A Singular Lady

by Megan Frampton

  “Ah, still the math-minded practical man I once knew,” Alistair said. “Figures makes my head spin. The only cure for that is to sit down and have a drink. Shall we?” He bowed elegantly, gesturing toward the refreshment table. Edwin shrugged, took a couple of glasses from a nearby footman’s tray, and handed one to Alistair, who downed it in one gulp.

  Alistair smiled at him from over the rim. “That is just to last until I make it over to that corner of the room. Look, I see a chair still warm from some dowager’s ar—”

  “Alistair, let us go before your mouth gets us into trouble...again.”

  Despatch from the battle front, March 1813

  Is it possible to mount an attack without the enemy knowing you are actually engaged in battle? Some of the foes seem to be unaware of what is happening at the front, and it is really quite aggravating.

  There is the mushroom, who is only concerned about the people who are not speaking to him, the Corinthian, who is far too superior to condescend to admit there is even anybody else in the room, the ninny, who is too busy aping the Corinthian to indulge in conversation (besides saying, “What ho!” and “Gammon!” every few minutes), and the newly titled enemy who is so frightened by the prospect of marriage—er, battle—that he hides in the gaming room, only emerging when his estates are in jeopardy.

  What a lot!

  And yet, these are the opponents I am forced to contend with. I will find a worthy foe somewhere in the throngs, and pursue him until he has surrendered. After all, with the arsenal of weapons I have in my cache—playing the pianoforte, dabbing at watercolors, talking knowledgeably about the weather—how could any man refuse?

  A Singular Lady

  Chapter 4

  “Ah, Titania, you have returned.” Miss Tynte darted a quick glance at her, then spoke to the man sitting next to her. “Mr. Benson, would you trot off to find us some more refreshments? And maybe some more of those cookies with the stars?” The man bowed in reply and marched off to the refreshments table, orders in hand.

  Leave it to her wise governess to know something was distressing her. Titania placed her hands on her cheeks, noting the contrast between her icy palms and her hot face. She probably looked as flushed as if she had run around the block. Or found herself incredibly attracted to a completely ineligible man.

  Mr. Benson returned, handing her a glass. She gulped the lemonade, relishing the tangy wetness as it slid down her throat. Then her eye caught sight of a broad pair of shoulders. A spark of energy zinged down her spine, and she knew she was not feeling the lemonade’s effects. Her fingers still tingled where he had touched her.

  It was a good thing, she reminded herself, she was a sensible person not given to unreasonable obsessions. Otherwise she would have to wonder just what she was feeling toward the Earl of Oakley. What she needed to do, she told herself sternly, was go home and get a good night’s sleep. This campaign was scarcely begun, and her troops—her spirit and her Managing Ways—were exhausted.

  Sleep eluded her, however, when she had finally donned her nightgown and snuggled into bed. Instead, her obsessive brain reviewed every scrap of information it knew about Edwin Worthington. Her father had mentioned the Marquess of Taunton’s son had been unceremoniously shipped off to America. He said the banishment was related to the scandal caused by a jilted engagement. Titania wished she had paid more attention at the time, but she did vaguely recall some of the details; the groom-to-be had simply not shown up at the church, leaving his betrothed mortified and with a barrage of gossip to face. Obviously the earl was the rogue son, and had just recently returned from abroad. That would explain his provincial style of dress.

  He was like her, she thought in amusement, both of them having a come-out, although his was evidently a second go-round. No matter what—or how much—she thought of Lord Worthington, however, the fact remained that no renegade son, no matter how lofty his title or how fine he looked in evening clothes, was going to be the answer to her problems.

  “SO YOU JUST...DIDN’T show up?” Alistair’s voice was incredulous. They were sitting in a back table at a tavern, Edwin having lost interest in the party when he observed Titania’s departure. Alistair was just happy to be able to drink something stronger than champagne.

  Edwin felt the five-year-old guilt sting him anew. “No. I never told her I overheard her that day. I delayed breaking it off until I knew she was waiting for me at the altar. Then I sent a note, telling her I would not appear, and that she—and her lover—knew why.”

  “That was rather harsh, wasn’t it?” Alistair placed a pinch of snuff on his hand and inhaled, then shot Edwin a penetrating glance. “But you were terribly hurt, I suppose, to find she only wanted you for your father’s money. You were rather infatuated with her. I remember one time you found she loved daffodils, and you placed them all over your—”

  “Enough.” Edwin spoke in a harsh tone that would have dissuaded a lesser man. Alistair was not a lesser man.

  “How did you get the daffodils to stick to your skin like that?” he mused. “I would have thought it would cause a damnable rash.”

  Edwin’s lips twitched in spite of himself. “It did, actually. I holed up in my room for four days until the worst of it was over.”

  “One thing I’ve always wondered: Why didn’t your father just buy you colors and be done with it? He would’ve been rid of you, and your disgrace, and you could have redeemed yourself in battle.”

  “When I suggested that, he said, ‘And have my heir die on me in a glorious death? You will not be allowed to assuage your honor in some heroic action. You will not be around to torment me in my lifetime, but I will be damned if you torment me with your death.’ I did not think so at the time, but it was an excellent speech.”

  “So he sent you to North America. I read the occasional letter you sent, but of course my brain does not retain such information. What exactly were you doing over there?”

  “I ended up in Boston, where I served as the confidential envoy for a merchant trader in negotiations with Halifax shipowners.”

  “As I suspected,” Alistair said, shaking his head, “I am still confused.”

  “That position was only after I had a few satisfying months exorcising my rage in the boxing ring. I worked on the docks, moved up there, rediscovered my academic interests, and began publishing papers in some of the news journals there. Ironically enough, my specialty is battle history. And you, what are you doing now the army has no use for you?”

  “They are using me, just not on the battlefield. That is all I can say.” Alistair gave an exaggerated wink. “But enough about me. Have you communicated with your father at all?”

  “No.”

  The two men fell silent for a moment.

  “Do you know what happened to your betrothed? What was her name again?”

  “Leticia Merriwether. Alistair, you would forget your boots if they were not held onto your feet.”

  Alistair straightened up with a flourish worthy of a peacock. “I could never forget these boots, Worthy, you fashion misfit.”

  “And I will never forget the lesson Leticia taught me when I heard her making plans to deceive me on our wedding night: marriage is a deadly trap, and I will never be caught in it.”

  “You have renounced women entirely, then? No wonder you dress like that.”

  “On the contrary. I have enjoyed, and will continue to enjoy, the company of women. I just know that when it comes to marriage, the female mind is more interested in the state of my bankbook than in my heart. Temporary companionship is one thing. A permanently shackled state is another.”

  “A born cynic,” Alistair said, shaking his head.

  “Not born, my friend. Made.”

  TITANIA WOKE THE NEXT day with a determination not to let anything—quick fists or an even quicker wit—get in the way of her campaign. She and Miss Tynte sat together in the small sitting room and reviewed the likely bachelors, or combat missions, as Titania insisted on referring
to them.

  “Let me see. Mr. Clark was that young man—barely older than Thibault—who kept trying to look down my gown. Definitely scratch him off the list. Lord Davis was very nice, did you meet him?”

  “Was he the one with the nice wife?”

  “Oh. Scratch him off the list, too. There was a Mr. Alistair Farrell—he was dressed more beautifully than I. That would bother me, I think. Then there was that Viscount Rotten—”

  “I believe his name is Rotherham. Are we scratching him as well?”

  “Yes.” Titania wrinkled her nose. “He smelled. There was that very pleasant fellow, you know, the one with the—” She gestured toward her ears, but was interrupted by Sarah.

  “Miss?” Sarah’s face was unusually solemn.

  “Yes?” Titania was grateful for the interruption. This self-sacrifice thing was no fun. It was even harder when you were unable to forget that a very long future loomed once the banns had been read.

  “A Mr. Stanhope is ’ere. Says ’e is your father’s brother. Should I show ’im in?”

  Titania sprang to her feet. Had her long-lost uncle somehow heard of her plight? Was there a chance of rescuing Ravensthorpe? She beckoned to Sarah, hopping in her excitement.

  “Yes, yes, show him in.” She looked at Miss Tynte. “Would you...?”

  Miss Tynte smiled as if she could read her mind. “No, of course not. It would certainly be a surprise to find out one had a relative one had never heard of before.” She slipped out of the room while Titania ran to the mirror. Even her hair seemed to recognize this visit was important, since it remained uncharacteristically neat. She smoothed her suddenly damp palms on her gown and turned toward the door expectantly.

  “Niece.” He was broad, his large frame leaning heavily on a cane. He hobbled into the room and glared into the corners as if searching for something. Titania rushed to pull a chair toward him, and he sank down into it, uttering a tremendous groan. She wondered how much it chafed him to be so immobile. Since he was related to her father, chances were good forced inactivity made him act like a sore bear.

  She regarded him from under her lashes as he settled himself, grunting and muttering. The comparison to a bear was apt in more than just personality: his shaggy brown hair grazed his collar, and his almost as shaggy eyebrows looked like two caterpillars perched above his eyes. She couldn’t see their color, but they were deep set, with heavy lines creased under them. He was about as opposite his dandified, languidly elegant brother as possible.

  “Uncle?”

  He scrutinized her from head to toe. She could almost swear he stiffened as he gazed at her face.

  “Yes. I am Uncle Norbert. I don’t suppose your parents ever spoke of me, hmm?” He glowered at her from under his eyebrows.

  “Oh, yes, they did,” Titania replied in surprise. “As has Aunt Bestley, your sister. Father always wished we could meet you, but...”

  “But I am a cripple, is that what he said?” the man rumbled, glowering at her with an even fiercer gaze.

  Titania recoiled a bit at his venomous tone. So much for finding solace in meeting a long-lost relative.

  “No, that your responsibilities would not allow you to be away from the country for so long, that is all. But tell me,” she said, sitting on the carpet near his chair, “what brings you here now?” She looked up at him with a smile, not to be dissuaded by his bearishness.

  Her uncle’s eyes, as blue as her father’s, glittered with an icy cast. “We get word of things. My sister writes me your father did you a bad turn. And I’ve spoken to Mr. Hawthorne. He mentioned the new will.” He turned his eyes to the floor, twirling the cane idly as he spoke.

  “...yes,” Titania replied slowly. “Father was...well, you would know better than I, but Father could be a bit...” Her voice faltered.

  “Thoughtless?” The rage in his voice was unmistakable.

  Titania scurried back on the carpet a few inches, alarmed by his almost palpable anger. She began to wonder at the real reason she had never met him before.

  “Father was reckless, and of course he did an exceedingly reprehensible thing, but it is no more than I would expect of him. He loved too well, and too often. Mother kept him in check, but when she died—”

  “I have no doubt he led your mother a fine dance,” her uncle growled. For a moment, his eyes seemed to soften. Then he narrowed them, staring at Titania so hard she felt as if he were trying to see into her soul.

  “But I am not here about your parents. I am here about Ravensthorpe.”

  Titania exhaled, tracing a pattern on the carpet with her finger as she spoke. “If Mr. Hawthorne explained about Father’s will, you know the situation is bad. Making it worse is that Ravensthorpe needs a substantial outlay of funds in order even to maintain itself.”

  “And how do you propose you find the money?” he demanded.

  Titania did not want to reveal any of her plans. Thus far he had growled, derided, and mocked her and her parents. She had no wish to give him any more artillery.

  “Thibault is working on it. Thibault is brilliant at numbers and accounting,” she lied, hoping his country home was far enough away for him not to have heard Thibault was more likely to balance a spoon on his nose than a column of numbers.

  “And if he fails?”

  “If he fails, Ravensthorpe is lost,” she replied simply.

  He sat for a minute, twirling his cane faster. In the silence, she heard his breath laboring, a hoarse wheeze punctuating each exhale. Then he slid his eyes toward her and smiled. A smile completely devoid of any friendly emotion.

  “Then Ravensthorpe will be lost to me. Thank you for the good news, niece. I am certain you will be helpful when I regain my rightful place. Haven’t been there for twenty-five years, and now your father’s blithe spirit is handing it to me on a silver platter. Oh, this is rich.” He leaned his head back and laughed.

  Titania stood, shaking in anger. How dare he come here and threaten her? “You will not have Ravensthorpe,” she said in a low, steady voice. “Thibault and I will figure something out, and the taxes are not due for several months. Ravensthorpe belongs to Thibault, Uncle.”

  “How?” He waved her away with his beefy hand. “No, don’t bother telling me. I have an offer for you and your brother, the baron.” He said the word with an ugly sneer. “If you cede Ravensthorpe to me now, I might just let you live there. Of course, you will have to earn your keep—none of your fancy lady ways will be tolerated at my home.”

  Titania grimaced to herself as she reviewed her “fancy lady” ways at Ravensthorpe: managing the servants, dealing with the tenants and the creditors, keeping her father from reaching the gaming tables too often, making sure Thibault fell in the well only once a season.

  What her uncle offered would be unpleasant, no doubt, but not difficult. Should she talk to Thibault and take his offer? She would not have to auction herself off in marriage for the privilege of keeping Ravensthorpe. She and Thibault would always have a home. But what kind of home would it be?

  “I’ve been friendly, niece, as befits our relationship. But let me warn you, I won’t be so friendly if you make me wait for your decision.” He considered that friendly? That settled it. No husband could possibly be as nasty as her uncle. She would take her chances and hope he would not be able to call her bluff until she held all the cards. She rose, briskly rubbing her hands.

  “No, thank you, Uncle, I have every confidence Thibault and I will manage to hold onto Ravensthorpe.”

  He gave a short bark of laughter. “Ha. I’ll just wait. And when you cannot pay, I will buy up the notes. There’s not much for an old bachelor to do in the country except make money. And I’ve got plenty. And then you can find yourself another home, because I will be master of Ravensthorpe.”

  He rose, using his cane as a crutch for support. Titania felt a wicked desire to kick it out from under him, but she sensed it would please him for her to behave as spitefully as he. And besides, she could not re
ally be that mean.

  “No need to show me out, niece. I know my way.” He stumped out the door, leaving a furious Titania in his wake.

  She stood as stunned and silent as a jilted lover. Her knees buckled, and her foot caught on something on the carpet. She bent down to retrieve it with the automatic impulse of a conscientious manager.

  She picked up a large, wooden splinter, its jagged edges as threatening as the man who had just left. It must have fallen off his cane as he thumped it on the floor. She clenched it in her hand, gasping as its sharp edges pricked her palm. The pain she felt would be nothing compared to what would happen if she failed and her uncle was able to buy up the notes. Her stomach roiled as she pondered the possibility there were more debts outstanding. Her uncle was certainly confident she and Thibault would not survive.

  What could she do? She held the splinter even tighter, shutting her eyes as she felt the wood pierce her skin enough to make it throb.

  She could renege on her promise to the tenants and keep Ravensthorpe at the price of being a cruel landholder, even the thought of which made her cringe. But how much could she squeeze from them, even if she were bent on being ruthless? And what would happen when they left, or her crops were bad?

  She could present Thibault with the truth. But what could he do? Sadly, spoon balancing and well falling were about all the skills he had. If she could not rescue them from their situation, he certainly couldn’t. And the truth would devastate him. He still thought their father the most wonderful, charming man on earth. Which Titania had to admit he was, only she would also have to add fickle, insensitive, and occasionally devious.