Miss Marcie's Mischief (2 page)

It seemed her Darlington cousins had now found Marcie the perfect parti in the form of some boring Marquis of Sherringham. It was paramount, they'd written, that Marcie come join them for the holiday so that both Meredith and Mirabella could help school the younger Marcie in the fine art of capturing his lordship's interest.
They
,
too, intended to transform her into a lady.

In a pig's eye, thought Marcie. She was naught but the willful youngest Darlington cousin, with a wealth of riotous red hair and a spirit more prone to riding with the wind than suffering a moment of unease in any gentleman's presence.

Her father, after a colossal argument with his brothers, had abruptly cut himself off from the Darlington family. Though he and his two brothers had pooled their collective geniuses and created a wildly successful financial industry known as the Darlington Three, the men had been too prickly to work together for long.

Once her father had amassed a staggering fortune, one vast enough and steep enough to see that Marcie as well as several generations beyond her need never want for a thing, he'd severed his ties with the Darlington Three. He'd then whisked a young Marcie off to the extremities of Cornwall where he indulged them both in fresh air and restless seas. Though he'd been thrilled by the challenge of creating something from nothing with his brothers, once the future was secured, he chose to spend his time enjoying life to the fullest.

While Marcie's cousins had learned to dance and be witty, Marcie had been set free on the rugged coasts of Cornwall, unfettered by any reins. Surely Mirabella and Meredith didn't realize what a challenge they faced in trying to reform Marcie.

At last, horn blaring, a conveyance came careening down the snowy lane.

Gracious, Marcie thought to herself, that loud horn would wake the dead—not to mention the crotchety Mistress Cheltenham! Leave it to Nan to come for her with a telltale clatter of noise.

Marcie grabbed her portmanteau and scurried out of her hiding spot, intent on waving down the driver and encouraging him to quiet his loud horn. She gave not a whit of thought for her own safety as she ran pell-mell into the lane. Her only thoughts were to quiet the incessantly blaring horn, and then to board the conveyance and be forever gone from Mistress Cheltenham's stuffy school. With the promise of sweet freedom only a few steps away—and with only part of her brain registering the fact that the man driving the coach would be the first man she spied on Saint Valentine's Day—Marcie ran straight into the path of the oncoming carriage.

* * *

Cole swore loudly as he steered the spirited team of horses deucedly close to the body of a caper-witted female bent on destruction. He reined in sharply. The horses reared dangerously, then ground to a halt on the snow-covered lane, barely missing the wench by inches.

"Are you all right?" Cole demanded, watching the girl's wide-eyed face through a gust of snow spitting up from the horses' hooves.

"Oh, quite fine," she called back, rallying herself magnificently. "Now if you would please settle those beasts I will be but a minute climbing in the carriage."

Cole wondered if he'd heard her aright. Didn't the female realize he was running a mail coach out of London to the Cotswolds? The Royal Mail stopped for no one and for nothing! Dash it all, but her caper was going to set him behind time.

Cole strained to make out her slight form amidst the heavily falling snow as she bent to retrieve something from the middle of the lane. Being a gentleman, Cole had no choice but to secure the reins, drop down off the bench and go to her aid.

"You ought to take more care when crossing the street at such an hour and in such foul weather." He spied the article she sought and quickly lifted the ugly portmanteau she'd dropped during the confusion. "Blast, but it's heavy. What have you got in it? The family jewels?"

"Heavens, no." Her prettily-sculpted features took on a look of absolute dread as she mistook Cole's attempt at humor quite seriously. "My eldest cousin was bequeathed all of the jewels my father had purchased over the years. And to my middle cousin went most of the lands my father acquired during his lifetime."

"And you?" asked Cole, not expecting a plausible answer. Though a moment ago he'd been annoyed by the female's presence, he now found himself unwillingly interested by this mere slip of a girl who'd scampered out of the snowy mews and talked as though she were a miss of means with great wealth in her family tree. She intrigued him not only with her foolish bravery of waving down his coach, her outrageous talk of acquired lands and jewels, but also with her stunning good looks.

"Fossils," she answered, craning her neck to view the carriage behind him. Absently, she added, "Lots and lots of fossils. I never was much interested in precious gems or gold, and as for land, I don't believe it should be owned by only one person but should be shared with all of God's creatures." She nodded toward her bag. "I've my best fossils in the bag you hold, you know. I intend to give them as Saint Valentine's Day gifts. I say," she said, frowning when she realized both the fore and hind boots of the carriage were crammed with parcels and hampers, "do you think my portmanteau will fit beneath that large box lashed to the hind boot? I do hope so, for I fear there is no other place for it."

She immediately took the bag from his gloved hands, giving him a nod of thanks for retrieving it, then headed for the back of the carriage, clearly intending to strap the thing in place on her own. She called a cheery "Hallo!" to John Reeve, the stone-faced guard who clung to the conveyance near the hind boot, and whose sole duty it was to protect the letter mails. Surprisingly enough, the usually dour Reeve actually cracked a smile at the female!

What the devil? Cole wondered.

"Now see here," he called out. Cole forced himself to forget her pretty features and even the fact that he'd nearly run her down. "I have a schedule to keep, and keep it I will. I haven't the time to take on any extra parcels. And more importantly, neither you nor your parcels are listed on my way-bill. This is a mail coach, mistress!"

"But I'll only take a minute—"

"A minute I haven't got," he grumbled. "You'd best find yourself a stage coach in the morning."

"But morning will be too late! Oh, dash it all," she muttered, looking forlornly at the coach festooned with wild game and barrels of wine, all destined for the snowy north of a Valentine's Day England. "Can you not find a place for me within the carriage? I'll sit on boxes. I'll hold my own baggage upon my lap. Why, I'll even hold several bags!"

Just then, there came the sharp sound of a woman's oily, high-pitched voice. "Marcelon Victoria Darlington, if you're out here, you'd best show yourself!"

A buxom woman, heaving mightily, her face pinched, came wheezing out of the mews. She wielded a sturdy switch which she slapped forcefully against one large thigh.

"I am warning you, Marcelon!" Slap! went the switch, cutting through the crisp night air. "You don't want me to lock you in your attic room again, now do you?" Slap! "What a pity it will be for you to have nothing but bread and water, and be alone on Saint Valentine's Day." Slap... slap... slap!

The pixie-faced girl turned wide, emerald-green eyes on Cole.

"Oh, please," she whispered. "Do you have room for me or not? My good friend Nan promised me you would. She said—"

"Nan? Nan Farthington?"

"None other."

Devil take it. Cole should have known his illegitimate—and decidedly rambunctious—half sister Nan, now perched within the coach and looking forward to her journey into the Cotswolds aboard a fast vehicle, would promise a convenient escape for a runaway minx!

He wondered if Nan had also mentioned that Cole was in fact the Marquis of Sherringham and had arranged this coach drive in keeping with his membership duties in the Whip Driving Club.

He hoped not. His lordship was looking forward to a rousing drive through the North country, and he rather liked the idea of teaming through the lanes in the guise of Cole Coachman.

"Well, then, do climb in the carriage," ordered Cole, unwilling to disappoint his half sister. God knew Nan had been dealt a harsh blow in life due to the fact she'd been born on the wrong side of the sheets. Cole had long tried to make some amends toward her.

He quickly moved to prop open the door and deposit the girl into the mass of bandboxes, Valentine hearts, and ribbons inside. He helped stuff her oversized portmanteau in after her. She would have to take it upon herself to find a place to perch in the crammed quarters.

Cole slammed the door shut, then made a quick leg for the bench. He'd no sooner scooped up the reins and clicked his fine beasts into motion than the overweight woman came tottering round the mounting block, switch in hand and a very unladylike curse on her overly reddened lips.

Cole tipped his broad-brimmed low-crowned hat in her direction as his horses shot forward. Within moments, he was riding hard for the north. He could only imagine what he'd gotten himself into by helping one Marcelon Victoria Darlington in her queer dash for freedom. He reminded himself to give Nan a good dressing down. Until then, though, he had a schedule to keep, wayward runaway onboard the coach or not.

* * *

Marcie, thrown off balance by the jolt of the coach, slapped her palms against the ceiling of the crowded interior, and soundly cursed both the switch-wielding Mistress Cheltenham and the fact that her friend Nan had obviously not forewarned the coachman of her plan to board his conveyance.

"I know you're here somewhere, Nan," said Marcie into the darkness of the coach. "You might as well present yourself."

Nan Farthington, stifling a yawn, propped her head up between a pile of bandboxes and pink ribbons that had spilled free of a package.

"Marcie? Is that you?"

"Of course it is me, you ninny! Who else would so foolishly step into the path of an oncoming coach? Really, Nan, when you said you'd come for me in a coach before midnight, I'd thought you meant a hired conveyance and certainly not a Royal Mail coach!"

Nan, wiping the sleep from her eyes, giggled when she spied a tousled Marcie looming above her and holding on for dear life.

"I fail to see the humor in all of this," said Marcie.

Nan's grin widened. "You look a fright, Marcie, not at all like the heiress you truly are."

Marcie frowned. "I don't suppose you realize I was nearly knocked senseless by that team of horses rigged to this coach, nor that Mistress High-and-Mighty nearly caught me in the act of fleeing."

"I guess I fell asleep," said Nan, looking guilty, but only for a moment. "Here," she said, "have a bonbon. They tumbled out of a poorly-wrapped package during a most dangerous turn a few blocks back."

"You're eating someone's Valentine's treat!"

"Well, you didn't expect me to just let them roll around on the floor, now did you?"

No, Marcie thought, of course she didn't, and she had to smile. Nan Farthington had been the delight of Marcie's dreary stay in London. She'd met the girl not at the odious school but rather during one of her many larks of slipping away from Miss Cheltenham's iron-fisted rule, and exploring Town on her own. Marcie and Nan had literally stumbled into one another at one of the many book fairs held within the inner city.

They'd both been dashing for the same book, a collection of romantic poems. It hadn't taken Marcie but a moment to become friends with the talkative Nan. The two young women decided to pool their coins, purchase the book, and share it. They'd taken turns reading passages to each other, giggling, and then reading some more. Over the next several weeks, they became thick as thieves, sharing secrets, and dreams, and more than a few adventures.

Marcie had been surprised to learn that Nan was an illegitimate daughter of a peer of the realm, a man Nan chose not to name. Marcie might have felt sorry for the young girl for being born out of wedlock, but Nan's was a lighthearted spirit, one that didn't encourage sympathy. Indeed, the girl seemed to do quite well for herself, free to dash about Town whenever and wherever she chose. Clearly, someone connected to Nan's mysterious father saw to it Nan and her mother were comfortably housed and nicely clothed.

Nan obviously wanted for nothing and, in truth, seemed to enjoy her unfettered freedom. She'd brought a ray of bright sunlight into Marcie's long, dark winter in London. Marcie was glad she'd become such close friends with Nan, and wondered for the hundredth time, at least, how she ever would have endured the past bleak months if not for the chatty and fun-loving Nan Farthington.

Nan popped another confection in her mouth, chewing happily. "You'd best find a place to prop yourself, Marcie. Cole takes every turn as though the hounds of hell are nipping at his heels," she said, pulling Marcie's thoughts back to the present.

Just then, Marcie was thrown into a pile of boxes as the coachman, true to Nan's words, whipped round a comer.

"Heavens!" Marcie cried. "I shouldn't be fretting about Mistress Cheltenham's switch but should be worrying whether or not I'll make it out of the City alive."

Nan giggled again, obviously enjoying their madcap race through the snowy streets. "I've never known you to be such a worrier, Marcie."

"'Tis only because I've never had the misfortune to ride in a coach driven by—what did you say his name is?"