The Irredeemable Miss Renfield (Uncommon Courtships Book 3)

by Regina Scott

  Considering what she’d been through that evening, it was the least he could do. He bowed, congratulating himself that he only wavered slightly as he straightened. “Your servant, my dear. Back in a moment.”

  He scanned the room again and located the refreshment table on the far side. He nearly groaned aloud at the number of bejeweled, beribboned people crowding the space between him and it but squared his shoulders with a manly hiccough and set off.

  Ten minutes later he fetched up against the table with a gasp of relief. He had had to detour around doddering dowagers, dewy debutantes, and dilettante dandies. He’d only trod upon two sets of toes, three hems, and Mrs. Winston’s pet pug, who never left her side even at balls. He snatched up a tepid lemonade with victorious glee and turned to run the gauntlet back to Cleo.

  Only to find himself facing Eloise Watkin.

  She did not smile. Indeed, her face was pale, her jade green eyes wide. “Lord Hastings,” she said quickly, “thank goodness I saw you. I have been trying to think what to do all evening. I heard the most distressing gossip about Miss Renfield.”

  Had the news traveled so quickly? But no, surely no one at Madam Zala’s would have come to this ball before Leslie and Cleo. He’d seen no sign of Reddington about, and surely he was one of the few people Mrs. Winston would allow in her popular little event. And Cutter would not have dared show his face before Leslie. If the fellow had any sense, he’d be making for the Continent. Leslie narrowed his eyes.

  “I assure you, whatever you’ve heard is overblown,” he informed her.

  Her face reddened. “And I assure you, Lord Hastings, that it is not only wrong, but so egregious as to keep her from all Polite Society for the rest of her life.”

  Leslie stared at her. “Miss Watkin, what have you heard?”

  She dropped her gaze. “I will not repeat it in this crowd. But I do not think it can wait until tomorrow for me to call on Miss Renfield.”

  “You needn’t wait,” Leslie informed her, sluggish mind trying to grasp what he was hearing. “She sits behind that palm across the room. Though talking to her here will not solve your concern for the crowd.”

  “No, it won’t. And we must fight this story, sir, and quickly, or all is lost.” She lowered her voice, leaning closer. Her scent was heady with rose and lemon, stronger than the drink in his hand or the drug in his blood. “We must talk in private, without delay. There is a room just down the corridor, a library. If you slip out now, I shall fetch Miss Renfield and join you in a few moments. That should keep tongues from wagging.”

  Leslie nodded, and she straightened. He handed her the lemonade. “If you’ll take this to Miss Renfield, Miss Watkin,” he said aloud, for the benefit of any who might be listening. “I’d be greatly in your debt. I am in need of some fresh air.”

  He turned and sauntered toward the door, rather pleased with himself that he only bumped the wall once in the process.

  *

  Cleo sat behind her potted palm, hands folded in her lap. The chair was far too hard for her to relax, but she could not have lounged even if it had been a feather bed. Her body still tingled from Leslie’s touch, her mind still hummed with the wonder of it. She did not understand the reaction, but she could not doubt its potency. She had thoroughly enjoyed his kiss. Once she thwarted Major Cutter, she would be only too happy to do something about Leslie.

  She could not wait until he returned and she could appear before her hostess and plead a headache. No one would doubt her. The noise in the room was strident, the heat oppressive. She wanted only the silence of her room in which to ponder the events of the evening. She looked up expectantly as someone ducked behind the palm.

  Then clambered to her feet when she saw it was Eloise.

  The girl held out a lemonade. “I am sorry to keep appearing before you like this, Cleo. Lord Hastings ask me to bring this so that we may talk.”

  Cleo crossed her arms over her chest. “I wouldn’t take food or drink from you, for it would very likely be as poisoned as your speech.”

  Eloise blanched. “What are you talking about? I thought we cried truce.”

  “So did I until I heard how you betrayed me.”

  “I betrayed you? What have I done to betray you?

  “Only spread malicious gossip about me.” Cleo shook her head. “Did you think I would forget your threat?”

  “I should have known you’d blame me for that awful gossip,” Eloise cried. “You’ve heard it then, haven’t you?”

  “I know you told Major Cutter that I was the one in the hayloft with Jareth Darby.”

  The glass fell from Eloise’s fingers, crashing to the polished wood to splinter into a thousand pieces. “Don’t say that here!” she cried, heedless of the yellow liquid that puddled on the floor.

  “Why not? I’m tired of lies. What good have they done? They have only served to land me in the soup. And I do not see that your life has been easier for them.”

  “You expect me to tell everyone about...that?” Her tone was incredulous.

  “Perhaps you should. Look at yourself, Eloise! You can trust no one. You spend your days in fear that the truth will come out. Is that why you told Major Cutter a different version of it?”

  “No,” Eloise insisted, shaking her head. “You are wrong.”

  “Or was it jealousy?” Cleo persisted. “When you saw he was taking an interest in me, you were willing to tell him anything to drive him away. Well, you lost, Eloise. Major Cutter is as big a liar as you are.”

  Eloise shook her head again, eyes tearing. “You are wrong. It is you who lies. Major Cutter cared for me, just as Lord Darby cared. You drove both of them away. I tried to help you. I sent Lord Hastings to the library so that I could help.”

  “You leave Leslie alone!” Hands balled at her side, Cleo took a step toward her.

  Eloise held her ground. “Oh, Leslie, is it? Is it not enough that you’ve stolen Major Cutter’s regard? You cannot stand to see me happy, and I’ve never understood why. Well, you may keep Major Cutter, but I will not allow you to poison Lord Hastings against me as well. He has treated me with respect. He might even come to care for me.”

  “You don’t stand a chance,” Cleo informed her icily. “We are already engaged.”

  Eloise glared at her through her tears. “Why should I believe you? And even if it is true, how do I know he was not trapped into an engagement with you after your shocking behavior at Almack’s? Your Leslie is no different from any other man. I could have him eating out of my hand any time I choose. If you want proof, be in the library in ten minutes time.” Dashing away her tears, she flounced back into the thick of the ballroom and was immediately swallowed by the crowd.

  Cleo sank onto the chair. Eloise’s reasoning was as convoluted as ever. But she had to be lying about the gossip. No one currently in England knew of the liaison in the hayloft except herself, Eloise, and Miss Martingale. Even Marlys, to whom she’d poured out her concerns, only knew something bad had happened. Eloise was clearly the gossip and just as clearly intent on denying it. And now she thought to trap Leslie in the process.

  Cleo snorted. Leslie would see through her in a minute. He was far too intelligent to play Eloise’s game. But then, she had thought herself intelligent, and she had fallen into Major Cutter’s trap. All Eloise had to do was to be found alone in the same room with Leslie, and he could be accused of seduction. He was a particularly easy target after his censure by Lady Jersey. Once again Cleo’s behavior was threatening someone with ruin!

  With a groan, she pushed herself out of the chair. It looked as if Leslie needed rescuing, and she was the only one who could do it. If she could just find Mrs. Winston in this crowd, she could learn where the library was and bring an ally along too.

  *

  Leslie found the library empty, though someone had thoughtfully lit the wall sconces so that the gilt lettering on the many books gleamed in the golden glow. He wandered around, perusing the titles on the shelves, noting t
hat Mrs. Winston had more knickknacks than novels. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen so many pug-faced dogs and blue enameled vases. He grimaced at a particularly ugly chow with a green lacquered cap. He was contemplating the state of mind of a person who would buy all seventeen volumes of The Fall of the Roman Empire and stack them under an equally interesting volume called On the Prevention of Conception in the Modern Female, when Eloise slid through the door to join him.

  He turned expectantly, then frowned when he saw she was alone. Her color was high as she hurried to his side.

  “Oh, Lord Hastings,” she said breathlessly, “she wouldn’t come with me. She thinks I spread that distressing gossip.”

  Leslie eyed her. Had Cleo and the girl developed a rivalry? Eloise was certainly pretty enough, even behind her painted finery, to warrant some good old-fashioned envy, though not, he thought, from Cleo. “And did you, Miss Watkin?” he asked, raising a brow.

  Her high color waned, as if he had sapped her blood. “Of course not. You must believe me, Lord Hastings.” He watched as she swallowed.

  Something wasn’t right, but he still was not clear-headed enough to determine what. “I would like to believe you, my dear. Perhaps if you told me what this gossip was all about.”

  If anything, she turned even more pale. “Perhaps I can explain myself. Give me a moment to catch my breath. I nearly ran all the way here.”

  He thought perhaps she would sit upon one of the armchairs that were scattered about the room or the sofa by the grate, but instead she paced, swinging her arms as if she were trying to keep herself alert. He waited while she strolled about, but when time stretched and still she had said nothing, he cocked his head.

  “You are the culprit, aren’t you?” he asked.

  She halted, rounding on him. “I am not! If you understood the magnitude of this rumor, you would know that I of all people would say nothing about it. To my mind, it is a subject best left unspoken.”

  “So why is someone speaking it about Cleo?” he pressed.

  She shook her head. “I cannot understand it how it got so turned around. Cleo should be the heroine of the piece, not the victim.” When Leslie continued to eye her, she sighed, shoulders sagging. “I suppose there is nothing for it. But Lord Hastings, you must promise me never to reveal what I tell you to a soul.”

  Leslie bowed. “You have my word, madam.”

  That seemed to satisfy her, for she seated herself at last, motioning him to likewise.

  “We must hurry,” she said. “For I do not know how long we have before we are interrupted.”

  He wondered who she thought would be dying to visit the library, but he supposed the ballroom was so crowded it was possible that any number of Mrs. Winston’s guests might be seeking a cooler refuge. As he sat on the chair opposite her, she began.

  “I think you know that Cleo and I attended the same school.”

  Leslie nodded. “In Somerset, I believe.”

  “Yes. It is an endowed school, kept on a corner of the Darby estate. The Earl of Wenworth provides the upkeep. At the time we were there, one of his sons, Lord Jareth Darby, was in residence, having been sent down from London for the summer.”

  Leslie knew of Jareth Darby, although the charming rake had been on the Continent for the last few years, fleeing a militant husband, it was rumored.

  “I think I begin to see,” he said. “Lord Darby trifled with one of the girls, was that it?”

  She nodded, color fading once again. “He was quite handsome, and he could be utterly convincing. Or so I have been told. He claimed to have fallen in love with one of our classmates, and she allowed him...certain liberties with her person. But before he could take her up on the offer, she became frightened. He was attempting to console her when Cleo found them in the hayloft. You know how she likes horses.”

  “She did,” Leslie agreed. “She seems to have lost her taste for the stables.”

  “I would imagine they reminded her too much of that day. She must have thought our classmate under attack for she came after Lord Darby with a pitchfork. He fled, leaving the girl to shoulder the blame. She tried to convince Cleo not to tell our headmistress, Miss Martingale, but Cleo was determined that justice was done.” She shook her head. “She was far more innocent than the rest of us. We knew who Miss Martingale would favor. The whole event was quickly hushed up lest any damage be done to the school or its benefactors. Miss Martingale never even let the girl tell her father. Any letters sent were destroyed.”

  “That’s ghoulish,” Leslie declared, rising. “The poor girl sounds as if she did what she did out of innocence. She deserved someone to care for her.”

  Eloise rose as well, and Leslie was surprised to see tears pooling in her eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “She does.”

  Leslie stared at her. His brain informed him that something momentous had just happened, but the thoughts slipped away before he could grasp them. Something must have shown on his face, however, for she gasped suddenly. To his alarm, her eyelids fluttered, then closed, and her body crumpled. He caught her easily and swung her limp body up into his arms. Staggering slightly, for she was not nearly as light as Cleo, he managed to deposit her on the sofa. He went down on one knee beside her and took her hand, rubbing her wrist.

  “Miss Watkin? Can you hear me?”

  She moaned, the other hand fluttering to her brow. Leslie rubbed harder.

  “That’s it, my dear. Wake up.”

  Her eyes slid open, and a smile slowly spread. “Why, Lord Hastings, you saved me.” She slid her arm up around his neck, lashes drifting lower. “You should be rewarded,” she murmured, pursing her lips.

  “On the contrary,” Mrs. Winston said from the doorway. “He should be shot, the libertine.”

  Leslie groaned, climbing to his feet. “Mrs. Winston, this is not what it seems, I assure you,” he started. Then he caught his breath. Standing at her side was Cleo. Her face was ashen, her eyes huge. He felt as if he’d been stabbed through the heart.

  Eloise sat up, adjusting her décolletage as if it had been disturbed by his hand. “Oh dear, it appears we have been caught.” Face sorrowful, she offered him her hand to help her rise. When he ignored it, she got up herself. “Do not be concerned. I do not expect you to offer for me.”

  Leslie swallowed. Cleo bit her lip.

  “I think your father may have something to say in the matter, Miss Watkin,” Mrs. Winston replied with a sniff. “I expect you to call on him in the morning, Lord Hastings, after such a shocking display. And I shall have a few words with Lady Agnes as well. Godson or not, you will have earned her wrath, I have no doubt. She will likely cut all ties with you after this sorry episode. Come, Miss Watkin, Miss Renfield.”

  “Cleo,” Leslie started, moving toward her. She did not move, but Mrs. Winston put an arm protectively around her shoulders.

  “Come no closer, sirrah. I would be remiss in my duties if I allowed Miss Renfield to associate any further with you this evening.”

  Leslie drew himself up to his full height and affixed her with a glare that would have made Chas Prestwick proud. “I brought Miss Renfield in my carriage. I have an obligation to see her home.”

  “Don‘t worry, Mrs. Winston,” Cleo put in as their hostess squared her shoulders as if to do battle. “I know I can trust myself to Lord Hastings’ care.”

  Leslie sagged with relief, but Mrs. Winston’s grip only tightened even though her tone to Cleo was kind. “I appreciate your loyalty, dear girl, but I am afraid that is out of the question. I shall have my carriage brought around to take you home.”

  Leslie wanted to fight, but he knew Cleo must be nearly done in. He could not put her through more.

  “It’s all right, Cleo,” he said. “I know Mrs. Winston has your best interests at heart. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Eloise sucked in a breath. “What about me, my lord?”

  Cleo was watching him. Mrs. Winston was glaring at him. Eloise sniffed back a tear. L
eslie offered her a short bow.

  “It would appear, Miss Watkin,” he said, “that I will be speaking to your father, in the morning.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  C

  leo thought she had been through entirely enough for one night. Lady Agnes had apparently already left for the evening, so Mrs. Winston had insisted on sending Cleo home immediately. Given Leslie’s capitulation, Cleo could not argue. She refused to think about what would happen should he be unable to appease Eloise’s father. It was daunting enough to think that she would have to explain the situation to her godmother.

  Of course, she had not counted on Ellie and Annie being present.

  Mr. Cowls warned her the moment she stepped into the town house. “A shame you could not have stayed later at the ball, Miss Cleo,” he murmured as he removed her cloak with palsied hands. “Your sisters have been closeted in the withdrawing room with her ladyship this past hour and none too happily by the sound of it.”

  Cleo would have liked nothing better than to retire to her room, but she could let her godmother be so abused. Thanking Cowls, she hurried up the stairs.

  Her sisters were indeed agitated. Ellie was pacing, the crack of her brocaded skirts audible as she turned. Annie was perched on a chair, hands worrying before her chocolate-colored evening dress. Lady Agnes sat on the sofa with arms folded and lips compressed. Even Hector looked tense–his feathers were ruffled, and he shuffled back and forth on his perch, head jerking one way, then another.

  “What’s happened?” Cleo demanded from the doorway.

  Ellie came to an abrupt halt. “Why didn’t you tell us about Lord Darby?”

  “We are your sisters,” Annie added with a sniff. “We deserve to hear it first.”

  Cleo took a deep breath. “You heard the gossip. It isn’t true.”

  “I told you!” Lady Agnes all but crowed. She jumped to her feet and glared at Ellie over Annie’s head. “I knew my Cleo wouldn’t have been so foolish.”