How Miss West Was Won

by Diane Darcy

  Mrs. Braxton also caught his expression and her chin lifted. “Of course, it is perfectly understandable that I failed to recall. After all, the mayor and his cohorts have upset me in such an egregious fashion that I’ve been forced to call a town meeting.” Mrs. Braxton circled a hand toward Grace. “Come in, my dear, come in, and all will be explained.”

  Her lips flattened as she glared at the mayor once more. “And just so you are aware, we will be staging protests and writing letters, as well. I’m sure those in the outlying communities won’t take kindly to riffraff passing through their towns, either.”

  “Write away.” The mayor took one of Grace’s hands in both of his. “Miss Carmichael, it was nice to meet you.”

  Grace dipped her head. “You, as well.” At the warmth of his touch and the heat in his gaze, she pulled her hand away and felt herself blushing again. Flirt. She had no doubt he toyed with all the girls in a similar manner—probably just to see them flustered.

  “Come, Grace.”

  Grace crossed the brick walkway and climbed the stairs.

  Mrs. Braxton took her wrist and pulled her toward huge double doors. “You are now excused, Mayor Carrington.” She tugged Grace unceremoniously inside, released her, and shut the door firmly, her tone changing from outraged to motherly. “This way, dear.”

  Grace followed Mrs. Braxton into a sitting room where four women and one man gathered on overstuffed sofas and chairs, drinking tea. They each glanced up as she entered the room.

  Mrs. Braxton peered out the lace curtain. Standing behind her, Grace could see the mayor striding down the street in the direction from which they’d come.

  Mrs. Braxton dropped the curtain, turned, and studied Grace. She smiled and it altered her face, bringing out wrinkles, but also displaying straight teeth, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw—all to great advantage. Up close, Grace realized she was probably in her sixties, but wore her age well.

  “Did you see that?” she asked, looking at Grace appraisingly.

  Grace gazed through the lace curtains again, toward the retreating mayor. “See what?”

  “He looked back.” Mrs. Braxton paused for a moment as if considering something, then faced her little group, inhaled and extended a silk-clad arm. “Everybody, this is Miss Grace Penny Carmichael. She’s from New York and is the granddaughter of a dear friend of mine.”

  Grace noted that she’d tacked on her real first name just as the sheriff had, but was otherwise unsurprised by the introduction. Of course Mrs. Braxton wouldn’t let everyone know she was simply posing as Penny.

  The woman motioned toward her guests. “We are in the middle of determining the best way to stop the mayor and his cohorts.” She looked Grace over once again, and Grace straightened under the scrutiny, glad she’d worn nice clothing. Mrs. Braxton nodded as if she’d come to a conclusion. “Come. Sit.”

  The only man in the group pulled an overstuffed chair into the circle and gestured toward it with a sweep of his hand. “Miss Carmichael.”

  Spine straight, she sank down.

  Mrs. Braxton sank onto the settee and made introductions. “This is the Reverend Dutton.” She introduced the man, a pleasant blond in his thirties, who tipped his hat to her. She gestured to the next person, an older, but very pretty lady with a softly rounded face and dark graying hair. “This is my good friend, Mrs. Nancy Simpson, and next to her is Mrs. Thomas, whose husband owns the mercantile. Next is my housekeeper, Mrs. Phillips.”

  Grace nodded at the women, feeling slightly overwhelmed. “How do you do?”

  “To lay it out bluntly, we have devised ways to stop this gambling tournament nonsense,” Mrs. Braxton said. “We’ve come up with bake sales, protests, and correspondence, and decided against burning down the new hotel. I would try purchasing the hotel from Mr. Graham, but I doubt he’d sell it to me, so I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of refusing. But now you’ve arrived, none of that will be necessary.”

  “Oh.” Grace gripped the necklace at her throat. “I’m so glad.” She hesitated. “But I’m not sure I quite understand.”

  Mrs. Braxton, her expression pleased and slightly predatory, studied Grace like a house cat inspecting a mouse. “Just this morning I told Mr. Carrington that he and his friends needed to marry.”

  Grace’s stomach clenched. She did not have a good feeling about this. “You did?”

  “Oh!” Mrs. Simpson’s gaze sharpened as she realized what her friend was up to. “Yes, of course. Wonderful idea.”

  “What’s that?” Reverend Dutton asked, still not putting two and two together.

  Mrs. Braxton ignored the good reverend and turned to Grace, who eyed her warily. The older woman now reminded her of the feral cat in the back alley at home. “You, my dear, are our new secret weapon,” the widow announced.

  Grace didn’t move, but her eyelashes fluttered. “What?”

  “I saw the way he looked at you. Now, all we have to do is get you to encourage him.”

  “Encourage him to do what, exactly?” Grace asked cautiously.

  “To court you, of course. To try and win your favor.”

  “Court me?” Grace pressed both hands to her stomach. “Isn’t he married?”

  “Not anymore. Did he say he was? He’s a widower.”

  “But—”

  “Come now, don’t be shy. I saw the way both of you stared at each other. He’s a handsome, successful man. You’re a beautiful young woman. If you encourage him, only the slightest bit, you could win him over to our way of thinking. And as an added bonus, it may do him a world of good.” Though the widow was currently incensed at the mayor, she did want to see him happy in the long run.

  “Our way?” Grace asked, still confused.

  “Didn’t he inform you about the proposed gambling tournament?”

  “He didn’t say a word.”

  “Oh. I presumed he’d be gloating about it to all and sundry. Our mayor,” she swept her hand to indicate the direction Luke Carrington had taken, “has instigated a gambling tournament that will take place in our beautiful, peaceful little town if we don’t put a stop to it.”

  Grace nodded, feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, a story she’d read to the children at the library about a girl who dropped down a rabbit hole. She blinked. “Gambling tournament?”

  “Yes, precisely.” Mrs. Braxton leaned forward. “He is inviting villains to come sully our town, cause trouble, break all sorts of laws, and to romance the few eligible girls we have.”

  “Not to mention leading our men astray,” Mrs. Simpson added.

  “Exactly!” Mrs. Braxton lifted a finger in the air. “It will be Sodom and Gomorrah all over again. I want you to encourage Mayor Carrington to court you so that you might influence him to abandon his ridiculous plan.”

  “Me?” Grace regarded the group to see if those gathered also considered Mrs. Braxton’s plan insane.

  To her dismay, they all nodded and looked pleased with themselves. Good grief! These grown adults reminded her of the young women in her care—always flocking together to gossip and create drama—especially of the romantic sort—where none existed. Come to think of it, she shouldn’t be surprised, as she’d noted their mothers acted much the same. Grandmothers too, apparently.

  She sighed. She’d observed on more than one occasion that wealth left a person with entirely too much time on their hands. She supposed, as usual, she would have to be the voice of reason.

  “I’m sure your cause is a good one,” she began. “And I’d truly be pleased to offer my support, but I’ve just barely met the man. I’m sure I could have no influence on him whatsoever.”

  “Nonsense,” Mrs. Braxton countered. “A pretty girl always has influence over an interested man. Always.” She stressed the last word, her tone completely confident.

  Grace took a breath and tried again. “For clarity’s sake, you think I should approach the mayor and ask him to stop his plans for the gambling tournament? And then what? He’ll s
imply stop because I’ve requested him to?”

  “I take your point,” Mrs. Simpson said. “You’ll no doubt need time to butter him up a bit first.” The woman sounded vastly amused.

  “How would you suggest I do that? Shall I follow him about town? Beg him to court me? Invite him to Mrs. Braxton’s home for dinner?”

  Mrs. Braxton gaped, her mouth opening and closing for a moment like a fish before she collected herself. “Really, Miss Carmichael! It’s a good thing you’ve come west if those are the methods used to catch a man in the east. I’m truly shocked.”

  Grace felt her face warming. So much for impressing upon them the ridiculousness of their plan. Now she felt ridiculous. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you could give me some suggestions? I will be happy to bow to your expertise.”

  Mrs. Braxton straightened her shoulders. “Things like this need a subtle touch.” They all glanced around at each other.

  Grace bit her bottom lip, determined to repress the smile threatening to take over her face. Subtle bypassed this group ages ago.

  Mrs. Simpson sighed dramatically. “What if we sent her to walk in front of his office? Surely he’d notice her and come out?”

  “That would be too forward,” Mrs. Phillips said, her gray bun bobbing as she shook her head.

  “But she is from New York, so …” Mrs. Simpson studied Grace appraisingly.

  “She is in my care and will act in an appropriate manner.” Mrs. Braxton’s tone was decisive.

  The others nodded while Mrs. Simpson sank onto the flowered settee, an expression of pique on her pretty, rounded face.

  “She could invite him to sit with her in church on Sunday,” Reverend Dutton said.

  “Again, too forward. Besides, Sunday is five days away.” Mrs. Braxton glanced around hopefully. “You all know we need to do something now. Before this goes too far.”

  Mrs. Phillips snorted. “What we need is her out and about in the town on a daily basis. In a setting where the mayor knows he could locate her, but that allows for propriety. Men love the chase.”

  “If only you had a library,” Grace said wistfully. “I quite enjoyed ours in New York and if you had one, that’s surely where I would be easily found.” In addition, it would have offered her a chance to escape this madhouse.

  “That’s my point exactly,” Mrs. Braxton said. “Shouldn’t Mayor Carrington spend his time trying to better our community with such things as libraries? Instead, he invites debauchery and wickedness.”

  They all agreed as Grace wondered how she’d gotten herself sucked into this situation.

  “What if I put her to work in the mercantile?” Mrs. Thomas asked, the cherries on her hat bobbing as she glanced from person to person. “My daughter could certainly use the help.”

  Mrs. Braxton’s hand flew to her chest. “What on earth would her mother say if she found that the moment she arrived, I put Grace to work in a shop?”

  Grace’s mother wouldn’t say a word. Mrs. Carmichael, on the other hand, would certainly object if Penny worked. She was intended for better things. But Grace wasn’t Penny, and would feel better out and about than sitting around plotting against the mayor. “I assure you I wouldn’t mind in the least.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mrs. Simpson cried.

  “So it’s settled?” Mrs. Thomas asked.

  “Well,” Mrs. Braxton hedged. “I don’t know. Really, her mother wouldn’t approve.”

  “Truly, I wish to be of service. And it sounds as if time is of the essence. If I stay in this house most of the time, wouldn’t the mayor hesitate to approach me?” Grace was now grasping at any straw that would get her away from this mess.

  Mrs. Braxton’s forehead wrinkled as she stared at the floor, considering. “Your mother …”

  “Need never know, I assure you,” Grace promised.

  Mrs. Braxton offered a slow smile. “In that case, if you’re sure you don’t object, Miss Carmichael?”

  “I’m sure.” Grace could barely suppress a sigh of relief.

  Mrs. Braxton straightened her shoulders and inhaled. “All right, then. It’s a brilliant plan. You’ll work in my pie shop with Miss Foster. She’s about your age.”

  “I thought she was to work in my store,” Mrs. Thomas objected, her thin face taking on a red hue.

  “She’s my guest, so of course she’ll work in my store. Besides, it’s closer to the mayor’s office, and he does love pie.” She eyed Grace, her gaze calculating once more. “It wouldn’t have to be all the time. And you won’t have to bake. If you’ll just be charming and serve pie to the locals, that should be adequate. While you’re there, you can incite the general public into shunning the tournament.”

  Mrs. Braxton’s lips curved. “Yes. Why didn’t we think of that before? Two pretty girls and a pie shop.”

  Mrs. Thomas, still looking peeved, nodded. “My Pearl is right popular with the locals. I’m sure she could be of help in that regard, as well.”

  “Three pretty girls, then,” Mrs. Simpson interjected.

  Mrs. Thomas offered a crisp nod, satisfied that her daughter wasn’t being overlooked.

  “None of the single men in town will be able to resist,” Mrs. Braxton said. “And you mark my words, the mayor will be the first in line, if I’m any judge of men.” She picked up a glass of what looked like wine, and lifted it. “To defeating the enemy!”

  Mrs. Simpson clapped, reached for her flute, and raised it. “Defeating the enemy!”

  The others lifted their glasses and Grace spotted the decanter in the middle of the table, wondering how much they’d imbibed before she’d arrived.

  Draining their glasses, they congratulated each other, pleased and seeming to forget Grace’s presence entirely. She stifled another sigh. She had to admit she’d liked the mayor. Even thinking about him again gave her a warm feeling inside. She didn’t want him for an enemy, but she did owe her loyalty to Mrs. Braxton for taking her in.

  Anyway, it was probably for the best. She wasn’t really Penny Carmichael, heiress extraordinaire. She was just plain old Miss Grace West, governess, companion, and all around chess piece. The last thing she needed was to form an attachment with the most eligible bachelor in town.

  The very idea was ludicrous.

  She’d gone west?

  Pushing himself away from his breakfast, the man stood and, with a violent flick of his wrist, hurled the missive across the polished table, watching it fly across the slick surface.

  Would that he could distance himself from the news as easily.

  Miss Penny Carmichael was gone.

  Flown from the city.

  And he knew exactly who to blame.

  He ran both hands through his thick hair. He hadn’t known where she was, or what she was doing, or how to get to her. When he’d sent his spies to find news of Penny, he’d never dreamed she’d left the city. Left him.

  It was that woman. She’d stolen Penny away. He was sure of it. Breathing heavily, heart pounding hard, he gripped his hair with both fists and screamed.

  A few servants peeked into the room.

  “Get out! Get out of here! Leave me be, you wretched, foul beasts!”

  He grabbed the chair he’d been sitting on, howled with rage, and bashed it as hard as he could against the wall, breaking one wooden leg and puncturing a hole in the wall. He threw the chair to the floor and stomped on another leg, and another, until spittle flew from his mouth and the pieces lay scattered.

  He picked up broken chunks of wood and hurled one against the long drapes, cracking a window. He propelled another into the flickering stone fireplace, enjoying the destruction, noise, and scattered burning ashes. He seized his plate and threw it against the breakfast sideboard, flinging silver, breaking china and ceramic, and causing the servants to run for the kitchen.

  What did it matter if he broke everything? She wasn’t with him! She wasn’t his! She’d left him!

  Breathing hard, he walked unsteadily into the parlor and sank onto the
pretty French Empire settee—the one he’d bought for her—and forced himself to think.

  He had to find her. She belonged to him. This entire situation was intolerable. Where was she? Did she miss him? Who was she with? That thought sent him into another rage, and he pounded his fist hard against his leg, gratified by the pain. He’d rather her dead than with another man.

  He closed his eyes, tilted his head against the wall, and tried to steady his breathing. He brought a picture of her to his mind to calm himself. So young. Barely eighteen. Ready for him to shape and mold. Her golden hair, her perfect skin, her full lips.

  He relived their kiss in the alley. He’d pressed his mouth to those innocent, luscious lips, crushed her body to his. She’d struggled against him, and he’d understood that she felt she had to. She didn’t want him thinking her loose or immoral. If only he could have explained how he’d watched her from afar, imagined them together so many times, that to him, they were already soul-mated. Nothing she did would alter his opinion of her.

  If that dark-haired viper hadn’t attacked him, hadn’t screeched and screamed and made all that noise, Penny would already be his.

  His lips curved into a grim smile. He’d made that witch bleed. And someday, he promised himself, someday he’d get the chance to do much worse. He’d find a quiet place so he could take his time while gripping her throat, squeezing her life away.

  He stood and headed toward the grand staircase. All that was for another time. For now, he needed to find Penny and make her his. She’d be forced to marry him. Her parents would be unable to object, or to keep them apart.

  Though Penny acted as if she’d never noticed him, he’d understood her shyness. She could not simply stare in a forward manner. Not like that dark-haired witch with her seeking eyes, always beside Penny, watching, scanning, suspicious.

  She’d given his description to the local police and forced him into hiding. The indignity of yielding to a mere servant! She was the reason Penny fled.

  But his dearest needn’t worry. He would find her, and when he did, he’d make her his—make her his bride. And if the harpy remained attached to his true love, she’d be sorry for the trouble she’d caused him.