The Wicked Marquess (3 page)

“Then you must allow me to render you my assistance. The season’s crop of hopefuls is thin. Over there is the incomparable Miss Adburn, who has a voice like a braying donkey, but she will do well enough if you don’t encourage her to talk. Beside her stands Miss Withers, who if a bit of a bluestocking is still well-heeled, though you need not care for that.”

The two men drew no little attention as they strolled through the crowd. In sharp contrast with his exquisitely civilized companion, Benedict wore black breeches, black coat, black velvet waistcoat with a narrow satin stripe. He looked, as many a dazzled damsel noted, both deliciously dangerous and intriguingly untamed. One maiden was put in mind of a great black panther. Another vowed Sinbad need only add a golden earring and a parrot on his shoulder to make a perfect buccaneer. Percy added,
sotto voce
, “And that bran-faced damsel simpering so fatuously at you is Miss Caldwell.”

Benedict was not interested in bran-faced misses in that or any moment. His attention had been caught by a damsel surrounded by a flock of admiring swains. She wore a gown of India gauze shot with silver, a sheer muslin scarf embroidered with beads, and silver flowers in her hair.

There was no mistaking that honey-colored hair, or that husky voice. What was Miranda doing here? “I’ve not seen that young lady before.”

Percy followed his gaze. “Ah, the little Russell. She is Symington’s niece, only recently come to town. There is some scandal about her antecedents, which will matter only to the highest sticklers, because she is also a considerable heiress.” His shrewd eyes fixed on Benedict. “Half the bucks in London are quite
épris
in that direction, and not all of them are hanging out for a rich wife.”

His assailant was a young woman of good birth and wealth? How very curious. Lest Percy’s keen nose sniff out mischief, Benedict let his attention stray. “Fortunate then that I have little taste for the infantry. Excuse me, I must make my bow to our hostess.” As he made his way through the crowded rooms, in the process deftly avoiding the various lures set out for him – even ladies who should have known better were tantalized by whispered accounts of amorous exploits so outrageous they might have been among the tales spun by Scheherazade for Sultan Shahryār in an attempt to keep her head attached to her shoulders one more night – he kept Miranda in his sight.

She disappeared through the tall French windows that led into the gardens, in company with a ridiculous young cockscomb whose neckcloth was so absurdly high that his collar brushed his earlobes and threatened to strangle him. Benedict decided that he too would benefit from a breath of fresh air. After a discreet interval, when Percy Pettigrew’s malicious attention was focused elsewhere, he stepped outside.

Lady Sylvester’s prized flower garden was embellished with various classical statues, countless exotic blooms. A number of guests sought relief there from the stifling crush. Benedict had strolled some distance along a pebbled path when he heard a familiar husky voice. Miss Russell was very knowledgeable about matters horticultural.

“But it’s so dark!” she lamented. “I wanted to see Lady Sylvester’s roses. ‘Tis said she has a prodigious elegant double yellow – Oh!” Scuffling sounds ensued. “You – you gudgeon! Release me this very instant, Mr. Cartwright! I do
not
wish to kiss you, sir!”

If not so experienced in matters of the heart as legend claimed, Benedict knew better than to believe a young lady’s “no” meant that she was unwilling, or to assume that it meant she was not. The unknown Mr. Cartwright was considerably less wise. He insisted that he wished to kiss her.

“No, you don’t! Take my word on it.” Benedict entered the little grove. “What is your desire, Miss Russell? Shall I horsewhip this impudent young pup?”

The coxcomb screwed his head around so quickly that he almost decapitated himself. He blanched. “Baird.”

“Just so,” Benedict said dryly. His prowess with fisticuffs and pistol was as legendary as his amatory expertise. “You have suddenly recalled an urgent appointment that requires you to immediately depart the premises. Not a word of this to anyone or I will be even more displeased with you than I already am.”

Miranda’s thwarted suitor swallowed, setting aquiver his shirt points. He loosened his grip on her arms. “Beg pardon — a misunderstanding — your servant, Miss Russell!” His self-possession shattered, he scurried away.

Benedict bowed. “Good evening, Miss Russell. You are very fine tonight. Although I rather miss the breeches, I think.”

The lush lips parted. Perhaps she would thank him. Perhaps he would tell her
how
she might best thank him. A kiss would do nicely. For a start. “You’ve found out who I am,” Miranda said, without any evidence of delight.

Benedict could not confess he hadn’t made the slightest effort to discover her identity. The child would be chagrined. “All London knows who you are, Miss Russell. A large portion of it seems to be at your feet.”

She studied him. “You have a very poorly run household. Not a single servant interfered with me going right out the front door.”

So they had not. Most of the servants had been asleep. Martin the footman had withdrawn to the kitchen for several fortifying swallows of Cook’s brandy, which stood him in good stead when he discovered his master snugly locked away. “You gave my staff much to talk about.”

The violet gaze flickered. “I expect your staff is accustomed to odd occurrences in the middle of the night. Now that I see you dressed – not that I saw you
un
dressed, precisely – you are clearly a gentleman with less than conventional tastes.”

He was not so unconventional as all that. Benedict was intrigued by the idea of his companion seeing him in a state of undress. As well as the opposite.

Miranda straightened her gloves. “At any rate, it should be clear to you that I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

She was about as capable as a day old chick. “Ah. I misunderstood the situation. You were encouraging that buffleheaded clunch to take liberties with you.”

“I was not!”

She glowered. He waited. She dimpled. “He
was
a clunch, wasn’t he?”

 “Only a clunch would kiss a young lady who didn’t want kissing.” Miranda’s scarf had slipped from one shoulder to reveal a considerable amount of tempting flesh. What were her caretakers thinking, letting her go about in such a flimsy whisper of a dress? Scant surprise that amorous youngster had been inspired to take liberties.

She frowned. “Why are you staring at me so strangely, sir? Are you in your cups?”

Benedict drew Miranda’s gloved hand through his arm and led her further down the pebbled path into a little stone grotto embellished with seashells and stalactites. “We have some unfinished business, you and I.”

Many a damsel inside Lady Sylvester’s crowded reception rooms would have been pleased to stroll with Sinbad in the shadows. The young person currently on his arm was cut from different cloth. She said, “If you’re trying to get up a flirtation with me, I must tell you that I am weary of such stuff.”

Depraved, in his dotage, and now put firmly in his place. “I take it you are not an avid reader of romantic novels,” Benedict remarked.

Miranda drew her scarf closer around her shoulders. “If I am an avid reader of anything, it is the
Botanical Magazine
; and experience has already taught me that most gentlemen don’t care to discuss experiments in grafting and cross-pollination, or the color-changing propensities of hydrangea. My sensibilities are not particularly refined, or so I am forever being told. I suppose you expect me to thank you for rescuing me again.”

“Not at all. In point of fact, I was rescuing that unwitting jackanapes from your very sharp hatpin. Where were you going, little one? When your horse took fright?”

“When you frightened my horse, you mean.” Her expression was unfriendly. “I must ask you not to tell anyone about that.”

Well she might. London was a hotbed of gossip, and the most avid gabble-grinders could be found among the
ton
. “First you must tell me where you were going, and why.”

“I would be scolded for vulgarity, were I as inquisitive as you. Oh, very well! I refuse to be sold off to the highest bidder, no matter what my uncle says.”

Benedict’s amusement fled. “Your uncle means to
sell
you?”

“Yes. No! My uncle demands that I must marry, but I don’t mean to marry anyone. It’s the same thing, is it not?”

She didn’t mean to marry? Benedict sympathized.

Miranda glanced up at him. “Are you married, sir?”

Benedict admitted he was not.

“Do you
wish
to marry?”

“Well, no.”

“I daresay everyone is plaguing you about it. They certainly are plaguing me! As for our previous encounter— If I damaged you, sir, it was your own fault. You would not let me go.”

Miss Russell seemed unaware that she should not be strolling with him in the moonlight. The child was a danger to herself, as well as to any hapless gentleman who stumbled across her path. “Yet here you are, again alone with me. Has no one ever told you that venturing into dark gardens is one of the many things a young lady should avoid, lest her escort try to steal a kiss?”

 “I am in a dark corner of the garden with you, and you aren’t overwhelmed with a desire to kiss me.” Came a pregnant pause, and then Miranda added, “Are you, sir?”

 She practically invited him to accost her. So that she might damage him further, no doubt. Benedict touched her smooth cheek. “Has anyone ever kissed you, Miss Russell?”

“Certainly! Lots and lots of people!” she retorted, and blushed.

She was so very beautiful, and so very young, and he should be shot for amusing himself with her. Gently, Benedict said, “Relatives don’t count.”

Miranda looked reproachful. He could kiss her now, and she would not try and stop him. Instead, Benedict placed her hand on his arm and led her up the pathway toward the house. “You had better go back inside before that young cawker takes it in his head to rescue you from me.”

Miranda hesitated. “You won’t tell anyone how we met?”

Benedict was sorely tempted to suggest Miss Russell try and persuade him to be silent.  Conscience wakened belatedly, and gave him a sharp kick.

He stepped away from her. “Your secrets are safe with me, brat.”

Chapter Four

Morning had dawned in Portman Square, or rather early afternoon, for that was considered morning by the
ton
. Sir Kenrick Symington’s family was gathered in the breakfast room. This was a cheerful chamber, with high windows and coved ceiling, polished floors and boldly painted walls. A chandelier descended from a central ornament of leaves in a swirling design.

The small group of people seated around the semicircular table was not in accord with their peaceful surroundings. “You did what to young Cartwright?” Sir Kenrick demanded. “With a hatpin? Nonie can’t have got it right.”

In point of fact, Nonie
hadn’t
got it right. Miranda had failed to acquaint her companion with the full scope of the previous evening’s adventure. “There is no need to do violence to your feelings, uncle. As I have told Nonie several times already, no great harm was done.” Miranda directed a reproachful look at that Judas, who was gloomily contemplating a gilt sugar vase. She would have preferred not to mention the episode at all, but Nonie had insisted on an explanation of her absence from Lady Sylvester’s overheated rooms.

“Don’t try and change the subject,” Kenrick said sternly. “Antoinette behaved exactly as she should.”

Nonie felt as though her breakfast was stuck in her throat. She had
not
behaved exactly as she should. Instead she had succumbed to the lure of the card table; had allowed Miranda to tumble into mischief while she enjoyed a game of whist.

Sir Kenrick was trying very hard to understand his niece’s behavior. “Why a hatpin?” he inquired.

Miranda spread marmalade on a muffin. “Mr. Cartwright was too particular in his attentions. He wouldn’t listen when I said he should stop.”

Kenrick regretted he had not overheard that conversation. “A well-brought-up young lady is not permitted to be alone with a gentleman for even half an hour,” Nonie stated somberly, and not for the first time.

“I have told you nothing happened,” Miranda retorted. Nothing, that was, except for Sinbad popping out of the shadows. For the first time in her life, she had thought that she might swoon. “Mr. Cartwright will never admit he encountered my hatpin because he won’t care to be a laughing-stock.” She popped the muffin into her mouth.

 Nonie left off staring at the sugar vase to brood upon a colorful japanned tea urn instead. “I hope you may not be mistaken in that belief.”

“Of course I’m not mistaken.” Miranda licked marmalade from her fingers. “I don’t see why you should be in such a fret.”

Miranda didn’t see? Nonie experienced an unladylike impulse to skewer her charge with the bread-knife. Remarked Sir Kenrick, “Only a pig-widgeon would have gone into the gardens in the first place.” 

And only a gentleman with his nose in the clouds would fail to see what was going on right under that appendage. Nonie would wager her last button that Miranda had admitted only a portion of the truth. She wavered between a longing for blissful ignorance and an equally keen desire, born of self-preservation, to discover exactly what had transpired.

Having disposed of the muffin, Miranda grasped an ivory-inlaid silver fork and attacked her breakfast-plate. “I went into the gardens because I was interested in Lady Sylvester’s roses. She has a new variety called Mutabilis that I was eager to inspect. If Mr. Cartwright misinterpreted my interest, I am not to blame.” 

It was he who was to blame, reflected Kenrick, as he applied himself to his own plate. Miranda had been in his charge since the death of both her parents when she was very young. He had alternately spoiled her shockingly and ignored her altogether and here was the result: a defiant damsel set on doing as she pleased. “
Did
young Cartwright kiss you?” he asked.