by Darcy Burke
After pouring, Rob handed him the glass while taking a drink from his own. His lips immediately puckered and his left eye squinted. “I can see why no one wanted that cask.” Silence grew for a moment before Rob pierced it like a spade through soft earth. “That chit seems moneyed. And I reckon she’s not married.”
Really, Fox should have seen this coming. He’d no confusion as to whom Rob meant by ‘that chit.’ After seven years of working together and close friendship, Rob was the nearest thing to a brother Fox would ever have. “You’re suggesting I leg-shackle myself to a bank?”
“A very comely bank.” Rob tossed back another swallow, his face pinching less this time. “She’d be an easy answer to our money problems. And you could do worse.”
Fox took a hearty drink, pretending the liquid was far smoother than it tasted. “So this is what it’s come to? I have to trade myself for money?” He didn’t want to marry a spoiled heiress, regardless of her stunning beauty. He didn’t want to marry anyone. Not after Jane.
“That, or we find another mark. Makes no difference to me. I rather liked taking money from that skinny goat.”
Carmody wasn’t the richest gent in the district, but it didn’t bother Fox to steal from him. He’d spent more money purchasing votes during his stint as MP than Fox could spend in a year on two estates. “I won’t argue that, but it’s a risk.”
A soft rap on the door drew their attention. Fox called, “Come.”
His housekeeper, Mrs. Afton, stepped inside. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Foxcroft. I’ve just received a note from Mrs. Gates.” She handed Fox a piece of parchment. Before he could unfold it, she added, “Two children were left at Stipple’s End earlier tonight. The vicar from Swindon brought them.” Stipple’s End had an excellent reputation throughout northern Wiltshire and as a result, there were always plenty of children to rescue.
Fox clenched the paper as tension rippled through his tired frame. New children at the orphanage always meant added expense. Clothing, extra rations, and usually medicine. “How old?”
“Wee things, I’m told. The older one’s ill.”
The parchment in his hand suddenly carried the weight of lead. “Thank you, Mrs. Afton.”
The housekeeper bobbed and left, closing the door behind her.
“Methinks that heiress just got more attractive.” Rob wriggled his eyebrows in the most annoying fashion.
Fox tossed the last of his wretched brandy back, hoping his selfish father was enjoying himself in hell. “You think I can lure a Society deb like her?” A hole had formed in Fox’s shirt over his right elbow. The soles of his boots would need replacement come fall. He ran his thumb along the edge of his forefinger. The nail, ragged and worn, snagged his flesh. “Perhaps I can entice her with my extravagant estate?” He swept his arm about the study, bare of anything but the requisite items and even those were aged and worn. “Wait, maybe my title will induce her. Except ‘mister’ isn’t as exciting as it used to be.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” Rob raised his glass and then drained it.
He wasn’t. But he couldn’t change who he was or what she appeared to be. “You have to admit my courting her would be tricky. I’m only trying to reason how it might work.”
Rob snorted as he set his empty glass back on the sideboard. “Perhaps she’s come to Wootton Bassett to find a kind-hearted husband.”
“Ha! Perhaps.” Fox drummed his fingers on the desktop. Until the arrival of the new orphans, Fox had been prepared to argue against this idea, preferring to chance capture by the hangman’s noose instead of the parson’s trap. But that was a ludicrous notion anyway. A greater risk for a temporary windfall. Marriage to someone like Miranda—was she Lady Miranda?—would ensure their financial comfort indefinitely.
Fox’s shoulders twitched as he looked at his steward and friend, happily married with two children. Yes, better to marry an heiress than risk Rob and the others. “I’ll find out what I can about this rich girl.”
Rob nodded. “A bit of fluff would do you good. You need more than Mrs. Danforth to keep you warm.”
Christ. Polly. She’d invited him to visit tonight. It seemed the enchanting Miranda had obliterated any thought of his sometime lover. Miranda—just thinking her name filled his brain with the memory of spicy orange scent, soft curves, and delicious lips. She’d been interested in something, but marriage probably wasn’t it.
Fox stood. He’d had enough of discussing marriage and thieving. “I’m for Stipple’s End to see about these children.” He scooped the coins back into the bag, mentally calculating how much of it he’d need to give Mrs. Gates for the new arrivals.
Rob plucked his mask off the desk and tucked it into his coat. “I’ll be over early tomorrow. Bad weather or no, we need to get some vegetables into the ground. Thankfully the warmest months are still ahead of us.” His hope hung in the air between them, as intangible and elusive as the money they needed to fix the orphanage roof.
Damn, but the edge of ruin was a desperate place, and unfortunately, the business of courting his heiress couldn’t happen overnight. In the meantime, Fox would do what he could to increase their coffers without having to steal. “I’ll attend the next vicarage tea. Mayhap I can squeeze more money out of their self-important attendees.” That probably wasn’t the fairest assessment—they weren’t all self-important—but the bi-weekly vicarage tea was the closest thing to a society event as Wootton Bassett ever came, and invitations meant you were somebody.
As Fox made his way back to the stable, his mind returned to Miranda. Her kiss had stirred something in him. Something that had died when Jane’s father had forced her to marry Stratham instead of him.
He flinched, recalling Jane’s tearful refusal of his proposal. Fox still couldn’t look her father in the eye without wanting to punch it.
Would Miranda even accept his suit? Or, like Jane, would she be forced to spurn him in favor of someone with wealth or a title, or both?
Chapter Two
“TIME for breakfast, my lady.”
Lady Miranda Sinclair roused from her dream, or perhaps nightmare, where she was once more caught in an intimate embrace on the Dark Walk at Vauxhall. The very event that had precipitated her banishment from London. And it hadn’t even been a good kiss. Not like that of the highwayman.
“My lady, you must wake up,” came the maid’s plaintive tone.
“Fine.” Miranda shivered in her narrow, lumpy bed, miserable without the benefit of a warming pan. Cracking one eye open, she didn’t see the maid who’d only stuck her head into the room to awaken her. Couldn’t she at least have stoked the fire before leaving? Miranda burrowed deeper into the covers.
Think of something warm. Something hot.
The highwayman’s kiss.
Last night came back to her as if it had just happened. Heat rolled through her while she recalled his tongue in her mouth, his fingers stroking her neck. In the half dozen or so times she’d kissed Charles Darleigh, her body had never reacted so strongly. Her insides swirled like perfumed oil poured into a hot bath.
A chill pricked between her shoulders and she twitched. She’d kissed a criminal. A man of indeterminate background and breeding. And she’d liked it. Quite a lot. Quite a bit more than she’d liked kissing Darleigh, the nephew of an earl with five thousand a year.
“My lady?” The maid had returned. “You’re still abed.”
Of course she was. She’d spent half the night tossing and turning trying to sleep in the infernally cold and quiet—too quiet—room. “What the devil time is it? Certainly too early for…breakfast, did you say?”
“Yes, breakfast is at half-eight. In ten minutes.”
Couldn’t she have just brought a cup of chocolate? Miranda always awakened to the tantalizing scent of chocolate. “I’ll dine later. Civilized people don’t rise this early.”
“I’m sorry, my lady, but breakfast is at half-eight. Mr. Carmody expects everyone at table. He becomes quite cross if
Mrs. Carmody is tardy—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Miranda threw the covers off and gasped at the rush of cold air. She leapt to her feet, hugging herself. “And I suppose it’s too much to expect you to stoke the fire?” At the maid’s widened gaze and slackened jaw, Miranda regretted her tone. “Are you here to help me dress then?”
“Yes, if my lady requires my assistance.”
Miranda glanced at a clock on the mantelpiece—one of few adornments in her tiny bedroom. “Ten minutes you say? This will be the fastest toilet of my twenty-two years.”
Thirteen minutes later, Miranda picked her way down the creaking stairs to Birch House’s pathetic excuse for an entry hall. The maid had given her the direction of the dining room—not that she’d needed it given the doll-size dimensions of Birch House. Upon reaching her destination, she stopped short in the doorway. Mr. and Mrs. Carmody and Beatrice were seated around a ridiculously small table. Goodness, it probably only sat eight at best. Fitchley—wasn’t he the butler who’d greeted them last night?—attended the meal.
Miranda glanced around for the buffet table. Seeing none, she took the only remaining vacant seat. Presumably the other chairs—if there were other chairs—were located elsewhere. In fact, Miranda imagined they probably used them in other rooms. If their butler did double duty, perhaps their furniture did as well.
Mr. Carmody spread jam on a piece of toast. “Good of you to join us, Lady Miranda. You’ll need to do better tomorrow.”
Miranda repressed a scowl as Fitchley brought her a plate of food. Dark brown toast, probably cold, sat beside a parched slice of overcooked ham. At least the poached eggs looked sunny and appetizing. “Is there no fruit?”
Mrs. Carmody pursed her thin lips. “I’m sure you are accustomed to all manner of luxury, Lady Miranda, but here we do not enjoy the same level of comfort. The weather has made berry season late.”
Miranda bit back her query regarding kippers.
After a few moments in which the gentle clink of silverware and the occasional rustle of Fitchley’s footfalls were the only sounds, Mr. Carmody waved a forkful of ham in the air. “I’ve written to your father about your ghastly behavior last night.” He darted a glare at her for good measure. Miranda purposefully pasted a placid smile on her face in response. “I also informed His Grace you will be working at the local orphanage starting today.”
Miranda’s mouth drooped. “What?”
Across the table, Beatrice said, “I work at Stipple’s End several days a week. It’s very rewarding and the children are…precocious. Truly, there is nothing better you can do with your time while you’re here.”
Miranda could think of at least a dozen things that would be better uses of her time. Reading, riding—she pressed her lips together. She couldn’t do either of those because the Carmodys had neither books nor horses, and her parents had deprived her of both for the duration of her exile. So, ten things, perhaps. The first of which would be penning her own letter to Father detailing Mr. and Mrs. Carmody’s stern and unwelcoming attitude.
Miranda’s fingers clenched around her fork as she speared a piece of egg. “And just what does ‘working’ at the orphanage entail?”
Beatrice’s silver clanked against her plate. “Any number of duties. Mrs. Gates, the headmistress, always has a need for extra hands.”
“I hope it’s nothing terribly taxing. I’m afraid I haven’t the wardrobe for menial tasks.” To take the sting from her words, Miranda summoned a smile she didn’t think she could find. She couldn’t afford not to. These people held her very livelihood in their pedestrian, judgmental hands. “I’m certain I can accomplish whatever service the orphanage needs.”
“Lady Miranda,” Mrs. Carmody began, her earth-brown eyes narrowing beneath thin, brutally arched brows, “You have not come to Wootton Bassett for a summer holiday. Your parents sent you here in order to better yourself and return to London a regretful and rehabilitated young woman.”
Miranda set her fork beside her plate. “And I thought I came to help Beatrice acquire the attributes necessary to attract a husband.” That wasn’t precisely true. Miranda knew why she’d been exiled, but Mother had entreated upon her to view the summer as an opportunity instead of a punishment. Helping Beatrice would show Miranda’s father that she was capable of creating good instead of mischief.
Mrs. Carmody’s lips parted and she sucked in a breath.
Miranda cringed and hastily added, “I wish to help in whatever fashion I may, whether at the orphanage or with Beatrice.” She folded her hands demurely in her lap, hoping she appeared appropriately dutiful.
Mr. Carmody dropped his hand to the table rather forcefully. The silver and plate clattered. “You’ll do precisely what you’re told and mind your smart tongue. And don’t be worrying about your fine clothes. I doubt you’ll be attending many functions.”
Just what did he mean? This might be the edge of nowhere, but Miranda was fairly certain small villages had entertainments of some kind. And how could she aid Beatrice if she didn’t attend those entertainments with her? Really, how did a woman find a husband out here?
“If you’re finished, Miranda, we should be on our way to Stipple’s End.” Beatrice folded her napkin next to her plate. “May I be excused, Father?”
“Yes.” Mr. Carmody turned an irritated eye on Miranda. She realized it didn’t matter if she’d completed her meal or not.
Miranda half stood. Mr. Carmody’s nostrils flared. Retaking her seat, she sought her faux smile once more. “May I be excused?”
“Go, then.”
Such charm. Miranda followed Beatrice from the room, hoping against hope the orphanage would be a mite more pleasant than Birch House.
STIPPLE’S End looked to be an old medieval hall repeatedly enlarged over the ensuing centuries. The building rambled at the end of a long lane, surrounded by gardens that were obviously tended to, but devoid of order. In fact, it looked as if trees and shrubbery were allowed to bloom and grow wherever they seeded themselves.
A stone path led from the lane to the front entrance. Miranda followed Beatrice to the large oak door, her feet aching from the lengthy walk from Birch House. It opened before Beatrice could knock. A small, rather round woman greeted them with a wide, warm smile. “Beatrice! A delight to see you this morning.”
Beatrice stepped inside. “Miranda, may I present Mrs. Gates, the headmistress here at Stipple’s End. Mrs. Gates, Lady Miranda Sinclair, who is staying with us this summer and is eager to help.”
Miranda flinched at the word “eager,” but gave the portly Mrs. Gates her sunniest expression as she entered behind Beatrice. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Miranda eyed Beatrice’s sturdy cotton dress and worried anew about the type of work she’d be assigned.
Her assumption the house had once been a medieval hall was verified in the interior. She shivered—everything about the country was perpetually cold. Especially this drafty old place. She studied the high ceiling, noting a water-stained hole in one corner. No wonder she was chilled. “You have a leak?”
Mrs. Gates folded her hands over her yellowed apron. “Yes. The orphanage is always in need, I’m afraid.”
Miranda could see that quite clearly. The furniture looked as if it might collapse at any moment. The carpet beneath her feet was battered and moth-eaten. She itched to move away, wondering if anything lived in the dingy threads.
“I’ve brought some biscuits for the children.” Beatrice handed a stuffed basket to Mrs. Gates. “How can we help you this morning?”
“Thank you, dear. We’ve two young boys who arrived last night. One’s rather ill. Would you be up to nursing him for a bit? Annie’s been tending him all night and could use a respite.”
“Of course. I’ll go at once.” Beatrice departed toward a staircase against the right wall, leaving Miranda to fend for herself.
“It’s nothing catching, is it? I’d hate for Beatrice to become ill.” And in turn make me ill, Miranda mused
.
“We can’t often tell. I’m afraid we can’t afford much in the way of a physician. Beatrice has nursed plenty of our charges and hasn’t suffered even a sneeze. Don’t you fret about her.” The broad-bosomed headmistress touched Miranda’s arm. It was a tiny gesture, but full of kindness. And completely outside of Miranda’s experience. “Now tell me how you think you can help.”
Miranda shifted and Mrs. Gates’s hand fell away as if it had never breached the distance between them. “I don’t suppose you need anything embroidered or water-colored?” Not that she had a particular talent for either, but she truly couldn’t think of what she might offer.
Mrs. Gates’s mouth puckered, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or frown.
“I’m sure you’ll find something suitable.” Miranda only prayed it didn’t involve chafed hands and broken fingernails.
“I appreciate your willingness to help, my lady. As it happens, I was just preparing for a task right here.” Mrs. Gates gestured to a table in front of the wide windows facing the drive. On it were two bowls and a row of combs. Was she to style the children’s hair? “Those are lice combs. This basin of water is for cleaning the combs as it becomes necessary.”
Miranda clenched her teeth together, lest her jaw drop. “I see.”
“Comb through each child’s hair.” Mrs. Gates picked up a comb and waved it about for a moment in demonstration. “Be sure to look for the eggs as well as the lice themselves. The eggs like to cling right to their little skulls.”
The notion of lice and eggs “clinging” to these poor children’s heads turned Miranda’s stomach, but she refused to beg off. The Carmodys only needed another reason to disparage her to her parents.
“And if I should find any lice?” Miranda voiced the question even though the answer somewhat frightened her.
Mrs. Gates replaced the comb on the table. “I don’t suppose you have any experience scrubbing them out?”
