Mysterious Miss Channing (Ranford Book 3)

by Nadine Millard

  The sound of gravel crunching behind her alerted her to the grooms’ presence, and she turned with an expectant smile on her face only to have her eyes travel upwards, since the gentlemen were considerably taller than she.

  Mr. Crawdon and Lord Ranford stood before her, grinning and looking far too handsome. Though they were both sinfully attractive, their looks were as different as chalk and cheese. Mr. Crawdon’s hair was a dark golden-blond, contrasting with Ranford’s own chocolate-brown locks, and his eyes, whilst blue like Ranford’s, were much darker, like the deepest part of the ocean.

  Both men bowed, and Julia self-consciously bobbed a quick curtsy. She shouldn’t be out alone, and she knew it.

  “Good morning, Miss Channing,” Mr. Crawdon said, a friendly smile still on his face. “Sneaking out, are we?”

  Julia couldn’t help but smile in return. He always seemed so mischievous.

  “No indeed, sir. I just thought to perhaps take some air before breakfast.” Julia glanced worriedly in Charles’s direction; he had yet to greet her, save his perfunctory bow. “I do hope that is all right, my lord? I did not think to ask your permission to ride Daisy this morning but—”

  “Miss Channing, you have no need to ask permission. Daisy is yours for as long as you are here, for as often as you wish to use her.”

  Julia smiled and thanked him then turned as the horse was brought round, saddled for her.

  “I am so pleased to have the chance to take her out,” she said, stroking the horse’s mane. “I haven’t ridden since that day.”

  Julia stopped awkwardly and glanced at him. By the expression on his face, he too was remembering the abrupt ending to their outing.

  Mr. Crawdon looked curiously between them as a sudden tension prickled the air.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked frowning. “Did the horse misbehave the last time you were out?”

  Julia laughed.

  “No, of course not. She was perfectly behaved.”

  “Ah, so ‘twas Ranford who misbehaved then? Why am I not surprised?”

  Charles merely scowled in answer, and Julia bit her lip to keep from laughing at Mr. Crawdon’s gleeful expression.

  “Touched a nerve have I, Charlie?” he asked happily.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Charles snapped.

  “Awfully cheery in the morning, aren’t you?”

  “Tom, f—”

  “Good morning!”

  The little group turned at the sound of yet another voice.

  Caroline was walking briskly toward them, looking utterly beautiful in a sky-blue riding habit.

  “Good morning, Caroline,” said Julia, pleased to see her. She’d been so busy helping Mr. Trent that she had hardly had a chance to speak to her friend.

  Caroline beamed and leaned forward to give Julia a quick hug.

  “We’ve hardly spoken, Julia. I confess I had hoped to catch you for a chat, and I saw that you were wearing a riding habit, so I thought I might join you. There is so much to fill you in on from London. You are not helping Mr. Trent today, I understand.”

  Julia was very pleased to be able to say that she had a morning off from Mr. Trent’s company, though she phrased it much more politely.

  “The twins are asleep?” asked Mr. Crawdon, automatically moving to stand by his wife. His arm came round her and pulled her closer to his side.

  Julia supressed a sigh at the look of obvious love on Mr. Crawdon’s face. She risked a glance at Lord Ranford. He was still scowling.

  “Yes, they settled straight back down after their morning feed. I think the Irish countryside agrees with them.”

  “So they’re asleep?”

  Caroline looked in confusion at Tom’s question.

  “Yes, Tom. That is what I said.”

  “So, they don’t need us?”

  “I would imagine not, since they are asleep. Are you quite all right, darling?”

  Tom merely grinned then leaned forward to whisper quite scandalously in Caroline’s ear. Whatever it was that he said, it was enough to make Caroline blush to the roots of her hair.

  But the look she gave him was anything but shy.

  Mr. Crawdon’s answering look would have melted every bit of frost surrounding them.

  “You know, Charles, on second thoughts, I don’t think I will join you. Better offer,” Mr. Crawdon said with a wink.

  Charles’s scowl deepened.

  “Please, Tom. Spare me the details.”

  Tom merely winked then practically dragged Caroline away.

  They left a crackling silence in their wake.

  Julia might be an innocent, but she knew enough to know what Mr. Crawdon was implying, and it was mortifying to be thinking of such things, especially in front of the earl! Worse still, she could not help but think of Charles looking at her like that, feeling that way about her, dragging her off then taking her in his arms and—

  “Shall we?” Charles asked pleasantly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Julia asked in shocked indignation, momentarily forgetting that her thoughts were in her head alone, and he had not been privy to her less-than-pure thoughts.

  Charles looked confused at her tone.

  “Er, the horses?”

  “Oh.” Julia felt a blush of embarrassment rush into her cheeks. “Yes, of course. Y-yes.”

  She risked a glance in his direction and saw that he was watching her speculatively.

  “What did you think I was asking?”

  “Nothing,” she bit out sharply.

  He looked momentarily confused before glancing toward where Tom had hauled his wife. His expression cleared and then… that smile.

  Turning back toward her, he leaned closer and whispered, “Why, Miss Channing. You are utterly scandalous.”

  Julia stepped back, more embarrassed than she’d ever been in her life.

  “I’m sure I do not know what you mean.”

  Charles quirked an eyebrow, and she wished to high heaven that it did not make him look as handsome as it did.

  “Oh, I think you do,” he said, his voice low and seductive.

  “This is a ridiculous conversation, and I won’t continue with it.”

  “I agree. I can think of much more pleasurable things to do than talk. And clearly, you can too.”

  Julia’s heart leapt at his words, almost throwing herself at him in excitement. But then common sense and mortification reined her in.

  “You’re impossible,” she fumed.

  “And you, angel, are full of surprises.”

  Without another word, Julia spun on her heel and stormed off back toward the house, her morning ride forgotten.

  Insufferable man.

  Even above the pounding of her heart, she could hear his chuckle following her back.

  CHARLES DID NOT COME to breakfast, and Julia tried very hard to be relieved by that. There was no sign of Caroline, and Tom either, but she refused to think on the reasons why. The dowager was there, however, and the countess who had stopped by the nursery and kidnapped the twins from their nurse.

  “Caroline said they were sleeping,” said the dowager a little petulantly.

  “They were,” confirmed the countess. “But they can sleep just as easily with their grandmothers, can they not?”

  Julia smiled at the older ladies’ delight in the babies. Although the dowager was technically their great-aunt, Tom had been like a son to her for so long it seemed fitting that she should have the status of grandmother.

  The three ladies spent a pleasant hour or so doting on the twins, joined not long after by a blissful-looking Caroline and Tom, until a sound at the front door heralded the first of the morning’s callers. ‘Twas too early for Rebecca and the duke to have arrived.

  The dowager, in her infinite kindness, obviously noticed that Julia’s face fell, though she did her best to hide it.

  “You’ve been so very busy, my dear. Why don’t I make your excuses this morning, and you can spend some quiet hours alone. I am su
re you have things you need to do.”

  Julia could have kissed her.

  Bidding a hasty farewell to the occupants of the room, she raced for the door.

  “I’m not staying either,” said Tom, moving toward the door.

  “Yes, you are. Nobody has seen you,” said the dowager firmly.

  “That’s not fair. Can’t you just wait a while and show Edward off? He’s a duke, you know.”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m aware of that. And you’re the grandson of one. You will stay.”

  Julia grimaced in sympathy as Tom cursed, not even bothering to hide it, then threw himself sulkily into a chair.

  “I’m leaving after five minutes,” he warned with glower.

  The dowager merely smiled serenely and awaited their guests.

  “If it was Edward, you would let him leave.”

  “Yes, dear. But Edward can sulk worse than Henry, and I’d rather not put up with that. You will bounce back and charm everyone as you always do.”

  “So I’m to be punished for being adorable?” Tom asked in all seriousness.

  “Yes, I suppose you are,” said the dowager jovially.

  “Are you going to do something?” he asked Caroline.

  “Like what, darling?”

  “Like, like — let me leave,” he whined.

  Caroline laughed.

  “You’re a grown man, Tom. You do not need my permission to leave.”

  Tom smiled in triumph and jumped from the chair.

  “Sit,” the dowager said with a steely glare.

  Julia heard Tom’s protestations continue all the way down the corridor.

  She had just settled herself in the library when a maid knocked and bobbed a curtsy.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said the girl, her tone apologetic. “The dowager sends her sincere apologies but says that Mr. Trent has come to call and is most insistent that he speak with you urgently.”

  Julia stifled a groan of frustration.

  One blasted day she was to have a reprieve from him.

  Biting back a sigh and reminding herself sternly that she was here as an employee and could not very well refuse to do as she was asked, Julia smiled politely.

  “Of course,” she said, “I shall come directly.”

  The maid turned to leave then swiftly turned back and said, “The dowager really is very sorry to ask you.”

  Julia smiled once again, imagining that the dowager had made her displeasure known.

  “‘Tis quite all right. I do not mind.”

  Julia went back into the drawing room to find the jovial atmosphere of the morning quite missing.

  Caroline’s eyes were glazed over, the dowager wasn’t even pretending to listen anymore, and Tom was noticeably absent. Only the countess seemed to be remotely interested in Mr. Trent’s story about, from the sounds of it, the thorns on holly bushes.

  “Julia, come sit by me,” Caroline whispered.

  Mr. Trent had not yet noticed Julia’s presence.

  “Where is Mr. Crawdon?”

  “He escaped. Just got up and left halfway through Mr. Trent’s instructions on the right way to boil eggs. Terribly rude. The dowager will likely murder him. Though, I do think it would be worth it.”

  Caroline looked so envious of Mr. Crawdon’s impending demise that Julia could not help but laugh.

  Fortunately for the occupants of the room, the sound immediately ceased Mr. Trent’s story. Unfortunately for Julia, it drew his attention to her immediately.

  “My dear Miss. Channing,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “How delightful you look today.”

  Julia frowned at his words, hardly appropriate and definitely untrue. She looked as drab as ever.

  “You wished to see me, Mr. Trent?” she asked politely, choosing to ignore the effusive words and manner in which he spoke.

  “Yes, a small but urgent problem with our preparations for the pageant. I, ah, I wondered if I may speak to you privately about it. I would not usually be so presumptuous, but we do not wish to ruin the surprise for everyone.”

  Julia and Caroline shared a look of horror. It was extremely presumptuous to ask for a private meeting, not to mention scandalous in the extreme. And most unwelcome.

  “I do not think, sir, that—”

  “Where is Charles?” asked the dowager suddenly, interrupting Julia’s refusal.

  “Tom’s gone to find him. They spoke of shooting today. Although, what they hope to shoot in the depths of the winter is beyond me. I think he must have seen him outside in the garden,” said Caroline.

  “Excellent. Well then, Julia, off you go with Mr. Trent. You can talk in the blue salon.”

  Mr. Trent beamed, and Julia turned pleading eyes to the dowager.

  “But, your grace, it is really not—”

  “Oh, it’s fine, Julia. Mr. Trent is a respectable vicar, and you are above reproach. Though, do make sure to stay by the window where you’ll be visible. And leave the door open.”

  Julia was so preoccupied by wondering what on earth the dowager was talking about that she barely noticed Mr. Trent leading her from the room.

  Once they had entered the blue salon, so named for the pale blue wallpaper adorning the walls and powder-blue curtains and Persian rugs, Mr. Trent moved to close the door.

  “Please, Mr. Trent, I must insist that the door remain open.”

  He seemed to hesitate momentarily before stepping away from the door.

  “Of course, Miss. Channing. I forget myself.”

  Julia moved to the window, mindlessly following the dowager’s strange instructions.

  “What is the problem, Mr. Trent?”

  “Problem?”

  “Yes, the urgent problem that you needed to speak to me about.”

  “Wh— oh, yes. Yes, of course. The — ah — the problem,” he stammered.

  Julia merely waited.

  “You must forgive my nervousness this morning, Miss. Channing,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. “I am afraid that I am quite overcome with how lovely you look.”

  Julia did not like where this conversation was going.

  And again, he lied.

  She categorically did not look lovely. The morning dress she’d changed into after her disastrous attempt at riding this morning was one of her dullest. A coarse wool, it had long sleeves, a high neck and was a muddy brown in colour.

  It was most unflattering.

  She had worn it purposely in case Lord Ranford thought she wanted to— Well, no matter. The point was that it was ugly.

  “Take your time,” she said, once again ignoring the fulsome praise and speaking in her best stern governess voice.

  As she watched, a sheen of sweat appeared on Mr. Trent’s brow, and his breathing seemed to become more laborious.

  “Mr. Trent, are you quite well?” she asked in some concern.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Stuffy, with the fire, you know.”

  “Perhaps I should open a window or door?” Julia said, glancing at the French windows leading out to the garden. She knew they were unused as they led, not onto the veranda, as most of the other rooms, but to a rather large flowerbed planted directly outside. Apparently, the wall outside had been damaged some time ago, and the countess, rather than have it replaced, thought it was be a nice architectural quirk to plant some flowers there instead of rebuilding the brick.

  “No. No need really. The truth is, my dear Julia, I had wished to speak to you about a v-very personal—”

  “Mr. Trent,” Julia practically bellowed. She was very much afraid that Mr. Trent was going to declare himself. And that was the absolute last thing she wanted to stand here and listen to.

  Oh, why had the dowager let her speak to him alone?

  “I really do think we should open that window,” Julia said, determinedly marching over to it. Anything to distract Mr. Trent from his apparent line of thought.

  The catch was a little stiff, so Julia leaned against it and pushed and pulled with al
l her might until at last, it swung open on a blast of cool air.

  There was a sudden thump followed swiftly by a sort of strangled groan.

  Julia leaned out curiously and was met with the sight of Lord Ranford, all six feet plus of him, sprawled unconscious in a flowerbed.

  “What on earth?” she gasped in horror.

  Tom Crawdon, who was standing feet away, looked up from the prone earl.

  “Pansies,” he said gravely.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?”

  The sound of a new voice brought Charles’s head up and eyes open, though not without another moan.

  Squinting in the too bright afternoon light, he gazed up at the figures of Edward Hartridge, the Duke of Ranford, and his sister, the duchess, Rebecca.

  “He fainted,” supplied Tom, who was still with him.

  “I did not bloody well faint,” he roared then immediately regretted it as his head hammered its protest.

  “He did,” mumbled Tom.

  “I can still hear you,” Charles said through gritted teeth.

  He was sore. And angry. And, not that he’d admit it, he was humiliated. Never did he think he’d see the day where Mr. Bloody Trent would appear manlier than he.

  He could not believe that she’d knocked him out.

  His angel, the epitome of all that was good and pure and proper, had attacked him with a window.

  Accidentally, yes. But still, it bloody well hurt. A lot.

  “How did you faint?” asked Rebecca brightly, peering at him through narrowed eyes.

  Charles bit back an oath.

  He hadn’t seen Rebecca in so long he did not want to bark at her. Besides, she was carrying his niece or nephew, so he did not want to upset her. She was more terrifying during pregnancies than usual, and that was really saying something.

  Anyway, Edward had a nasty habit of wanting to shoot people who upset his wife.

  “Rebecca,” he began, hauling himself up from the sofa that he was lying on in his study, away from prying eyes, or so he’d thought, “I. Did. Not. Faint.”

  “So what happened then?”

  Charles stood experimentally and was pleased to note the lack of dizziness. He made his way straight to the brandy. Never had he needed a drink so much.