The Incomparable Miss Compton (13 page)

Malcolm closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Patience, he had to have patience. “I am not a child, Appleby,” he said at last, “and my sensibilities, as you put it, are not so easily injured by anything Miss Compton might do. Now, is there anything more you care to relate?”

Appleby thought hard for a few moments. Indeed, the fellow’s face screwed up so mightily that Malcolm wondered whether he was having an apoplectic fit. Just when Malcolm was ready to leap to his rescue, the fellow’s brow cleared. “No, my lord,” he replied.

Malcolm almost left him alone, but there was one more piece of information he needed for the next step in his campaign, however badly it seemed to be going. “Did you have any luck discovering Miss Compton’s favorite candy?” he probed. That question did not seem to overtax Appleby’s abilities at least, for the fellow answered quickly enough.

“Chocolate nougats,” he proclaimed, trotting to the wardrobe to retrieve Malcolm’s blue velvet dressing gown. Malcolm bent and finished removing his shoes at last, straightening and rising in time for Appleby to drape the robe over his shoulders.

“Chocolate nougats,” Malcolm mused aloud.

“Yes, my lord,” Appleby replied, tugging the robe down at the back. “Although she has been known to pass them up for rum centers.”

“Get a box of each from Gunter’s,” Malcolm ordered. “I’ll write a note to go with them.”

“Very good, my lord,” Appleby intoned. He returned to his business of preparing the room for Malcolm to retire.

Malcolm settled himself into the easy chair by the fire and reached for his Bible. The chair had been with him since his college days, the Bible even longer. Both were well worn and comfortable. The back and sides of the chair had long since been bent and crushed to fit the contours of his body. The tooled leather of the Bible, rubbed deep in places, fit his hands.

He thumbed through to one of his favorite passages, in the book of Exodus, and read again where Moses prayed to God to return His presence to the Israelites after they had built the golden calf. God had called the Israelites a stiff-necked people. Malcolm understood that phrase all too well. How many young lordlings had he had to shepherd through their first weeks in Parliament as they attempted to put their petty concerns into inappropriate laws? How many more seasoned nobs had he had to reason with when titled consequences were threatened by the public’s welfare? There were moments when, like Moses, he could only pray for patience. There were times when, like God, he almost refused to favor them with his presence. But Moses had at least had a helper in Joshua. Malcolm had never found anyone whose judgment and temperament he trusted enough to work directly beside him. At least, not since Winston Wells.

He tried not to think about that time in his life. His older cousin, knowing his interest in politics, had arranged for him to get a seat in the House of Commons. He had had to work directly with a number of members in the House of Lords, one of them being Baron Winston Wells. Wells had been a fastidious man, as careful in his words as he was in his dress. While he leaned heavily toward the more popular Tories, he would listen while Malcolm expounded his increasingly Whig theories. Unfortunately, Malcolm had not been the only one to whom he had listened. It was in Malcolm’s third year at Commons that he found that Lord Wells had been selling secrets to the French.

He had been sick about the matter for days. He had come to care for the man as a father. How could he possibly turn the fellow over to the authorities? Finally, in desperation, he had appealed to the man himself. The next day, Wells had been found dead, with a self-inflicted bullet through his temple. Malcolm closed his eyes in memory, but the vision of Lady Wells’ distraught face would not leave him.

Young Wells had been away at school then, but Malcolm had vowed to do what he could for the boy he had made fatherless. But even helping to pay for Rupert’s schooling and giving the boy entre to Parliament when he had taken his father’s seat a few years ago failed to fill the void in his heart left by Winston Well’s passing. Sarah Compton acted as if it would be easy to let someone fill his heart, a woman, a wife. She had no idea what she asked of him.

At length he realized that Appleby had finished and taken himself off for the evening. Malcolm had one last task to accomplish before retiring. He pulled the portable writing desk from the table beside him and nestled it in his lap. He obviously needed to find a better way to apologize to Sarah. Surely that would not be too difficult a task. If he could find the words to assuage Lord DeGuis’ concerns, certainly he should be able to write a meaningful apology to a woman.

But the words refused to come, at least to his liking. The first draft he threw away as too effacing. The second he ripped up as she had ripped up his card as too arrogant. The third was too wordy, the fourth too terse. At last he paused and stared into the fire. Anne Prestwick had told him he would need to put effort into this courtship, but somehow he didn’t think this was what she had in mind.

Perhaps he should look farther, find a woman who was less demanding. Surely some other woman would be happy to take his money and position and serve at his side without any messy entanglements of the heart. Yet something inside him quailed at the thought of leaving Sarah behind. What was it about the intractable Miss Compton that drew him in? Her witch’s eyes came immediately to mind, followed swiftly by the womanly curves that filled her gowns. Was it merely a physical attraction that held him, then? That made little sense as her cousin was even more beautiful, and she attracted him not at all.

It was something more, then, something deeper. He refused to believe it had anything to do with his heart. He did not believe in love at first sight. No, a better explanation might be that Miss Compton had many of the traits he found praiseworthy, more, in fact, than any of the women he had met over the years. And he had been sporadically hunting for several Seasons before Anne Prestwick had been coerced into helping him. No, Sarah was a rarity. It might take him years to find someone with her qualifications, and time was running out. Therefore, it was imperative that he attempt to salvage their budding relationship.

He took out a piece of paper and twirled the quill between his fingers for a moment while he thought. Then he dipped the tip in the ink and sent the quill flying across the page. He was not known for having a golden tongue to no effect. It was time he did what he did best.

 * * * *

It would take a great deal more than an excess of roses to win Persephone Compton’s heart. Of this, Rupert Wells was certain. In fact, he was amazed Breckonridge had tried something so very common. Wells had had agents watching the Compton house for three days, ever since the Prestwick ball. He knew the vast number of gentlemen who had come calling. He’d read detailed accounts of their dress, their equipage, and their bouquets, all of which were designed to impress. The girl was an Incomparable after all. The eligibles flocked to her like pigeons to grain. He knew better than to join them. He must stand out from the crowd.

He had started the game at the ball by appearing to be cool to her. His demeanor had intrigued her, he was certain, for she had doubled her efforts to attract his regard. But he could not let too many days go by, or she would likely turn her attentions elsewhere, perhaps even to Breckonridge. While he wanted to keep Breckonridge interested, he wanted to keep Miss Compton disinterested. The key was either ruining or hurting Breckonridge. If that meant ruining or hurting Miss Compton in the process, it was simply too bad.

But just as he could not denounce Breckonridge as evil without proof, neither could he show an open interest in Miss Compton without tipping his hand. He had hoped to further their acquaintance at Almack’s Wednesday night. The ballroom boasted any number of places where a gentleman might snatch a private moment with a lady, if he were clever. Rupert knew he was clever, but Persephone Compton had not arrived for the dance. Now he had no choice but to make a more obvious approach.

His chance came Friday morning when one of his spies sent him word that Miss Compton had been spotted on Bond Street, shopping with only a maid and footman for company. He had excused himself from the private debate over the wording of the Widows and Orphans Act with a curt word to Breckonridge. He took private delight in the man’s frown. It was not often he found an opportunity to insult the fellow twice in one day and get away with it. He was positively giddy by the time he reached the shopping district.

His man directed him to the milliners, where Miss Compton was trying on hats. He could see her through the window, her willowy frame wrapped in a ribboned pelisse of serpentine satin. Her curls glowed golden against the color. He walked past the shop for a block and waited, then was forced to retrace his steps twice more before she actually appeared. By then, he was more than a little put out with her.

Still, he tipped his high-crowned beaver and nodded to her as they passed. He would have had to have been blind not to see the eager light spring to her violet eyes. He certainly heard the eagerness in her voice as he made to continue and she hailed him.

“Lord Wells! How lovely to see you!”

He turned to find she had stopped and was smiling at him charmingly. Only the hint of pink in her creamy complexion told him she knew she was being forward.

He bowed. “Miss Compton. A pleasure. I trust you are having luck with your shopping?”

“Tolerable,” she pronounced, waving a dainty hand back to where a strapping young footman balanced a stack of parcels reaching nearly to his solid chin. “But I have such trouble making decisions on matters of dress. It is so difficult to judge what would look well on one.”

“I would imagine anything would look good on you,” he told her pointedly and had the pleasure of watching her blush deepen.

“You are too kind,” she murmured. “Still, I value the opinion of a more seasoned person. Unfortunately, my dear cousin Sarah could not join me this morning.”

Though he knew the spinster had been left at home, he was careful to evince surprise. “You are unescorted?” he asked, ignoring the little dark-haired maid beside her and the footman at her back. “That will never do. I’m certain your friend Lord Breckonridge would never approve of it.”

At Breckonridge’s name, she stiffened, putting up her little chin. “I do not care whether he approves or not. I am much put out with Lord Breckonridge, and you may tell him so.”

Rupert hid a smile. So, she had already taken Breckonridge’s measure. He might be able to use that to his advantage. He forced his face to remain unmoved. “How tragic,” he drawled. “You must tell me how he came to earn your wrath. Would you allow me to walk with you a while?”

She batted her lashes before lowering her gaze. “Certainly, Lord Wells. But I hope we can find better topics of conversation than Lord Breckonridge.”

So do I
, thought Wells as he put her hand on his arm.
So do I.

 * * * *

While Persephone poured her heart out to Rupert Wells, Sarah turned her attention to the correspondence. Having dispensed her cousin shopping, with the girl’s maid Lucy (who Mr. Timmons said had been properly schooled in her role) and Jerym the under-footman, Sarah sat at the Sheridan writing desk in the corner of the library. She first sorted and paid the bills, noting with disapproval that the price of coal had risen again. Good thing Uncle Harold was well off. Another few guineas would never be missed. How did the poor fare? Perhaps this problem would be solved by one of the acts Malcolm was supporting.

She snatched up the next batch of correspondence and focused her wayward thoughts. She had put off writing to her aunt and uncle again last night. Today she noted the fact that Persy had several new suitors, carefully avoiding any mention of the Duke of Reddington. She still held out hope that her cousin would be persuaded to reconcile with the fellow, especially now that the girl knew Lord Breckonridge wasn’t interested in her. Malcolm, Lord Breckonridge, was clearly not interested in anyone but himself. It was a decided shame, really, for with his sharp wit and handsome countenance he had much to offer a lady. She could easily imagine herself on his arm, strolling through an august set of personages, exchanging pleasantries, offering smiles of encouragement. She realized her pen had stopped moving and hastily dipped it in the ink again, scolding herself.

“These just came, Miss Sarah,” Timmons said from the doorway, bringing her a pile of parcels and cards. Persy’s admirers had been busier than usual. Sarah was getting quite familiar with the white boxes from the famous London confectioners of Gunter’s. There were three of them today, along with several dozen assorted calling cards and envelopes. She sorted through them, passing those for Persephone alone into one pile and those that included her into another. Her pile, as always, was decidedly smaller. That is, until she reached the boxes.

She was surprised to find that the two largest boxes were addressed to her. Her surprise melted into anger as she recognized the bold hand on the envelope affixed to the largest box. Did he think he could buy what she refused to give? Worse, did he think her price was so low that roses and boxes of candy would serve to do the trick? She should throw them out unopened.

But curiosity got the better of her. He could not know how savagely she had dealt with his earlier gifts. Why send more? Could it be that he really did mean to apologize for his insulting offer? With hands that trembled, and thoroughly disgusted with herself, she broke open the envelope.

“My dear Miss Compton,” he had written. “I realized belatedly that roses might not have been an appropriate way to apologize. I’m not certain these sweets are any better. I believe I am coming to understand your position. Surely we both need to know each other better before making any decisions on a future. I was simply so gratified to find a woman of such rare intelligence, sense, good nature, and beauty that I rushed forward to seize her before some other fellow recognized her as a treasure. I promise to be more sensitive in the future, only say that you are willing to forgive me and give me another chance. Your servant always, Malcolm, Lord Breckonridge.”