A Midsummer Night's Sin (8 page)

Puck’s laughter was instant if short-lived, as they were, after all, nearly within earshot of the street.

Reginald Hackett’s reaction to learning that his daughter had been in the company of one of Blackthorn’s bastards was easy to imagine. Allowing her within fifty yards of that same unsuitable bastard ever again would be out of the question. The man would go to great lengths to assure himself that such a thing would not happen.

At the same time, Puck had no notion of what the kidnapped Miranda looked like, which only complicated what was already a very large problem—finding one woman in the entire metropolis of London, even if he searched only in the area of the massive docks. He couldn’t simply keep rescuing and dragging various unfortunate petite, blonde women to Number 23 Cavendish Square and asking, “Is this the right one?”

Not that he knew how to find and rescue
any
women at all.

Neither did Regina, but Puck felt sure she’d persist in her quest in any event. And
that
he could not allow!

Miranda wasn’t the first petite, blonde English-woman to have turned up missing in the past weeks. How many were enough to set off to sea with and be guaranteed a profitable voyage? Were there still more to be found, carried off? Or had Miranda been the last one, the best one, the coup actually, and had already been hustled out of London on the morning tide?

But no. Like Regina, he would refuse to consider that. If her cousin was not found and rescued, brought safely back to the bosom of her family, Regina would never forgive herself, her own life would never be the
same. Even if he couldn’t have her, he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t help her avoid that fate.

“Puck? Are you ever going to talk to me again?”

He shook himself from his thoughts and lifted her hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss against the fingers of each hand.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she told him, but without much conviction in her voice, so he ignored her protest.

“I’ve only one possible solution, and even I know it’s preposterous.”

“Preposterous. But not impossible?”

“And definitely dangerous. Even if you obey me in everything, which is essential to our hoped-for success but probably not a part of your nature.”

“I can be cooperative. If I think you’re right, that is.”

“Perceive me, please, as now completely reassured. You’re a tolerable actress, do you know that?”

She shook her head.

“Well, you are. You very nearly had me convinced that your mother had been in the coach with you last night. I don’t know what you meant about the lemon squares, but whatever it was, it seemed quite believable. And your quick reactions earlier, on the street, were impeccable.”

“You’re being kind. My father called me a liar. And not a very good one at that. Why are we talking about this?”

So he told her his plan, the one he had come up with while waiting for her return from the park. He had been blessed, or at least born with, a devious mind.

The plan was preposterous. But not impossible.

He would go home and tell himself repeatedly that it was the only way. That he was saving Regina from herself and her determination to find her cousin on her own. That he knew there could be nothing between the two of them save a combined determination to rescue Miranda.

He could tell himself that.

But he wouldn’t believe it. For while there was life, there was hope—and without hope, why bother living?

“P
LEASE
, P
APA, IT’S
the only answer, for any of us. Uncle Seth? You can see that, can’t you?”

Reginald Hackett glared at Regina from behind his desk. A large desk, made especially for him and touted to be superior in size even to that of the Prime Minister himself. That sort of thing meant a lot to Reginald Hackett.

He had planned his private study carefully, filled the walls with portraits of nonexistent relatives, furnished the space with bookcases filled with books he’d never read: all those with red leather bindings placed together, those with blue on their own shelves, repeating the neat rows in all green, all brown, all black.

To Reginald, they were neat, orderly, expensive and therefore impressive. The practice was called “buying their books by the yard” by those in Society who knew a climbing cit when they saw one, however, and the purchaser laughed at by those who knew better.

But there was no one so foolish as to say any of
that to Reginald’s face, most especially those who so happily pocketed his money. Such as the Viscount Ranscome, who was at that moment nervously sipping Geneva from his seat on one of his benefactor’s custom-made leather couches.

It was two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, and Miranda had been missing since sometime before midnight the previous evening.

“Your uncle has three Runners hot on the chit’s trail, Regina,” Reginald pointed out, tapping a brass letter opener on the desktop. “For all we know, she could be home now. I still say she gulled you into believing she was abducted by—what was that you called them? Oh, yes.
Brigands.
”

“They might have been footpads,” Regina conceded quietly.

She didn’t know why her father was concealing from her uncle the fact that Miranda disappeared during the ball. Although she felt rather certain that it had at least something to do with keeping anyone else from ever learning that his daughter had attended Lady Fortesque’s masquerade, knowledge of which would be a death knell to all his hopes for her advantageous marriage.

He turned to skewer the viscount with his black stare. “I say it was all a trick and Regina only a dupe. You said as much yourself, Seth, by telling me the coachie never returned to Cavendish Square, leaving that to one of the footmen while he disappeared into the night. There’s a reason for that. He was in on it, plain
and simple. Your precious daughter has run off with some fool, and she’s probably been tipping back on her heels and laughing while you’re over there looking like a man bedeviled. You’re weak, Seth, weak and stupid. My Regina here would never try such a stunt on me. She knows who is in charge. Your family rides rough-shod over you.”

Well, that was cleared up; Regina knew for certain now why her father hadn’t brought up the subject of exactly
where
Miranda had been when she disappeared. No, not to protect her. To hide the fact that he did
not
have such a firm control of his daughter as he’d like his brother-in-law to believe. That made much more sense. Knowing she was about to make any stunt Miranda had ever tried look like an innocent stroll in the park, Regina lowered her head and began an intense inspection of her intertwined fingers.

“I cannot go out into Society in any case,” she reminded both men. “Not without Miranda. Aunt Claire is entirely too overset to accompany me, and Mama…” She let that last bit hang out there for both men to consider. Leticia Hackett had heard the news about her niece and immediately taken refuge in her most trusted friend and companion, the fermented grape. She would never be able to withstand the pressures of having to go into Society and utter massive fibs about her niece’s whereabouts. Why, by ten this morning she had convinced herself that not only had she been in the coach when it was attacked, but that she had attempted to defend her daughter and niece. That she had failed in
that effort had driven her straight back into the wine decanter.

Regina felt terrible about this part of the deception, but only consoled herself that her mother’s reaction would be that much worse if she knew the truth…that her daughter had been in attendance at what would probably soon be known as the debauch of the Season. Just the fact that Reginald’s name had been on the guest list attested to the fact that the place had been opened to all sorts of unsuitable persons.

“What m’daughter is saying here, Seth, is that your sister is sailing three sheets to the wind upstairs and unlikely to return to harbor anytime soon.”

“You shouldn’t permit her drink,” Seth said in defense of his sister but then seemed to think better of his small scold. “Although each soul finds solace in its own way.”

“Letty likes the searching for it best,” Reginald quipped, following this bit of wit with a laugh. “My wife’s a drunk, Seth. Your sister is a sot. And you’re a sponge. You and your father bleed me dry settling your gambling debts. Your idiot son has never been more than a total loss, and your daughter’s a whore. Fine family I bought into, isn’t it? You’ve been no bargain, the lot of you.”

The viscount attempted to rise in protest but must have quickly remembered that sponges have no back-bone—and no pockets filled with a brother-in-law’s money—and sat down once more. “I think Regina’s suggestion is a good one, as long as she’s willing to
make the sacrifice. You’re a good girl, Regina,” he said, turning to address the last words to his niece.

“I am only thinking of Miranda, Uncle. And yes, selfishly, about myself, as well. I would not be comfortable going through the remainder of the Season without her.”

“Then you’d damn well better get used to it, because she won’t be coming back, not from where she’s gone.”

The viscount lifted his head, which he’d been hanging between his hunched shoulders. “You say that as if you know, Reg. From where she’s gone?”

Regina and her father exchanged looks. She thought he believed Miranda had run off of her own volition, even as he’d detailed for his daughter the horrific things that
could
have happened to her cousin. She’d even considered the idea that this was his strange way of cheering her aunt and uncle, trying to assure them that Miranda was a terrible, ungrateful child, yes, but not in any danger.

Now she didn’t know what to think.

“Yes, Seth, from where she’s gone. I’d be pointing the Runners toward Gretna if I were you, and considering it’s my blunt paying for the trip, you’ll damn well do what I say if you know what’s good for you. Only chance you’ve got to pull this mess out of the mid-dens before the stink grows too much for any of us. And pray she hasn’t spread her legs yet. She won’t be coming back into Society else-wise, that’s what I’m saying, shaming herself like that. Look at that Brean girl. Sister to the earl, which is a damn spot higher than
daughter of a penniless viscount and her just as to-let-in-the-pockets grandfather the earl. You don’t see
her
trumpeting about town this year, do you, after running off with that Blackthorn bastard last year. Regina? Look at me. You heard that story, didn’t you?
Blackthorn?
”

She nodded her head, unable to speak. She had heard the story last year, but she hadn’t known the name of the man Lady Chelsea Mills-Beckman had run off with.
Blackthorn.
So he knew. Her father knew about Puck, had somehow ferreted out his name. That’s what he was telling her now.

Regina fought the urge to spring to her feet and run from the room. Because Puck was wrong. She wasn’t that much of an actress. Actresses don’t feel their feet shaking in their shoes as they say their lines.

“She won’t reach Gretna,” the viscount said at last, getting to his feet and remaining upright. “I’ll do as you said, Reg, and set the Runners north at once. But in the meantime, I can’t see the harm in what Regina here is saying. I can put it out at my clubs. That Miranda has taken ill and the ladies are all retiring to Mentmore until she is recovered. That will serve to stop any gossip before it can start. Then, when the Runners find her, Miranda can be taken to Mentmore and everyone can return to town just as if nothing ever happened.”

“If you approve, Papa,” Regina said, deciding it was time she got back into the conversation. “I cannot enjoy the Season in any case, not now. We could be ready to depart tomorrow morning. And Mama always strives
to…to be on her best behavior when in company with Grandfather.”

“She doesn’t drink as much when I’m not around,” Reginald said, snorting. “That’s what you mean.” He picked up the letter opener and balanced it by its tips between his fingers, as if weighing his options. “Very well,” he said at last. “But one week, no more. Then you’re back here and I’ll buy myself some turbaned besom to haul you around town. I’ll have you settled this Season, you hear me?”

“Thank you, Reg,” the viscount said fervently, all but bowing and scraping, like some low servant. “I’ll be off now. Thank you, thank you.”

Regina lifted her cheek for her uncle’s kiss and then watched as he scurried out of the room before turning back to face her father. “Yes, thank you, Papa. I know Aunt Claire will be much relieved.”

“The devil with your Aunt Claire’s relief. The girl is gone, and that’s that. You have one week in the country to get your head clear of your cousin and any notions of sneaking about town meeting up with that Blackthorn bastard. Not that he showed up in the park this morning, did he?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Papa. In the park? I was there, yes, but merely out taking the—”

The letter opener went winging across the room to imbed itself in the dark oak paneling.

“Lie to your drunk of a mother. Lie to your uncle, to yourself. Lie to your God if you think you can get away with it—but don’t ever lie to
me.
Not ever again.”

“It…it was only so that I could thank him again for his rescue and to tell him goodbye,” Regina said, frightened enough to reveal the truth but not so frightened that she’d own up to all of it. “He wasn’t there.”

“And don’t tell me what I already know. Maybe the bastard’s got more brains than I give him credit for, or he’s heard about me. He may have come to your rescue last night, girlie, and for that I won’t be chasing him down to break his neck for him. Let nobody say that Reg Hackett is not a fair man. But now we’re even, him and me. Sees you again, and I’ll break every bone in his body and leave his neck bone for last. You understand me, girl?”

“Yes, Papa,” she said, nodding to confirm her words. She should leave the room now, delirious with her victory. But she had to ask her question. “You told me Miranda was abducted and ruined, perhaps even killed. Why did you tell Uncle Seth you’re sure she’s eloped to Gretna Green? Was that to spare him pain?”