The Wicked Marquess (2 page)

Miranda pushed aside the pillow she had been hugging, and sat up. Bright sunlight streamed through the damask-draped windows, danced across the Aubusson carpet, glittered upon the pretty paper that hung upon the wall. Nonie was bent over her embroidered picture, colored worsted worked in long irregular stitches intended to imitate the brushwork of the masters. Which master was being emulated remained uncertain, but a pastoral design had been outlined on a panel of white silk. “Safe from what?” Miranda asked.

 Nonie smoothed her needlework. “I don’t know. Sir Kenrick is in a temper. He insists on seeing you straightaway.”

 “Did he rip up at you again?” When in his tantrums, Miranda’s uncle was prone to take out his temper on anyone who crossed his path.

“It doesn’t signify.”

“Of course it signifies. Kenrick should not be ripping up at you. Yes, and so I shall tell him!” Miranda hopped out of bed.

Nonie didn’t relish the sight of her charge preparing to do battle on her behalf. Indeed, at that moment she didn’t relish the sight of her charge at all. The soul of propriety, Nonie had never in her life done anything she should not.

Sir Kenrick Symington was not the first to hire a gentlewoman of impeccable background and straitened circumstance to introduce a young relative into society. This particular impeccable, impoverished gentlewoman frequently feared that she was unfit for her assigned task. “Miranda, I must ask you — did you leave the house last night?”

Miranda widened her eyes, making herself into the picture of innocence, a feat perfected by long practice in front of her looking-glass. “Leave the house? Last night? But you know I went to bed early with the headache.” After which she had gotten back out of bed and exited her bedchamber by way of the window and a convenient tree.

Nonie recognized a prevarication when she met one, result of the numerous prevarications she had encountered since making the acquaintance of her charge. “I understand, none better, how uncomfortable it is to feel that one has no control over one’s fate. All the same, for a female, it is the way of the world. Your uncle must know best.”

How was it that everyone but Miranda knew what was best for
her
? “You are disagreeable today. Do you not feel well?”

Nonie stole a nervous glance at the carved chest that stood against one wall. Miranda was fascinated with botanical lore and eager to share her expertise in the form of fomentations and decoctions, infusions and tisanes, with the result that everyone around her developed good health in self-defense. “It’s nothing – merely a touch of indigestion – don’t concern yourself! Sir Kenrick is waiting to speak with you as soon as you are dressed.” Nonie folded up her embroidery, and fled.

Miranda was accustomed to this reaction. People frequently didn’t know what was best for them, most especially those same people who were so convinced that they knew what was best for her. She, too, surveyed the medicine chest. Her supplies were running low. Powdered pearl was available in London, but not dried mummy or dried mole, powdered human skull, stag’s heart.

She rang for her maidservant. Miranda had a very good idea why her uncle had summoned her. Perhaps she should dose herself with verbena in preparation for the approaching audience.

Carrot-headed Mary skittered through the doorway, dropped an awkward curtsey, barely managed to avoid getting tangled up in her own feet. “Good morning, miss. The master requires your presence in his study. Before he gets much older, please, he says.”

“In a taking, is he?”

“Mad as hornets, miss.”

Misunderstood, mistrusted, and soon to be mistreated. A Christian martyr en route to face the lions must have experienced some emotion akin to Miranda’s feelings now.

No Christian martyr had Miranda’s many resources, however, or her resolve to steer the ship of her own fate. Morning dresses, round gowns, walking dresses; muslin, cambric and calico – by the time Miranda decided she was satisfied with her appearance the bedchamber was in a shambles, and Mary’s nerves were in an equally sorry state, and the tall cheval glass reflected a demure young woman wearing a pale cambric frock buttoned down the back, its neckline filled in with a modest fichu. Miranda tucked a final pin into her tawny curls, which were drawn back with graceful tendrils left free to fall around her face. One last inspection assured her she so looked so prim and proper that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She abandoned the mirror and approached her bedroom door.

The hallway stretched before her. Miranda spared an ungrateful thought for the green-eyed scoundrel who had so muddled up her plans that she was left no choice but to make her way back to Portman Square and account for her mare’s absence by unlocking the stable door, her ingenuity having proved unequal to the challenge of leaving London without a horse.

Kenrick would blame her for Molly being loose. And maybe it was a little bit her fault, but Miranda would allow herself to be nibbled to death by rabid rodents before she admitted such a thing to him. Kenrick was not without his own fair share of blame. He was the one who had insisted on dragging her to Town.

She had arrived outside her uncle’s study. A footman sprang forward to open the door. Miranda took a deep breath and entered the room.

The study was elegantly appointed, as were the other chambers in this townhouse. Miranda gazed at oak paneled walls decorated with moulded plaster, heavy rosewood furniture, an Axminster carpet in shades of gold and blue, and saw a different study in her mind.

That other room had lacked the added feature of her uncle pacing. Kenrick was dressed for riding in top boots and breeches, olive green coat, and a horizontally striped waistcoat. His expression was reminiscent of a storm cloud about to pelt down hail.

“You must stop ripping up at Nonie,” Miranda said, before her uncle could speak. “She is doing her best to make me into a proper young lady, as you asked her to, and it is not kind of you to scold.”

Sir Kenrick did not leave off scowling. A man in his mid-forties, he bore a marked resemblance to his young niece, though his hair was a darker shade than hers, his eyes not violet but a more ordinary dark blue. Despite the ravages of time and the inevitable consequences of a fondness for food and drink, he was still widely held by the ladies to be a most handsome – not to mention marriageable — gentleman.

Kenrick was, as a result, well acquainted with the Machiavellian nature of the gentler sex. “Your horse got out of her stall last night. She was found wandering loose this morning,” he said.

Miranda was relieved that the mare had found her way back home. She clasped her hands to her breast. “However could such a thing happen? Did one of the grooms forget to secure the stable gate? I must go and make sure poor Molly is all right.”

“Did the groom also forget to remove the horse’s gear?” Kenrick snapped. If Miranda wasn’t up to something, he’d dine on his tall top hat. “Not to mention the side door that was found unlocked.”

“Gracious! We are fortunate that we weren’t all murdered in our beds.” Miranda quivered her lower lip. If she widened her eyes much further, they would pop smack out of her head.

He had frightened her, Kenrick realized. That had not been his intent. Aggravating as the girl might be, he couldn’t seriously consider her responsible for her horse having got loose.

At least, he hoped he couldn’t. “It won’t happen again. The staff has been warned to be on their guard.”

Her uncle’s cheeks had reddened alarmingly. Aggravating as Kenrick sometimes was, Miranda had no desire to see him go off in a fit. She contemplated the imported colored marble that decorated the fireplace and pondered how she might persuade him to chew some masterwort.

Sir Kenrick, meanwhile, regarded his charge. An enterprising gentleman of many diverse interests who had been knighted for his services to the Crown, he had a great many important matters on his mind, such as what might or might not be taking place on his estates while he was cooling his heels here in Town. Though his steward was capable enough, Kenrick preferred to personally see that swamps were drained, waters cleared, field and parkland enclosed, soil scrutinized and put to its best use, tenants encouraged to improve their leaseholds. He was also anxious to perfect his design for a reaping machine to be propelled by a team of horses, his current perplexity being that the team couldn’t be placed in front of the device, lest they trample the corn before it could be cut down.

“You will remember that you and Antoinette are engaged to Lady Sylvester this evening,” Kenrick said, as he strode toward the door. “You like Antoinette well enough, do you not?”

Miranda regarded him suspiciously. “I’d hardly tell you not to rip up at her, otherwise.”

“Then you will think of her. The world is not kind to females of gentle birth and penurious circumstances. If Antoinette fails to satisfy, she will be reduced to desperate measures, may even have to find a post as housekeeper somewhere. Or worse. You wouldn’t like to be responsible for that, I think.” Content that he had expressed himself with commendable delicacy and restraint, Sir Kenrick set out to visit the Royal Institution of London, a spacious auditorium in Albemarle Street where John Dalton and Sir Humphrey Davy gave lectures in chemistry, and Thomas Young spoke on the nature of light.

Chapter Three

A long line of carriages clogged Grosvenor Square, their destination a tall elegant building with a forged iron railing and red brick façade and countless windows ablaze with light. So great was the crush of guests that quite half an hour was required to progress from the front door to the first floor reception rooms. All the Polite World was present, if only in passing; it was customary to attend several such events in one evening.

Benedict made his way through the fashionable throng. Conversation swirled around him, lamentations over the strange terms of the peace with France, and ruminations about what devilment the Corsican would get up to next, for many people had no real faith in the current cessation of hostilities, while others hastened across the Channel, eager for a glimpse of Paris novelties, most especially the Infidel, Little Bony, the Fiend of the Bottomless Pit; conjectures about the King’s application to Parliament for relief from his debts, chiefly the nine thousand pounds he claimed he had spent on the education of the Prince of Wales; deliberations upon the fact that Mr. Pitt had come to grief over the subject of Catholic Emancipation — and much speculation about the presence of Sinbad himself in these overheated rooms. Sinbad spent more time with his man of business than with his cronies Alvanley and Fox. Due to his expressed interest in workhouses and reform, it was whispered he had Radical sympathies, leanings considerably less popular than before the French troubles had demonstrated what happened when the rabble was permitted to run wild. Since Sinbad was also one of the most eligible men in the kingdom, despite a rakish reputation that would render socially unacceptable a man of lesser breeding and wealth, these minor eccentricities were overlooked. His many assets included not only an enviable fortune and a venerable title, but also properties strewn hither and yon, and a lovely mistress whose feet were firmly planted on the road to sin.

Benedict ignored the curious stares that followed him. His hostess had fallen very much under the Egyptian influence. Sphinx heads, winged lion supports and lotus leaves sprouted everywhere he looked. Wondering why his aunt had insisted he attend so tedious an event, Benedict disentangled himself from an idle conversation with a bejeweled
grand dame
.

“My dear Baird,” drawled a voice behind him. “Have the fleshpots grown so dull that you are driven to join us here?”

Benedict turned. Behind him stood a slender black-haired man exquisitely clad in a dark blue coat with aggressively cut shoulders, superbly tied neckcloth, white waistcoat, pantaloons of blue stockinet worn with striped stockings and strapped over varnished black shoes. “Pettigrew,” he said.

The newcomer raised his quizzing glass, looked Benedict up and down. “You don’t appear used up by dissipation. Yet it must be that your excesses have addled your wits. Else I cannot fathom why you would attend so insipid an occasion as this.”

Benedict could hardly take offense at his companion’s observation, since he had wondered much the same thing. “I might point out that you are also attending this insipid affair.”

“So I am. I marvel at myself.” Mr. Pettigrew aimed his quizzing glass at the other guests. “Lady Sylvester pleaded with me to lend her my presence, you see.”

Benedict did not doubt the truth of this somewhat malicious confidence. Percy Pettigrew wielded considerable influence among the
ton
, result of his ability to ferret out every secret, every intrigue. “I am delighted to see you,” Percy continued, as he lowered his glass. “By your mere arrival you have not only thrown all the young ladies into a romantic twitter but also inspired their mamas to palpitations, and only partly because of your well-known aversion to parson’s mousetrap. Someday you must tell me what it is like to have the vast majority of your female acquaintance panting to have you toss up their skirts. Has Lady Darby at last persuaded you to set up your nursery? Is that why you are here?  You must not hesitate to confide in me. I perfectly understand why Ceci would not serve the purpose. Even the fondest of cousins, which of course I am, must admit that Ceci and constancy have long been estranged.”

Benedict chose to ignore these various provocations, including the slur upon the morals of his current mistress. “I have no inclination to set up my nursery. As my aunt well knows.”

“Everybody knows it. Odds are being taken all the same. Half the world believes you will bow to responsibility and convention. The other half is convinced you will bid us all go and be damned. I linger on the fence myself, for I recall poor Elizabeth – but I must not bring up sad memories! May we expect Lady Darby tonight?”

Benedict hoped not. He was in no mood to endure yet another lecture, the most recent having contained a warning that he would soon be too old to procreate. “Unlikely. Odette is suffering the gout.”