by Darcy Burke
Mr. Foxcroft laughed. “Touché, Lady Miranda! Lord Norris hosts an annual party in September in order to show off his most recent acquisitions. Perhaps you will meet him then.”
“Like as not, since I plan to be back in London by then.” God help her if she was still stuck in the middle of nowhere come the Little Season.
They left Cosgrove behind. Mr. Foxcroft kept his attention on her as much as on the road. If he were a lesser driver, Miranda might have been annoyed, but she found herself enjoying his pointed regard.
The fields lining the road were sodden and dark brown from last night’s rain. Very few plants sprouted amidst the dirt. “Shouldn’t the crops be visible by now?”
From Sunday’s church sermon and from yesterday’s tea at the vicarage, Miranda knew there was concern about the planting and the weather, but hadn’t comprehended the severity. At her father’s country seat, the fields were green this time of year.
“Indeed.” Mr. Foxcroft sounded grave. “The unseasonably cool temperatures are playing havoc with our schedule. I am hopeful the plants will catch up, however.”
The village came into view, the church spire rising high above the other buildings. They passed the church on the right before entering the town proper. Buildings that housed shops, a tavern, and an inn, The Swan, marched up both sides of High Street.
Beatrice sat forward in her seat. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you to stop at Mrs. Abernathy’s? I’ve a parcel to retrieve.”
Mr. Foxcroft brought the cart to a halt before a small shop, which seemed to sell a variety of things. There was no telling what Beatrice’s parcel might contain, not that Miranda much cared.
Beatrice’s hooded gaze shouted, “Behave,” as Mr. Foxcroft helped her from the cart. Miranda sighed and settled against the back of her seat.
Mr. Foxcroft resumed his position beside her and glanced over his shoulder down High Street. He fingered the reins lying across his lap. He wore dark brown leather driving gloves, the palms faded and worn.
She tore her gaze from his capable hands. “Did Mr. Stratham say what kept him from our appointment?”
His pupils dilated. “Ah, no, he wasn’t specific.”
Before she could censor herself, she asked, “It seems as though you and Mr. Stratham are perhaps not very friendly?”
Mr. Foxcroft glanced down at the reins in his hands, ran his thumb along the flat leather. “You could say that.”
Miranda sensed a subtle change in him. He held a dark emotion just beyond her reach. She hadn’t meant to cause him discomfort. “Forget I mentioned anything.”
Before Miranda could ponder why she hadn’t persisted in her inquiry, a landau turned onto High Street and headed straight for them. Mr. Foxcroft mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Son of a bitch.” The vehicle halted in front of them and Mr. Stratham exited. Yes, Mr. Foxcroft had definitely muttered, “Son of a bitch.”
Mr. Stratham approached the cart with a frown. “Just what do you think you’re about, Foxcroft?”
Mr. Foxcroft looked down at Mr. Stratham and leaned back against his seat. “Lady Miranda and I are enjoying a ride.”
Miranda regarded both men. Mr. Stratham appeared torn between wanting to hit Mr. Foxcroft and wanting to maintain his composure, whether for her benefit or some other reason, she couldn’t know.
After a moment, Mr. Stratham seemed to relax. He circled the cart to Miranda’s side and rested a hand on the step. “Lady Miranda, I would be happy to see you home. My landau is much more…comfortable.” His gaze roved the length of the cart.
“I do appreciate your offer, Mr. Stratham, but we are waiting for Beatrice. I’m afraid she must return with us.” She wistfully eyed his luxurious vehicle.
“No matter.” He stepped back and raised his hand with a flourish. “I’m happy to escort you both.”
Mr. Foxcroft laid his arm along the back of the seat. A possessive gesture, the contact of his arm against the back of her shoulders was not unpleasant. Awareness prickled along her neck. First she’d been attracted to a highwayman, and now she was apparently less than put off by the attention of a farmer who operated an orphanage. What next? A blacksmith?
“Good afternoon.”
Three heads turned to face Mrs. Abernathy’s shop.
Beatrice held a wrapped package. “We were told you were otherwise engaged, Mr. Stratham.”
Mr. Stratham rested his hand on the step once more. “Mr. Foxcroft was mistaken.”
“But I was right about you being late.” Though Mr. Foxcroft muttered this under his breath, Miranda caught every syllable. She was tempted to laugh but thought better of it given the palpable tension between the two men.
A carriage rattled up High Street and stopped behind Mr. Stratham’s landau. Mr. Carmody departed the carriage and strode to the cart. This was turning into a social event.
Beatrice clutched her package to her side, almost as if she didn’t want her father to see it. “Father, whatever are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to fetch you both home. The post arrived and with it, important news.”
Miranda’s heart leapt. This was what she’d been waiting for! Mother and Father had gotten her missive and decided her punishment too severe. They were rescuing her from this infernal backwater. She stood, and Mr. Stratham offered his hand to help her down. Mr. Foxcroft jumped to his feet and frowned as he watched her exit with Mr. Stratham’s assistance.
Mr. Stratham held onto her hand a trifle longer than necessary. “Might I call for you tomorrow afternoon, then?”
Mr. Carmody’s nasal voice cut off any response she might have given. “No.”
Miranda pulled her head back as if she’d been slapped. Though she would be returning to Town, it was up to her to decline Mr. Stratham’s kind offer, not his! “No?”
“No. Your parents have forbidden you from socializing. Except for church. You may attend church.”
Miranda gasped, unable to keep her emotion in check. Humiliation stabbed through her chest. Was it necessary for Mr. Carmody to reveal this information in such a public venue? Of all the pompous, obnoxious—
“Come, gels.” Mr. Carmody turned and walked toward the carriage, expecting Beatrice and Miranda to follow. Beatrice, of course, did just as she was told. Miranda’s feet, however, were like lead. Though she stood in the middle of the street on a brisk summer afternoon, her chest constricted and her head pounded as if she were once more standing in her father’s office while he interrogated her about what she’d done on the Dark Walk at Vauxhall.
After a moment, Mr. Carmody stopped and spun around. “Hurry it up, gel, or I’ll suggest your parents ban you from helping at the orphanage, too.”
She’d never felt so utterly alone in all of her life. But she refused to crumple. She raised her chin and walked to the carriage. Fitchley held the door and she climbed inside without saying good day to either Mr. Foxcroft or Mr. Stratham. Pity, for she’d have liked to have seen what happened next with them.
Once inside the carriage, she couldn’t keep herself from glowering at Mr. Carmody.
He waved a hand at her. “Now, now, don’t work yourself up. After all, you have church and the orphanage.”
Miranda’s face enflamed with her fury. “Church? You don’t even socialize afterward. I can assure you, listening to the vicar drone on about the crops and the harvest and how we all must pray for warmer weather is no treat.”
Mr. Carmody’s lips thinned. “Such a spoiled brat you are. It’s not as if you’ve been confined to your room. Yet.”
Outrage fired her blood. “Why did you even bother to house me this summer? I’m clearly a burden.”
“Mrs. Carmody is doing a favor for your mother.” Ha, more like Carmody was trying to gain the support of one of England’s most powerful dukes. “And believe you me, I’d no idea you would be so disagreeable. So far you’ve done nothing to assist Beatrice with her matrimonial goal.”
Miranda folde
d her arms across her chest. Her body stiffened with anger, making the jostling ride more uncomfortable. “And I likely won’t, given I can’t do anything.”
“If you can teach orphans how to comport themselves, I’m sure you can impart similar information to Beatrice. Your parents were very pleased Mrs. Carmody and I encouraged you to help at Stipple’s End, by the by.”
Encouraged her? They’d bloody ordered her to work there! Miranda glanced at the other occupant of the carriage. Beatrice peered out the window, her cheeks slightly flushed. Could she be angry on Miranda’s behalf? Irritated because Miranda wouldn’t be personally ensuring she was the toast of Wootton Bassett? Beatrice slid a mutinous glare at her father and for the first time Miranda wondered at the relationship between the Carmodys. Beatrice appeared to be the dutiful daughter, but perhaps everything was not as it seemed.
Miranda relaxed and settled back against the squab. She would find out. After all, she had nothing better to do.
Chapter Four
AFTER Carmody’s coach pulled away, Fox plucked up his reins.
Stratham put his hand on the horse’s flank. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?” He reviewed Fox from head to foot in an insulting appraisal. “You believe she’s going to be any more interested in your pathetic attempts at courtship than Jane?”
Fox jumped to the ground and knocked Stratham’s hand away from his horse. Fox glared down at the vermin and sneered. “Jane was perfectly happy with me until you stole her away.”
Stratham rose up on his toes and Fox briefly considered pushing him off balance. “You can’t steal someone who doesn’t wish to be stolen. And Lady Miranda isn’t half as interested in you as Jane was. You had to lie to entice her to drive with you.”
Oh, how Fox wanted to brag he’d kissed Miranda. She may not be falling all over Montgomery Foxcroft, but she’d thrown herself at the dangerous highwayman, found him dashing. Fox let out a breath and with it, some of the tension coiling his muscles. He wouldn’t let himself be baited by Stratham. “We’ll see what she really thinks. I’m sure we’ll get to know each other quite well while she’s working at the orphanage.”
Stratham let out a dark laugh. “She said at the vicarage she’s only here for the summer. She sees this town and its inhabitants as beneath her.”
Fox cocked a brow. “That doesn’t bode well for you then, does it?”
“You forget I spend a good deal of time in London. I do believe Lady Miranda does not consider me in the same class as the rest of Wootton Bassett.”
“Because you’re not. You’re not fit to clean the chamber pots of anyone I know.”
Stratham’s eyes narrowed. “Insolent ass—”
Fox jabbed his shoulder into Stratham’s chest as he turned. “Don’t waste your time.”
As he climbed back into the cart, Stratham backed away. “She’ll choose me in the end, you know. You’re the one who shouldn’t bother.”
Fox ignored the man’s taunts and urged his horse into a gentle trot. He was annoyed with himself for engaging Stratham, something he knew to be both futile and frustrating. Perhaps they should have dueled over the right to court her and saved everyone the plague of prolonged competition.
A waft of spicy citrus hit him and he savored the scent. His blood heated and the notion of marrying Miranda became more than about besting Stratham. More than about money.
He wanted her.
Wanted her in a way he hadn’t wanted a woman in a very long time. It transcended mere physical requirement and the vanity that came with having such a woman. No, she carried the promise of something much more.
And for that, he’d fight to win.
THE following Monday, Miranda found herself at the head of the long dining room table at Stipple’s End. More than two dozen children stared at her—some with interest, others with disdain, all of them with hunger.
When she’d offered daily assistance to Mrs. Gates, the kindly headmistress had quickly—and gleefully—assigned Miranda to overseeing lunch. Fear overtook the appetite pulling on her belly. How could she possibly manage twenty seven children? Twenty seven party-goers, certainly. But this gathering was not a party. Even so, it had to be a far sight better than delousing. And if she was lucky, she would prove good enough at this to avoid delousing permanently.
A maid from the kitchen brought in the food, placing covered dishes throughout the table. As soon as one landed, a hand snatched off the lid and dove for the contents. Miranda’s eyes widened at the lack of decorum. But that didn’t actually begin to describe the…the mayhem erupting about her. Carrots spilled from the serving spoon onto the table more often than onto a child’s plate. An unknown stewed vegetable—at least she assumed it was a vegetable—splattered a child’s arm as he ladled a portion for himself. And did that small girl just devour a bite of turnips directly from the serving dish?
“Children.” Miranda cleared her throat when no one responded. Why weren’t they listening? She tried again, “Children, please stop.” A few of the smaller girls looked up at her, their forks arrested in midair. When no one else halted their activity, they went back to their lunches. Presumably they gave Mrs. Gates their attention. Why not her, the daughter of a duke? Didn’t they realize her considerable position?
The kitchen maid shrugged at Miranda and took her leave. “Wait,” Miranda called after the young woman, but her request was either not heard or ignored. Given the chaos in the dining room, Miranda rather thought it was the former, but couldn’t dismiss the latter.
Squaring her shoulders, Miranda faced the raucous horde of children. Her knees trembled and nervous heat snaked down her neck.
“Hey, that’s my roll!”
“No, it’s mine. Get yer own!”
“Ouch, watch yer elbow!”
“I wanna glass of water!”
The cacophony was approaching a deafening roar. “Stop, please!” More children gave her their attention, but the majority continued to ignore her. Her anxiety gave way to ire. “I said, STOP!” Goodness, she sounded a bit like her father.
A few more children fell silent, but the skirmish over a roll continued at the other end of the table. Miranda stalked to the field of battle and seized the roll from the warring parties. Both lads stared up at her. One of them, she realized, was a shorn Bernard. Her scalp and neck twitched.
“There are plenty of rolls left. Why are you fighting over this particular one?” She hefted the bread in her hand, wondering if it would bounce off the boy’s head if she threw it. No, she was civilized, unlike these heathens, and civilized people didn’t throw food. Her job—and never did she more clearly understand it—was to civilize them.
The boys glared at each other a moment longer. “I guess I can get another one.” And then she witnessed firsthand that the rolls did indeed bounce as Bernard nicked a roll from the tray and chucked it at his opponent’s skull.
Instantly, other boys leaned over the table encouraging either Bernard or his foe. For his part, Bernard earned a spoonful of pudding aimed at his chest. A glop hit Miranda’s arm and slid onto the floor. Unable to move, she gaped at the uncontrollable pandemonium around her. Children were yelling, tossing food, and crying. Crying? Miranda looked around for someone to help before recalling she was the only adult present.
Her brother had misbehaved. What had their governess done? Ah yes, that. Miranda reached forward, but pulled her hand back at the last second. Grabbing Bernard by the ear meant touching an area that was, and perhaps still could be, infested with lice. Risk the lice or allow the boys to completely devolve?
The crying made her decision for her. Miranda grasped both troublemaking boys by their ears and dragged them out of their chairs. They shrieked in unison. The rest of the table’s occupants hushed almost immediately. Even the crying became a soft hiccupping.
“Both of you are finished eating. And you will clean up the table when our meal is over. Now go sit in the corner.” She thrust them away, and they goggled at her, e
ach with a reddened ear. Miranda felt a little bad about that, but not enough to summon regret. “Well, go on then.” Reluctantly, they turned and shuffled toward the corner. “No, separately. One of you in that corner and the other in that corner.” She pointed, and they split up as ordered. Her chest puffed up a bit as she watched them heed her directions. Her triumph was short-lived, however, when Bernard shot her a sharp glare.
Miranda turned on her heel and started back toward her seat at the head. A small girl halfway up the table resumed her crying. Miranda crouched beside her and tried not to gag at the sight of so much…gunk coming out of the urchin’s nose. “What is it, dear?”
“I didn’t get a roll. I wanna roll.” Tears fell in earnest, dotting her stained dress. A roll she could manage, but what to do about the nose? Miranda picked up the urchin’s hem and wiped her nose and mouth. One of the older girls looked at her curiously. What difference did it make? The dress was impossibly stained anyway!
Miranda turned to the boy seated to the girl’s right. “Would you please ask for the rolls?” The boy stared at her for a moment as if he didn’t comprehend. She gritted her teeth. “The rolls. This girl would like a roll.”
He leapt onto his feet on his chair and reached across the table, his shirtsleeves dragging through a dish of turnips. When he shrank back to a seated position, he held a squashed roll in his grasp. He presented it to the girl with a toothless grin.
Horrified, Miranda waved her hand at nothing in particular. “You can’t just lean over the table like that! You ask for the rolls to be passed. Goodness, have you no manners at all?” She directed the last to the table at large, but received no response.
Dazedly, she returned to her chair while the meal carried on in a symphonic discord of screeching children, audible chewing, and, good Lord, burping. Were those boys at the end having a contest as to who could burp loudest and longest?
Suddenly, she recalled a similar occurrence from her own childhood. Though her brother was several years older, they often ate together. On one occasion, Jasper had burped. They’d laughed because they could never have done such a thing in front of their parents, and to continue the hilarity, Miranda had copied the sound. Extremely effectively, too.
