Carola Dunn (10 page)

Alfred appeared in the doorway, struggling out of his coat. “Oi’ll get ‘im, miss,” he shouted, as Miranda seized Mudge’s collar. Distracted by the blissful aroma of aniseed, the pug failed to maim her.

“I have him under control, thank you, Alfred. Pray take him away and shut him up for the present.”

Gingerly accepting custody, the footman-in-training addressed Lord Snell. “Slobbered on them boots, ‘as ‘e, your lordship? Hoby’s make Oi’d say by the look on ‘em, and Oi knows boots, Oi does, watching ‘em day in, day out like Oi used to. Whip ‘em off and Oi’ll clean ‘em up nice.”

“I never permit anyone but my man to touch my boots,” said Lord Snell icily.

“Oi’ll tell ‘im to come and get ‘em, then. Oi’d better come back meself and pick up them comfits, my lady, afore they gets trod in. Just you leave ‘em to me, ducky.” With a cheery wave he departed, Mudge under one arm.

“What an obliging boy he is, Miranda,” said Lady Wiston, “and so willing to learn, Twitchell tells me. I am sorry about Mudge, Godfrey. The naughty creature must have forgotten you. He generally only attacks strangers with quite such gusto. He has not done any permanent damage to your boots, has he?”

Lord Snell glared down at his Hessians. “I believe not, Aunt. I wonder that you don’t dispose of the beast.”

“I only wish I might, but poor dear Lady Egbert entrusted him to my care. Do sit down again, dear boy, and tell me what brings you to Town.”

As she seated herself, Lord Snell looked at her properly for the first time. With a stunned expression, he blinked at the Cossack trousers and smock. Then he caught sight of something beyond her and his mouth dropped open. Miranda glanced round. Unnoticed, Sagaranathu had followed Lady Wiston into the drawing room.

After the pug, the footman, and her ladyship’s costume, the shabby, dark-skinned Lascar might well discompose even so urbane a gentleman as the baron! Sagaranathu appeared quite at his ease, his face as bland as ever though Miranda guessed he had witnessed the preceding chaos. Mr. Daviot would have laughed till he cried, she was sure. Unlike him, the seaman had a proper sense of decorum.

“Good morning, sir,” she said.

He bowed to her as Lady Wiston swung round. “My dear Mr. Sagaranathu, my wits have gone a-begging, I do declare. Godfrey, let me present my teacher, Mr. Sagaranathu.” Disregarding Lord Snell’s infinitesimal nod in response to the Lascar’s polite bow, she went on happily, “He is taking luncheon with us today. Miranda, you did remind Cook that Mr. Sagaranathu does not eat meat?”

“First thing this morning, ma’am.”

“You will stay to luncheon, will you not, Godfrey?”

Lord Snell appeared to be in two minds. He could not very well refuse to sit down with his aunt’s beggarly guest and then request accommodation.

Miranda was confident good manners would win the struggle, as proved the case. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said smoothly, “I shall be delighted to join you. In fact, I was hoping you might be able to put me up for a few days. Any garret will do.”

“Garret! That will not be necessary. Of course you must stay here.”

“I shall go and start removing my things at once, Lady Wiston,” said Miranda.

“No, no, dear, you are not to put yourself out. But do go and tell Mrs. Lowenstein to have the bed made up in the—let me see, Peter is in the blue chamber, and Mr. Bassett in the rose. You shall have the gold chamber, Godfrey. How pleasant it will be to have a houseful of gentlemen!”

Despite its impressive name, the gold chamber was small and inconvenient and up two pair of stairs. On her way to the housekeeper’s room, Miriam wondered if she ought to remove from her spacious chamber on the first floor in spite of Lady Wiston’s instructions. The blue chamber might do very well for Mr. Daviot, who was not averse to sleeping under a bush, but a peer of the realm was entitled to better.

However, Lady Wiston quite often popped in, clad in nothing but her bedgown and a shawl, to see Miranda. It would not do to have her wandering about the house in such garb in search of her companion. Best to arrange matters as she wished. After all, Lord Snell meant to stay only a few days, and he could use the fourth spare chamber as a dressing room.

What a fine, upstanding gentleman he was, so flatteringly courteous to a mere companion, so concerned for his uncle’s widow. And how noble of him to condescend to sit down to a meal with Sagaranathu, who, however estimable, was scarcely the sort of person his lordship was accustomed to consort with.

It was a shame Mr. Daviot had so obviously taken the baron in instant dislike. Perhaps it was inevitable. Lord Snell was everything he was not, titled, wealthy, fashionable, polished, not to mention settled and dependable. If Lady Wiston did ever run into difficulties, his lordship could be relied upon to rush to the rescue, as he had now at the least hint of trouble. Mr. Daviot might wish her well, but an irresponsible adventurer was not to be depended on in adversity.

Miranda sighed. She liked Mr. Daviot, and she was far more comfortable in his company than Lord Snell’s, but his lordship’s character was undeniably infinitely more admirable.

* * * *

That afternoon the gentlemen all went out about their own business or pleasure. Lady Wiston proposed to visit two or three of her charity families, and to drive on to Bond Street to the shops and Hookham’s Library. Miranda begged leave to stay at home to finish transcribing Mr. Daviot’s latest efforts.

Miranda saw her ladyship off. She was escorted by her abigail, a tall, grizzled woman silently and rather grimly devoted to her mistress, and by both footmen. Her stalwart coachman, Ted, was up on the box of the high-perch landau.

Undaunted by the climb into her carriage, Lady Wiston was no more cowed by the whistles and catcalls her vehicle invariably evoked from the vulgar in the less salubrious parts of town. However, before they set off, Miranda made a point of sternly forbidding Alfred to respond with his fists to such inevitable discourtesies.

Miranda retreated to the study, mended a pen, and set to work. As she wrote, now and then a smile flitted across her face when she came to a phrase or an anecdote she had discussed with Mr. Daviot.

Because of their debates, for the most part she puzzled out the complex insertions and changes without great difficulty, feeling almost as if she could read his mind. She had nearly finished when she came to a passage with so many arrows and asterisks she found herself at a loss.

Frowning over the tangle, she was beginning to make sense of it when the door opened and Lord Snell came in.

“Miss Carmichael, I—”

Miranda held up her hand. “Pray excuse me just a moment, sir.” Yes, that bit belonged there, which meant this word squeezed in must be canoe, not tattoo. She must write it all out while it was fresh in her mind.

She turned back to Lord Snell. To her dismay he looked offended. “I do beg your pardon, my lord, but I fear I must beg your indulgence for ten minutes or so. I promised Mr. Daviot to complete this transcription today. Afterwards I shall be entirely at your disposal.”

“By all means continue, ma’am,” he said with somewhat forced graciousness. “Your diligence and your fidelity to your word are estimable.”

He went over to the world map on the wall and stood there studying it. Miranda returned to her work. The temptation to hurry was near irresistible, but Lord Snell admired her trustworthiness and Mr. Daviot trusted her to write with her usual neatness.

At least, she supposed he did, though he had seemed to believe she meant to ignore his claims in favour of Lord Snell. With a sigh, she blotted the final line.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting, my lord. You wished to speak to me?”

“I find myself perplexed, Miss Carmichael. Rather than risk perturbing my aunt Wiston, I turn to you for answers.”

“I will answer what I can, sir.”

“Thank you.” He sat down. “Lady Wiston gave what I must endeavour to regard as an adequate reason for keeping her vicious animal. Perhaps you can explain why she employs as footman a guttersnipe who appears to have been recently dragged in off the street? Surely, especially in the summer, well-trained servants are not difficult to come by?”

“Alfred was recently rescued from the street, sir. All servants must begin their training somewhere, and Lady Wiston chooses to give unfortunates a chance to find a decent place.”

“I see. A pity the household must be inconvenienced by her charitable impulses. The Lascar is another charity case, no doubt, though there was some mention of his being my aunt’s teacher. What does he presume to—?”

The door burst open. Alfred appeared, breathless and wigless, on the threshold.

“Oi’m to warn you, miss,” he panted, “‘er la’ship’s nabbed a bung-nipper and tapped ‘is claret somefing cruel.”

Miranda jumped up in alarm. “Lady Wiston is badly hurt?” she demanded, trying to make sense of the extraordinary message. She hurried to take down her medicine chest, though it was sadly inadequate in the face of a serious injury. “Is a surgeon sent for?”

“Ain’t no call for a sawbones, miss, nor it ain’t ‘er la’ship what’s in queer stirrups.” Alfred took the chest from her and dropped it with a thump on the table on top of Mr. Daviot’s papers. “It’s the file what got ‘is nob scuttled.”

“Speak plain English, boy!” snapped Lord Snell as Miranda felt in her pocket for the key to the chest.

“The cove’s bleeding like blood was water,” said the footman succinctly.

“Then tell them to bring him to me in the scullery,” Miranda said calmly, opening the chest and taking out basilicum and bandages.

Alfred darted out, but from the passage were heard tramping feet and a tirade of which Miranda understood not one word in ten. The words she understood made her glad the rest was incomprehensible. Lady Wiston pattered in, followed by a grimy, unshaven man of indeterminate years with blood pouring down his foxy face and Eustace’s hand on his collar.

“I am afraid I hit him rather hard, Miranda,” said Lady Wiston guiltily. “He tried to steal my reticule as I descended from the carriage and, having my new umbrella in my hand, I struck out without thinking. Eustace believes no serious damage is done. Pray bind up his head.”

“Not here!” expostulated Lord Snell.

“No, take him to the scullery, please, Eustace,” said Miranda.

Lord Snell protested, “I meant the villain should be turned over to a constable, who will doubtless provide any necessary care.”

“He has been punished enough. I did not intend to hit so hard.”

Miranda left them arguing and followed the footmen and the pickpocket down the back stairs. His lordship was probably right, she reflected, but his aunt would undoubtedly win the argument. Never a dull moment!

* * * *

“I am beginning to give up hope, Peter,” said Aunt Artemis gloomily. “There she was actually closeted with Godfrey in the study, when I marched in and insisted on her physicking the rascal. A dirty fellow, with the rattiest face you have ever set eyes on and blood pouring down, and did she burst into tears? My dear, she did not so much as blink! What am I to do?”

Peter dropped into the chair beside her dressing-table. “Dashed if I know, Aunt,” he said with equal gloom.

His blue devils arose from a different cause. He was afraid his aunt’s plotting might succeed. Miss Carmichael deserved better than that starchy, pompous oaf, even if she did show signs of being impressed by his title and taken in by his handsome face and unctuous manner. At the very least, his presence disrupted a pleasant friendship.

“Perhaps I should have made her move out of the second best chamber,” Aunt Artemis sighed, “but I know how unsettling it is to have no space one can truly call one’s own.”

“She offered to remove,” Peter reminded her, “so she’d not have been overset if you had agreed. Shall you give up the yoga, since that too has failed?”

“Oh no, dear, the health benefits are already evident. I did hope Miranda would not like my standing on my head, but her composure remained quite unshaken.”

“Your trouble is, she’s just too even-tempered.” He fingered his cheek, recalling the slap Miss Carmichael had delivered when he kissed her. Yet five minutes later she had offered to bind up his bitten hand.

“She is such a delightful girl,” said his aunt. “Had I been blessed with children, I should have liked a daughter just like Miranda. I do want to see her happily settled. I shall have to think of something else. Or perhaps Godfrey will offer for her in spite of her cheerfulness. He is paying her far more attention than he ever did in the Spring. Do you think he is trying to fix his interest?”

“Who can guess?” Peter grunted sourly.

“I shall send Baxter to dress her hair,” Lady Wiston decided.

“Don’t do that, ma’am! Er...Lord Snell might suppose her to be making a dead set at him.”

“You are right, that would never do. She is quite pretty enough to catch him without artifice, is she not?”

“No doubt,” he reluctantly agreed.

Maybe Godfrey Snell had been suddenly struck by Miss Carmichael’s unquestionable charms. But Peter, proceeding to his own chamber to change for dinner, had an uneasy feeling that his lordship was involved in a darker, deeper, more devious plot than ever his amiable aunt had contemplated.

Chapter 9

“And close with ‘your affectionate aunt,’ dear,” Lady Wiston dictated. “It is such a shame Frederick and Aurelia are so rarely able to come up to Town.”

Seated at the small writing table in the green sitting room, Miranda blotted the letter and presented it to her ladyship to be signed. “Do you wish to write to Lady Garston now, ma’am?” she asked. “If so, I must first make a new pen.”

“I’ll make it for you,” offered Mr. Daviot, turning from the window where he stood in conversation with Mr. Bassett.

“Not before dinner, Miranda dear. I fear your hand will grow cramped from so much writing. Besides, I have just time enough for my exercises before I change, and you know how I have to concentrate. I cannot dictate at the same time.”

Lady Wiston lowered herself to the carpet as Miranda returned to the desk to fold, seal and direct the letter. Mr. Daviot was already sharpening a new quill for her future use.