The Irredeemable Miss Renfield (Uncommon Courtships Book 3)

by Regina Scott

  As Ellie returned Lady Agnes’ glare and Annie stared in obvious confusion, Cleo grimaced. “Oh, your Cleo can be quite foolish,” she assured her godmother. “But we shall discuss that in a moment. For now, let me promise you that the story is nothing but a spider’s web and as easily destroyed.”

  Annie slumped in relief. Ellie did not resume her pacing, but her face was still tight. “Your word,” she told Cleo, “will mean little when compared to your behavior of late.”

  “So I have heard,” Cleo replied with a sigh. “And there is more, but perhaps you should sit to hear it.”

  Ellie did not move.

  “Cutter,” Lady Agnes guessed. “What happened? Is he a villain or your fiancé?”

  “He intends to be both,” Cleo said as Ellie stiffened. “He forced a kiss from me at a gaming establishment.”

  Annie gasped, falling back against her seat as if in a faint. Ellie blanched. Lady Agnes had fire in her eye.

  “He seems to have the idea,” Cleo continued doggedly, “that by threatening to ruin me, he can get money from Ellie’s husband.”

  “Mr. Carlisle would never ...,” Ellie started heatedly, then she slumped. Annie rose to go to her side.

  “Position is very important to Mr. Carlisle,” she explained, patting Ellie’s shoulder. “He thought he might be elevated by marrying Ellie, given our famous connection with the DeGuis.”

  “Ha!” Lady Agnes barked. “I wager he felt cheated when he learned the only Renfield I favor is Cleo.”

  Ellie raised her head, eyes proud. “I did not need your support to win a rich husband, madam. I do not need it to keep him.”

  “Of course not,” Annie agreed soothingly. “Besides, there is always Lord Stephenson.”

  “Your husband,” Lady Agnes replied, “is a rackety rakehell. Mr. Carlisle may be a wizard at business, but he obviously knows nothing about people.”

  Neither Ellie nor Annie answered her, but Cleo thought she understood. “So, Mr. Carlisle helped Annie to marry Lord Stephenson in hopes of gaining entrance to Society. But when Lord Stephenson proved a scapegrace, he set his sights on me and my marriage.”

  “After how he supported you,” Ellie said, “it is the least you could do.”

  “But how could Major Cutter know?” Annie asked with a frown.

  “He applied to Mr. Carlisle for a loan,” Lady Agnes supplied. When they all looked at her, she shrugged. “I had the fellow investigated the moment he showed an interest in Cleo, something either of you should have thought to do if you’d had your eyes on anything but a title.”

  “I sincerely doubt Mr. Carlisle would confide in him,” Ellie said with a sniff.

  “I am certain he didn’t. But Cutter no doubt learned enough to make him curious. He’s a clever villain, I’ll give him that. Very good at taking little bits of information and building a full picture. I imagine that’s how he got promoted so many times. Pity his last commander did not live long enough to tell the tale.”

  Ellie sighed. “Whatever the case, we are too late. Mr. Carlisle will not allow his name to be connected with scandal. Cleo will have to marry the scoundrel to save us all.”

  “No,” Cleo said. “Cleo will not.”

  Annie’s hand fell away from her sister’s shoulder as Ellie drew herself up again. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your irredeemable behavior caused this problem. You are the only one who can solve it.”

  “No,” Cleo repeated, striding forward to confront her sister even though she had to look up to do so. “Your determination to please Mr. Carlisle caused this problem, Electra. Between your prodding and my concern over this story about Jareth Darby, I have lied and postured and generally made a mess of things. No more. Your control of me stops here.”

  “The law thinks otherwise,” Ellie informed her, eyes flashing. “Mr. Carlisle is your guardian. You must do as he says, and I have no doubt he will tell you to marry Cutter.”

  “I won’t do it. He cannot bodily carry me to the church. He cannot force my hand to the marriage lines. I will not lie or pretend because of you again, Ellie. It is finished.”

  “But what shall we do?” Annie asked plaintively. “There will be a scandal.”

  “Very likely,” Lady Agnes agreed. “But Cleo is right. Better to weather the scandal once than to put yourselves in the control of a monster.”

  “You do not know how Mr. Carlisle thinks,” Ellie protested. “You cannot know how important this is to him.”

  Cleo laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Tell him the truth for once, Ellie. It is amazing how free you will feel.”

  Ellie shook her head, but Cleo thought she saw tears in those angry eyes. She turned and crossed purposely to the parrot’s cage. Hector regarded her with obvious suspicion.

  “No more lies, Ellie,” Cleo promised. “We will weather this as a family should–together.” She sprang the latch on the cage and flung open the door. Darting past her, Hector leaped into the air. His emerald wings spread as he climbed to the ceiling. He flew as free as her conscience, circling the room twice before coming to a rest at Lady Agnes’ feet.

  “Clever Hector!” he crowed. “Clever Cleo! Clever, clever girl!”

  *

  Leslie was nearly as exhausted as Cleo when he fell into bed fully dressed. Unfortunately, as he lay sprawled on top of the covers, he found it impossible to go to sleep. The last of the drug was seeping out of his system, leaving him tense and not a little frustrated by the course of the evening’s events.

  He still wanted to get his hands on Cutter. One good punch to the chin should put the fellow under, though he rather fancied breaking his nose and bloodying his lip first. Then perhaps he’d request several of his father’s men to stuff the villain in a sack and drop him in the deepest part of the Channel. Of course, that might ruin the fishing for some time.

  Much as he’d like to vent his anger, the important thing was to keep Cleo safe. He had rather hoped marriage to him would achieve that. It shouldn’t be a hardship; they were good friends and after tonight he could not doubt that they would be compatible in other ways as well. She had enjoyed his kiss as much as he had. But, thanks to the evening’s events, he could do nothing about it.

  He shuddered. He had been out-manipulated, even though he’d managed any number of manipulators through the course of his life. He should have seen it coming. He could only blame the drug and his concern for Cleo for not guessing Eloise’s intent. While he was certain that she had spoken some version of the truth in her tale of woe, there had been no reason for her to faint or offer him her lips for a kiss. It was as if she knew she would shortly have an audience. He’d been put in a position of having to offer for her. But no one could force him to marry her.

  The best thing he could do would be to take a page out of Jareth Darby’s book and flee for the Continent. With hostilities over between Britain and France for the moment, he ought to have a high time in Paris. Let Eloise catch some other titled fellow in her net of lies. He didn’t need to subject himself to the disagreeable task of speaking to her father. He’d leave tonight, before anyone was wiser. Cleo was always prime for a lark. It wouldn’t take her long to pack.

  He jerked upright, staring into the darkening room. How had Cleo gotten into the picture? He could scarcely run off to Paris with her. Lady Agnes would disown him, if godmothers were allowed to do so. Her sisters would send mercenaries after him. Besides, Cleo deserved a great deal more than to spend the rest of her life running from an enemy.

  So what should he do about her? He ran a hand back through his hair. He couldn’t leave her to bear the social repercussions of tonight’s act alone. Besides, she still had the gossip to contend with. Someone was intent on making it appear that she had lost her virginity. Any man who believed the rumors would think he was getting damaged goods. She’d never make a decent marriage.

  Worse, there’d be those who would be only too happy to offer her an opportunity to profit from her loss. She could easily end up like Madam
Zala, running some gaming establishment or working in a house of prostitution. He’d like to hope her sisters would save her before that happened, but they hadn’t particularly shown themselves as paragons of compassion. And even Lady Agnes would be hard pressed to remain on the social scene if the ton thought she had accepted a soiled dove in her household.

  The best thing for all was to prove the rumors false, but to do that, he’d have to expose the girl who had been Jareth Darby’s accomplice. The girl hardly deserved the shame that would follow. Better would be to expose and discredit the one spreading the gossip. He was not entirely convinced it was Eloise. Yet who else knew of the event or stood to profit if the story were told?

  He groaned as the logic chased itself around his head. He should marry Cleo and protect her with his name. But he couldn’t marry Cleo when he had compromised Eloise. If he stayed in England, Eloise’s father would surely call him out. And if he left, he couldn’t take Cleo with him unless she was his wife. But if he took the time to marry her, he’d be caught.

  He groaned again. Why did he have to make decisions like these? All he had ever wanted was to have fun. No matter which way he turned he was faced with responsibilities he had never wanted, duties he would never like. Why not simply run away and let someone else handle the consequences?

  Because he was the Marquis of Hastings.

  Leslie smiled. He was the Marquis of Hastings, descended from a long line of Petersboroughs bred for the task. Without realizing it, he’d been slipping into the mantle. The last few weeks with Cleo he’d made any number of decisions, planned any number of activities. Certainly not all of them had gone as he’d hoped, but surely no one was foolproof. Look how many schemes Chas had had to enact to win Anne Fairchild’s hand. Leslie had done far better than that.

  Of course, he had Cleo.

  Cleo inspired him. She had a way of looking at him that made him feel the cleverest of mortals. With her beside him, he had indeed regained the joie de vive that he’d lost when his father had died. With her beside him, he could accomplish anything.

  He shook his head. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Cleo brought out the best in him. She made him think, challenged him to live according to his principles. He hadn’t really believed he had principles until Cleo had woken them. Small wonder he’d fallen in love with her.

  And he was certainly in love, he could see that. More, he could feel it. Cleo was curled around his heart, protecting it, cherishing it, nourishing it. He’d be a fool to let her go. He’d be a greater fool to lose her over this misunderstanding with Eloise.

  It was time he took matters into his own hands, long past time he showed himself as the new Marquis of Hastings. He settled back against the pillows with a satisfied smile.

  Tomorrow would be an interesting day.

  Chapter Twenty

  L

  eslie stood stiffly in the silent entry of the Watkin town house while the imposing butler made his ponderous way up the polished stair with Leslie’s card on a silver tray. The liveried footmen with their white-powered wigs stood equally stiffly on either side of the door, eyes resolutely ahead, mouths in a grim line of authority. Even the woman in the portrait over the stairs stood stiffly, aristocratic nose in the air. It was all so very formal, and so unlike Eloise, that Leslie began to wonder whether he’d blundered into the wrong house.

  The ormolu clock on the side table had ticked off twelve long minutes before the butler returned to his side. “Lord Watkin will see you now, my lord,” he intoned. “If you will follow me.”

  He turned and made his stately way back up the stairs. Swallowing, Leslie followed.

  He was ushered into a paneled study, the sound of his footsteps lost in the thick Turkish carpet. A small, spare gentleman turned from the single window to regard him with blue eyes sunk in a pale face. He stretched out a hand.

  “Lord Hastings, welcome.”

  Leslie accepted his hand gingerly, quickly releasing it. “Thank you, Lord Watkin, but you may want to withdraw the welcome when you hear what I have to say. I trust your daughter has apprised you of last night’s events?”

  He frowned, reaching into the pocket of his plain brown waistcoat to pull out a simple watch and snap it open. “We have approximately eighteen minutes before my daughter’s chaperone brings me her daily report. Shall we wait or would you like to elaborate?”

  Leslie would have preferred to leave right then. This man could not be the father of Eloise Watkin, though Leslie was certain this was the address Mrs. Winston had given him the night before. Of course, she had been rather gleeful about it, so perhaps the old bird was having him on. No, she had been all too pleased at the idea of him being leg-shackled.

  He shook his head. “I would prefer to speak to you immediately,” he told the baron. “You’ll pardon my assumption. I naturally thought you’d be expecting me.” He couldn’t help barking out a laugh. “Actually, I thought you’d be after me with a horsewhip if I didn’t show up.”

  “I see,” the man replied, frown deepening. “I take it, sir, that you have compromised my daughter.”

  Leslie stood straighter. “Through no intention of my own, I assure you.”

  “And I suppose you’re here to offer for her like a gentleman,” he mused, though Leslie thought he saw a glint of emotion behind the cold blue eyes.

  “Actually, no,” Leslie replied. “I’m here to tell you that your daughter is quickly convincing the ton that she is a conniving tart and I refuse to have her.”

  Lord Watkin stared at him. Leslie waited for him to call him out, call him a liar, or at least call him names. Instead, he turned and strode for the door, yanking it open. “Bryerton,” he yelled into the corridor. “Fetch me my daughter.” Then he slammed the door shut and strode back to his place by the window. He motioned gracefully to a chair.

  “Will you have a seat, Lord Hastings?” he asked as if inviting him to tea. “This might take a few minutes as I am uncertain what activities my daughter’s chaperone has her engaged in at this hour.”

  Leslie wanted to sink into the chair nearest him, but something about his host’s mercurial demeanor advised him it would be best to stay on his feet and keep his wits about him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure how to handle this latest development. He hardly wanted to discuss the matter before Eloise, but he couldn’t very well forbid her father to allow her in the room.

  He did not have long to worry, however, for there was a polite tap on the door. At Lord Watkin’s bark to enter, a large, heavy-set woman in black bombazine scuttled in. Leslie recognized her from the night he’d first been reintroduced to Cleo at Almack’s.

  “You wanted to see me about Miss Eloise, my lord?” she asked with a curtsey so hurried it set both her chins to quivering.

  Lord Watkin frowned. “No, Miss Tidwell. I distinctly asked to see my daughter.”

  She paled, starting to tremble, and Leslie was suddenly reminded of a dish of blanc mange. “But you have impressed upon me the importance of your time,” she all but pleaded. “We are never to disturb you except by appointment. Eloise knows she is not allowed to trouble you.”

  Something in her tone arrested Leslie. A memory tugged. Last night, Eloise had said the girl who had been wronged had not been allowed to contact her father. Could Eloise herself be that girl? If so, she was in just as serious a position as Cleo.

  “Correct,” Lord Watkin was saying. “Your attention to detail is laudable. However, this gentleman,” he waved a hand at Leslie, “tells me that my daughter is a conniving tart, and I think she should be given the opportunity to defend herself.”

  “Actually,” Leslie put in as Eloise’s chaperone puffed herself up like a hot air balloon, “I said that the ton thinks your daughter is a conniving tart. I personally think she’s quite delightful.”

  Lord Watkin inclined his head at the correction. Miss Tidwell glared at him. Her eyes were dark and entirely too close together. Leslie felt as if she’d leveled a pair of dueling pistols at him.<
br />
  “How dare you, sir!” she blustered. “I will not have my Eloise maligned in this way.”

  “Pity,” Leslie replied, flicking a nonexistent piece of lint off his navy jacket. “You should have thought of that before you let her out of your sight at all those events.”

  She sputtered, but Lord Watkin cut her off with an imperious wave.

  “How many times have you seen my daughter without a chaperone, Lord Hastings?” he asked.

  At the sound of his name, she paled, and he wondered why. Had Eloise mentioned last night to her? Had she been about to brief his lordship? Yet surely something as significant as a threat to Eloise’s reputation warranted more than a dutiful morning report. Leslie forced his thoughts back to the question Lord Watkin had asked.

  “Three times before last night,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “And one of those times, I’m ashamed to say, she called on me at home. I, of course, immediately sent her off, for her own protection.”

  “Lies!” Miss Tidwell cried, face turning even whiter. “Who do you think you are to impugn a faithful retainer who has given years of good service?”

  “That will be all, Tidwell,” Lord Watkin said quietly. “Send me my daughter. I shall have more to say to you later.”

  She looked ready to fight, but another glance at his lordship’s set face must have convinced her of the futility. She gave a curt nod and hurried back to the door. When it closed behind her, Lord Watkin sighed.

  “Raising a daughter is not easy,” he said, but more to himself than to him, Leslie thought. “I never did appreciate social nuances the way her mother did, and certainly not the way your father did.”

  Leslie’s head came up. “You knew my father?”

  “I was one of his men.” The words were said with a melancholy pride, as for a fond event from days gone by. Leslie had heard the tone all too often in connection with his father since his death. “Traveling abroad so frequently, I felt it best Eloise be sent to boarding school. I suspect I became accustomed to other people looking out for her.”