This Rake of Mine (12 page)

"So says you," he said, taking another smirking glance at the animal. "Now where was I?"

"Lady Josephine's murder," the always practical and to-the-point Felicity reminded him.

"Ah, yes, Lady Josephine."

"Sir, I implore you," Miranda said, "perhaps this isn't a tale for young ears."

"Ain't much of a story, Miss—"

"Porter," she said. "And you are?"

"Sir Norris Nesbitt. Live just over that hill." He pointed the way with his walking stick.

Miranda finished the introductions, giving the girls an opportunity to practice their deportment lessons, but they were hardly done when Felicity persisted with her questions.

"But if Lady Josephine was murdered, Sir Norris, how could that not make a good tale?"

"Miss Langley!" Miranda reprimanded.

Sir Norris snorted, then spat at the ground. "You'd think that it would, gel, but as I said, it ain't much to tell. She went out walking on this here path and never came back." He shook his head, a worrisome little movement that suggested he had his own theories on how the lady had perished and that with a little urging he'd be more than happy to oblige them.

"Never?" Pippin prodded, giving him just the opening he wanted.

He shook his head. "Never. 'T'was on a stormy eve much like last night. Wind and rain like you hope to never see again."

"But what was she doing out on a night like that?" The practical question came from, of course, Felicity.

"No telling," the man conceded. "But Lady Josephine was her own gel. Not one to listen to sense." He prodded the ground with his stick again. "Magnificent woman. Had the eyes of an angel and the voice of a lark. Offered for her myself countless times, but she always turned me down." He sighed, then spat again.

'Then her death was an accident," Felicity corrected.

"Oh, no, miss, it was murder. For the next morning, they found evidence of a struggle. Her glasses were smashed into the ground, and the brush just over there was all torn up."

"Hardly evidence of foul play," Felicity insisted.

"Yes, well, that may be, but tell me how convenient it was when that jackanape nephew of hers inherited the place, lock, stock and barrel. Mighty convenient timing, with him being ruined and up to his neck in debt."

Now it was Miranda's turn to take a deep breath, words rising up inside her like a sudden squall in the face of Sir Norris's implications.

It wasn't true.

She didn't know why she found herself feeling this overwhelming need to defend Lord John, because goodness knows, there were plenty of acts he'd committed in his life worthy of condemnation. But murder? Preposterous.

"My lord," she said, "I hardly think Lord John is capable of such a crime." Behind her, she could sense the girls nodding their heads just as vehemently.

"Know the bounder, do you?" Sir Norris asked, his bushy brows rising, his mouth tipped in a smile that suggested something rather unseemly.

Miranda backed away—from both her convictions and the man's sordid notions. "Not really," she lied. "We just met this morning."

"We're staying with Lord John," Tally added with imprudent glee.

"Staying with him?" The man spat again. "Now, miss, you can't be serious?" This he directed at Miranda.

"I fear it is a situation not of our choosing," she informed him. "An oak has fallen across the gate and we are unable to leave without our carriage and horses. It will be remedied quickly enough. Our driver has gone to Hastings to secure a new conveyance."

He rose and walked toward her, taking her aside and putting his back to their young audience. "You had best hope so. I don't think you realize the sort of man you are dealing with."

Miranda wasn't about to enlighten Sir Norris that she knew exactly what "sort" his neighbor was.

Not that this puffy little baronet seemed worried about her sensibilities. "He was a wild buck in London, miss. These young ladies might not know the type, but I don't suppose you haven't got to your age without learning a thing or two about 'em."

Miranda bristled at his jab.
Your age
. How old did the man think she was? While having the girls opine as to Jack's ancient status might be amusing, she didn't like it in the least when her years were being given the same scrutiny.

Sir Norris continued unabated. "Why, it would turn your hair white to hear the sort of tawdry and unnatural acts he partook in." He winked at her, his bushy brows coming together. "Let me just say, no one in the neighborhood was pleased to see him inherit, let alone move in." His hand, which had before been cradling her elbow, slid and landed on her hip. "There now, miss, I think you could find better accommodations for yourself and yer gels."

Already piqued about the comment on her age, she took his invitation and his familiar touch with even less aplomb. And this odious man thought Lord John was low company? She plucked herself free from him and took a steadying breath.

"Your invitation is kind, but unnecessary. Our man will return forthwith, and we will be gone as quickly as possible."

"Suit yourself," he said with a shrug. "But when that devilish Tremont starts tipping those girls, remember I'm the magistrate around these parts, and I'd love an excuse to hang the bastard."

"I hardly think a few hours more in Lord John's company will prove our ruin," Miranda told him.

"You'd think," the man snorted. "But I'll tell you again, the man is as crazy as his aunt was. Riding about the countryside at night, keeping company down at the Henry. But who wouldn't stay away from that house at night, for everyone knows it's cursed."

"Cursed?" Tally asked. Obviously she'd been eavesdropping, and had heard enough to leave her wide-eyed and clutching Brutus to her chest.

"Oh, aye, has been since it was built," Sir Norris told her. "Wonder why it has such a secure wall around it? Well, it ain't to keep anyone out! I tell you. It was built to keep those crazy Tremonts in."

"Oh, I never," Miranda sputtered.

"You would if you had them for neighbors. They've been locking up every crackbrained, halfwit relation down here for centuries. And those Tremonts are fair full of odd ones. Cursed they are. Cursed. And that Lord John, he's the worst of the lot. Ruin you all without a second thought, he would."

"Sir," Miranda said, squaring her shoulders, "I'll have you know Lord John has given me his word as a gentleman that we are welcome in his house." He'd done no such thing, but perhaps it would be enough to keep this gossipy old goat from telling the world of their imprudent house party at Thistleton Park.

"His word!" the man scoffed. "His word, she says." He spat again. "Miss Porter, is it?"

She nodded.

"You obviously have no thought for your reputation or that of your charges, for if you did, you'd move heaven and earth to get them out of that house. Mark my words, Mad Jack Tremont is no gentleman."

«
^
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N
o gentleman
. Those words rang in Miranda's ears the
rest of the day. Especially when Stillings returned from Hastings too late for them to continue on their way. However, he had procured a suitable carriage, and nothing would prevent them from traveling directly to Lady Caldecott's at first light.

One dinner and one more night at Thistleton Park, and then Miranda would be able to draw a deep breath and get back to the life she'd planned for herself.

Well and away from the rake who had ruined it to begin with.

"Miss Porter, that isn't what you are wearing, is it?"

This question came from Felicity, who stood in the doorway that connected their suite to Miranda's chamber. Her comment was followed by a "
tsk, tsk"
before the girl disappeared back into her room.

Miranda glanced heavenward. Still matchmaking, even after her earlier lecture. There was no denying it, the Duchess was impossibly determined.

Thankfully, the girl hadn't much more time to maneuver her matrimonial plans.

But to her chagrin, Felicity returned, a small valise in one hand, her sister and cousin in tow.

Tally took one look at her and shook her head. "Oh, no, Miss Porter, that will never do." Even Brutus shook his bushy head in dismay.

Miranda stood her ground. "And whatever is wrong with what I'm wearing?"

The girls shared a glance, as if they were trying to decide how best to break the bad news.

Meanwhile, Miranda stole a quick glance at herself in the mirror and saw nothing wrong. Her chignon was properly tucked at the nape of her neck, her dress, a somber gray gown, was entirely respectable, and her favorite blue shawl lay modestly over her shoulders.

A decent and proper ensemble for a country dinner—with a very improper and highly questionable gentleman.

"Don't you have anything, well…" Tally bit her lip as she tipped her head and studied her teacher this way, then that. "A little less severe? Nanny Lucia always said a lady should have a bit of color to her dress."

Miranda had heard enough. "If this is more of your matchmaking nonsense—"

"Oh, no, Miss Porter," Pippin told her. "Not in the least. What my cousins are saying is that it just seems a shame that you must look so old, when you can't be more than nine and twenty."

"I am not nine and twenty," she shot back a little hastily, taking another glance at the mirror.
Nearly thirty?
First Sir Norris, now the girls. Did she really look so old?

Felicity was in the process of unpacking her valise on the bed. "Then let us make sure no one else makes that mistake," she said, pulling out ribbons and laces, a set of fancy hair combs and a few cosmetic pots. "Nanny Tasha always said a lady's age should be a mystery."

Miranda closed her eyes. Truly, she was starting to wonder about Lord Langley's choice of nannies for his daughters. Most of what the girls repeated from their dear caretakers sounded more like the advice of an experienced Cyprian, not that of a doting governess for small, impressionable children.

Felicity approached her with a brush in hand, a paint pot in the other.

Miranda shook her head. "Oh, no, you don't."

Tally moved to stand at her sister's side. "Nanny Rana said it was a lady's duty to see that she was the brightest light at the table." She smiled at Felicity, and together they recited, "Never hide your light, for how else is a man to notice you? Your spark, your fire, is your most cherished possession." They both sighed, as if they had just shared the cure for all that ailed the world. Then Tally slanted an assessing glance at Miranda. "I fear, Miss Porter, your light is positively dull."

Having heard enough of their nanny nonsense, Miranda shooed them from her room. "I will be as dull as I like."

"But Miss Porter, it is only for one night," Felicity protested.

One night too many, in Miranda's estimation.

"Now off with you," she told them, trying to sound as severe as if she were indeed nine and twenty. "Pippin, find your shoes. Felicity, wash your cheeks. You know Miss Emery strictly forbids cosmetics of any kind. Tally, your shawl does not belong in a heap on the floor."

Having dispatched them, she closed the door between their rooms and took a deep breath.
Tenacious little minxes
.

Well, she was having none of their plans.

Before they went down to dinner she was going to line them up and lay down the rules for the evening. Any infraction, any deviation from her guidelines would see the three of them doing ledger lessons for the rest of their travels… Why, she'd—

There was another burst of giggles from the next room, and Miranda turned toward the noise. Such high spirits and antics were… were…

Almost at the door, she caught a glance of herself in the mirror and came to an abrupt halt.

The woman staring back at her was like a stranger.

Ancient
, she admitted, moving closer to her reflection.
When did I get so old?

What other explanation was there for why Lord John didn't recognize her?

Turning her head one way, then the other, she tried to determine what about her had changed so much in the last nine years.

Perhaps it was the chignon. Mayhap the girls were right, it was a bit dull. Her gaze fell on a bit of ribbon that had fallen from Felicity's collection. She retrieved it and for a moment considered just how one did put something like that in her hair.

In truth, she'd never really been one for baubles and ornaments. Why, the last time she'd been all dressed up had been that night at the opera. Her mother had taken great pains to see her turned out as befitting a future countess, albeit a modest one, and what had it gained her—Lord John mistaking her for his mistress.

She took another discerning glance at the mirror. There'd be no mistaking her for someone's mistress now.

And that's the way it should be
, she told herself, setting the ribbon down and patting her respectable chignon to ensure that every hair was in place. Then, for some reason, her gaze fell on the reflection of a candle in the mirror. Its flickering, glittering light caught her attention, held her gaze with a magical quality.

Like the light Nanny Rana espoused.

A light, indeed
, she scoffed. What sort of woman was this Nanny Rana who encouraged young girls to make spectacles of themselves?

And for someone like Mad Jack Tremont! She shook her head.

Besides, he was far too passionate to make a decent husband. Why, a lady would spend all her time having to endure his overtures, his insatiable demands.

Miranda thought about how unsettled he'd left her back at Miss Emery's, and all he'd done had been to hold her in his arms.

And she knew only too well what his kisses were capable of doing—making her knees buckle, her breasts ache with longing to feel his touch.

No, it wasn't this house that she feared, as Pippin had suggested earlier—a bit of managing and accounting could bring it up to snuff. And it wasn't the idea of marriage that had her at sixes and sevens. It was what Lord John's kiss could do to her senses, to her grasp on propriety, that made her tremble.