The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Sixteen

T

he knob rattled. Brock shot to his feet, disoriented by the wafting gauzy canopy of the bed. The color was a light indeterminate blue comparable to the Atlantic in the depths of winter. The sun beamed through sheer linens, swaying due to a soft breeze from the cracked window. Someone pummeled the door with bludgeoning force.

Again, the knob rattled. “Virginia! Open the door right this minute.”

Good God. Brock darted to the dressing room. “She’s liable to call the Watch.”

Ginny sat up, attempting to untangle herself from two sleeping children. “What the devil?”

Brock watched with no small amount of amusement as Ginny struggled to evaluate the situation through a sleep-fogged brain. “Your mother,” he whispered. “I’ll wait in the dressing room.”

“Virginia. I’ll scream down the house, I will. The children are—”

Ginny fumbled with the lock and yanked the door back.

“Missing. I went up to check on them.” It was an impressive display from Brock’s vantage point with her twisting hands. “They’re gone,” she finished on a wail.

“They aren’t missing, Mother. They are here with me. Asleep. Irene left Miss Lambert a note besides. Now, if you don’t mind.” Ginny went to close the door but her mother’s hand came up, stopping it.

“Why are they still sleeping? It’s after ten in the morning. I have shopping to do. We received an invitation to Drury Lane for tonight. I’ve accepted on your behalf from the Earl of Griston. There’s much to do—”

Brock’s blood boiled to the surface, yet he somehow refrained from kicking the door back on its hinges and bludgeoning Ginny’s mother with the same vigor she’d used, setting this farce in motion.

“I’m not attending the theater with Griston, Mother.” Brock could feel Ginny’s sorely fraying temper rapidly unraveling. “You had no right to accept an invitation in my name.”

Her mother gasped. “What are those marks on your arms?”

Brock sucked in a furious breath on her behalf. The air about her fairly vibrated with… shock? Shame? The compulsion to storm out and slam the door in the loathsome woman’s face shook him to his core.

Irene’s unflappable voice floated from the bed. “Mama. Could you order breakfast, please? I’m famished.”

Brock shifted his position and found he was able to see Irene sitting up, her back straight, her gaze darting to the dressing room then to her mother. Her lips did not so much as twitch.

With a huge yawn, Cecilia stretched and also rose to sitting. The younger girl’s bright eyes focused, surveying the room. “Where Lo—” Irene cut her off, clamping her hand across Cecilia’s mouth. Cecilia blinked up at her older sister. Nary a word passed between the two, but something obviously did. Irene removed her hand. “I’m famished, Mama. Really, really hungry.” Her childish cheerful exuberance truly was endearing.

Cecilia piped up. “I want coffee—”

Brock cringed.

“And kippers. Lots and lots of kippers. Oh, and eggs. Can we eat in bed, Mama?”

“Coffee! What are you teaching these young women? You are not fit—”

She’d crossed the line. Brock grasped the door’s edge, one foot going over the threshold.

“Oh, Nancy, there you are, dear. Please send up a breakfast of tea, coffee. And lots of kippers and eggs. Add bacon and toast if you will. We are all famished.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ginny pushed the door shut on her mother’s outraged sputtering. It latched with a distinct click and twist of the lock. She huddled in on herself, her forehead against the heavy oak, her shoulders shaking with a violence that spurred Brock to sprint across room and take her in his arms. Children or no, he would not have Ginny sliding to the floor in a fit of tears. “Don’t cry, my darling. I’ll toss her to the street. You never have to see—”

“Mama,” Irene said from his side. “You can stop laughing now. She’s gone.”

“Laughing?” He pulled back, raised her chin to check for himself. “You’re laughing.” Relief poured over Brock. “You’re wrong, Lady Irene. She is crying, but ’tis only a case of histrionics.”

Cecilia’s giggle tickled his skin. “Can I have coffee?”

“It’s ‘may I,’” Irene calmly corrected her. “And no. Of course not. Children do not drink coffee.”

Ginny pulled out of his hold, leaving him curiously empty. “I’m the mother, Irene, in case you’ve forgotten. But she’s right, Celia. No coffee for you.”

Ginny flashed him a quick grin. “I hope you like kippers, my lord. Lots and lots of kippers.”

The girls’ laughter filled the air, Ginny’s and Cecilia’s, not Irene’s, of course. Right then John Brown, the Marquis of Brockway fell in love. For the second time in his life.

Tossing her parents out on their pointy little ears was proving more difficult than Ginny had anticipated. She’d forgotten how relentless her mother was. Which is how she found herself at the milliner’s shop on Bond Street. So far, she’d been able to circumvent every probing question her mother threw at her.

The baroness picked up a small confection with foot-high plumes of teal sprouting from its top. “Tell me about the house party you attended,” she said, setting the hat on her head. She faced the mirror and angled her head from side to side.

“I left early.”

Her mother stopped, mouth gaping, hand poised above her head. Her hand dropped, and the hat drooped. “Good heavens, Virginia. Why? Don’t you have the slightest care for your reputation?”

Ginny almost laughed. “Not particularly.” She was a little giddy with how she’d managed to hide the fact that John Brown had stayed the night in her bedchamber. She picked up a pair of ivory lace gloves. She meandered to the parasols, selecting one in a fine light pink edged in a darker pink leaf-like trim.

“Do you see something you like, Lady Maudsley?”

Ginny opened the parasol and spun it like a top. “Do you have this more fitting for a child?”

“Virginia.” Her mother’s exasperation had Ginny studying the inside of the canopy to hide her amusement.

“Not in that specific shade,” the shopkeeper told her. “We have beautiful lacy white for the younger ladies, however.” She went to a thin barrel, pulled out a shorter handle, and opened it.

“Oh, it’s lovely.” Ginny ran her fingers over the stretched fabric. “I’ll take two.”

“Shall I have them wrapped?”

“Please.”

Things were working out nicely, she thought. The goal with this outing was to allow Brock to work with the girls on safeguarding themselves and be out of the house before she returned with her parents. Her father was at the tobacconist’s down the street. She shuddered. If she ever caught Brock with snuff, she’d walk away and never look back.

Brock was stunned. He’d had no idea young ladies were so energetic. And by young ladies, his thoughts expressly targeted Lady Cecilia. Extreme emotions from Lady Irene, he was quickly learning, simply did not exist. He found her austerity impressive, her patience enduring, her self-control unnerving.

Irene followed his directions to the nth degree, yet her dress remained unmarred while Cecilia’s sported tears and smudges of dirt, the toes of her shoes scuffed, her stockings bunched around her ankles until she stripped them off and tossed them aside and stood before him in her bare feet.

Cecilia took up a makeshift stick and poked him in the stomach. “And I’ll carve out the knave’s heart.” He fell into a crouch, gripping the end of her stick lest she did damage besides that to his ears. They were in a cavernous ballroom, and her shouts echoed as if the stood at the top of the Swiss Alps.

“Lady Cecilia, you should probably lower your voice. In the event your grandparents return, as these lessons are…are—”

“Secret, Celia. Society will not look favorably on the lack of our unladylike comportment.” Irene carried herself with that of a well-trained debutante in her third-plus Season. Baffled by such wisdom from the starchy-demeanor miss, Brock could only stare. She turned back to him with her hands folded before her. This child needed shaking up in the worst way.

He narrowed his eyes on her prim muslin dress. A wide blueish-green sash was tied into a large bow at her back. She needed to be ruffled, to get dirty without hysterics. Hysterics? He almost laughed. Rising from his crouched position, he slowly circled her. She followed his movements with her head. “You are correct, Lady Irene, our lessons are secret. Perhaps we should speak about that.”

Her brows needled. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, I’m trying to decide if I should teach you to escape or give you pointers in what a villain might hoodwink you into believing to lure you away.”

“I wish to know how to escape,” Cecilia announced with the familiar echo resounding.

Brock waited, his anticipation palpable. Irene was a fascinating study in the sense of witnessing the soul of a dowager in the body of a child. A tiny sound touched his ear. It could have been the last and softest ringing of Cecilia’s demand. To Brock it sounded almost like a snort, but Irene’s expression never flickered.

“I should like to hear how someone thinks they could outwit me.” Her lips tipped up in a small curl. It didn’t really count as a smile. Perhaps he could change that by the end of their lesson. If they didn’t run out of the house and into the square screaming.

He shoved away his black thoughts with a sharp nod. “Then that is where we shall start.” A small sitting area had been set up for them, and he directed them over, waiting politely for them to sit before following suit. He lowered himself across from them, contemplating how to word the horrors flitting through his mind at breakneck speed.

Cecilia opened her mouth. He was quick to stay her with an open palm. “We shall address this portion as Lady Irene requests.” Her mouth snapped shut. Irene had trained her well. He contemplated them, his fingers steepled. “Tell me. What are your passions?”

Irene’s frown was censorious.

“I love dogs!” Cecilia said.

Perfect. He swiveled to the five-year old and took up her hand. How tiny it was to clutch his heart and draw blood.

“Suppose some ordinary bloke, or dandy—”

“What’s a dandy?”

“Not dandy, but gentleman. What if a gentleman approached you and said he had a hurt puppy? A puppy that could only use the touch of a little girl’s hand. Would you follow him to check on the puppy?”

“A-course,” Cecilia said.

From the corner of his eye, Irene frowned.

“And if the gentleman was lying?” he asked Cecilia.

Her blue eyes widened. “But why should he lie?”

He squeezed her hand, leveled Cecilia’s gaze with his. “Because his intentions are disreputable.” Tears pooled in her eyes; he couldn’t have hated himself more.

“What does ‘disreptble’ mean?”

“Nefarious?”

She shook her head, causing her tears to fall.

“A not very nice person with wicked intentions.”

She swiped the back of her hand across her nose. “But why? I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Of course you don’t, sweeting. But not everyone is nice like you and your sister.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “What else?” he forced himself to ask, keeping a covertly watch on Irene.

Irene’s face remained impassive, not an encouraging sight. Then she said, trepidation marked in her frown and her quiet tone, “If something happened to Mama.”

Cecilia’s gaze shot to her sister’s, and Brock’s followed. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “Someone could fabricate the well-being of someone you care for deeply and use that to their advantage.”

Irene’s gaze met his head-on with a long, long pause. “Your point is made, Lord Brockway,” she finally said with a tightness that worried him. “Perhaps we should convene to the portion of the exercise for a physical need to escape.”

He glanced at Cecilia, whose thumb had found its way to her mouth. Her widened gaze missed nothing, flitting between him and Irene. “Will that meet with your approval, Lady Cecilia?”

She nodded.

He came to his feet. “Very good. We’ll start with something simple, then.” He pulled out his watch. Time was getting short. This would be tricky, he’d never handled young girls before. It left him feeling… disconcerted… off balance. “Right. We’ll begin with an assumption of someone grabbing you by the wrist.” He tugged at Cecilia’s wrist, and the familiar suctioned plop thumped his ears. He grinned, holding her wrist in a soft grip. “Can you free yourself, my lady?”

She wriggled to no avail. “Hey, let go.”

“Ah, but there is a method to my madness,” he said with great flourish. From a hooded gaze, he observed Irene. The frown marring her brow showed the depth of her concentration. That was a positive. He turned back to Cecilia. “Now, feet apart like this.” He demonstrated. “Make yourself as heavy in your stance as possible.”

“But I’m just a little girl,” she said.

“That’s true, but the stance might throw off your assailant and you will have the element of surprise. Now, pay close attention. You have to give a little—again, we are going for the element of surprise. Lift your arm, aiming your elbow toward mine. Slowly at first.” Brock kept his hand still as she did as he instructed. “Remember, aim the bend in your arm to the bend in mine. The motion goes straight up, do you see?” he asked as her wrist broke free between the open part of his hand.

“Yes.”

“Now, let’s try it again. Faster this time.”

With each pass of the exercise, Cecilia’s confidence grew. “I did it. I got free, my lord.”

“You did indeed. The ergonomics of the move allows you to break free because you are going straight up, not side to side.”

“What is ergo—ergo…” Irene’s concentration veered to puzzlement. A soft blush in her cheeks betrayed what he took as embarrassment at having to ask.

“Ergonomics? It is the functional design. In this case, it’s referring to the design of your hand.” He splayed his fingers, palm facing down, and traced the edge of his index finger into the curve and up along his thumb. “Follow my moves with your own hand.”

She did.

“Now, curl your fingers touching the tips of your thumb and forefinger. See?”

She nodded. Cautiously.

He latched on to her wrist. “Remember what I told Cecilia?”

“Aim my elbow to yours.” She matched the action to her words and broke free from his hold. She didn’t smile, but the astonishment in her expression was priceless.