This Rake of Mine (5 page)

"Do you think we will ever find Thistleton Park, Miss Porter?" Pippin asked, her voice edged with a bit of panic. "I don't see how Mr. Billingsworth could have led us so far afield."

In addition to Miss Emery's list of proper sites to visit, the girls had also taken to using Mr. Billingsworth's travelogue to find other interesting venues. The Langley sisters, Miranda quickly discovered, were intrepid travelers, having spent most of their lives gadding about the globe with their father. For most of the day, they'd taken this delay and the storm in stride, Felicity with her nose buried in a newspaper they'd procured in the morning, and Tally reading a French novel that Miranda had to imagine Miss Emery would hardly approve of.

But even those diversions were no longer working, for it had grown too dark to read and now Miranda had three unhappy young ladies in her care, and no idea of where they were going to spend the night.

"I just hope we can find an inn out here," Miranda said under her breath, even as she began to feel the same bit of panic as Pippin.

They had intended to spend the night in Hastings, but early in the day Philippa had pointed out an entry in
Mr. Billingsworth's Accounts of Sussex for the Accomplished Traveller, with Details on Sights for the Artistic and Historical Aficionado
that sounded worthy of a slight detour from their prescribed route.

It read:

Thistleton Park is an ancient manse, the original portion of the house having been built not long after William the Conqueror arrived in England. Entirely walled, it is a relic of another time, the gates guarded by an ancient oak whose mammoth size is worthy of note and is said to have been planted by Eleanor of Aquitaine before she was banished. Beyond these historical delights, Thistleton Park also offers a quaint and picturesque setting, just right for a seaside nuncheon al fresco, which the delightful and generous owner of the house can be counted on to provide. Those with an artistic bent should bring along their tools for they will find great delight in sketching the craggy and romantic tower, referred to as Albin's Folly…

That had been enough for Thalia—the words "romantic" and "sketching" lure enough for her. And "nuncheon" was probably what had piqued Pippin's attention.

By now, whatever romance Thalia had thought she'd find was long forgotten. She cast herself back into the deep, comfortable confines of the rich leather seats and complained dramatically, "We're done for. We'll perish out here, for certain." To add to her performance, she threw her hand over her brow. "Lost, never to be found, that is what is to become of us."

In her lap, Brutus let out a pitiful howl to match his mistress's mood, though Miranda suspected the little dog more likely shared Pippin's despair over their long overdue nuncheon. And tea. And supper.

"I don't see how we could be so lost," Pippin said, tossing aside her guidebook. "Mr. Billingsworth's directions were quite specific. We should have reached Thistleton Park hours ago."

Miranda suppressed a smile. She knew the girl's chagrin wasn't so much that they hadn't succeeded in seeing the infamous folly but that they hadn't found an inn or common house at which to dine. That her beloved Billingsworth had let her down in that respect was probably the most disheartening experience of her young life.

But dear heavens, Miranda wondered as she looked out into the growing darkness, what would they do if shelter couldn't be found? She'd given up all hope of making it to Hastings. That left them with few options, the most likely of which appeared to be spending the night in the carriage.

She shuddered to think what Miss Emery would make of such an arrangement.

Just then they came to a quick stop. Miranda parted the curtains and, with the aid of a massive crack of lightning, spied a heavy iron gate before them—the kind that was usually a portend to a great house.

"Miss Porter," the driver called down, "it appears we may have found this Thistleton Park of Miss Thalia's. Should we seek shelter there?"

"Oh heavens, please, Miss Porter!" Philippa begged. " 'Tis well past supper as it is. They may be eating late!"

Miranda wasn't so sure. "We don't know the family." She glanced once again at the heavy gate. Goodness, spending the night by the side of the road was one thing, but in the house of someone who was beyond the pale… why, it could be ruinous for the girls. All their stops and nights had been spent with respectable families, handpicked by Miss Emery to ensure that they didn't come into the company of "certain" people. "I rather think we should continue on."

Immediately, Felicity reached over and caught up her cousin's book, paging through it with all speed. "According to Mr. Billingsworth, Thistleton Park is the home of an elderly spinster. The sister of a duke. Surely, an old lady in her dotage would provide an acceptable haven for us."

Taking another glance toward the house, which was now once again obscured by the storm, Miranda reconsidered. Certainly if anyone knew what the gates of Thistleton Park held, it would be Felicity. The girl was title mad and could probably cite the location of every lord, heir, heir apparent and second son in England, as well as those in the nether parts of Scotland. The relations to a duke were probably just as important in her quest for the right spouse, and therefore if she said the mistress of this mansion was the sister of a duke, there was no need to doubt it.

Taking one more glance back at the muddy road behind them and the gloomy, shadowy house before them, Miranda knew she had no choice but to apply to the owner for shelter.

"Go on in, Stillings," Miranda told the man, and the carriage lurched forward, the horses probably as anxious to be out of the rain as their driver.

As they drew through the huge gates, the house came into view almost immediately, a dark, shadowy manse, without a single light within.

"I don't know if your spinster is in residence," Miranda remarked.

"Someone will let us in," Pippin said. "There must be a servant about, a footman, or the housekeeper, maybe even the cook."

Everyone in the carriage knew what Pippin truly meant. There must be someone inside who could prepare a decent meal.

When the carriage came to a stop in front of the house, Stillings went up to the door and pounded on the great oak panels.

After what seemed like an eternity the door opened a mere crack, a tiny shaft of light from a single taper offering a meager and mean welcome. A discussion ensued, then Stillings came down to the carriage.

"It's the secretary, Miss Porter," the man told her. "He's not the most obliging fellow. Says we can seek shelter at the inn in Hastings."

"How far is that?" Miranda asked.

"A good twenty or so miles," Stillings said.

At this, Pippin groaned.

"Twenty miles! Why, that is ridiculous." Miranda pulled her cloak up over her head. "I'll apply to the mistress of the house directly. Twenty miles, indeed!" She got down and marched up the steps. She pulled her hood off and patted her hair into place.

It never hurt to make a proper impression.

Thus prepared, she took the door knocker in hand and gave it a polite rap.

Then waited. And waited.

When she took it up again, she gave it a little more insistent thud. By the third time, she had lost patience with standing in the cold and wind, so she hammered at the door, hoping it roused the entire house.

Really, how could a place be so ill-run? Most likely, the lady was elderly and the servants took a terrible advantage of her dotage. Finally, after another volley of knocking, Miranda spied the light of the candle returning.

When the door opened, a great looming figure stood before her. His face was scarred, and his long hooked nose crooked to one side. A more fearsome man she had never seen. Without even realizing it, she stepped back off the shelter of the porch and into the rain.

This was the family secretary? Really, what sort of lady kept such a servant?

"I said afore, go away with ye," he bellowed. "Or I'll set the dogs on the lot of you."

So much for Mr. Billingsworth's assurances of generous hospitality.

Even as the fellow made his rude greeting, a torrent of icy water from the ill-kept gutters ran down the back of her neck. It was enough of a hint as to what a night spent in the carriage would be like to screw up her courage.

Besides, Miranda would put her money on Brutus against any mongrel this ill-mannered fellow could produce. She squared her shoulders and stepped forward. "I would speak to your mistress," she said in her most authoritative voice.

"She's gone," he said, starting to close the door in her face, paying no heed to her confident and commanding request.

Not about to spend the night listening to the girls complain and Brutus snore, she wedged herself into the doorway. "To London?" she inquired.

'To London, that's a fine one." The man made a loud snort, as if her question was foolish. "She ain't in London. She's gone aloft, if it's any of yer business."

Dead?
This news sent a chill down Miranda's spine that had nothing to do with the leaky gutters and their persistence in draining their contents on her head. This entire house and night were like something out of one of Tally's gothic novels.

Oh bother
, Miranda chided herself, now she was being foolish.

Gothic, indeed!

"We need shelter for the night," she told him. "You obviously don't understand that I am escorting three young ladies from Miss Emery's—"

The man didn't let her finish. Once he heard the word "ladies" his eyes widened in horror. "We'll not have a lot of doxies in this house, even if they are from some fancy brothel like Miss Emery's," he said, starting once again to shove the door shut.

Miranda bristled. Brothel? Doxies? How dare he! If anything, she was determined to stay now, if only to see this vulgar, impertinent man sacked from his position.

"My charges are young ladies of character," she told him. "Their fathers are highly respected noblemen of the realm. Any family would be honored to give them shelter for the night."

He snorted once again. "Ye look like a lot of doxies to me, and we won't have none of that here, so just be gone." His words were punctuated with a loud clap of thunder and another deluge of rain.

Miranda glanced back at the carriage where four noses were pressed to the window.

"Sir, I promise—" she began, even as from the dark recesses of the house came a voice that sounded like a soothing calm amidst a fury.

"Mr. Jones, what is going on here?" came the question, the inquirer's voice cultured and refined, holding all the comforts of a London town house.

Then it struck Miranda who this could be. The butler! It had to be.

"Mr. Jones, who is at the door?" came another inquiry.

"Now see what you've done," came the secretary's disgruntled snort as he struggled to close it before this newcomer spied her.

Miranda heaved a sigh of relief. It
was
the butler. No one else (save the mistress or lord of the manner) could elicit such a disgruntled response from another servant.

"Vagabonds, Mr. Birdwell. Seeking shelter."

"We are not vagabonds, sir," Miranda called out, pushing on the door against this Mr. Jones without any thought of decorum, shoving her head into the opening so she could look the butler in the eye.

Let him see her poor bedraggled state.

She hadn't been raised in London not to know how the majordomo of any house hated to see a lady in dire circumstances. "My name is Miss Porter, and I have in my charge the daughters of Lord Langley and the daughter of the Earl of Stanbrook. We seek but the barest of shelter for the night. If you could allow us to come in and let me explain—"

Her plea worked before she could even come to the end.

"Yes, of course, miss," this Mr. Birdwell said, hurrying forward with a welcoming brace of candles in his capable hand. "Mr. Jones, open the door immediately."

The secretary clung to his position with the same resolve as Brutus after a squirrel. "But Mr. Birdwell," the man said in a low voice. "We can't have strangers about. And certainly not a gaggle of misses, if you know what I mean. They'll be nothing but trouble. I for one won't be responsible if one of 'em starts wandering about. Sides, they'll be wanting warm milk and trays of chicken and cakes, and hot water and all sorts of 'necessities' that we ain't—"

While a lady—especially not a former teacher of decorum—wouldn't dream of eavesdropping on such a conversation, Miranda was not about to lose the inroads she'd gained with the butler.

"We will be of little notice," she rushed to promise. "And will keep to our rooms. We are simply too fatigued to continue, and our horses need rest."

"There you have it," Birdwell said to a glowering Mr. Jones, prying the secretary away from the door and throwing it wide open. "Welcome to Thistleton Park, Miss Porter."

That was enough of a signal to the girls, who tumbled out of the carriage in a rush and came bounding up the steps to get out of the weather. Miranda was pleased to note that Thalia had possessed the good sense to hide Brutus under her cloak. Hopefully the little dog would stay quiet long enough for them to gain their rooms before he made his reliably unpleasant presence known.

Their mud-splattered arrival led to another aggrieved huff from Mr. Jones, who stood to one side, a frown creasing his ugly face, his big meaty arms folded across his massive chest.

Meanwhile, Mr. Birdwell was surveying his guests with that knowing air that only a London butler could possess. After a moment of consideration, he nodded to the secretary. "Mr. Jones, if you will, please take their trunks up to the east wing. The Blue Room for the young ladies, and the adjoining chamber for Miss Porter."

"I won't, Mr. Birdwell," Mr. Jones said, making one more protest. "When the master finds out—"

"The master?" Miranda inquired. "Is the owner in residence?"

"Yes, miss," Birdwell said. "But he is currently not at home. Allow me to speak for him and say that he would not mind your necessary intrusion. He is a fine gentleman and wouldn't think of denying the hospitality of his home to ladies in need."