The Irredeemable Miss Renfield (Uncommon Courtships Book 3)

by Regina Scott

  If such thoughts were going through his head, he did not show it. Leslie merely frowned, studying the toes of his boots as if lost in contemplation. Then he jerked upright and struck his palm against his forehead, making her jump.

  “Oh, the horror!” he cried, face screwed up in obvious shock. “What have I done? I shall no longer be forced to don knee breeches. I shall have to forego the pleasure of stale cakes and weak lemonade. And, worst of all, I shall have to find some other amusement for Wednesday night. However shall I survive?”

  Cleo could not help but laugh. Lady Agnes reached out and rapped his kneecap with her bony knuckles. Leslie yelped theatrically.

  “Stop that, you jackanapes,” she demanded. “This is far more serious than a loss of momentary amusement. You have been pointed out as beyond the pale. Your friends will shun you.”

  “My friends have already told me that my mistakes are forgiven,” he informed her, grin still merry. Cleo smiled in relief. His next words, however, only made her hackles rise. “A very lovely young lady made so free as to appear at my door this morning in support, and Chas Prestwick has let me know that nothing I can do would earn his wrath.”

  Who would be so bold as to visit him at home? She did not dare repeat aloud the name that sprung to mind. Surely Eloise Watkin would not be so brazen. Had she learned nothing from her encounter with Jareth Darby? A lady should never put herself in a position where she might be tempted to give her favors away before marriage. Even Cleo would not be so foolish as to break that rule.

  “Chas Prestwick has never been a leader in Society,” Lady Agnes was saying. “And any young lady who comes to a gentleman’s door can by definition not be a member of good Society. Face it, my boy. You are lost. Do you wish to have no one but scoundrels and miscreants to associate with?”

  He shrugged, half smile evident. “That’s who I associate with anyway, according to you.”

  “And is that with whom you prefer Cleo to associate?” she countered.

  “Godmother, really,” Cleo began, but Leslie cast her a sharp, appraising glance.

  “Certainly not,” he said, smile fading at last. “Which is why I do not intend to marry her.”

  “That is hardly the reason,” Cleo scolded him. “I don’t believe any of this rubbish about you anyway. Scoundrels and miscreants indeed.” She turned to her godmother, who was regarding her with narrowed eyes. “Leslie doesn’t love me, Lady Agnes. Nor I him. I’m sorry if we gave you the impression otherwise. We are the dearest of friends, but nothing more.”

  She expected her godmother to scold her unmercifully, but she merely threw up her hands as if in praise. “Thank goodness for that,” she declared. “You will be nothing more than friends with a gentleman until the day you wed, if I have anything to say in the matter.”

  Cleo felt herself blushing. “I still won’t marry Leslie.”

  Lady Agnes let out a huff. “Fine. Have it your way. But if you refuse Leslie, what do you propose? Your sisters will not sit idly by, Cleo. Indeed, I am shocked they have not pounced upon us already. Make no mistake. If the gossips were happy to tattle about your horse race, they are even now filling your sisters’ ears with this latest debacle.”

  “We can always flee for the Continent,“ Leslie offered.

  Cleo smiled at him. “I don’t think that will be necessary. A quiet place in the country will suit me fine.”

  “That will not happen,“ Lady Agnes insisted. “Once your sisters determine your chances with Leslie are lost, or decide Leslie is not worth the trouble, they will choose another candidate. I shudder to think how inappropriate this one will be.”

  “Isn’t it possible that my sisters will finally realize their inadequacy at making my choices for me?” Cleo protested.

  Lady Agnes blinked. “Why would they do that? Do you expect them to suddenly acquire sense or the ability to see logic? Might as well wish for the moon, my girl.”

  Cleo frowned, but Leslie leaned forward. “Are you saying her sisters will insist on marrying her off against her wishes?”

  “I will not let them,” Cleo blustered.

  “You do not have a choice,” Lady Agnes replied. “George Carlisle is your guardian. He can marry you off to whom he chooses. We should be thankful he hasn’t settled on someone like that reprehensible Major Cutter.”

  Before Cleo could protest that Major Cutter seemed quite all right to her, Leslie stepped in. “I agree. Tony Cutter is not the gentleman I thought him. I will not countenance him for Cleo’s hand.”

  “You won’t countenance him?” Cleo stared at him, feeling her temper rising. “Will you order me about as well? When did you have anything to say in the matter?”

  He uncoiled so rapidly to thrust his face toward hers that she flinched back. “When I became your dearest friend, remember?” he snarled.

  Cleo refused to be cowed. She could not imagine what had gotten into him, but she could not allow him to join the ranks of those who dictated to her. “That doesn’t give you the right to tell me how to live my life,” she retorted.

  “I think I’ve earned that right,” he challenged. “I’ve played the courtier and the martyr for you, Cleo. I won’t play the fool any longer. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay away from Tony Cutter.”

  “You’re jealous,” she accused, unable to think of any other reason for his actions.

  “Ha!” he cried. “How can a dear friend be jealous?”

  “That is quite enough,” Lady Agnes commanded. In the silence that followed, Cleo took a deep breath. She had never seen Leslie so angry. Indeed, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Leslie angry at all. A muscle worked in his cheek, his dark eyes blazed, and his face was nearly as red as the carpet at her feet. She noticed her own hands were balled at her sides and carefully opened them.

  “You’re both making fools of yourself,” Lady Agnes continued when neither of them spoke. “Let us come to a truce, and I will propose the terms.”

  Cleo took another deep breath. “You may propose,” she said as civilly as she could. “I do not promise to obey.”

  Lady Agnes glared at her. “Don’t be impertinent with me, miss. Do you think I agreed to be your chaperone for the fun of it?”

  Cleo blinked. Indeed, she had rather thought that was why her godmother had sought her out as school was ending. Then she remembered the conversation between Lady Agnes and Ellie. It was an obligation for Lady Agnes to shepherd Cleo through the Season. Though she knew Lady Agnes loved her, this hectic Season could not have been her first wish. Looking at her godmother now, she suddenly noted how thin she was, how translucent her skin, how filmy her grey eyes. For all her fuss and furor, she was aging. Lady Agnes caught her look and grimaced.

  “I am not dead yet, girl,” she said as if reading Cleo’s mind. “With any luck, I have a few years to go. But I’ve been around long enough to have learned some things. Now, you listen to me.”

  Cleo nodded, sitting back in her chair. Leslie had leaned back as well, but she could not help but notice that his stance was far from relaxed. He looked more like a lion ready to pounce.

  “First,” Lady Agnes said, “Leslie will propose.”

  Leslie scowled. Cleo grit her teeth.

  “Cleo will accept,” Lady Agnes continued, forestalling her intentions to refuse immediately. “You will have six weeks while the banns are read to find another candidate for your hand. If you find one, you will cry off, and the ton will give Leslie their pity. That way he just might make it through the Season without offending someone again.”

  “Your faith in me is inspiring,” Leslie drawled.

  Lady Agnes ignored him. “If you cannot find another gentleman to your liking, however, and bring him up to scratch within six weeks’ time, you will marry Leslie.”

  Cleo opened her mouth to protest.

  “Done,” Leslie proclaimed, rising. “Excellent strategy, Godmother. That concluded, I think Cleo needs some air. I’ll take her for a drive. Don’t expect us
back before dinner.”

  Cleo stared at him. So did Lady Agnes.

  He smiled charmingly. “Don’t stand there gaping, Sprout. Fetch your Spencer and bonnet and let’s be off.”

  “Have you gone mad?” she managed. “You agree to that preposterous plan?”

  He was already moving toward the door. “Certainly. I was sure I said as much. Good day, Lady Agnes. Come along, Cleo.”

  Cleo continued to stare at his retreating back. How could he simply give in? She was certain he’d support her, even if he had taken a strange disliking to Major Cutter. Looking at her chest indeed. The major hadn’t so much as lowered his gaze past her lips last night. She cast a glance at her godmother, who was shaking her head.

  “You better go after him,” she told Cleo. “I’m not entirely certain he’s safe.”

  Cleo nodded. “I quite agree. I’ll try to bring him back in time for dinner.”

  Lady Agnes nodded as well, rising. “Good. And may I say, Cleo, that I am most pleased by your calm reaction to my proposal. It bodes well for us being able to rescue your reputation.”

  “I’m glad you’re pleased,” Cleo replied, heading for the entry hall, where she could hear Leslie bellowing for Mr. Cowls to fetch her things. “But as for my reputation, we will have to wait and see.”

  Lady Agnes frowned, but Cleo knew she spoke the truth. She wasn’t sure how the ton would react when word of her engagement leaked out. If she hadn’t been able to find a man who appreciated her for who she was in the two months she’d been in London, she was certain he wasn’t going to suddenly appear and beg for her hand in a mere six weeks.

  But she was equally sure of the satisfaction she would feel when she strangled Leslie with the carefully tied folds of his cravat.

  *

  Leslie settled back against the squabs of his father’s coach, meeting Cleo’s militant eye. He was rather surprised she hadn’t strangled him by now. Even the reminder that he had spirited her safely out of the house, with no questions asked, to see the illicit boxing match had failed to remove the righteous indignation from her gaze.

  “You admitted defeat without even asking me,” she accused him.

  “Not at all,” he replied as the coach set off. “We lost the battle, dear Cleo. I refuse to believe we lost the war.”

  That at least seemed to mollify her. The grim lines around her sweet mouth relaxed.

  He smiled. “Don’t give up on me yet, Sprout. I still have a few cards to play. I’ve never let you down before, have I?”

  Her arms fell to her sides, and she returned his smile sheepishly. “Never. I’m sorry, Leslie. I just never thought it would come to this. Do you realize what we agreed to? I have six weeks to find a husband.”

  “Easy as that.” Leslie snapped his fingers.

  She raised a brow. “Oh, really? I have been on the town for months and have yet to find the perfect fellow. Unless you count Major Cutter.”

  Just the name set his hackles rising, but he promised himself to behave like a gentleman. “Yes, I understand you favor him. Is he a viable candidate?”

  He steeled himself to hear a glorified account of the fellow’s dubious merits, but to his surprise, her gaze wavered, then turned away from him entirely.

  “Truth be told, Les, I’m not entirely sure. He is thoughtful and handsome, and my heart beats faster whenever I’m near him, but...” she trailed off.

  “But?” Leslie encouraged, feeling craven for hoping she might have discovered the fellow’s flaws.

  She shook her head. “But that seems woefully little on which to base one’s hope for the future. Would he appreciate a wife who prefers riding to dancing? Or would he expect me to be a typical lady of the ton, known only for her ability to play the harp and sit quietly until spoken to? It would be nice to have an opportunity to get to know him better.”

  Although he knew it was the logical next step, part of him quailed. “Could it be that he is only interested in a flirtation?”

  “Perhaps,” she acknowledged as she stared out the window. “Oh, I don’t know, Les! I wish Mother were alive. I know she’d be able to advise me.”

  Leslie may not have been able to remember a great deal about Mrs. Renfield, but he somehow thought she’d been a canny soul. Certainly she’d see more to this major than Cleo did. Mothers, in his experience, knew all about cads like the major. However, he knew how Cleo felt. Over the last year he had wished for his father’s wisdom any number of times. He could almost hear the old fellow now.

  “Well, this is an interesting scrape you’ve gotten yourself into, my boy,” he’d say with that grave voice, the twinkle in his eyes the only sign that he was more amused than incensed. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  Leslie, of course, would propose something entirely outrageous, but his father would never feign shock or offer censure. He’d merely stroke his curling mustache and say, “Indeed. An interesting approach. Have you considered this?” And then he’d proceed to question and probe until Leslie was painfully aware of the many flaws in his plan and his father had given him the seeds of a far more useful way to solve the matter. It would certainly be interesting to see what he would do with this coil. How exactly would he deal with Cleo’s interest in the odious major?

  “I don’t suppose Miss Renfield is likely to come to the same conclusion herself?” he’d have asked. “Being the smart little chit you claim she is and all.”

  Which would have set Leslie on a quarter-hour rant about Cleo’s cleverness, citing any number of examples from her childhood on. What a pity his father wasn’t here. But that was part of the problem.

  He sighed. “Well, I suspect there comes a time when we all have to move forward on our own,” he told Cleo.

  She turned from the window to eye him. “You miss your father, don’t you?”

  Leslie blinked. “Am I that obvious?”

  “To a mere acquaintance, no. But I know you better than that.” She cocked her head. “Lady Jersey was wrong, you know. I will not believe you disappointed him.”

  “Perhaps not,” Leslie replied. “But the fact of the matter remains. I will never be the marquis he was. How can I be expected to take his place?”

  “You can’t,” she agreed. “For the simple reason that you are not your father.”

  “No,” Leslie said. “I’m Les.”

  She cringed at the pun. “That is not what I meant. I meant that you are yourself–kind, gentle, sweet, funny. You are not less than your father; you could be far more.”

  Gazing into her warm brown eyes, he could almost believe her. When he was around her, there were moments he felt like the mighty Marquis of Hastings. Of course, there were also moments he felt like a green schoolboy fresh from the country. “We are a pair, Cleo. Neither of us is making any progress in getting what we want.”

  She smiled. “We are rather dismal. And I don’t think we’re asking for so very much either.”

  “Just the right to control your life,” he reminded her.

  “And the right to have fun,” she countered. “In truth, however, I suspect we both want someone who will care for us no matter what scrapes we get into.”

  “I already have someone like that,” he said, watching her. “You.”

  She blushed, but the light in her eyes told him she was pleased. “And I have you. Thank you for sticking with me through all this, Les. I wish I could say it will be more fun from here out, but I simply don’t know.”

  “It’s all right, Cleo,” he replied, letting his heart bask in the glow of her approval. “I’m not sure what happens next either, but at least we can face it together.”

  The next two days would prove just how wrong he was.

  Chapter Fourteen

  C

  leo had to admit that the boxing match was as exciting as she’d hoped, if for slightly different reasons. She really had no experience with how such things were run, but she had imagined she’d be sitting close to the front of the event and watching two
gentlemen jabbing civilly at each other in a show of manly strength and agility. As it turned out, nothing could have been further from the truth.

  In the first place, she wasn’t even allowed near the ring. As the carriage drew closer to the site for the match, Leslie’s coachman opened the panel that separated him from the interior of the coach.

  “Nearly there, m’ lord,” he called down, round face red from the wind. “Do you want to go afoot or shall I try for his lordship’s old spot?”

  Leslie hesitated, casting her a quick glance. “The edge of the field will be fine,” he replied to his man.

  Cleo eyed him. “Can we see anything from the edge?” she asked.

  Her voice must have betrayed her suspicion, for he chuckled. “Enough,” he promised. “My father used to take in the fights from his carriage, and he could see enough to trounce me in the betting books. Besides, we really should try to minimize the damage to your reputation.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Am I not allowed any time to enjoy myself?”

  He reached across and tapped her nose. “Impertinent miss,” he snapped in a high falsetto that was a near-perfect imitation of Lady Agnes. Cleo laughed.

  “If I didn’t agree with you,” he said in his normal voice. “I wouldn’t have brought you.”

  Cleo turned to the window as Leslie’s coachman brought the carriage to a stop on the edge of a wide field, already teaming with people. Dandies jostled costermongers for places around a circle cleared in the flattened grass where the fighters would take their stances. At least a dozen other carriages ringed the area. Unfortunately, even with the height of Leslie’s carriage, Cleo could only catch glimpses beyond the heads and shoulders of the people in front of her. Frustrated, she clambered up onto her knees on the seat.

  A quickly drawn breath made her glance at Leslie, but he merely offered her a strained smile.

  “Comfortable?” he asked.

  She followed his gaze to where her dress had ridden up to reveal her stocking-clad ankles and calves. Even though they were only displayed for Leslie, she felt herself blushing and hastily tugged down her skirts. “Comfortable enough,” she said, returning her gaze to the window to hide her embarrassment. “How soon will they be starting?”