If Wishes Were Earls (15 page)

Miss Murray blinked, but the pasted smile on her face never wavered. “And do you have many sisters, Lady Essex?”

“Two, well, three,” she said. “Eleanor, who resides in Bath. Of course, she cannot leave Bath, because of the stipulation in our lease on the house. Lovely residence. On Brock Street—such an advantageous address. You’ll love it there this time of year. And of course then—”

“Excuse me?” Lady Kipps interjected. “Bath? Miss Murray would need to go to Bath?”

“Whoever Roxley intends to marry will need to travel to Bath, and then on to Plymouth. Well, not Plymouth precisely, but the family seat isn’t too far from Plymouth. We call it the Cottage. It has some fancy name attached to it—” She raised her fan and tapped it to her lips as if the name truly escaped her.

“Marshom Court,” Roxley supplied.

“Yes, yes, but whoever calls it that? It is just the Cottage to us.” Lady Essex smiled. “And then of course, the lady in question would need to come to my house, Foxgrove, in Kempton.”

Miss Murray’s smile was reaching its limits. “Whyever would one need to go to Kilton—”

“Kempton,” Harriet corrected, and was rewarded with a pair of murderous glances from Lady Kipps and Miss Murray. She wondered if those were looks they’d learned on their own or were a staple of Bath-educated misses.

Recovering quickly, for indeed there was a coronet at stake here, Miss Murray’s expression softened. “Thank you, Miss Hathaway,” she said, drawing a deep breath as if clearing the bile from her throat. “But again, Lady Essex, you are here in London, there would be no need for me—well, not me precisely—but a young lady to travel so far afield.”

Lady Essex gave her a puzzled glance as if her words made no sense. “Of course it can’t be done in London.” She glanced up at Roxley and shook her head slightly as if she couldn’t believe he was choosing such a dull gel.

“Dear me, but all that is quite impossible,” Lady Kipps declared. “Miss Murray’s hired companion has had a terrible accident.”

“An accident?” Lady Gudgeon interjected with a gleeful pounce. “How horrible?”

And yes, it was a question, not an expression of condolence.

“She twisted her ankles last night while leaving Lady Knolles’s,” Miss Murray supplied.

“
Both
her ankles,” Lady Kipps added, shaking her head woefully.

“One is unfortunate,” Miss Dale declared. “But two is just foolish.”

“Yes, exactly, Miss Dale. And most inconvenient for me,” Miss Murray declared. “So you see, Lady Essex, without a suitable companion, I could not undergo this mustering.”

Lady Essex sighed. “Then I suppose any sort of announcement will be similarly impossible. Perhaps something can be managed next Season.”

And there it was, the spot for Harriet’s oar. She knew exactly how to wedge herself between Miss Murray and Roxley.

“Would I do, Miss Murray?” she asked. “As your companion, that is?”

“A
re you mad?”

Harriet had no idea if Roxley’s question was directed at her or at his aunt. He had waited out the most persistent of Lady Essex’s afternoon callers and then closed the door on the pair of them, having sent Miss Manx packing a moment earlier with one very dark and threatening glower.

Miss Manx was a resourceful, steady companion—she had to be to last as she had in Lady Essex’s employment—but she also knew who ultimately paid the bills.

Harriet almost envied Miss Manx her escape, because she didn’t think she’d ever seen Roxley so furious.

Well, save the other night at Lady Knolles’s when she’d interrupted his flirtatious interlude with Miss Murray. She’d banished her rival then, and she’d stand her ground now so she could do the same again.

And from the determined set of Lady Essex’s jaw, one might hope, even believe, that she was of the same mind.

“Whatever are you going on about, Roxley?” Lady Essex was in the process of straightening the tea tray in front of her. She continued by replacing the cover on the sugar bowl and taking a glance inside the creamer before she looked up at her nephew. “Well, what is it?”

“What is it?” He clenched his teeth and pointed at Harriet. “Her, that’s what’s it.”

“Me?”

“Harriet?”

The two ladies looked at each as if they hadn’t the least notion what he was going on about.

“What do you mean by offering to go along with this mustering? To act as Miss Murray’s companion?”

Harriet put her hand to her mouth, as if she was quite taken aback. “I only meant to help.”

He snorted. “Help? Help by staying well away from Miss Murray.”
From me.

He didn’t say the words, but they were there in his glower.

But Harriet had put her oar in and she wasn’t about to stop rowing just yet. Besides, whatever was Roxley doing—going along with this ridiculous mustering, as it was? Why, he’d practically jumped at the idea.

So she turned to Lady Essex and then back to Roxley. “Why would I want to do that? I find Miss Murray ever so enchanting. I think we will become fast friends.” She smiled as sweetly as she could.

It fooled Roxley about as well as it would have fooled one of her brothers. The earl hadn’t known her all these years not to know when she was plotting.

“You little minx—you are not going along on this mustering. That is the end of it.”

Lady Essex sighed and sat back into the settee. “Then I suppose you will have to wait until Miss Murray can hire a suitable companion. How long that will take, heaven knows! She’ll have to post an advertisement—”

“—or contact an agency,” Harriet added.

The old girl nodded at Harriet for her excellent point. “Yes, yes, exactly. But it won’t do any good.”

“Whyever not?” Roxley demanded as he stood between the two of them.

His aunt shook her head as if she were instructing a lad right out of the country. “You foolish man, what do you know of these things? Truly, Roxley, the timing is all wrong. All the respectable candidates have already been snapped up for the Season. Miss Murray won’t be able to find someone for at least a month. Why, I had a horrible time finding my Miss Manx. It could be autumn before an appropriate candidate is unearthed.”

“If not longer,” Harriet added, hoping she sounded most helpful.

Roxley’s gaze narrowed as he looked at both of them. No matter that they spoke the truth, he was having none of it and so returned to his earlier refrain. “You are not going, Harry, that is all there is to it.” Then, as if struck by inspiration, he smiled like a cat. “Miss Manx can go in Harriet’s place. She’s respectable and capable and perfect for the position. In the meantime, Harriet can stay with you, Aunt Essex, in her place.” He smiled smugly at the pair of them, with a look that said,
Check
.

Harriet shot a wild glance over her shoulder at Lady Essex, for she had hardly expected such a suggestion. Send Miss Manx instead? Oh, that would never do.

But Lady Essex was cool and calm in the face of this possible routing. She replied with her own version of checkmate. “I fear that won’t be possible. Miss Manx had a letter only this morning from her . . . her . . . sister. Yes, her sister. The dear girl is expecting and asked to have Maria come and lend a hand. I would be remiss not to let her go. As such, she is unavailable to help Miss Murray.”

Roxley glared at both of them.

Harriet didn’t see why he blamed her. It wasn’t as if she had a sister about to go into labor.

Nor did Miss Manx, but that was hardly the point.

“You are not going!” he told Harriet, setting his heels and his jaw.

“Whyever are you harping on Harriet?” Lady Essex tipped up her nose. “I can’t see why you’d object to traveling with her. The Hathaways are practically family and it was overly generous of her to offer.” Then she paused and looked him squarely in the eye. “Unless you have a good reason why you cannot travel with Miss Hathaway? Some objection to her character that I am not aware of?”

Harriet stilled. Good heavens! Did the lady realize how close to the truth she was dabbling? She didn’t even dare look at Lady Essex for fear the lady would see the truth in her eyes.

Nor could she look at Roxley. To look at him might show everything in her heart.

And her determination to set this all to rights.

But even in her meddling, Harriet wondered if she was right. What if Roxley truly didn’t love her? What if he preferred Miss Murray and her bountiful dowry?

You should just leave well enough alone, Harriet
, her practical side rallied, if only to keep her heart from being hurt yet again.
Find someone else
.

Harriet did pride herself on being a practical sort. And yet . . . when it came to Roxley, her well-regarded common sense took flight.

Harriet knew right down to the soles of her best slippers, she had to stop Roxley from marrying Miss Murray. No matter the consequences. It was selfish and awful and ruinous of her, but she just couldn’t shake the notion that this was exactly what needed to be done.

What Miss Darby would do.

Hadn’t Miss Darby saved Lt. Throckmorten from marrying Miss Everton when she’d proven that the marriage contract Miss Everton claimed had been agreed upon was counterfeit?
Miss Darby and the Counterfeit Bride
was one of Harriet’s favorite books.

And this was no different.

Well, without the fake marriage contract . . . or the horde of angry Hottentots . . . or the poisoned soup.

Poisoned soup
. She paused, biting one lip as she considered the notion. No, that was probably going a bit too far. Then again . . .

Harriet realized she was smiling when she found Roxley staring at her. Immediately, she focused on the problem at hand: dogging his every step until he admitted that he loved her.

Not that poisoned soup was entirely off the table . . .

“You are not going! Do you hear me?” Roxley told her. “Over my dead body.”

“Roxley,” Lady Essex said, “don’t give the girl ideas.”

“A
re you mad?” Tabitha said as she came unannounced into Harriet’s room the next day. “We hurried over as soon as we heard the news.”

Much to Harriet’s chagrin, her best friend had brought reinforcements. Daphne. She braced herself for the lecture that was certain to follow.

And true to form, Daphne did not disappoint. “Harriet Hathaway! You cannot go chasing after Roxley in the company of his betrothed!” she complained. Then she came to a stop in the middle of the room and looked Harriet up and down. “At least not wearing that gown.” She glanced over at Tabitha and winked, and then Tabitha moved away from the door.

Almost immediately, a haughty woman trailed by not one, but three assistants, all lugging large baskets and armloads of gowns, entered Harriet’s room.

Daphne tipped her head and smiled. “The right dress is wanted for a situation such as this. Or perhaps two.” She took another look at the gowns Harriet had laid out to pack and shuddered. “No, make that six.” And then she nodded at the modiste, and the woman set to work.

C
ertainly his aunt’s demand for a mustering had been a brilliant stroke of luck—Roxley’s first in months—but Harriet’s offer to come along was an unmitigated disaster.

What if something happened to her? His heart nearly stopped each time he thought of her . . . lost, harmed.

Caught in the middle of all this. Roxley shuddered.

No. The only solution was to see Harriet sent as far from harm as possible. Since his appeal and outright order for her to remain behind had been ignored by his aunt and the lady herself—he should have known Harriet would be an impossibly obstinate opponent—he chose to strike in a new direction.

Leaning over during a break in Lady Papworth’s musicale evening, Roxley used every bit of charm he possessed and said, “Miss Murray, I don’t mean to offend, but are you mad?” He’d often found in his work for the Home Office that the right amount of charm, coupled with a direct assault, could defuse an explosive subject efficiently. “Certainly you can find someone other than Miss Hathaway to accompany us on this wretched mustering my aunt is insisting upon?”

“Whatever is wrong with Miss Hathaway?” Miss Murray asked. “This is a wonderful opportunity for her. Will give her references for her future employment.”

That stopped Roxley cold. “Future employment? Who do you think she is?”

“A poor man’s daughter with little prospects of ever finding a husband,” Miss Murray replied succinctly.

Roxley bristled because to him Harriet was so much more, but before he could defend her, the lady at his side—the one he would remind himself he was supposed to be courting—continued on. “Isn’t she from that dreary little village where no lady ever gets married? Kilton? Kefton?”

“Kempton,” he corrected. “She is from Kempton. Where my Aunt Essex lives.”

“Yes, that’s Foxgrove, isn’t it?” Miss Murray asked. “Built during King Charles’s reign, wasn’t it?”

So the chit had been reading up on his family holdings. Or whatever reports her merchant father and his team of lawyers had dug up.

“Yes, it is in the rococo style. Lots of gilt and cherubs. A bit fussy, but Lady Essex won’t change one brick.”

“Oh, even your aunt can change with the times,” Miss Murray said, confident in her own wishes and ways. “Besides, it sounds so much nicer than this Cottage of yours. Why would one call their home a cottage?” She made a
tsk, tsk
and shook her head.

You call it a “cottage” when you don’t want your creditors to know you have a demmed castle
, Roxley mused and then realized he would have to cool his heels for a few more minutes while another simpering miss went up to the stage to play a painful piece of dreary music.

Instead of covering his ears, like he would have preferred, he set his face in an appreciative smile and found his thoughts wandering toward the green gardens of Foxgrove where he’d played as a child, to the vast landscape around the Cottage and all the nooks and crannies of a house that had started as a Norman keep and had been added on to over and over again. The Cottage reminded him in so many ways of the Hathaways’ beloved Pottage. Save without the family that made the Pottage a home.