The Wicked Marquess (24 page)

Phineas brightened. The duke appreciated a contest between two milling coves. He spoke enthusiastically of Peter Corcoran and Bob The Bricklayer Smiler and Champion Bill Dart, Tom Johnson and Benjamin Brain; reminisced at length about Daniel Mendoza, who had beat Squire Fitzgerald and Bill Warr only to lose his crown at last when ‘Gentleman’ Jackson had grabbed him by the hair with one hand and pounded him senseless with the other. The current champion was Jem Belcher, The Napoleon of the Ring. Lord Chalmondly wagered that Belcher would not long retain the title. His money was on The Game Chicken, Harry Pearce.

Odette rapped her fork across his knuckles. “Beg pardon! Quite forgot myself,” said the duke. The fine art of fisticuffs was hardly an appropriate topic of conversation for feminine ears.

Miranda was not the least bit shocked by the dinner table conversation, to which she had been only halfway listening, pondering instead several interesting comments made recently by Colum concerning masculine vigor and Lady Darby’s concern about Lord Chalmondly’s lack thereof. Ten grams of asafetida taken before dinner would provoke lust exceedingly, but expel wind as much, said Colum, who favored the aphrodisiacal qualities of wild celery seeds harvested and beaten into a powder and mixed with wine. Miranda had suggested that Colum might also address Lord Chalmondly’s encroaching baldness. Quince-cotton boiled and made with as into a plaster restored hair to gentlemen who were bald, while the juice of hound’s tongue
boiled in hog’s lard and applied to the head helped prevent the hair from falling out.

Poor Lord Chalmondly. It must be very lowering to a gentleman’s spirits when his intimate appendages failed to function as they should. Miranda had persuaded the cook to include parsley and artichokes with dinner, both locally esteemed as aphrodisiacs. She hesitated to subject the whole table to an amatory stimulant, but could not single out Benedict without arousing suspicion, and so everyone must suffer for the greater good. Thus far she had observed no signs of burgeoning ardor. Miranda hoped she would not have to resort to a combination of powdered periwinkle and earthworms and a house leek. She said, “I’m told there is to be a match between The Cornish Bruiser and The Black.”

This remark drew the attention of the entire table. Several people became belatedly aware that Miranda was wearing a paucity of underclothing beneath her high-waisted white muslin dress.

Kenrick and Nonie were dismayed. Odette could not have cared less. Benedict signaled to a hovering footman to refill his wine glass.

Lord Chalmondly stared in frank admiration. If the duke had outlived his ability to act on his inclinations, he still remained a lecher, and the little Russell was a comely piece. If he had been seated closer, he would have given the wench an approving pinch. “And what do
you
know of The Cornish Bruiser and The Black, my dear?”

The duke’s expression put Miranda in mind of Mr. Hazelett, whose embrace she had invited, without even discovering his first name. “I do not recall where I heard about the match, Your Grace.”

She was prevaricating, thought Benedict. He wondered just who
had
told her about the  prizefight. Not Colum, because the gardener had no interest in such things. And why the devil was the child permitted to go around half-dressed?

He raised his wine glass. Jem appeared in the dining-room doorway. “Psst! Guv!”

To keep Jem confined to the stables was proving nigh impossible. Maybe Benedict should simply adopt the rascal, and thus be done with the business of getting an heir.  “What now?” he asked.

 “Too late! I tried to warn you as soon as I saw his phiz. You should have scarpered when you had the chance.” Jem scarpered himself, as a footman arrived with Percy Pettigrew following hard on his heels.

“You mustn’t scold your man for failing to properly announce me,” said Percy, as he stepped through the doorway. “I refused to let him tuck me away in a closet while he ascertained if you were in. Of course you are in. Where else would you be? What a charming family gathering! A cozy domestic scene. I’m sure it was just an oversight that you left Town without informing a single one of your friends of your destination, Baird.”

“Not oversight, intention,” retorted Benedict, with a blandness he did not feel. “We are at dinner, as you see.”

“I do see.” Percy regarded the skeleton of an artichoke through his quizzing-glass. “And I don’t mind a bit. No, don’t invite me to join you. I can’t stay but a moment. I am just doing a service for one of my acquaintance.” He stepped aside to allow Lord Wexton to enter the room.

After a moment’s startled silence, everyone spoke at once. Sir Kenrick questioned how Lord Wexton had tracked them to this isolated location, and Lord Wexton announced that not the least of all the indignities he had suffered since being presented to Miss Russell was that he must go traipsing about the countryside in the company of a fashionable fribble like Percy Pettigrew. Mr. Pettigrew retaliated with his own opinion that Lord Wexton was dull, and tiresome, and ungrateful as well. Nonie hinted that she might fall into palpitations, and Miranda begged that she would not; while Lord Chalmondly requested that someone explain to him what all the uproar was about. Lord Baird looked sardonic. Chimlin emerged from his basket underneath Odette’s chair, where she had been discreetly slipping him choice morsels, and leapt up into her lap.

Lady Darby rapped on the table with her dinner knife. The babble briefly ceased. “Why are you here, Wexton? You wasn’t invited, and you ain’t wanted. Neither you nor that twiddlepoop.”

Mr. Pettigrew expressed offense at hearing himself thus described. Lord Wexton opined that Mr. Pettigrew had surely heard himself called worse. Lady Darby suggested that the callers come to the purpose of their visit before she expired of old age.

Lord Wexton fixed Miranda with a steely eye. He had heard, he informed his audience, some shocking tales about the young woman chosen to become his next bride. Indeed, he had been nigh-prostrated by the shock. However, after long and vigorous rumination, Lord Wexton had decided that Miss Russell’s misconduct was the result of an appallingly lax upbringing combined with extreme youth and an unfortunate exposure to the wickedest scoundrel alive, about which exposure he would have a great deal to say to Sir Kenrick, upon whom responsibility must fall. Lord Wexton had travelled to Cornwall to provide Miss Russell an opportunity to atone for her grievously poor judgment. And to demand satisfaction from the aforementioned wicked scoundrel for the slur upon her reputation and the insult to his own self-esteem.

A number of things occurred to Miranda during this stern and somewhat long-winded speech. She realized she might end her betrothal to Lord Baird and become betrothed to Lord Wexton instead, after which she could cry off and not marry anyone, as she had intended all along.

This possibility presented itself, only to be dismissed. Miranda said, “You cannot challenge Benedict to a duel.”

Lord Wexton reminded himself to break his bride of her annoying tendency to address members of the opposite sex in an overly familiar manner. “And why not?” he inquired.

 “Because I never agreed to marry you!” Miranda responded. “To the best of my recollection, you never even asked.”

“I spoke to your uncle.” Lord Wexton looked down his nose at her. “No more is required.”

Miranda humphed. “Required by whom? Unless it is my uncle you mean to marry, the person you should have spoken to is me. If you had spoken to me, which you did not, I would have told you that we should not suit. And if you are going to dismiss my warning, as I suspect you mean to, because you believe that females shouldn’t hold opinions, I shall tell the world the truth.”

Never had Lord Wexton been addressed in so discourteous a manner. “And the truth is what?” he asked, in tones of ice.

“That you are a pompous lobcock! I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last gentleman left living on this earth.”

Silence fell upon the dining hall as everyone assimilated this announcement. Chimlin took advantage of his mistress’s preoccupation to raise a lazy paw and remove another morsel from her plate.

Percy began to clap.
“Brava!”
he cried. “A performance worthy of the great Sarah Siddons herself. Forget marriage, Miss Russell. A great career lies before you on the stage.”

Miranda looked as though she might be considering the suggestion. Odette brandished her dinner knife. “You’ve done enough mischief, twiddlepoop. I wish that you would leave.”

Mr. Pettigrew had accomplished what he set out to accomplish, or almost, and Baird’s expression indicated that his remarkable forbearance was nearing an end. “As you wish,” Percy said, with an elegant bow. “Come along, Wexton. We are not welcome here.”

 “You have not heard the last of this business, Baird.” Lord Wexton turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

Percy paused in the doorway. His malicious gaze settled on Benedict. “We are stopping at the Pig and Thistle. I’ll be sure and give Ceci your regards.”

Chapter Thirty-one

Everyone was determined to read her a lecture. Miranda withdrew to the library and wished she might lock the door. She had spent a sleepless night regretting that Lady Cecilia had picked this moment to appear. Things had been progressing so well. Or if they were not progressing, surely they soon would be.

She plucked a volume from the shelves.
The Book of One Thousand and One Nights.
Maybe the adventures of Sinbad the Sailor might provide a hint of how her own Sinbad might be enticed. Miranda was very disappointed in the non-effects of parsley and artichoke.

The marquess wasn’t her own Sinbad, of course. Or if he was, he would not be for long.

She leafed through the volume, reading of magically expanding tents and great blue whales and a mirror called the touch-stone of virtue which clouded if an unfaithful maiden gazed into its depths. Miranda wondered what she might see in such a mirror. Not only must she determine how best to seduce Benedict, she must also prevent Lady Cecilia from doing the same thing.

Then she must show some resolution, must she not? Miranda set aside the book, fetched a lighted candle, approached the fireplace and ran her fingers over the carved stone. After a few moments’ fumbling, she located the hidden lever and gave it a twist. The chimney door slid open. She slipped into the passageway.

The candle cast scant light into the darkness. Miranda hoped she would not lose her way and thus be forced to wander the hidden corridors until she expired, leaving her mouldering bones to be discovered by some future generation of exploring schoolboys, all of which sounded perfectly dreadful, but on a brighter note would leave Benedict free to marry or not marry as he pleased. She might meet Lady Dulcibella in the afterlife. They could commiserate with one another about the vagaries of the opposite sex.

Nonsense. Miranda would not get lost because she had no intention of sharing any part of Benedict with Lady Cecilia or any other woman. At least, not until after she had been properly seduced.

What a muddle she had made! Everyone was out of sorts. Benedict had locked himself in his study the previous evening after dinner and refused to speak with anyone, including his aunt. Since the marquess had not put in an appearance downstairs yet today, the general consensus was that he had drunk himself under the table and was consequently nursing a sore head. Kenrick was as cross as crabs, and Nonie full of dire if vague forebodings. Neither of them trusted Lord Wexton one inch. Lady Darby had added to the general discontent by announcing her intention of having a fête in Miranda’s honor, since all the world was in the neighborhood, damn their collective eyes.

A glimmer of light shone through the wall. Miranda rose up on tiptoe to peer through the peephole. The bedchamber beyond was similar in dimensions to Lady Darby’s room, though this four-post bedstead boasted less carving, and tapestries adorned the walls. Her searching fingers found an irregular protrusion. Miranda tugged, and a section of the paneling slid silently aside.

She stepped through the opening. Off the bedroom proper, unseen from the passage, lay an alcove. In that alcove, the marquess was sitting in a large copper tub, scrunched down in the water with his knees poking up.

His naked knees. The rest of him was also naked. The most interesting parts of him were hidden from view. Miranda admired his damply gleaming golden flesh, broad shoulders and muscular arms and lightly furred chest.

She had touched that chest, but had not clearly seen it. Now that she did clearly see it, Miranda wanted her hands on it again.

She could also see Benedict’s face. It was not welcoming. “If you’ve come to further discuss seduction, I warn you that I’m in no good mood,” he growled.

The man was tempting, even in a temper. A naked temper. Miranda licked lips that had suddenly grown dry.

Tongue. Lips. Speech. She must say something before she abandoned her ladylike upbringing altogether and attacked him in his bath. “I am sorry to intrude. But I could hardly know that I would find you—Um! Surely you must agree, after all that’s happened, that we must speak.”

Benedict stretched out one arm to snatch up a towel. “I must?”

Miranda was fascinated by the play of muscles beneath his smooth skin. “I don’t want you to meet with Lady Cecilia,” she said, then bit her tongue.

Benedict raised the towel to his face. Naturally Miranda wouldn’t want him to meet with Lady Cecilia. After all, he was now betrothed. That betrothal would make little difference in the eyes of the world, but it clearly made a difference to the young woman to whom he was pledged. Not that he was truly pledged to her, because she refused to be betrothed to him, as she took every opportunity to point out.

She also refused to be betrothed to Wexton. Benedict hoped Wexton wouldn’t call him out. Ceci wouldn’t like it if he killed her father, even though they weren’t on speaking terms.

Or perhaps she would. Did the earl realize his eldest daughter was in Launceston? He must, because Ceci would have traveled with Percy, and most likely Wexton had traveled with Percy as well. Had father and daughter journeyed all this way in silence? Or had the current situation brought about a temporary truce?