My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers

 

6

CAMBOURNE HOUSE 1836

“Well that,” Colin muttered as he dodged the rain and hastened to his waiting carriage, “was bloody awful.” Frowning, he thumped back against the worn leather squabs, inhaling the familiar smell of old leather and poverty.

Tapping on the roof of the carriage he ordered curtly, “Momsby and Partners.” Immediately regretting his ill humor, Colin nearly apologized to the poor man sitting atop his coach in the pouring rain. But an earl did not apologize. And God help him, he was the Earl of Kilmaire.

The carriage creaked forward slowly, its springs so worn that Colin imagined he could feel every cobblestone. At least the horses were of good quality, his father having spent what was left in the Hartley coffers at Tattersalls. Whatever else you might say about the deceased Earl of Kilmaire, and there was quite a bit to say, he had known his horseflesh.

Colin’s finger itched at the grooved, puckered flesh that bisected his face. Miranda had appeared unmoved as she had examined it earlier. An unspoken question appeared in her eyes, but that was all.

“It doesn’t matter any longer,” he whispered to the moldering coach. The scar did not, but some things did. Miranda, for one.

I still want her.

Time had not healed the wound of losing Miranda. He doubted it ever would. How foolish he had been to think he could see her again and feel nothing.

“Bloody Hell.”

His hand automatically went to his pocket, feeling the familiar weight of his grandmother’s claddagh ring. His talisman. The ring had been in his pocket for years, so much a part of his wardrobe that he sometimes forgot he carried it. He hadn’t consciously taken the ring from Runshaw Park when he left for London. Nor did he recall slipping it into his pocket as he left to call on the Dowager. Yet, here it was.

The claddagh, if the wearer committed oneself, was worn upside down on the ring finger. The Irish used the clauddagh as a token of betrothal. A promise.

Who gave Grandmother Cecily the clauddagh?

His grandparent’s marriage was for land and dowry, not love, though the pair got on well enough. After Colin’s grandfather died, Cecily took to wearing it around her neck, sometimes worrying it between her fingers while she looked at something only she could see. Love, she’d once told Colin before she passed away, was a rare gift, one worth all the jewels and gold in the world. The clauddagh disappeared after her death and Colin assumed she’d been buried with it, but then the ring appeared at Runshaw Park.

Uncle Gerald likely sent it to Colin’s mother as a remembrance.

The heirloom languished at Runshaw Park for many years, put away in a velvet box Colin’s mother kept in the library. Not valuable in a monetary sense, Colin’s father never bothered to try to sell it.

Sometimes he would take out the ring, wondering who gifted his grandmother with such a token, for it certainly hadn’t been his grandfather. When his father sold the library, the ring was discovered behind a stack of books on horse breeding.

He’d given the ring to the only woman he would ever love.

Six years was not enough time to make the bitterness and anger fade.

The ring arrived with the letter. As he lay in a haze of pain and shock after his mother’s attack with the left side of his face nothing but a mass of blood and bits of flesh, he’d eagerly opened the letter, desperate for Miranda, and the ring fell out. He would have stormed to London even with his face bleeding and in shreds, demanding she see him if it hadn’t been for that ring.

‘I’ve decided to accept the suit of Lord St. Remy.’

He shut his eyes against the words, as if he were reading Miranda’s words for the first time today and not six years ago. Every word, every curlicue and flourish of her handwriting was ingrained in his mind.

The letter stayed in his pocket nestled against the ring for many years, to keep him from leaping atop a horse and riding to London. When he longed for Miranda, usually after the demands of Runshaw Park and his solitude caused him to drink a large quantity of whiskey, Colin would rub his fingers over the battered gold of the ring. He would re-read the words written across the creamy vellum of Miranda’s stationary. Cursing her in the darkness, he would want her, wishing she were not her mother’s daughter after all.

One day the letter simply fell apart in his hands, crumbling into so much dust.

The carriage rolled to a stop outside of a red brick building, lights glowing like beacons against the storm. The horses stamped their feet as the coachman swung down to open the door.

Colin pulled out the ring, rubbing the burnished gold between his fingers. The metal felt as though it were alive, warm from the heat of his body.

“My lord?” His coachman stood with an umbrella, rain dripping off of him as he waited for Colin to exit.

Taking a deep breath, Colin shook his head free of his imaginings. Stepping lightly to avoid a puddle he nodded to his coachman. “I’ll be only a short while.”

Why hadn’t she married St. Remy?

The question haunted him. On his return to London, he expected to find her a duchess, secure of her place in society. A woman who decided to chose title and security over Colin’s poverty and love.

How easy it would have been to continue to hate that woman.

Instead, he found Miranda a spinster, an unheard of state for the sister of a Marquess. Nearly on the shelf. Still lovely, but with a sadness in her eyes that bespoke of regret. He wanted to ask Cam, or even better, Nick, why Miranda hadn’t married, but there hadn’t seemed to be the right time. Had St. Remy broken the betrothal? That would explain the vague whispers he’d heard of Miranda’s unsuitability, most of which he’d ignored until today. Unfair or not, the woman was usually blamed for a broken engagement and suffered the results of such. The thought of her humiliation did not make him as happy as it should have.

Momsby and Sons bustled with activity, even with the weather outside. A clerk approached Colin immediately and took his hat and coat, shaking the rain from the garments.

“Lord Kilmaire to see Mr. Momsby.”

“Yes, my lord. The Elder or the Younger?” Momsby had two sons, one still away at school and the other who worked alongside his father at the establishment that bore their name.

“The Younger, if you please.”

“Of course, my lord. I’ll have tea brought, it’s quite a frightful day, is it not?”

“Frightful indeed.”

MIRANDA FLOUNCED into a paisley overstuffed chair and pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Thunder continued to boom outside as night began to fall. She said a silent prayer that the rain would continue for days, enough to muck up the roads to Gray Covington so that the ridiculous house party would be cancelled.

She had no wish to watch Colin court his future countess.

While Miranda considered herself to be fortunate in a great many things, she did not think her current plight would receive divine intervention.

Impossible. Horrible. Awful.

“I could feign sickness.” She pulled a loose thread of her shawl, watching in rapt attention as the entire corner began to unravel, the yarn curling and twisting on the chair like vines. “I certainly feel ill.”

Colin Hartley. Her attraction to him, unfortunately for her, had not faded with time. She’d hoped that it would. Prayed fervently to forget Colin and everything she’d once desired.

Now he had come to London and she was forced to pretend that he never made promises to her, else risk her reputation. Such as it was. If she had one more scandal attached to her name even Lord Hamill would be forced to withdraw his pursuit.

A small statue, made of porcelain so fine it was nearly transparent, sat on the side table next to her. Sutton had brought her the gift. A figurine of a woman in a long flowing robe. Her brother called the garment a kimono. The sleeves of the garment were deep, hanging from the woman’s arms to pool at her feet. She was twisted at the waist, one arm held up in supplication as if pleading.

“I rather feel as you do,” she said to the tiny woman, “begging for someone to stop the unfortunate swirl of events I find myself in.” Her head fell back against the chair. “The irony does not escape me that I happen to be the only heiress in all of London that Lord Kilmaire has no interest in. Not even for my dowry. I’m that unlikeable.” A sniff escaped her. “It’s difficult you see,” she touched the tip of the woman’s nose, “because I’ve loved Colin for such a long time.”

She had no choice but to marry either Lord Hamill or Lord Ridley if she didn’t wish to remain a spinster. Not that anyone was forcing her to wed. Sutton was very clear that he did not care if she married or not. But Miranda did. She wanted a family of her own.

“Ridley or Hamill. Either will suit me just fine.” The woman stared open mouthed at Miranda. “Oh, very well. That’s a lie. My attraction to either man lies in the fact that they wish to marry me, despite the scandal. I’m fortunate I have any suitors at all.

The tiny woman’s gaze appeared accusatory. “I see you wish to judge me.” Miranda turned the small figure so it faced away from her. “But just so you know, you don’t look all that innocent yourself.”

Arabella would know how best to handle the situation, but her best friend was miles away in Wales. She could confide in Alex, but Miranda wasn’t at all certain that her sister-in-law wouldn’t then tell Sutton.

“I wonder,” she mused, pulling at the yarn again, “how one looks a man in the eye after one has shared such intimacies. There are dozens of courtesans who do such every day when they change protectors. There must be a trick to it.”

A knock at the door halted her thoughts

“Come.” Probably Clara, her maid, with a supper tray. Miranda had declined to go down to dinner, preferring to take a tray in her room.

The thump of a cane sounded against the floor.

“I do not care to dine alone, Miranda.”

Grandmother seems determined to vex me today. “Hello, Grandmother. My apologies I did not come down for dinner. I’m a bit tired and thought it best I take a tray in my room. I’m exhausted from all the preparations needed for your little house party.”

“It seems there is little preparation going on, unless you consider the unraveling of your shawl to be such.”

Miranda stuffed the shawl between the cushions of her chair.

“I thought you’d be packing, or at least your maid would be. Or someone’s maid. Yours is a bit flighty I’m given to understand. I’m not certain why you insist on keeping her. I don’t approve.”

Miranda kept her precisely because Grandmother didn’t approve. “She does lovely hair. And her name is Clara, Grandmother.”

“She is untrustworthy. I see it in her eyes. Shifty. You should sack her immediately.”

“I will take that under advisement.”

The Dowager thumped her cane around a chair facing Miranda. “Are you ill? You don’t appear to be for all that you looked a bit green earlier during Lord Kilmaire’s visit. Did something disagree with you at tea?”

A great many things disagreed with Miranda, specifically Grandmother assisting Colin in his hunt for a suitable heiress. “No, I’m fine, Grandmother.”

The Dowager sat back in the chair, sighing with pleasure as she sank into the worn cushions. “I must confess, while I insisted you furnish your bedroom with finer furniture, you were correct in your assessment of these chairs. Quite comfortable, especially for these old bones.” A smile crossed the Dowager’s lips, at odds with the mercenary gleam in her green eyes. “Shall we discuss the house party?”

Why couldn’t she have a less Machiavellian grandmother? She should like one who sits by the fire and knits instead of constantly plotting mischief.For Miranda was quite certain Grandmother was up to something. Something more than just an unwanted house party.

“I had been considering a visit to Arabella. I thought to leave next week.” Miranda countered. “She’s written and asked me to visit her in Wales. It’s quite solitary there. She’s bored.”

“You wish to visit Arabella? In Wales? And incur Nick’s displeasure? The girl needs to languish a bit more and contemplate her foolish decision in conspiring to have her brother’s fiancé kidnapped. Of the many things Arabella has done out of spite, that was by far the worst.”

“I’m sure Nick won’t mind if I visit. He’s very forgiving.”

The Dowager gave a short bark of laughter. “Are we speaking of the same man?” “He’ll welcome her back soon enough. She’s his sister.”

“Doubtful, granddaughter. He is very angry with Arabella, though he loves her dearly. Your desire to visit Wales will conflict with the house party we are hosting. That will never do.” Grandmother raised a brow waiting for her response.

“I knew nothing about this house party, Grandmother.” Miranda allowed her annoyance to show. “And to invite Lord Hamill and Lord Ridley without my knowledge was—”

“Appropriate.” The Dowager waved her hand. “I wish to help you secure a husband, now that you are determined to finally take one.”

Doubtful. Grandmother detested Lord Ridley. She said his clothes caused her to have dizzy spells.

“And,” Grandmother pursed her lips, “I wish to assist Lord Kilmaire, of course.”

“Of course.” Miranda’s fingers dug down into the cushion until she found the loose end of the shawl and began to tug at it again.

“Well, let’s have it. What do you think of my matchmaking skills?”

Miranda stopped tugging on the shawl. Perhaps it was the timbre of Grandmother’s question or the way the light green eyes narrowed on Miranda, but she had the very distinct impression that her Grandmother knew. About Colin. All of it. Or at the very least guessed. And Miranda was just as certain that wasn’t possible.

“I don’t think, Grandmother, that my opinion will have any effect one way or another on the choice that Lord Kilmaire makes.”

“Oh, I think your opinion will matter a great deal.”

There it was again. That slight, knowing tone to her words. Grandmother might suspect that Miranda harbored feelings for Colin, but if she’d any idea that Miranda was no longer a maid, she would not be sitting so calmly in Miranda’s bedroom.

She is like a hound who has scented a fox.

Besides, what did it matter if the Dowager suspected that Miranda had once carried a torch for Colin? Her childish adoration was well known in the Cambourne family. She’d made a complete goose of herself years ago as a child by making Colin a paper crown and presenting it to him during a dinner party.

A speculative look entered the Dowager’s eyes. “Then let us discuss your suitors if you refuse to discuss my choices for Lord Kilmaire. I find neither appropriate. Nor does your brother. I fear he will strangle Ridley before you are wed a year. Possibly abscond with your viscount, to torture him in some macabre way learned from the Chinese. I’m told they are quite skilled in that regard.”

“How bloodthirsty you must imagine Sutton to be. Strangulation? Torture? I’m rather more afraid of Alex.”

“Your sister-in-law does not care for Ridley either.”

“You both gave me leave to decide my own fate. Perhaps Ridley is my fate.”

“And Lord Hamill is only a few years my junior, Miranda. We revolved in many of the same circles. His first wife made her debut shortly after I did, for goodness sakes.”

“He’s dignified.”

“That is a kind way to announce that someone is elderly.” The Dowager cocked her head. “Lady Hamill, God rest her soul, was a complete nitwit. Loved riding. I often saw her in Hyde Park. Did you know that’s how she died? She loved riding so much that she insisted doing so in a torrential downpour. She caught a fever shortly after and was dead within a fortnight.”

Grandmother, much like the Duke of Dunbar, knew something about nearly everyone in London. At times the information proved to be useful. At the moment, Miranda found it a bit grating. “How unfortunate.”

“Ridley,” Grandmother continued, speaking as if she’d just bitten into a peach pit, “is beyond the pale.”

“Why? He’s a viscount, he’s young, handsome, and educated.” Ridley had once dazzled Miranda, making her momentarily forget Colin. His allure had not lasted, unfortunately, though Miranda still thought he’d make an acceptable husband.

“Dandy. Fortune hunter. Treats you as if you don’t have a brain in your head. Will likely keep a mistress.” Grandmother ticked off his undesirable traits on her fingers.

“Grandmother!” Miranda pretended to be outraged by the assumption Ridley would keep a mistress, though it was likely to be true. The fact bothered Miranda not a bit. She had no illusions about Ridley. He would get her money and in return she would have a family of her own. Ridley would not ask anything of Miranda as long as she produced an heir and dangled on his arm prettily when required.

“Well, it’s true.”

“If they are both so disagreeable then why invite them to Gray Covington? Why mention such to Lord Kilmaire?”

Grandmother’s eyes slid away to look into the fire.

She was up to something.

“As you say,” Grandmother replied, “we have given you leave to choose. Which is the reason for the house party. We should like the opportunity to know your suitors better, though I cannot imagine that anything Ridley will do could change my opinion of him. He’ll likely wear something garish.” Her lips pursed in distaste. “Though he is rather handsome. That is something.”

The Dowager stood, one hand falling to her hip as she grasped her cane.

Miranda stood, reaching out automatically to assist her grandmother.

“Shoo. I’ve simply sat too long. My goodness, don’t hover, Miranda.”

Miranda flounced back to the chair. Grandmother did hate to be reminded of her infirmity.

Miranda’s fingers found the end of the shawl again. “Marriage is a business contract, not a contract of the heart.” Miranda’s mother had often said such to her.

The Dowager pressed a kiss atop her head. “Your mother is a foolish woman. You would do better to emulate your brother, if you can.”

“Your own marriage was made in such a way, was it not? So are most marriages of the ton. I am only trying to be sensible.”

Grandmother squeezed her shoulder. “I once thought so. Until I saw your own father choose affection rather than duty when he wed Madeline. His first marriage was for love. Convenience only came with your mother.” She hobbled from the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Miranda sat for the longest time, her grandmother’s words lingering in the air. Love. An overinflated emotion that caused young girls like herself to completely disregard their upbringing and fling themselves at melancholy half-Irish gentlemen. Or quarter-Irish.

She tasted the warm saltiness of her own tears and wondered exactly when she’d started crying. Probably six years ago. Just after Colin had left her.