The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) (29 page)

For both of them, the stakes were entirely too high.

 

 

This was absurd.

Win paced the floor of the Fairborough library. It was good to be back in his own home even if it was not entirely finished. The wiring for the electricity had been completed in the family’s wing, as well as in the newly rebuilt portion of the house, but would not be operational until the generating system was fully installed. As much as he hated to admit it, the prospect was vaguely exciting. If, of course, it didn’t burn the house down. Again. But he had greater concerns at the moment.

He and Miranda had been avoiding one another since Chapman’s visit. She had obviously been too busy to give him more than a second thought, which was understandable but no less annoying. Aside from that, the matter of the fraudulent Mr. Tempest was surely weighing on her mind. Win had thought it wise to keep his distance until he decided exactly what his next step would be. But it had proven harder than he had imagined, as all he wanted was to be with her. The days were bad enough, but the nights . . .

Still, he had finally reached a decision. He could wait no longer to resolve things between them. The ball was in a few hours and he would confess everything to her before the guests arrived. It might not be a good plan, but it did seem to him, that no matter how furious she might be, the hours of enforced gaiety at the ball would serve to ease her anger. At least he hoped so.

He had no idea exactly what he would say although he had attempted to rehearse any number of variations on the same theme. Nothing struck him as quite right. Still, he hoped the words would come when he needed them. They always had with women in the past. But this was no ordinary woman. This was Miranda, the one woman, the only woman, who had captured his heart.

The one woman, the only woman, who could destroy it.

 

 

“Miranda!” Camille waved from the terrace and started down the stairs toward her.

Miranda stood on the dance floor and waved back. She had been studying the scene laid out before her with a fair amount of pride and more than a little satisfaction. The musicians were setting up on one side of the terrace. The scaffolding was in the process of being taken down. The urns were being filled with flowers. She had just inspected both the tennis and croquet courts and all looked, well, perfect.

She had managed to put her concerns about the imposter aside, as worrying about him could do no good at the moment. She’d had no chance to ask Camille about an investigator, but this was the perfect opportunity.

“Everything looks quite wonderful,” Camille said when she reached Miranda. “It’s hard to believe when one remembers the devastation of only a few months ago.”

“It’s amazing what an extraordinary amount of work and a huge amount of money can accomplish.”

“But well spent, I would say.” Camille laughed. “I have always believed a huge amount of money can accomplish very nearly anything.”

“Perhaps not everything.” Miranda paused. “Lady Fairborough suggested you might have the answer to a dilemma I have.”

Camille’s brow rose. “What kind of dilemma?”

“I have encountered a man claiming to be someone I know full well he isn’t. I need to find out who he really is.” She drew a deep breath. “Lady Fairborough thought you might know the name of a good and discreet investigator.”

Camille’s eyes widened. “Yes, I do, but—”

“I need to contact him as soon as possible. Not today, of course, but tomorrow. I do have a few days to spare.” She had no idea what would be waiting for her on Thursday when she returned to London and that, together with the problems with Winfield, weighed on her mind more and more. She had thought she could put it off, but—

“Miranda, listen to me.” A worried frown creased Camille’s forehead. “There’s something you should know. In truth, I was going to say something to you. I simply hadn’t planned on saying it at this moment.”

Miranda studied the other woman. She didn’t know Camille well, but she hadn’t struck her as the kind of woman to be concerned over trifles. “Go on.”

“Yes, well, now I’m not sure how to say this. But I wasn’t told not to tell you, although when Grayson told me I suspect he assumed I wouldn’t mention it. It is rather awkward. Still.” She straightened her shoulders. “I do believe women should help one another.”

Miranda stared in confusion. “What are you trying to say?”

“Before I tell you anything at all you should understand that Grayson says Winfield is truly in love with you. It might make what I’m about to say a little more, oh, palatable.”

“Go on.”

“And men in love do tend to be rather stupid. Especially if they are concerned that the object of their affection is still in love with their late husband.”

“That’s absurd.” Miranda scoffed. “I told Winfield that I have moved on with my life.”

“I said men were stupid.” She studied Miranda closely. “Are you sure about moving on?”

“I have never been more certain of anything in my life.” She blew a long breath. “John is gone and I am not the same woman I was when I married him. Indeed, I am not the same woman I was when he died. And Winfield is . . .”

“Yes?”

“It’s difficult to say. It feels . . . disloyal, I suppose.” She met the other woman’s gaze firmly. “John was my first love. Winfield is my last and, I suspect, the true love of my life.”

“Oh, how wonderful.” Camille beamed.

“I’m not sure how wonderful it is.” She shook her head. “It certainly isn’t easy.”

“I don’t think it’s supposed to be.” Camille shrugged.

“That said, what did you have to tell me?”

“It does fall in that category of not being easy. . . .” Camille wrung her hands together. “I do know the name of an excellent investigator. But Winfield has already hired him.”

“What?” Miranda stared. “Why on earth would Winfield need—” Without warning the answer struck her and she sucked in a hard breath. “To investigate me?
Me?
”

“Actually, he wanted to know more about Garret and Tempest first,” Camille said quickly. “And then you.”

“When?” Miranda said sharply.

“Right after your first meeting. So you see it’s really quite understandable and most forgivable, I would think. Nothing to really upset yourself over.” Camille cast her a weak smile.

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “But there’s more, isn’t there?”

“Mr. Chapman—he’s the investigator—is very good. And very thorough.”

“And?”

“And he learned the extent of your involvement with Garret and Tempest.”

“The extent of my involvement?”

“That you not only run the firm but you are the chief architect.”

Miranda gasped. “Winfield knew that?”

Camille nodded.

“How long has he known?”

Reluctance sounded in Camille’s voice. “Since before we left for America.”

“Since before . . .” Shock coursed through her. “He knew all along? So all his talk about trust and honesty . . .” Anger swept through her and she started toward the house. “If he wants honesty, he shall have honesty!”

“Wait,” Camille said. “There’s one more thing you should know.”

She stopped and turned toward Camille. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“I don’t blame you.” Camille paused, obviously to choose the right words. Miranda didn’t think there were any. “The gentleman you met the other day, Mr. Tempest.”

Miranda nodded. “I already know he’s an imposter.”

“Actually . . .” Camille winced. “He’s the investigator. Mr. Chapman.”

“I don’t understand. If Winfield had hired him . . .” Miranda stared in disbelief. “Winfield hired him to play the role of Mr. Tempest?”

“Absolutely not,” Camille said. “He would never do such a thing. Or at least I don’t think that he would, although I could be wrong. But Mr. Chapman was hired to pretend to be Mr. Tempest by one of your brothers. The same brother who funded your husband’s company under the name of Tempest.”

Miranda stared. “My brother funded . . .” She gritted her teeth. “Which brother?”

“Lord Waterston, I believe.”

Miranda snorted in disdain. “Of course. I should have known.”

“Still, it wasn’t Winfield’s doing.”

“Oh, that makes it all so much better,” she snapped and started toward the house.

“I would think it might make it a little better,” Camille called after her.

“Oh, it does.” Her jaw clenched. “I shall have the privilege of strangling the life out of two men instead of just one!”

The door to the library slammed open.

“You knew!” Miranda stalked into the room.

“Knew what?” Win said innocently. He had long found it best to feign ignorance rather than admit knowledge until he was certain he knew what he was admitting to. Although he was fairly sure he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“You knew all along that I ran the firm and that I was the architect!”

“Not
all
along.”

“Long enough.” She advanced toward him in a threatening manner. “And you went on and on about trust and honesty!”

“I do think honesty is important.”

“Apparently only my honesty is important.” Her hazel eyes flashed. Hazel? She wasn’t nearly as angry as he thought she’d be. “You had me investigated!”

“One does like to know who one is dealing with.” He crossed his arms over his chest and assumed what he considered a businesslike expression. “It’s good business. And as a woman of business you should understand that.”

That gave her pause, as well it should.

“I will grant you that point, so you needn’t continue to look at me in that manner. But you did know the Mr. Tempest I met was a fraud.”

“That wasn’t my idea,” he said quickly. “In fact I distinctly recall thinking it was an exceptionally bad idea when it was first suggested.”

“By my brother! The same brother who had funded Garret and Tempest in the first place! Why didn’t you stop him?”

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it.” He stepped toward her. “If you recall, I did try to stop Chapman.”

“Not hard enough!”

“It was extremely awkward with you—” He drew his brows together. “How do you know all this?”

She waved off his question. “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” Still, it would be nice to know.

“If we are to have honesty and trust between us, it does have to go both ways.”

“I fully intended to tell you everything,” he said staunchly. “In fact, I planned on doing so today.”

“You were going to tell me you had me investigated? You were going to tell me you knew about my position and my work even while you were trying to pry that information out of me? You were going to tell me that my brother was the investor in my business—”

“Your late husband’s business,” he corrected her.

“
My
business. And you were going to tell me you knew Mr. Tempest was an imposter?”

“Absolutely.”

“So you were going to tell me everything?” Her brow rose in disbelief.

“Not everything, but most of it.” He shook his head. “I didn’t think you needed to know about your brother’s investment.”

Suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Why not?”

“I thought it might make you feel, well, weak. As if you couldn’t manage on your own, without your family’s help. Even if it was your husband who arranged the financing in the first place.”

She stared at him. “That’s really rather thoughtful of you.”

“I can be very thoughtful.” He sniffed.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “If you were going to tell me all the rest, why haven’t you done so?”

“You’ve been busy.” Even to his own ears, it sounded feeble.

“Do you have any idea how worried I have been about this imposter?”

“I am sorry about that, but again, it was not my idea.” He paused. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth about your work? Why didn’t you trust me?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Probably because you’re so dreadfully stuffy when it comes to this sort of thing. About a woman’s place in the world, that is.”

“I do feel women have a proper place, but—”

“Aha!”

“
But
.” He heaved a sigh of surrender. “You have proven to me that I cannot paint all women with the same brush, as it were.” He stepped closer and met her gaze. “You are a remarkable woman, Miranda Garret, and I daresay you can do anything you set your mind to. And, while it’s somewhat difficult to admit, I find a certain measure of pride in that.”

She stared. “You do?”

“Yes, well, who would have thought?” He rolled his gaze toward the ceiling. “Besides, it’s not as if you were doing something completely absurd. Crusading for the rights of women or demanding the vote or anything of that nature.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Not me.”

“You should have trusted me. Not in the beginning, perhaps, but once we knew one another.”

“I probably should have.” She nodded slowly. “But I was, well, afraid.”

“Afraid?” He stared. “Of me?”

“I am terrified of you,” she said in a lofty manner. “You yell at me.”

He snorted. “You’re not terrified of anything and you yell at me.”

“That’s entirely different.” She sniffed.

“Because you’re a woman?”

She shrugged. “Of course.”

His brow rose in a smug manner. “Then you want to do the work of a man while being treated like a woman?”

Her eyes widened. “You did that on purpose.”

“Indeed I did.” He couldn’t resist a satisfied smile.

“You manipulated me!”

“It seems only fair. You manipulate me.”

She gasped. “I never—”

“And I needn’t say more than one word to prove my point.” He leaned closer and met her gaze. “Electrification.”

She winced. “That was not intentional.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Very well then, I will concede that.” She paused for a moment, obviously to consider her next point. Not that she had one. “I didn’t intend to be this reasonable when I came in here.”

“I didn’t expect you to be this reasonable either.” Reasonable was the last thing he expected from her, but there was apparently something to be said for loving a reasonable woman. He smiled slowly with the sure and certain knowledge all would be forgiven “And yet you are a reasonable woman.”

“Nor am I entirely innocent.”

“I believe I mentioned that.”

“One could say, I suppose, if this were some sort of game—”

“Which it isn’t, of course.”

“No, definitely not.” She shook her head. “But if it were, and if we discount the fraudulent Mr. Tempest, as that was my brother’s doing—”

“Oh, absolutely, we should discount that.”

“Then one might say, as there were things I didn’t tell you and things you didn’t tell me . . .”

“Yes, yes, go on.” He reached out and pulled her unresisting into his arms.

“That it might be considered a draw. That your misdeeds—”

“Let’s call them mistakes rather than misdeeds. Misdeeds sounds so very . . .”

“Wrong?”

“Exactly.”

“Very well.” She wrapped her arms around him and gazed up into his eyes. “Mistakes then. And yours are not substantially worse than mine.”

He grinned. “I never thought they were.”

“We should agree not to keep things from one another in the future—in the interest of trust, that is.”

“Then, in the interest of trust, I should tell you I intend to kiss you.” He lowered his lips to hers.

“Come now, my lord,” she murmured against his lips. “I already knew that.”

The instant his lips met hers, a knock sounded at the door. It opened immediately.

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Prescott stepped into the room.

Win sighed and released her. Miranda bit back a laugh and stepped away. His good humor faded at the look on the butler’s face. “What is it, Prescott?”

Prescott looked from Win to Miranda and back. “I thought you would want to know, my lord, there has been an accident.”

Miranda sucked in a sharp breath.

Dread settled in Win’s stomach. “What kind of accident?”

“The workers were taking down one of the scaffoldings when it collapsed, sir.”

Miranda paled and she reached out to steady herself on the back of a chair. “Is he—” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Is anyone . . .”

“Was anyone hurt?” Win asked sharply.

“Three of the men were hurt, my lord.”

Miranda sank into the chair, her eyes wide with shock. “How bad is it?”

“The injuries do not appear to be fatal.”

She stared at the butler. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes, my lady.” Prescott nodded. “Two of the men were knocked unconscious, but they have come around. Other than that, the injuries appear limited to a few nasty cuts and bruises, possibly a sprain as well. The men are being taken into the village now.”

“Thank God. For a moment . . .” Miranda buried her face in her hands.

“Thank you, Prescott.”

The butler nodded and left the library.

Win took a step toward Miranda to comfort her and the realization slammed into him like a cold dash of water, stealing his breath, twisting his heart. Of course, this was how her husband had died. Obviously, today’s accident had brought back the memories and the distress of the day she had lost him. And just as obviously, it—he—would never truly be in the past. Could Win live the rest of his life with that?

He drew a deep breath and tried and failed to keep the answer at bay. Tried to ignore the awful truth burning inside him.

He crossed the room, poured a glass of whisky and brought it to her.

Her hand trembled when she took it. He was shocked to note his was rock steady. But then, why wouldn’t it be? Something inside him had turned cold and empty. No doubt his heart. He suspected that would not last and suspected as well the pain to come.

“Are you all right?” he asked coolly.

“I think so.” She sipped the whisky. “It was just—”

“I know what it was.” His voice was harsh and he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “This is how your husband died. This has brought it all back to you.”

“Of course it did. It would be surprising if it didn’t,” she said under her breath.

He turned away, moved to the window and stared unseeing at the countryside. He had never in his life not known what to do before, but at this very moment, he was lost. “It’s growing late. Guests will be arriving in a few hours. You should probably be getting ready for the ball.”

“Winfield.” Concern sounded in her voice. “What is it? Prescott said the injuries weren’t fatal.”

Still, was there really any choice? “There are things I can do, Miranda, things I can face and things I cannot.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned back to her and smiled in a wry manner. “I cannot give my heart to a woman who has already given hers away. I cannot play second to a dead man.”

“But you’re not.”

“I saw the look on your face, my dear.”

“It was the accident, nothing more than that.” She stared at him. “Surely, you can understand how this would upset me?”

“I do understand. I understand a great deal. Now. I should have understood it from the beginning. The past is always with us, Miranda.” He shook his head. “I can’t ask you to change how you feel. It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. Unfortunately, this is how I feel.”

He started toward the door. She caught his arm and pulled him around. “Stop it, Winfield, stop it at once.”

“I wish I could.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“Oddly enough, I am well aware of that.”

“This has nothing to do with you and me.”

“I think this has everything to do with you and me. And it doesn’t seem to matter.” He stared into her eyes for a long moment, brown now and so lovely, even shadowed by concern and shock. “I know I am not your first love. But knowing that does not make it easier. And I cannot help but wonder if that first love might not have been your true love. Even your soul mate, if one believes in such things. It’s a silly, overly romantic concept, I suppose, but there you have it.”

“What are you saying?”

“I cannot compete with a dead man and I can never take his place. A few weeks ago I asked you to prove that you had moved on. I’m afraid what you have proved now is my point.” He shook his head. “I am truly sorry, Miranda. More than you can ever imagine. But I can’t spend the rest of my life knowing I am nothing more than a replacement in the heart of the woman I love. And that’s all I can ever be.”

“I cannot change my past, Winfield, nor do I wish to. It has made me who I am.”

“I understand that as well. Perhaps if I had met you first—”

“No.” She shook her head. “I was not the same woman then. We would not have suited.”

“Perhaps not.” He paused. “It is one of those odd quirks of fate, don’t you think? A joke of the gods or something of that nature. When I wasn’t looking, I at last found the one woman, the right woman, the love of my life. And it seems I am too late.” He removed her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips. “I cannot be less to you than you are to me. I know myself well enough to know that would destroy me. Would destroy us. And you would hate me.”

He released her hand, turned and walked out the door. He continued out of the house and didn’t stop. His feet moved as if of their own accord, but his mind was as numb as his heart. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to feel. He paid no heed to where he was going; he had no destination in mind. At last he found himself at the folly and realized he had been walking for some time. He hadn’t intended to come here, yet here he was. Appropriate, really, to end up here at this monument to a doomed love. He sank down on one of the marble benches and tried to think. He had no idea what to do now.

He knew, in a part of his mind that still retained some semblance of rational thought, that he was being absurd and completely irrational and this was not at all his usual nature, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He had never felt this way before. He had never loved before.

He suspected he never would again.

Win had not considered himself the type of man to give up. Now, helplessness gripped him. There was nothing he could do. He could not force Miranda to stop loving her late husband. And he could not live his life as a substitute.