man is not entirely as he appears. I cannot simply abandon a task he has charged me with because someone else thinks it might be a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Win stared. “The fall of Rome was a mistake in comparison to this.”
“Be that as it may—”
“This is my life, Chapman,” Win said firmly. “My future. I shall deal with Lord Waterston. He is a reasonable man and I am certain, in the light of day witho
ut the undue influence of an excellent Scottish whisky, he will understand completely. But I cannot—I will not—risk the rest of—”
Without warning the door shot open and Miranda burst into the room. “Winfield!”
“Miranda!” Win rose to his feet; his heart thudded in the most absurd manner in his chest at the look in her eyes and the smile on her face. “What are you doing here?”
“I intended to go to London, but then I discovered you were here.”
“You did?” he said cautiously.
“I decided one of us was being absurd and stubborn and it really didn’t matter which one. And your letters, Winfield, your letters . . .” She shook her head and crossed the room toward him with the obvious intention of throwing herself into his arms. Thank God. She pulled up short at the sight of Chapman rising to his feet. “Oh my, I had no idea anyone else was here. I beg your pardon, I . . .”
“No apology is necessary, Lady Garret,” Chapman said with a charming smile. “In truth, I am delighted to see you.”
“Although he was just leaving,” Win said quickly, circling around the desk. He knew full well Miranda would think it impolite of him not to offer an introduction, but if he introduced Chapman as Chapman it was entirely possible that someday she would hear the name of the investigator, put two and two together and there would be hell to pay. “As we have concluded our talk.”
Miranda ignored him. “Are you?” She studied the other man curiously. “My apologies, sir, but I’m afraid you have—”
“He has to leave,” Win said firmly and attempted to steer Chapman toward the door before it was too late. “Didn’t you say you had an urgent appointment? In London?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.” Chapman neatly sidestepped Win and smiled at Miranda. “I have been remiss in my duties, Lady Garret, and for that I owe you my apologies.”
“No, no, no apologies are necessary.” Win snatched up Chapman’s hat from the chair and thrust it at him. “You do need to be going. Wouldn’t want to miss the train.”
The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) Page 28
