The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Nineteen

T

he morning room at Maudsley House was the only room Ginny truly loved. She’d had it outfitted with a round table that seated six but could expand to eight. It had the most clever tilting feature, allowing one to slide the entire ensemble out of the way should extra space be needed. The mahogany veneer rested atop winged lion’s paws feet that were so beautiful, sometimes it was all she could do not to slide to the floor and host her own picnic beneath—

Her mother swept into the room, dulling her enthusiasm at the thought of an-under-the-table picnic. “There you are, Virginia. I don’t know why you insist on having breakfast in this”—she scrunched her nose—“hovel of a nook instead of the formal dining hall. I’ll never understand.”

“No, I suppose you won’t,” she murmured.

“Good morning, Grandmother.” Irene skirted the baroness, Celia close on her heels. “Good morning, Mama.” She came up and gave Ginny a respectful buss on the cheek. Celia, of course, hugged her profusely and kissed her soundly.

“Good morning, my darlings,” Ginny said, grinning.

The baroness’s astonishment could not have been more profound. “The children eat here? With you?”

“Of course, Mother. Where else would they eat?” A plate of eggs, kippers, and bacon was placed before her.

“Might I have coffee, Mama?” Celia asked.

“Of course not.” Irene’s voice held not an inch of inflection.

“I came to inform you that I’ve been invited to tea this afternoon with Lady Martindale.” The baroness spoke through a clenched jaw then turned away, muttering, “At least someone shows some sense.”

“You shouldn’t tease your grandmother so,” Ginny told Celia.

“I wasn’t teasing, Mama. I do want coffee.”

Irene took a slab of toast and slathered it with marmalade. The sight was so in keeping with a child, Ginny’s heart squeezed. “Why are you up so early, Mama? You had a late night,” Irene said.

“How did you know I was out so late?”

“I heard you open the door to my chamber and smelled your perfume.”

“I’d like to wear perfume,” Celia said.

“I thought I would join your safeguarding lessons today.” This announcement was met with two gaping mouths. “If you wouldn’t mind, of course.”

“That would be lovely, Mama,” Irene said. Her gaze moved over Ginny’s morning dress in a somber and critical assessment. “You might wish to change.”

“Passez the café, síl vous plait,” Celia said with perfect French inflection.

With a formal bow, Brock considered his youngest student. “Lady Cecilia, how are we this fine day?” She appeared attired for a vigorous lesson one would expect at Gentleman Jack’s or piracy on the high seas. She had donned a shirt of snowy white. The shock was in the replacement of her skirt with knickers. “Where on earth did you locate…?” On a choked laugh, he waved out a hand, indicating her masculine dress.

Cecilia spun about and put one leg forward, bending at the waist in a bow reminiscent of the Renaissance era. “Do you like them?” She leaned in and whispered, “I stole them from one of the stable boys. I got them for Irene too.”

Irene entered right then, which was the most shocking of all. The proper Irene. In knickers. He looked her over, trying to find some sign that she had sprung from his seed. The only similarity remotely close was the gray color of her eyes. And, for the life of him, he could not remember if the late Maudsley’s were the same. He shook away the thoughts. “Are we ready, then?”

Both girls stood there staring at him with widened gazes.

Hesitating, he said, “Ladies? Is there a problem?”

Cecilia’s hand flew up and covered her mouth, while Irene stood straight and strong, and blinked—once. How curious. The skin at the back of Brock’s neck pricked, and he slowly pivoted to the door.

“Lady Maudsley?” he said on a strangled cough. She strolled in, dressed similarly to her daughters. Only her daughters hadn’t their mother’s curves. Rather than knickers, Ginny wore pantaloons that molded every arc of her shapely hips and thighs. “What the devil are you wearing?”

The girls gasped at his blasphemy.

She pulled up short, her expression suddenly doubtful. “I thought I would participate in your safeguarding instructions…” Her voice trailed off in a whisper.

Brock gave himself a mental shake. Of course she wished to participate. Hadn’t she said as much the night before? He liked the idea of Ginny being able to protect herself from riffraff and scoundrels with nefarious or unwanted intentions.

“Tell her about the hoodwinkers,” Cecilia bellowed.

“I should like to hear more about them as well,” Irene said. She spoke firmly, her hands folded before her.

“An ideal place to begin,” Brock murmured, leading the way to the seating area.

“Yesterday, we learned about mean people trying to trick us with a hurt dog or kitty,” Cecilia said.

“Er, yes.” Brock cleared his throat. “It’s important to realize, people with degenerate intentions—”

“What’s ‘d’gnrate’?” Celia asked.

“Bad,” Irene responded. “Carry on, sir.”

“Yes, well. People with bad intentions will say many things to convince someone into a dangerous situation. For example, they may offer you a sweetmeat to lure you away from your intended destination. Or ask you directions to someplace, enticing you to a busy street corner.”

Irene nodded with her normally intense, contemplative face. Ginny’s lips were compressed, her eyes expressing a solemn overpowering emotion. Fear. She was terrified.

“I do so love sweetmeats,” Cecilia said.

Ginny opened her mouth to respond. Nothing of which would prove helpful, he thought.

“As do most of us,” Brock interrupted smoothly. “The most important thing to remember is to never accept something, anything, from someone you don’t know.”

“Or trust. Don’t take anything from anyone you don’t trust,” Ginny said. Her voice trembled, and Brock respected her fear and her need to communicate. He could tell she was thinking of her late husband.

“Yes, your mother is correct. Not all villains are people you don’t know. Many hide in plain sight.”

Cecilia’s brows beetled with her frown.

Irene took her hand. “Well, I don’t trust Lord Griston,” she said.

Those hairs at his neck lifted. “Why don’t you trust Griston?” Brock asked gently.

She lifted her shoulders. “I don’t know. He seems… too nice.”

“Too nice?” Ginny echoed.

“’Tis just a feeling,” she whispered.

“A very important feeling.” Brock went down on one knee before Irene, took up her free hand, and looked up into her eyes. “Never, never ignore those feelings, my dear. They may save your life one day. It’s called intuition.”

“What else?” Cecilia said.

He moved back to his chair. He could feel Ginny’s quaking body from where he sat, though he was positioned an arm’s length away. “Yes. More on hoodwinking, then. A person might pretend to know your family and tell you they are there to escort you home. A statement such as this might hoodwink your Miss Lambert.”

“I don’t think so,” Cecilia said. “Miss Lambert is very smart. She knows French and a lot about painting. And places. She knows where Russia is!”

Brock smiled. “Geography. Very impressive. Still, even the smartest of those can be hoodwinked.”

“Oh.”

He turned his most somber mien on them. “Now, listen closely. Another highly important lesson I wish to impart is to not remain silent. If you fear something or someone, you must tell your mother or me.”

“What if neither of you are there to tell?” Irene’s practicality was something to cherish.

“Then you tell Kipling or Cook. If you are at the park, you scream your head off until someone comes running to aid you. Do everything in your power you can to get away if someone has grabbed you. Do you still remember how to break the hold on your wrist? We shall show your mother, and we shall practice until we are blue in the face.”

Giggling, Cecilia jumped to her feet. “I stand at your ready, my lord.”

Irene, too, rose to her feet without hesitation. Only Ginny held back. “Come, Mama. You’ll be fine. It’s quite enlightening.”

Ginny was stunned at the amount of information Brock had conveyed to her daughters, and all without frightening them into locking themselves in their bedchambers like she wished to do—lock herself in with them in her bedchamber—not a very practical approach. It was just, she’d no idea the hazards that lurked around every corner. “You must join us for luncheon, my lord.”

“Oh, please. Say you will.” Celia was bouncing up and down, her frothy head of blonde curls running amok.

His large hand ruffled Celia’s head, and a warm glow flowed through Ginny. “I would be honored.”

“Girls, please retire to your chambers and change. I’ll let Cook know we’ll be ready for lunch in twenty minutes.” Ginny turned to Brock. “If that meets with your schedule, my lord?”

“It does indeed.”

Ginny followed the girls out of the ballroom and hurried to her own chamber lest someone find her wearing pantaloons. It was an odd feeling, but she had no desire to see her mother slump to the floor in a fit of vapors should she catch sight of her.

“Ah, there you are, Virginia—”

Swallowing back her groan, Ginny shooed Irene and Celia to the stairs and turned to face her father.

His mouth gaped wide enough for an inexperienced fisherman to hook him whole. “What the devil are you wearing? It’s-it’s indecent.” His voice boomed against the walls.

Every hackle she possessed raised the hair on her skin. “Why are you still here, Papa? You were supposed to be gone by noon. Yesterday.” Saying the words aloud was useless, even if it did make her feel a little better. Her parents were the most overbearing people in the haute ton. She was two steps up when Kipling appeared from a hall behind the staircase. “Kipling, please inform Cook that we shall have one extra for luncheon. Thirty minutes, if you please.”

“Make that two, Kipling. I’ve invited”—he shot a disgusted look at Ginny—“an eligible gentleman as well.”

“And who might that be?” Ginny stopped and turned, leveling him with a steely demand.

“Never you mind, young lady. You best get changed out of that getup. Of all the preposterous, outrageous, stupendous—”

Her shock, her fury, blasted through her. How dare her father presume to handle her house, her guests. “Am I invisible to you?” She pointed at her father.

Her father’s jaw dropped. “Now see here, young lady—”

She stomped her foot. “No, Papa! This is my home. Don’t you remember? This is where I landed when you forced me to marry that bastard Maudsley.” Her heart beat furiously in her chest as the same sense of helplessness swept through her as that day she’d stood before the rector. She dashed at the tears falling down her flaming cheeks.

Things were quickly spiraling out of her control. And she Would. Not. Have. It. No one would ever control her again. Never.

“Kipling, I’ve changed my mind. The girls and I shall take our luncheon out today,” she said, stomping halfway up the stairs. Too bad the steps were covered in thick rugs. Silent pounding was so much less satisfying.

By the time Ginny reached her chamber, she was a quivering mess. She had to get control of herself before breaking the news to Celia and Irene that their luncheon with Brock was off.

The door opened, and he slipped inside. A half second later, he’d gathered her in his arms. “I’m sorry, darling.”

His appearing at her every turn disturbed her equilibrium. She pushed away from him. “It’s not your fault.”

“Don’t shut me out, Ginny. Please.”

She went to the settee and sat, dropping her face in her hands, unable to stop the tears from flowing freely now. “I don’t wish to, but I can’t seem to help it.” Why was her inclination to blow up first then think? Her temper would surely be the death of a bright future one day.

She was in no way blind to her greatest fear—opening her heart to the Marquis of Brockway a second time—affording him another opportunity to throw up his hands in disgust only to walk away from her forever. And now, with two additional hearts involved—Celia’s and Irene’s? No, thank you.

The small couch dipped with his weight, and his arm wrapped her shoulder and squeezed. “Shall I accompany you and the girls to Gunther’s for luncheon?”

She raised her head and met his concerned gaze. An iron band manacling her chest gave way. “They will be highly disappointed if you don’t,” she said in a low voice. “I need to change before I’m fit for leaving the house.”

He leaned in and feathered her lips with the lightest touch. “One day soon, my dear, you cannot escape the conversation of where this relationship is bound,” he whispered.

The door opened, and Irene appeared, with Celia standing just behind. She glanced at Brock and frowned. “Hello, my lord. Is it proper for you to be in Mama’s bedchamber?”

“Rest assured, my lady, your mother was upset. I am here to comfort her.”

“Oh,” she said, as if that was a perfectly acceptable answer.

Ginny shook her head, smiling slightly herself, though her insides rioted in chaos. One thing her parents could never do was take away her joy regarding her daughters.

Irene turned to Ginny. “Grandfather is having our lunch sent to the nursery,” Irene informed her with her mollifying patience. “He said you were expecting company, and that Celia and I were much too young to attend.”

Ginny’s mouth firmed. So her father had undermined her plans in taking the girls out. She swallowed hard to tamp down her resentment. Ginny glanced at her younger daughter whose thumb had crept to her mouth, her eyes wide with letdown, glistening with tears. Celia nodded, then blinked, and the pooled tears trickled down her cheeks. Ginny dragged both girls in for a hug, their small bodies in her arms humbled her. Breathing in their clean scented hair was almost painful. They wouldn’t be young forever. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I lost my temper with your grandfather. But Lord Brockway has offered to escort us to Gunther’s for lunch. Will that suffice?”

“Yes.” A suspicious sound came from Irene, but Ginny forced herself not to lean back and look, she just tightened her hug.

Bitterness rippled through Ginny at the baron’s gall. What rights had he over her, her children, her home? Blinking back her own tears, she stood. “Come. Your grandfather was wrong. Give me a moment to change, and we shall leave. Miss Lambert may sit in my place at the table.”

Irene gasped.

Ginny’s grin tugged at her, and Brock’s brows raised. “Your grandmother is attending Lady Martindale’s tea. Where are your new parasols? You shall need them. It’s raining out.”

Celia’s thumb plopped from her mouth. “I’ll get them.” She dashed from the room.

Ginny met Brock’s grin. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, sir, I’ll return shortly. Irene? I believe I shall need your assistance.”

Irene followed Ginny to her dressing room and wandered around the space, running her fingers over the vanity top, never meeting Ginny’s gaze. “Are you going to marry Lord Brockway, Mama?”

“Marry—er, why ever would you ask such a thing?”

“Well, he seems to like you.” She flashed Ginny a quick look over her shoulder, then resumed her faux chamber perusal. “Immensely so, I think.”

“Help me with my dress, please.”

Irene did as she was asked, and Ginny selected another gown more suitable for the downpour raging out the window, pulling it over her head, at a loss for words. Marriage advice from her nine-year-old daughter?

Irene fastened it up the back, and Ginny smoothed a hand over the skirts and moved to the dresser to retrieve a pair of gloves. “I wouldn’t count on my marrying him, darling.”

“You know, Miss Lambert does not approve of our safeguarding lessons.”

“I’m more interested in whether or not you approve. Do you?”

Irene halted, facing Ginny. “Oh, yes.” Her earnestness caught Ginny by surprise. “I haven’t spoken of it much, but last year I was terrified when Lady Kimpton, baby Nathan, and I were absconded with.” Her timidness sliced through Ginny with the serrated edge of a seventeenth century dagger. And how was that for knowing one’s medieval history? “Lord Brockway’s warnings on not taking sweetmeats from strangers was quite sound.” Irene shuddered. “I never wish to eat a sweetmeat again in my life.”

Ginny studied her older daughter, forcing herself to remain where she stood. Irene had never spoken of her abduction before. “From my understanding, it was tea laced with laudanum, and you were not served by strangers,” Ginny reminded her lightly. She moved to a chair before the hearth and sat heavily.

“That’s true. But to realize…” Again she shuddered, then pulled herself up straight. “How many ways one could be hoodwinked.”

“Yes. I fear, I was likewise blindsided by the notion. I feel I’ll never sleep through the night again for worrying.”

Irene hurried to her and took up Ginny’s hands. “Oh, Mama. Don’t you see? We need to know these things. They can only help us to protect ourselves.”

Ginny flipped their hands, squeezing, a smile gripping her heart. “How did I bear one truly so special as you? I am the luckiest of mothers in all of London. England, I daresay.”

“Come, Lord Brockway is not known for his patience, Mama. He’s waiting.”

They moved back into the bedchamber just as Celia entered from the hall.

“Our parasols, Mama, Lord Brock. I’m ready for our outing,” Celia said.

“Thank you, Celia,” Irene said stately. She pulled her hands from Ginny’s and stalked to the door, taking one of the parasols. “Ready, Mama, my lord?”

Ginny laughed. “I’m ready, darling.”

“As am I.” Brock stood and led the trio to the door.

Perfect. She was indeed the luckiest mother in all of England.

Halfway down the stairs, Kipling opened the front door. Escape was imminent, she thought, until the Earl of Griston stepped over the threshold. Ginny slowed, realizing at once this was the price one paid for an unleashed temper.