An Untitled Lady: A Novel

by Nicky Penttila

  This time, she had to climb it one-handed, her other hand managing the folds of her grown-girl skirt. Ladies did not climb ladders. Still, she didn’t hesitate, drawn forward as if she were a pilgrim only steps away from Mecca. She stepped onto the platform, amid barrels of oats and bales of hay and straw. The window in the far wall was square and paned, but now only as high as her waist. Her sturdy boots made little sound as she walked toward the glass, but her steps slowed nearly to a crawl. Now that she was here, taking the last steps was almost too much. Even her shallowest breaths stung.

  She touched her necklace, stroking the length of its tiny cross with her thumb. This was foolish fancy, not the sort of thing ladies engaged in. If she were truly a proper lady, she would be concentrating on the wreckage that was her future, not trying to recall that of her past. Maddie stiffened her shoulders and nearly ran the final few steps to the window.

  Heedless of her hem, she sank onto her knees. The view out the window was the familiar green of the meadow beyond the walls, but it failed to soothe her. She rested her fists on the bottom edge of the frame. It was still loose. She pushed it aside to reveal a leather necklace, and the key. It fit easily inside her hand now. Before, she’d had to wear it under her dress to hide it.

  Back then, she’d stand, back to the wall, as she’d seen the servants do, and he would walk down the hall, passing her, and then snap his fingers. “Mouse!” If she did not scurry fast enough, he hit her. Then he would hand her the key. “Get my tools ready.”

  Scurry ahead of him, to his dressing room, where the dark oak chest lurked. Twisting the key in the lock, and pushing with both hands, she could slowly, painfully, open the lid. On one side were his tools. She didn’t look at them as she pulled them out. Because on the other side were Mr. Bun-bun and all the rest of her toys, taken one at a time as punishment for her infinite misdeeds.

  She had no toys now. She didn’t want them anyway. They had chosen My Lord Viscount.

  How she wanted to burn that chest, burn the whole house down. But the one time she’d tried she’d only spilled hot tallow on her arm, burning herself.

  My Lord forever promised to return Mr. Bun-bun, once Mouse had learned her place, but she never could. And she was always caught when trying to run away. Four-year-olds are easy to run to ground.

  Finally, midsummer festival arrived, with a huge moon to light her way the long, long way to the castle. It had taken her all that long night; she’d tucked herself away in the hayloft just as the groomsmen were stirring. She hid that damned key where My Lord would never think to look for it, and then slept like the dead until it grew dark again.

  By the time a groom discovered who she was, it was too late to send her home. Lord Shaftsbury himself decided against it. “When they ask us, that’s when we’ll tell them you’re here.”

  No one ever asked. After a few days bedding down with the housekeeper, she saw My Lord’s carriage pull up. She made herself so small no one could see her. Later, when she turned up starving for supper, the housekeeper brought her up to the earl, who told her about her new life, as a boarding-student way away south. It sounded marvelous.

  Maddie saw she was swinging the key like a pendulum. Now it was just a key, one that likely didn’t fit in any lock. He’d likely changed the lock, all those years ago. Nothing to fear. And if school had not been completely marvelous, it had not harmed her, either.

  The slights and fears that stung in those early forms were gnat’s bites when seen through the eyes of adulthood. The terrors she’d felt at Wetherby House were likely the same, just childish fantasies. What had Lord Wetherby done to her that lords hadn’t done to poor relations for ages? Her case was common enough, now that she understood more of the world. Then, she’d thought him a cruel, cruel tyrant; now she saw him as an unmarried man saddled with a traumatized, nearly wild infant. Small wonder he thought to take her to task; small wonder he did not know how to treat little girls.

  But had the Lord Shaftsbury done any better? He’d had her raised to expect the world, or at least a peer as a husband, when the truth was she was more likely to be the governess than the lady of a great house. The disappointments of childhood paled in comparison with this latest letdown. Who had done her the most lasting harm—the lord who pretended she was a princess when she was a pauper, or the one who took pains to remind her how pauperish she was?

  She’d thought Lord Wetherby was in the wrong all this time. Now she had to admit it was she. Without an alliance with the Quinns, or Wetherby’s support, she was nothing, no one.

  She had adopted the Quinns as her secret family all these years, hiding from the fact that she had no family. That mirage may have comforted the child Maddie, but it was high time the adult Madeline put away her infantile fancies and dreams.

  Maybe little Maddie still hoped that Deacon Quinn would see his proper duty, marry her, and make everything right. Grown-up Madeline knew the new earl’s duty was to marry a true lady and continue a clean line of peerage, and she didn’t signify. The letters meant nothing, less than nothing now that they were ash.

  She dried her tears and flexed her knees to stand, the key swinging on its brittle strap in her hand. Tomorrow, she would take Mr. Heywood’s offer, and learn not to shudder at being thought a working girl. Her grand schemes as lady of the castle were done.

  Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  { 9 }

  As soon as he recognized the clack of billiard balls being racked up, Nash knew where Deacon was. Why on earth had his ten o’clock scholar of a brother chosen today to become an early riser? Why ever did he blab to Heywood about the letters? Come to that, how could he have burned them in the first place?

  Nash rolled his shoulders as he crossed the hall to the game room, trying to loosen some of their tension. Shaftsbury raised a brow in greeting; his opponent, Wetherby of course, had his back to the door, lining up the break shot.

  “Heard you were in early with Mama. Brave little brother.”

  “Heard you already spilled all and more to Heywood.”

  “Trump to you, then.” Deacon pouted as the balls, hit too soft, clumped in the middle.

  Wetherby leaned on his cue as Deacon took the table. “The prodigal returns.”

  Nash’s shoulders stiffened again, but he would not rise to the bait. Instead he dropped into the overstuffed chair made from his grandsire’s best jumper. “Saw your niece this morning.”

  Wetherby’s whole body went stiff. “She is not my niece.”

  “Poor lost Wetherby.” Deacon sank two, but missed the third.

  Wetherby turned his attention back to his opponent. “Half-mourning, Shaftsbury? I thought those days were done.”

  Deacon shrugged, puckering the shoulders of his charcoal velvet coat. “Habit, I suppose. I certainly don’t feel even half-mournful.” He walked to the sideboard and poured out what looked like a fingerful of brandy. Perhaps he also had not slept well? “Listen, Nash. I’ve had an idea.”

  “The heavens ring,” Wetherby quipped, and sank a ball.

  Deacon ignored him. “What if I gave you that loan? The one for the Netherlands deal?”

  What the hell? Nash willed himself not to rise, not to sound the rabid hound. “Heywood talks out of school.”

  Deacon shivered elegantly. “Stand down. It would be better to keep it in the family, wouldn’t it? And I don’t know how many more bolts of silk we can absorb.”

  “You think my situation that desperate?”

  “I don’t know, really, do I? Just that you grumble and grouse, night and day, about outlays. Or outliers. Damn, you made me miss the pocket.”

  “You’d make a beggar of your own kin?” Wetherby smirked far too much.

  “What are you trying to say, Wetherby?” Nash had not thought he could dislike the man more.

  Deacon jumped in before he could answer. “I’m only saying, perhaps the family could help you, if you help the family. Plus, plus, plus?” His voice lost steam as he noticed the fire o
f Nash’s glare.

  At last Nash blinked. “If you will not do your duty in marriage, My Lord Earl, you should take Miss Wetherby to London, with Mama and Miss Heywood. You don’t want either of the ladies, and they both would do well on the marriage mart. And I would have Mama safe from whatever marching and mayhem the radicals plan this season.”

  “I heard of the seditious talk in Oldham.” Wetherby at last decided on his angle, but failed to sink the ball.

  Deacon groaned in sympathy. “Two young misses is one too many. One is one too many. And I should be here if there is riot, shouldn’t I? I need to keep my people safe.”

  “Keep them in line, more like. Wouldn’t you say, Quinn?” Wetherby pulled back his lips in a painful looking grin.

  Deacon muffed his shot into the edge of the felt. “Right. What I mean is, if you take this Miss Wetherby, then father’s promise is kept.”

  “He promised her you.”

  “He promised her you first.”

  Wetherby avoided the safe shot and took one at the far end of the table, not taking his gaze off Nash. “So you did not honor your father’s intentions?”

  “As you did not your brother’s? To his sole surviving child?”

  “Boys, boys.” Deacon stepped between them, though there was a good ten feet between them.

  Nash couldn’t let it go. “At least I did not leave a family member to fend for herself at four years old.”

  Deacon snorted. “No. You left when I was thirteen.”

  Wetherby’s grin crept back into Nash’s view. “We are more alike than you’d like to admit.”

  “I’m nothing like you.”

  “Second son, something to prove, on the outs with your patriarch. Has a familiar ring.”

  “You are the patriarch now, though.”

  “And isn’t it marvelous.” Deacon took advantage of Wetherby’s oddly weak shot and sliced his own lie, knocking in his final ball. “Game.”

  Wetherby shook his head. “You must have a touch of the faerie in you, with that luck.”

  “Skill, my good man. Care to have at me, Nash?”

  “With that skill?”

  “Sod yourself. Nash is the true luck in the family,” he said to Wetherby. “Even the Navy couldn’t kill him.”

  “Not yet.” Wetherby posed en garde, pool stick like an epée aimed at Nash’s heart. Nash, sprawled in the chair, didn’t blink. Instead he stretched like a cat, drawing his chest an inch closer to the blunted blade.

  Wetherby spun the stick in his hand until the back end was toward Nash. He bowed, as if presenting a scepter to the king.

  “How very kind,” Nash drawled.

  “It’s no joy to be defeated twice in a row. You should have to take some blows, as well.”

  Nash took the stick, unbent his legs and stretched, rolling his shoulders again. “And you’ll just watch?” He didn’t like the looks of that grin.

  “Mayhaps. I might go a’wenching. I know a certain wench newly up for grabs.”

  Nash let go one end of the stick. It swung bare inches from Wetherby’s shoulder to point to the ground. “She’s your niece, man.”

  “Not in the eyes of the law.”

  Even Deacon couldn’t let that one lie. “Damned bad form, man. Even the suggestion.”

  “She could always say no. A desperate woman, in desperate times. What think you?” Wetherby sketched a bow and rolled an expert saunter out of the room.

  “The man’s poison,” Nash ground out. “Why do you tolerate him?”

  Deacon dropped the first shot, and swore under his breath.

  “And I’m the one with the temper,” Nash said.

  “So they say. Will you not consider marrying the chit? You do like her, I can see it.”

  “Your castoff.”

  Something constrained Deacon’s usual easy form. He blew his ball entirely. “But she suits you. She likes to argue, and talk about duty and contracts and all that, just like you. And you did stare at her all through supper.”

  Nash waited.

  Deacon stepped into the breach. “And I would have her happy. She does seem to be the only one who met our father’s expectations. I suppose she deserves something for that. Not me, of course.”

  “Why has anything changed? Shaftsbury had held his tongue all this time, as has Wetherby. If you marry her, who would speak nay to a newly minted countess?”

  “That’s nonsense and you know it. And when did you learn to slice like that? You’re a positive shark.” Deacon sighed, ceding the game. “Not a loan, then. What if we call it a dowry?”

  “That’s medieval.”

  “That’s Society.”

  What was a lady worth? What was a fair price? Why was he even considering it? He wasn’t, was he?

  And after the scene at breakfast, it seemed very unlikely she would even have him. Worse, what if she thought she could do no better, and accepted him despite her own opinion? He’d been told before that he wasn’t the most romantic of men.

  He glared at Deacon. “Five thousand or five hundred thousand, I’ll not take a woman to wife for money.”

  “And you call yourself a man of business. Marriage is the oldest money transaction there is, save one.”

  “Then consider my refusal a business decision.” He dropped the stick on the table.

  “But if you would just do this, think how much the family would owe you.” Deacon was starting to wheedle. Nash knew they were in the home stretch. But the win didn’t taste as sweet as usual.

  “What makes you think I care for the family’s favor?”

  “That’s all you have ever wanted, baby brother. Here’s your chance. Take it.”

  It was tempting. But the woman was flesh, not commodity, and he would not be pushed about, no matter how tasty the offer—and the woman—might seem. Nash looked at his hands, his knuckles braced hard on the table, and then back up at his brother.

  “No. I won’t dance to your tune.”

  * * * *

  At the entry to the stables, Maddie stopped short. Nash Quinn stood on the other edge of the courtyard, speaking to a laborer and pointing at the gables on the roof of the kitchen. The last person she wanted to see. He stood so straight, scowled so manfully, and had failed her so severely.

  Why had she even put her trust in him? Men were so selfish and unreliable. Miss Marsden might never have said so outright, but she surely implied it. Maddie herself had a ream of experience that proved the truth of it. Hiding would not solve anything, though, and might get her trampled. At her back, she could hear a horse being prepared for riding. Maddie stepped out, into the sun, heading for the fountain in the center of the yard. She had half a mind to throw the key into the water; it might bring her good luck. Before she could, a voice at her shoulder stopped her cold.

  “Such a pretty picture. The country girl at home.” Lord Wetherby grinned, the silver thread in his robin’s egg coat twinkling in the half-light.

  Maddie’s face and throat burned. Must she always appear at her worst in front of this man? No, instead of meekly scurrying away, she stood her ground. As he gave directions to the groomsman, she smoothed her skirt and straightened her shoulders. When he turned his attention back to her, she nodded gracefully.

  “Uncle Cecil.”

  His fine face pinched. “I told you never to call me that.” He strode past her to the step-up and then turned back, striking a pose she’d seen in the pages of Le Beau Monde. From his well-oiled hair to his well-oiled boots, he brought the caricature to life. A flyaway cut to his coat set off the bright yellow of his frilled shirt and matching cravat, surely China silks. She didn’t dare do more than glance at his fawn breeches, so tight she wasn’t sure he would be able to ride in them.

  “You look well,” she said.

  “Weeks out of date. Country living, I can’t stand it.”

  Maddie stood, quiet, hands clasped, waiting on him. He’d opened the conversation, and she had continued it. Now it was his turn again. Everything
proper.

  He fingered the intricacies of his cuff. Was he nervous about something? Warm empathy washed through her. She could see now that he was no black monster, only a man like everyone else. How childish she had been. Perhaps this family separation had all been a simple mistake. Imagine if she might put it right again in a moment. Return to a family. Her heart skipped a beat in anticipation.

  He spoke. “What’s that in your hand?” He straightened his arm to shake the cuff out.

  “Your key. Do you remember?”

  A smile slithered onto his lips. “Of course. You went missing, and so did my key. A key is easily replaced.” As were you, his eyes implied, but she knew that wasn’t true. No other young girls had lived at Wetherby after her. She had it on authority from Emmett. “Give it back.” He held out a hand. His other held his riding gloves. She lifted her arm to match his gesture, but her glove fisted over the key. Her jaw clenched against a rising tide of unwanted feelings. She did not want him to have it, even if she had just thought to drown it in the water. She frowned and fought her imaginary fears. He didn’t need it, he said so. Why should she give it away? She didn’t want it, so where was the trouble?

  He dropped his hand, annoyance flitting across his too blue eyes, quickly replaced by a look of unconcern. He had a very pretty mouth for a man. “I know you have no love for me, and if I thought of you at all, I’d have none for you. I see you’re at a bit of a loose end, though; no one will have you. So why don’t I take you up?”

  Maddie’s dreams collided with her hopes on the way from her heart to her head. “You would be my uncle in truth?”

  “Listen to yourself, all breathless. Of course not. This would be a business transaction like the one you were kiln-hot to settle with Shaftsbury.”

  Marriage? That seemed too far beyond possible. He’d already declared his lack of love. But society weddings were contracts, not love-matches. Did he mean to marry her? She shuddered. What did she possess that he could possibly want?

  “I suppose, because you think we’re unrelated,” she started, but he cut in.