This Rake of Mine (11 page)

The girl paled and looked about to protest, but the set of Miranda's jaw was enough to send Felicity digging into her workbag. She tried at first to hand over her sketchbook, but Miranda just shook her head and nodded at the workbag yet again. With a great sigh, Felicity dug out her precious
Bachelor Chronicles
. Clutching it to her chest, she made one last plea, "Miss Porter, this isn't meant to be read. 'Tis private."

Miranda felt a tinge of guilt, for the girl maintained an air of secrecy about her writings that would put the Foreign Office to shame. But if one of these harebrained, title-mad girls thought to make a match with Lord John, Miranda didn't care if she had to commit treason—she was going to stop them. "Then I won't pry any further then the pages pertaining to Lord John."

Pippin and Thalia exchanged mirrored looks of horror.

Oh, yes, Miranda was on to something.

"But, Miss—" Felicity protested.

Miranda held out her hand. "Now!"

Slowly and reluctantly, Felicity opened the journal and carefully thumbed through the pages until she reached the entry for Lord John. She looked away as she handed over the book, as if she couldn't bear to watch this sacrilege.

One side of the notebook had a sketch of Lord John. Miranda guessed this was Tally's work, because she was the most skilled of the three of them and possessed a talent for capturing her subjects with a realism that was uncanny.

And there he was, much as he had been on that day at Miss Emery's in his ragged coat and brushed-back hair.

So they had been spying that day.

But from where and how? And why had they gone to such great lengths to arrive on his doorstep?

Taking a deep breath, Miranda read the entry, looking for her answers:

Tremont, Lord John

B. 1772. Third son of the 8th Duke of Parkerton. (See
also, James Tremont, 9th Duke of Parkerton, Tremont Lord Michael.) Current residence: Thistleton Park.

Miranda glanced up at the girls. So they'd known all along that Lord John was in residence here. Instead of remarking on this happy coincidence, she continued to read:

Having disgraced Miss Miranda Mabberly, a former student of Miss Emery's, Lord John has been given the cut direct by all Society. His income, if rumor is to be trusted, is nonexistent and is supplemented by gambling and other reckless pursuits. He is a rake in all the worst ways.

And this was the man they had diverted their journey out of the way to meet? Miranda could only guess why they thought him worthy of a closer inspection.

Lord John, while ancient by the exacting standards of these Chronicles…

Miranda suppressed a smile and wondered what the man would think of being described as "ancient." Then she read the words that wiped even the lingering beginnings of a grin from her face.

…
has left behind the fashions of Town and now maintains a pirate look about him that some ladies claim is intriguing
.

The pirate comment, Miranda guessed, had probably come from Tally, given all her gothic fancies.

While his age and lack of a title relinquish him to the lower rungs of eligibility, it has been noted that he admits to a fondness for red hair and appeared quite taken with Miss Porter this afternoon in the downstairs foyer.

They'd been in the foyer? Watching him arrive… come down the stairs… catch her in his arms.

Miranda's gut twisted as she started to see the threads of their outlandish plan weave together, and she read on only with the hope that her supposition was entirely wrong.

However, the sentences that followed pushed Miranda right past surprised and into stunned.

As a respectable lady with excellent manners and now a good inheritance (if Sarah Browne's maid is to be believed), Miss Porter would be the perfect bride for a former rake of limited means like Lord John.

"Me-e-e?" she managed to stammer. The perfect bride for Lord John? "You thought to match me with… with… with that—" She couldn't even say the word.

"Rapscallion?" Thalia suggested.

"Ruffian?" Pippin offered.

"Rake," Felicity said unrepentantly. Now that her plan had been unmasked, she wasn't above getting to the point. "It is undeniable, Miss Porter. You are a perfect match for Lord John."

"Me?" Miranda shook her head at them. "I think not."

Tally rushed forward, taking her by the hand and settling her down on a large stone. "I know it seems a little bit hard to believe, but he already has a
tendre
for you."

Miranda snorted. Of all the ridiculous, irresponsible…

"It's true," Pippin said. "At least with your hair, he does. And if he likes your hair, it is only a matter of time before he likes the rest of you."

"Think of it, Miss Porter," Felicity rushed to add, "you could be Lady John Tremont, the mistress of all of this." She glanced over her shoulder at the leaning wall and tumbledown manse beyond and bit her bottom lip. "Such as it is," she conceded. "But you have a way with such things, Miss Porter. You would be a considerable asset to Lord John. And you of all people can't forget Miss Emery's credo: It is the duty of every lady to seek a respectable union."

A respectable union with Lord John? Now that was absurd. The man knew nothing of respectability, let alone responsibility—hadn't he refused to marry her when Oxley had cried off? Not that she had wanted to marry such a faithless rogue, but it was telling as to his character.

Why, she'd never even had the chance to refuse him. For certainly she would have. She had wanted to marry a gentleman, an honorable man. Not a rake.

Liar
, a small voice whispered.
Would your gentle hero have kissed you like Lord John?

"Did you ever consider that I might like being a respectable spinster better?" Miranda asked, folding her hands in her lap.

Felicity shot her a look that suggested such a notion was nothing short of foolishness.

Be that as it may, Miranda thought, there were other attributes on her long-held list that could hardly be lain on Lord John's doorstep. For a moment she was hard-pressed to remember a single one, but then one by one they came back to her.

Elegant… now there was a lark, given Lord John's ramshackle appearance and dilapidated home.

Or well-read. Only if she included the faces of playing cards.

Good company? He'd demonstrated his capacity for that trait when he'd ordered them from his property.

But what about passion?

Miranda bounded to her feet, frightened by the familiar ache of desire that spread quickly through her limbs when she put those two together.

Passion and Lord John… it was a dangerous combination, and she didn't trust these tangled feelings he brought forth inside her.

They listened to reason and common sense about as well as the Langley sisters.

And the girls had gotten her this far—she didn't dare discover what they could do with their remaining time at Thistleton Park if they continued unchecked. Or worse, what her rebellious thoughts would have her considering.

No, it was time to make it very clear that their matchmaking was to cease and desist.

"While it is commendable that you would like to see me suitably settled"—they all grinned at her compliment, but their joy was short-lived—"it is hardly proper to start matching people without their consent."

Pippin shot an "I-told-you-so" sort of glance at her cousins and took a step away from Felicity, as if to distance herself from the forthcoming censure.

Miranda warmed to her subject and continued, "I do not desire a match with Lord John, and you will end your efforts immediately." She shot a hard look at each one until all three nodded in agreement.

But there was a glint in Felicity's eyes that suggested the girl wasn't ready to completely relent, so Miranda added, "I suggest we spend a good part of today revisiting your accounting, and then if all three of you get your columns tallied correctly, we can sketch this infamous folly."

They groaned, for not one of them liked lessons in ledgers, but none of them offered any complaints; they knew they could find themselves adding and subtracting for the rest of their lives if they weren't careful.

"Come along," Miranda said, starting back down the path.

Pippin ambled alongside her. "I can see why you wouldn't want to marry Lord John. His house is dreadful."

Tally concurred. "Such a dreary place."

"Yes, but with the right hand and management, it could be quite respectable," Felicity said.

Miranda's gaze rolled skyward. The girl was utterly incorrigible.

"In his favor, his stables are fine enough," Pippin said. "He's got a couple of real goers in there. Funny that a man with such limited means would have such expensive cattle."

"Such is the way with men like Lord John," Miranda pointed out. "They put their money into fancy horses and harebrained ventures and not into the foundation of their estate. It is why Miss Emery cautions all of you to be on your guard against rakes and wastrels."

Tally bent over and picked up Brutus, carrying him along in her arms. "Can you even call Lord John a rake?" she asked. "Isn't he rather old for such things?"

Not really
, Miranda wanted to tell them. And while he certainly wasn't the same Corinthian he'd been all those years ago, when he'd held her at Miss Emery's, even for those few moments, he'd left her shaken and tempted by his charm and the masculine power that seemed to surround him.

No, Lord John was still a dangerous rake. And worst of all, as a woman grown she was only too aware as to what that meant, and how any good sense she held seemed to flee in his presence.

Her heart beat faster, her breathing became more shallow, her limbs were unresponsive.

Perhaps that was the inherent danger of a rake, she concluded; he left a lady so flustered, so diverted, that she wasn't able to fend off his lascivious attentions… would be drawn to the temptation he offered as to a light in the window on a stormy night.

The light, she mused, like the ones wreckers used to lure hapless ships onto the rocks.

However, as much as Mad Jack Tremont might have been a devilish foe once, she was no longer six and ten, and he wasn't the showy, glittering Corinthian he'd once been.

Perhaps his tarnish was to her advantage…

They walked for another few minutes and then rounded a bend along the cliff until a magnificent structure came into view. The stone tower stood on the edge of the cliff, as craggy and rough-hewn as the landscape around them. A solitary sentinel standing above the Channel.

Below, the hiss and crash of the waves lulled at the senses, while overhead gulls rose and fell with the sturdy breezes or their own fickle whims.

There was something solid and commanding about it, and at the same time wild and ancient, as if it held the very secrets of the capricious wind, could reach up into the stars.

Enchanted by the sight of it, they quickened their pace until they came to stand beneath it.

Felicity walked around the base, then eyed the distant horizon. "I would wager you could see the shores of France from up there."

"Let's find out," Tally said and went to the door before Miss Porter could stop her. The last thing she needed was one of them tumbling from one of the open windows above.

But it was of no matter, for the door was locked.

"Whoever locks a folly?" Tally complained. "Why it is… it's… inhospitable."

Miranda suppressed a grin. Surely they should have gathered that much from Lord John's ill-mannered reception this morning.

"Come along, ladies," she said to them. "Shall we get to work?"

With a minimum of grumbling, the three girls found a resting place that suited them best, and they began to add and subtract the costs of their journey to date. From her own carrying bag, Miranda plucked out the pair of socks she was making and took out her frustrations in the soothing rhythm of knitting.

The morning passed quickly, and eventually each girl was released from her dreaded accounts. Felicity reached for her
Chronicles
and busily scribbled new notations—most likely about Lord John, Miranda suspected. Tally pulled out her sketchbook and began a drawing of the tower, while Pippin pulled out her beloved copy of Billingsworth and began to read aloud the rest of the entries on Thistleton Park. It turned out the house had held a lively place in history, from its origins after the Battle of Hastings to Elizabethan times to Cromwell, ending with the historian's lavish praise of the previous mistress, Lady Josephine Tremont.

"I wonder what happened to her?" Pippin said.

"You want to know what happened to Lady Josephine?" came a reply. "Well, I'll tell you. The old gal was murdered."

All four of them sprang up and turned around. There on the path along the cliff stood a short, portly gentlemen of an indeterminate years. He wore an unfashionable jacket, brilliant red waistcoat and scuffed-up boots. In his hand he carried a walking stick.

"Pardon, sir?" Miranda asked, rising and nodding at the girls to do the same.

"The gel asked what happened to Lady Josephine, and I told her. She was murdered." He stomped along until he got to the bench where Miss Porter had been sitting, then sat down. "Lady Josephine was murdered in cold blood right over there," he said, waving his stick at some low bushes clinging to the edge of the cliff.

Tally gasped. At the sound of his mistress in distress, Brutus, who had been snoring happily since they arrived, awoke. Upon sniffing the air, he must not have liked what he smelled, because he immediately bounded to his feet. Spying the stranger in their midst, the dog let out a low growl and rushed toward the man.

The gentleman let out a bellow of a laugh, even as Brutus circled him, barking and growling.

"What the devil is that?" he managed to sputter, waving his stout stick at Brutus.

Tally rushed forward. "My dog," she told the man as she scooped her beloved pet up and out of range.