My Lady Mischief (3 page)

No. He couldn't believe Hart's current behavior was indicative of how he'd act once suitably leg-shackled.

Close proximity with Fossbinder had never created the glow Thea developed after spending those few moments with Hart. Not to mention her betraying blush. Being a rake could be an advantage when it came time to court a young lady.

Caroline would have been proud to think her daughter might be Duchess of Devonshrop. Squigy had courted her but Caroline had married Steyne instead, choosing love over a dukedom. Now, her daughter had a chance at the title she had declined. He hoped Thea could have both.

Returning the letter to the drawer, Steyne thought back over his years with Caroline, the happiness and the sadness. With a sharp stab of grief, he recalled the two stillborn sons who lay entombed beside his dearest Caroline in the family vault.

How elated they'd been when Thea was born healthy, screaming for attention. By then, they'd been a bit long in the tooth for starting a family. They had been so proud and pleased to behold their delightful baby daughter.

He'd never forget the loving look of wonder on Caroline's face as she nursed Thea for the first time. It had been the mode to retain a wet nurse but Caroline would hear nothing of it. He could still hear her sweet voice saying, "This baby is healthy and I am determined to keep her that way."

Now, their beautiful daughter was a young woman, ready to fall in love. He hoped Caroline approved of the way he'd raised her. Yes, the child was spoiled but surely she knew she was loved and cared for. That could not be harmful.

"You would be so pleased, Caroline," he whispered fervently. "I just hope you are watching. You'll have to help me not to botch matters."

He sincerely hoped Thea and Hart would come together on their own, but he wasn't above doing a little something to encourage them in that direction. With any luck, that scoundrel Fossbinder would soon be out of the picture.

*

"I promise you, Hobbs, when we left London I had no idea I'd need your services." Hart stood before the dresser in his room at Steyne Hall while his offended valet fluttered about, preparing for the evening ahead. From the corner of his eye, Hart watched to see if his flattery had any effect. "Lord Steyne informed me we would be dressing for dinner, and I can never accomplish a creditable appearance without your assistance. I'm relieved you insisted upon accompanying Mack and me. Though why don't you insist upon attending Mack?"

"He's an American, my lord," commented the valet in a dry voice. "Quite able to take care of himself."

Hart wondered why the sentiment had never occurred to him. An American could dress himself, yet a marquess could not. An interesting opinion but not one that he shared. "Well, I'm pleased you're here."

Hobbs snorted into a handkerchief. "No use trying to turn me up sweet, your highness. Sneaking off that way, without even a clean shirt in your kit."

It was clear the Scot would not easily be appeased. Hart suppressed a sigh. "At least we've reached the point where you are again speaking to me. What can I do to regain your good graces?"

The valet responded by turning his back. Hart had spoken too soon.

Hart tossed down his third neckcloth, then gingerly inspected the crisply starched one his valet now condescended to offer. Though Hobbs' relationship with him was not the typical one shared between master and servant, he believed matters had gone far enough. It was time to put an end to the valet's sulks.

"At least the earl appears interested in Mack's seed drill improvements." He cringed as his servant let out a reverberating sneeze, then offered him a fresh handkerchief.

Hobbs wiped his nose in offended silence. Since Hart's childhood, the valet had been fanatically loyal and was privy to his innermost plans. How could Hart be angry over such devotion to duty and to himself?

"When my father requested I visit Steyne about the land he hopes to acquire, he mentioned the earl might be interested in Mack's new process." He felt certain this would lure the valet back to speech, especially since Hobbs considered Mack an influence for the better, even if he was an American.

Hobbs merely grunted.

Since that hadn't worked, he'd have to attempt another method. In an intentionally bored voice, he said, "Yet, now I have to play the pretty when all I'd really like is more time trading barbs with that feisty parlormaid. Have you discovered anything more about her?" Surely this would draw him out.

Hobbs swiped at his nose and replied without recollecting that he was not on speaking terms with his master. "Must be new in the household, my lord. No one seems to know the first thing about the chit. May be something rummish about her since the servants all mum up when I mention her." The valet suddenly clamped his mouth shut and resumed his affronted attitude.

He lofted a blue silk dress coat, then eased it on his master as quickly as its snug fit would allow. This tedious chore completed, Hobbs pulled the long lace wrist-ruffles into place from beneath the coat sleeves.

While giving himself up to the valet's ministrations, Hart's mind began to wander back onto the subject of the parlormaid. She was a prime article, quite unlike the maids who served in his own household. The moment she'd spent in his arms had been a pleasurable experience and he looked forward to repeating it. Trifling with parlormaids was not in his usual style, but he found himself unable to get the young woman out of his mind.

He looked sidelong at Hobbs, who had yet to come out of his snit. What would it take to make the man come around? Hart was generally on friendly terms with his servants and truly regretted the impulse that had led him to try to elude Hobbs when he left town. The man had been suffering a tremendous head cold. What else could Hart have done?

"It would be comforting to experience a little gratitude," Hobbs growled. At last, Hart saw a slight grimace on the older man's face. This had hit home! "Hobbs, I am indeed sorry for trying to leave you. You were ill, man. Just look at you now, snuffling and sneezing fit to blow the walls down. You do understand?"

"Aye, my lord."

Hart breathed a sigh of relief, but then Hobbs looked him directly in the eyes.

"I tell ye now, sir, there is something odd about yon parlormaid. Watch out for yerself."

Hart laughed, delighted that the old Hobbs had returned, heathen Scots' accent and all. Thinking of the chit again, he came to a decision. After dinner, he would seek her out.

Putting the finishing touches to his neckcloth, he completed a perfect Waterfall. "You worry too much, Hobbs. And I thank you for it." He clasped his man's shoulder in a tiny squeeze, then scooped up his gloves and left the room.

Once the door closed, Hobbs whispered, "And if I don't worry about ye, who else will?

*

It had been difficult to come up with a plan, thought Thea, but after a period of reflection, a solution had occurred to her. If Lord Hartingfield's purpose at Steyne was to ascertain her suitability as a wife, then she knew what she must do to put an end to such a notion.

Standing before her wardrobe, she took particular care in selecting appropriate dinner garb with her abigail, Meg's, assistance. Miss Mimms had previously stressed the need for creating the right impression, and for once Thea found herself in complete agreement. She grinned, assured Miss Mimms might have succumbed to the vapors had she known just what sort of impression Thea wished to create.

She dismissed several evening gowns as too prim, then finally settled upon a new gown that had been acquired for her dreaded upcoming London Season. Though she'd done everything in her power to dissuade both Papa and Miss Mimms from such a concept, they'd insisted upon her acquiring at least a partial wardrobe.

With judicious removal of the lace at the bodice, Thea was pleased with the now plunging neckline. Her time had been well spent. "I regret the fact I haven't anything truly vulgar to wear, like Mrs. Twining over at the Rose and Crown."

"She's no Missus, if you take my meaning," replied Meg as she held up a new bit of lace to Thea's bodice. "Any course, his Lordship would be very upset to hear you speak of her, Miss."

She thrust the fabric back into Meg's hands. "I have no intention of using this."

"Oh, Miss. Whatever will Miss Mimms say?" moaned Meg. "You never mean to go downstairs dressed like that. You simply must add some lace to that gown."

"Nonsense," Thea replied with a puckish grin. Meg's distress was obvious. She was a young village girl whom Thea had taken in to train as her dresser. She was genuinely fond of the girl and deemed their arrangement successful in spite of Meg's outspokenness.

Turning to check her image in the glass, Thea noted that the gown came a bit above her ankles and felt quite daring. The white gown of India muslin was adorned with dark green flowers on the lower panel and the puffed sleeves. A matching green ribbon encircled her waistline, just below her generously exposed neckline. She looked positively bold, just the image she wished to achieve.

"It's relieved I am, Miss, that you didn't dampen your petticoats. I'm thinking you'd be happier if you wore some stays and an extra petticoat. You look like a lady who is no better than she should be—begging your pardon, Miss."

"That was my intention, Meg. Look at the way this gown clings." She practiced a gentle sway, then nodded her head at her image, assured this would change Lord Hartingfield's mind about her suitability.

"Do I indeed look vulgar, Meg?" She grinned wickedly. "Enough to curtail any thoughts of marriage the marquess may be entertaining?"

Meg collapsed upon a chair with another moan while Thea donned a pair of matching green elbow-length gloves. Flashing the abigail a supplicating smile, she turned to make a final adjustment to her hair, styled
a la Caracella,
a few long ringlets draped upon one shoulder. She'd come across a number of carefully preserved peacock feathers in her mama's trunks and had attached them to the wide ribbon that held her hairstyle in place.

Selecting the delightfully low Mrs. Twining as a model had been a perverse inspiration, for her appearance was all that could be desired. "Do not despair, Meg. I know what I am about. When Lord Hartingfield learns my identity, the last thing he will wish for is marriage. Miss Mimms has assured me that gentlemen do not marry wantons."

"What they do with 'em is what worries me, Miss Althea. That and losing my position."

Although tempted to learn more about what gentlemen did with wantons, Thea realized she didn't have time for any discussion about the matter. She had a date with destiny. "Nonsense, Meg. Cheer up. I'm certain I've considered every possible thing that can go wrong and my plan is unassailable."

*

Thea peered into the drawing room and found, much to her relief, that it was empty. She wanted time to set an appropriate scene before meeting Lord Hartingfield. Feathers bouncing, she darted over to the fire in the massive grate, thankful for the warmth it provided in the chilly room. Her revealing attire did not give the same protection from drafts as her normal clothing. How fortunate her petticoats had not been dampened, for by now she would have been forced to return to her rooms for a wrap.

She heard footsteps approaching and quickly took up a pose she hoped would be perceived as risque. It wouldn't do to have Lord Hartingfield find her shivering like a green girl, not if she wished him to believe her to be anything other than what she truly was—a miss barely out of the schoolroom.

A man's silhouette was visible and she quickly looked away, feigning indifference. Her heart pounded in her chest and she hoped the sound was not audible to anyone other than herself.

"Thea, how are you this evening, m'dear?"

She had difficultly suppressing a nervous start, for the voice was her father's. Her plan had encompassed every eventuality but she'd forgotten one very important consideration. What would her father think of her immodest apparel? She cleared her throat. "I'm very well, Papa."

He stepped into the light and his brow furrowed as he eyed her ensemble. She watched as the furrow turned into a look of disbelief and then a scowl. Biting her lip, she stood a bit straighter, hoping to somehow pass his inspection. Drat it all, why hadn't she considered what his reaction would be when he caught sight of her? Perhaps she could carry it off if she conducted herself as if nothing was untoward?

"Althea Emogene Candler," the earl growled.

With his use of her full name, Thea knew she would be lucky to get out of this predicament with her skin intact.

"You will return to your room at once. I will have dinner sent up to you." He sputtered to a halt, apparently unable to find the proper words to express his disapproval. Thea sagged.

Chapter Three

On the landing above the open doorway, Hartingfield carefully flicked a speck of lint from his waistcoat before slowly descending the center stairwell. The sound of voices drew him to the drawing room.

The earl's voice rang out, "I do not know what ploy you had in mind, Thea, but it will not work. Be off with you."

Hartingfield stepped in the doorway, taking stock of the situation, then spied Lord Steyne standing near the fire. As a young woman headed in his direction, he stepped back to allow her exit. When she passed, he recognized her—his parlormaid.

Earlier she'd been dressed like a typical, although slovenly, servant. Now, however, her appearance had undergone a thorough transformation. She was attired in a manner that might only be politely described as garish. He was particularly struck by the seven glitter-encrusted peacock plumes dancing drunkenly about her head.

Realizing she was about to escape, Hart scrambled through the hall and up the stairwell. Just as she reached the landing, he clasped her arm and she whirled about, startled. One of the peacock plumes was dislodged by the sudden motion and it leaned forward over her head, like a fan held over a pharaoh.

Ignoring the feather, she glared at him and asked haughtily, "Did you require something, your lordship?"

His jaw tightened. Her arrogant attitude began to grate. Without pausing to consider, he blurted out, "Are you under Lord Steyne's protection?"