This Rake of Mine (6 page)

Mr. Jones let out an inelegant snort that seemed to contradict the butler's claims, and for a moment Miranda paused and glanced around. The house was in shadows, so she couldn't see much beyond the foyer or the stairs that rose into the darkness above.

There was no telling what lay in the murky environs beyond, and for a moment she felt truly transported into one of Tally's wretchedly overwrought novels. Each and every one of the unwitting heroines in those books fell prey to the sinister master of a shadowy mansion not unlike this strange house.

She shivered, as if suddenly filled with a premonition of disasters untold awaiting them. It was almost on the tip of her tongue to tell Mr. Jones not to bother with their trunks and hasten the girls back into the carriage, when a gust of wind came blustering in through the still open door, sending a raft of cold air to banish her fears.

Premonitions! Whatever was the matter with her? She was just being foolish.

All it took was one look back out the open door to know what a night spent out there would hold, and the thought of a suite of rooms, no matter how dusty (or gloomy) seemed a fine sight more welcome than a night in the carriage with three complaining girls and that rapscallion Brutus.

"Is the master at home?" Felicity was asking, as if such an innocent question were nothing more than a polite query.

At this, Miranda's wandering thoughts fled, and she turned her gaze on the girl. While Felicity did her best to keep the contents of her
Bachelor Chronicles
a secret, Miranda had heard enough gossip about the girl's infamous encyclopedia of eligible men to know exactly what the young lady was about with her inquiry.

A folly of another sort, Miranda guessed. And more fodder for her
Chronicles
.

"Not at the present, miss," Mr. Birdwell told her. This gave Miranda a moment of relief before he finished it by saying, "But I expect him home later this evening. He has probably been detained by the storm."

"Then we shall see him in the morning?" Tally asked, a little too expectantly.

Birdwell shook his head. "The master never arises before two. But I am sure he would be delighted to meet all of you then."

There was another derisive snort from Mr. Jones.

Miranda could well imagine what sort of "gentleman" kept this run-down house or such a scurvy servant and, further, felt the need to maintain city hours while out in the confines of the country.

For truly, what sort of gentleman was out on a night like this?

A rake, no doubt. And a down-on-his-luck one at best.

"Sadly, we shall be long gone before your master arises," Miranda said. "And will not have the opportunity to make his acquaintance."

"But Miss Porter," Felicity protested. "We must not leave before we thank our host. It is only polite."

The girl said it so sweetly that it was hard to imagine that she had the tactical mind of Wellington and the ruthlessness of Napoleon running through her veins when it came to collecting "bachelors" for her
Chronicles
.

"A well-penned note will suffice," Miranda replied. "Our rooms are in which direction, Mr. Birdwell?" Better to get the girls in their beds and well out of sight before the master arrived home in some unholy state.

"This way, Miss Porter," Birdwell said, before turning to Mr. Jones. "See that their trunks are brought up, Bruno." As they started for the staircase, he added, "Once you are settled, I'll see if a tray of refreshments can be found. If you have been traveling all day, you must be famished."

"Oh, bless you, sir," Pippin enthused.

Then in proper fashion, they were shown their rooms, the trunks arrived, and a tray brought up by Mr. Birdwell. If anything, the butler's fine manners eased Miranda's misgivings.

It was only after she'd gotten the girls settled in their beds and sought the sanctuary of her own adjoining room that she realized one very important thing.

She'd forgotten to ask
who
the master of the house was. Unfortunately, the gloomy portrait of an unhappy woman glowering over the mantel gave little hint to a family name.

"Oh, heavens, this is a tangle," she muttered up at the dour-faced woman.

But instead of giving over to worries, she turned to more practical matters. The room was cold, and there was no wood for the hearth, so she pulled on her nightrail, threw her favorite blue shawl around her shoulders, and climbed into the chilly, narrow bed.

Wind rattled the windows, while torrents of rain beat against the panes, only adding to her bleak plight. She thought she'd never fall asleep, but it had been a long day and before she knew it, she drifted into an uneasy spate of dreams, only to be jolted awake some time later by the sound of voices from deep within the house.

From the tenor and pitch, she could tell that an argument was ensuing, and before she could discern anything that was being said, a door slammed shut, and heavy footsteps echoed down a walkway somewhere beneath their rooms.

She rose from her bed and went to the window, cautiously parting the thin curtains. It was hard to see anything at first, but aided by a flash of lightning, she thought she saw a man go striding into the night, as if the storm were but a tiny tempest in a teacup, his great cloak swirling about him.

There was something about his stance, his fortitude in the face of nature's onslaught that made her tremble… made her back away from the window as her breath quickened. And when she looked again, there was no sign of him, and the entire episode left her wondering if he hadn't been but a lingering figment from her dreams.

That is, until the chill of the floorboards started to nip at her toes and she shivered.

"Miranda, you are chasing shadows," she muttered under her breath as she tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

This, she told herself, was what came from letting Tally read to them in the afternoons from her collection of forbidden novels.

Turning to get back into bed, determined to dream of something wholesome and sensible, Miranda instead found herself drawn once again to the window, if only to convince herself that her mysterious phantom was just that—a figment of her imagination.

Yet all she could see was the storm raging outside, the rain pelting against the panes, the wind howling and buffeting the old house.

Not unlike the turmoil within her that had started when Mad Jack Tremont had held her once again, leaving Miranda, the most proper of spinsters, wondering how long she would continue to have to weather the storm left in the wake of a rake's kiss.

Jack Tremont had yet to go to bed for the night, but that wasn't unusual for him. Luckily for him, his years in Town had left him fit for the haphazard schedule of Thistleton Park, a legacy inherited from his great-aunt, Lady Josephine Tremont.

It made him wonder sometimes whether he would ever have left London if he had known what this inheritance would have in store for him.

Not that he'd had much of a choice at the time. It was flee to the south of England or off to debtor's prison. Thistleton Park had seemed the lesser of two evils.

Little had he known.

He came to a side door and shrugged off his greatcoat, which was soaked all the way through. It had been a wretched night out in the rain, and all for naught. He glanced back at the path that led to the cliffs and the sea.

Where the hell was Dash? Why hadn't he arrived last night? Even a storm like that would hardly cause his contact concern. The foolhardy American would probably take the challenge of landing ashore in such conditions as nothing more than a jolly good time.

The fact that Dash hadn't arrived spoke of more ominous tidings.

No, there was something wrong. He could feel it in his veins.

He stopped himself right there. Now he was even starting to think like his crazy old aunt. It was this house, this place, this life. He wasn't cut from the right cloth to do the task he'd been left, but no one believed him. He'd inherited Thistleton Park, lock, stock and secrets, and now he was the master of it all.

Whether he liked it or not.

"Harrumph," he snorted, in perfect imitation of Josephine. At this rate, the only thing he'd master was an early demise from chilblains.

No, he needed something hot to eat and a few hours of sleep—that is, if he could manage it—and then he'd have to determine how to proceed.

He walked through the long hallway toward the dining room, when a noise from the east wing stopped him. A noise so unusual he wondered if he wasn't already taken with fever, for it was something he hadn't heard in years.

Why, it sounded like giggling.

Giggling?

He shook his wet head. The torrential rains must have not only soaked him to the skin but filled his ears as well. The only other explanation was that Park was haunted, as his secretary, Bruno Jones, averred.

Haunted! Now that's a lark
, Jack thought. Right up there with his premonitions of disaster.

But then, oddly enough, the scent of freshly cooking sausages tickled at his nose.

Sausages? Birdwell was cooking him sausages for breakfast? He was lucky to get cold toast most mornings from his disapproving butler.

Sausages were as likely as the giggling.

Jack heaved a sigh, convinced he was going as mad as the rest of the Tremonts who had ever lived at (or rather, been banished to) Thistleton Park, and continued toward the dining room.

He pushed through the doors, his thoughts focused on what he would need to do once he arose.

First and foremost, he'd need to compose a report to London on the events of the night, or rather the lack of events, and then there was always the estate business.

While the place looked ready to tumble down, and the grounds were in a state of
déshabillé
, it actually took some work to make Thistleton Park so inhospitable.

So very unrespectable.

He was about to continue through the dining room to the kitchen, being led by the rich scent of not only sausages but also bacon and… he sniffed yet again… if his senses were to be believed, the warm, enticing scent of fresh scones.

Scones?

Lord, he was more tired than he thought, for he had to be hallucinating. Yet, lo and behold, there was a bounty laid out on the sideboard before him, enough so that it stopped him in his tracks.

Though not for long.

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth—not on his meager income—he filled his plate and turned toward the table.

What he spied before him nearly made him drop his breakfast. Nearly, that is, for Jack Tremont was many things, but negligent with a good plate of food was not one of them.

But still, he could be forgiven this lapse, for seated before him was a sight he couldn't fathom.

A woman? Seated at his table? It was as likely as the sausages and bacon on his plate.

"What the devil—" he managed to say as she clambered to her feet.

"Yo-o-u!" she sputtered back.

Jack set his plate down on the table before he took a good look at this unexpected, and all too unwanted, guest.

There was something rather familiar about the plain dress and startling eyes.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"This is my house, madame," he said, trying to place the chit.

Then it struck him. The red hair. The outraged moue. "You're that handful of a teacher from Miss Emery's," he said aloud before he had a chance to stop himself.

Demmit, he'd been out of Society too long.

But then again, like his aunt before him, he'd come to see the benefit of being plainspoken and getting straight to the point. "What are you doing in my house? Did my brother send you? I'll tell you right now, Miss… Miss…"

"Porter," she reminded him pertly.

Oh, yes, he had the right of it. As outspoken and to the point as ever.

"Miss Porter," he said. "I'll not be party to yet another of my brother's schemes to see me—"

Before he had the chance to finish his statement, he heard that odd sound from above stairs yet again.

Giggling.

His earlier premonition of impending catastrophe enveloped him like the sheets of rain that had been driven off the Channel the night before.

"There are more of you?" He wasn't a man given to panic, but more women? In his house? "This is inexcusable. If Parkerton thinks he can foist—"

"Lord John, it is nothing like that. If you would just let me explain—"

Jack didn't care to hear anything more from her. "Birdwell!" he bellowed at the kitchen. "Birdwell! What is the meaning of this?"

"Lord John, there is no need for such a display," Miss Porter chastened, as only a spinster schoolteacher could.

He shot a hot glance at her. She was, in his practiced assessment, in her late twenties, a spinster by Society's reckoning, but that didn't mean (in his humble and experienced opinion) that she deserved a place on the shelf. Of course, his estimation, gained in their tumbled introduction at Miss Emery's, had given him a rather intimate understanding as to the rather tempting curves the lady possessed beneath her dark muslin.

Yes, just get her out of that ugly gown and pull the pins from that severe chignon, and the lady had all the makings of a beauty.

Jack shook his head like a wet dog. Egads, he was in dire straits when he found himself fantasizing about tumbling a spinster who taught decorum!

"Mr. Birdwell!" he barked again, panic truly setting in.

Finally, and thankfully, his butler arrived. "Yes, my lord?"

"What is the meaning of this?" he said, pointing at the lady as if she were a blight upon his house.

"Ah, my lord, I see you've met Miss Porter and her young charges."

Young charges?
Jack didn't like the sound of that in the least.

Then, much to his horror, the door swung open and into the dining room bounded three young girls. Like a trio of kittens in muslin, giggling and wide-eyed.

Three of them!
Now he was convinced of it. The only disaster missing from the Old Testament was now being visited upon him—a plague of females.