Her Wicked Ways (31 page)

Why did he keep coming back to compromising her into marrying him? Rob had suggested it months ago, after she’d first arrived. There were any number of times he could’ve done it. In fact, he had done it—as the highwayman. Hell, even as Fox. Their private waltz the night of the assembly last summer might have been enough to send them to the vicar.

So why didn’t he just do it? After all, he wanted to marry her. He allowed his mind a moment’s luxury while he thought of her body pressed against his. And then her repeated refusals intruded, shattering the illusion. Even though she admitted to wanting him physically, she’d made it clear he wasn’t worthy of her hand in marriage, and never would be.
That
was why he didn’t compromise her. What kind of life would they have with that between them? His pride demanded that she choose him.

He didn’t want to think about her anymore. He’d tried to let her go, and she kept falling back into his lap. But soon she’d be gone for good. He needed to focus on Stipple’s End. He’d always focused on Stipple’s End. Why was it so difficult now? No need to answer that. He’d already decided not to think about her anymore.

Finally, the landau pulled up Stratham’s drive. Though thinned, a group of coaches still awaited their occupants. Light shone from the elegant manor, and as Fox stepped onto the gravel, the revelry coming from inside washed over him, making him feel more alone than he already did.

But he had no desire to join the party. He wanted the money and nothing else. In fact, he would’ve preferred to wait outside while someone brought it to him. With a weary sigh, he climbed the steps, rain dampening his hair and his new clothes. Too bad he couldn’t have worn his highwayman’s cloak. Made from thick wool it provided warmth, and more importantly, covered him from head to boot, er, slipper. Fox glanced down, realizing his shoes had been horribly abused tonight. They were likely ruined, but he couldn’t do anything about it now. Dancing shoe replacement was just about dead last on his list of needs.

The door opened wide and Fox stepped around a couple who were taking their leave. He made his way to the Gold Room. Devoid of people, it contained several packaged auctioned items, though not all. Presumably, some had been taken already. A quick perusal did not reveal the money.

Stratham sauntered into the Gold Room. “I was informed you’d returned. Come to drink more of my brandy?”

Fox barely had patience for the man while in the best of moods, but now, he restrained himself from outright knocking him down. “I’m here to pick up the money. Where is it?”

Stratham clapped his hands together. “I’ve put it in my study. I’ll just go and get it. He crossed the room, but turned back before continuing. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I didn’t realize I was invited.” Fox didn’t really want to go along, but the sooner he got the money, the sooner he could leave. He trailed Stratham to a corner of the house. A low fire burned in a massive fireplace decorated with gold-flecked Italian marble. A huge, gilded mirror hung over the mantel—probably so Stratham could see himself while he counted his ill-gotten fortune.

Likely because of his black mood, Fox couldn’t control his anger. “So this is the heart of our district’s corruption?”

Stratham turned on his heel. Candles and firelight brightened the room enough for Fox to see the diminutive man’s nostrils flare. “You keep throwing accusations about, but have you any evidence?” When Fox said nothing—what could he say, “
Yes, I stole your tribute money
?”—Stratham went on. “I didn’t think so. You’d do best to keep your mouth shut, lest someone close it for you.”

Fox allowed his anger to win out and advanced on his foe. “Don’t threaten me unless you can see it through.”

Stratham blinked and stumbled backward. He unlocked a drawer in his desk and withdrew a wooden box. He thrust it at Fox. “Here. This is the last time I do you any favors.”

Fox took the box. He wanted to clobber Stratham over the head with it. “You think tonight a favor to
me
? This was for a group of children who have no family. No money. No prospects. A group of children who, without Stipple’s End, would be in workhouses, or worse. Have you no concern at all?” Fox had always seen people like Stratham as going about their lives without thinking of the world around them. But now he realized Stratham likely did contemplate such matters and that he simply didn’t care.

Stratham rested a hand on his hip and said nothing. Really, what could he say? Fox opened the box. There appeared to be a lot of money inside, but he had no idea how much there ought to be. “Where is the accounting sheet?”

“That other woman has it.” Stratham waved a hand. “Tall, sturdy—married to your steward.”

Fox’s fingers curled around the box, gripping it tightly. “Mrs. Knott is her name. Are the Knotts still here?”

“No idea. As the host, I can’t be expected to monitor the comings and goings of your employees.” Stratham gestured toward the door. “I think our business is concluded.”

Fox hefted the box in his hands. “I want to count this. You go ahead.”

Stratham shifted his weight and fidgeted with a button on his coat. “No, not in here. Take it back to the Gold Room.”

Fox arched a brow. “What’s this? Afraid I might search your desk and find something incriminating?”

Stratham inhaled audibly, and his color deepened. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

While it was satisfying to bait the man, Fox didn’t have time for it just now. “Fine. I’m going.”

He made his way back to the Gold Room and looked around for an accounting sheet. It was too much to hope they’d just left it lying around, but without it, counting the money would be somewhat pointless. Nevertheless, Fox sat down and counted the bills and coins. It amounted to an impressive sum, but not quite what he expected. Had Stratham lightened the purse? Fox couldn’t know if they were missing funds without the ledger. He’d been far more drawn to Miranda’s neckline than how much money the auction had been making.

Since he didn’t want to go looking for Rob and his wife in the ballroom, Fox opted to quit the manor altogether. He’d see Rob in the morning, and then they could figure this out. In the meantime, he’d go home.

Alone. He always went home alone, but tonight it was lonelier than usual.

MIRANDA’S trunk waited in her cupboard-sized room when she arrived at Birch House. She’d almost forgotten how small and dingy everything appeared here after spending the last several days in her grand chamber at Wokingham.

She stood in the center of the room and…did nothing. Her mind could barely sort through everything that had happened. Remembering the book she’d promised Beatrice, she threw open the trunk and shuffled through her belongings until her fingers closed around the spine.

With quiet feet, she picked her way to Beatrice’s room at the other end of the house, stepping particularly lightly as she passed Mr. and Mrs. Carmody’s door. She rapped softly once she reached her destination.

“Who’s there?” Beatrice called from the interior.

“It’s Miranda.”

Beatrice opened the door, already wearing her nightclothes. Her gaze dropped to the book in Miranda’s hand.

“I’ve brought you
Emma
.” Miranda held it out to Beatrice.

“Come in.” Beatrice tugged her by the wrist into the room. She grabbed the book and ran her palm reverently over the crisp new cover. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she opened the tome and began to read the first page.

Miranda glanced around the chamber, nearly twice as large as Miranda’s room, but just as sparsely furnished. Even so, Miranda noted, rather enviously, Beatrice’s bed was much bigger and appeared infinitely more comfortable.

Beatrice looked to be already engrossed in the novel, but Miranda didn’t want to be alone just yet.

She sat on the bed next to Beatrice. “How long have you been sneaking novels?”

Beatrice glanced up from the page. “Since I started working at the orphanage. I read all of the ones in Stipple’s End’s library before I began ordering them with my pin money.”

“The day we went to town with Fox, you were picking up a novel?”

She blushed. “Yes.”

Miranda chuckled. “And here I fancied you were as proper as they came.”

Beatrice arched a brow. “I wouldn’t say I’m as scandalous as you. Sneaking novels under my father’s nose is hardly gadding about with inappropriate people or kissing highwaymen.”

Miranda exhaled loudly. “True.” She rested her hands palm-down on the lacy coverlet. She almost told Beatrice about the situation with Flora. The words formed in her brain, but she couldn’t bring herself to share her foolishness.

“I have to say something.” Beatrice turned her head. Her brow scrunched up and her lips twisted as if speaking took great effort. “Thank you for organizing the benefit. You’ve done a wonderful thing for the orphanage. Everything you’ve done has been…well, you’ve made a good impression with the children.”

No one ever thanked Miranda. She wasn’t comfortable with the praise, not now when she’d almost led poor Flora to unequivocal disaster. Emotion bubbled up and Miranda only hoped Beatrice couldn’t see or hear her exaggerated swallow. “You’ve done a lot too, Beatrice. And the benefit wouldn’t have happened without you.”

Beatrice’s face sparked with life as her lips curved into a smile. “I’ve never felt so needed. People never paid attention to me before. Did you know Mr. Stratham danced with me tonight? Twice.”

Miranda rocked back on the bed and gave a delighted cry. Beatrice raised her finger to her lips, and Miranda straightened. “How wonderful, Beatrice. It means he’s interested. At least it does in London. I daresay he’ll be taking you for a drive soon.”

“Do you think so?” Her dark eyes glistened with excitement.

“Indeed. But, Beatrice, are you sure? Is Stratham someone you want?” Miranda recalled what Fox had said about him, that he’d been a willing party to corruption.

“I believe so.” She nodded. “Yes, he is. Do you know, my parents will be shocked if he courts me.”

“Well, then for that reason alone, I hope he proposes!” Miranda laughed, but stopped when she saw Beatrice gaped at her. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I speak before realizing I’ve said something very likely inappropriate.”

Beatrice sighed. “I wish I could do that.”

Miranda sobered. “No, you don’t.” It can be hurtful—both to others and yourself, she added silently. “You’re better off as you are.”

Beatrice’s brow furrowed. “Why, you sound regretful. Has something happened?”

Again the words explaining the disaster with Flora came together in her brain but got lost on the way to her mouth. “No, I imagine I’m just a little sad to be leaving soon.”

“And I believe I’ll actually miss you. I’m sorry I was so awful about the benefit. It’s just I’ve never received such attention before. I…liked it.”

Maybe it was all the hugging from earlier, but Miranda wanted to embrace Beatrice. Tentatively, she put her arm on Beatrice’s shoulder, but when Beatrice gave her a quizzical look, she settled for a gentle pat.

Miranda stood. “Well, good night, then.”

“Good night, Miranda. You truly did do a good thing. Everyone is going to miss you.”

With a nod, Miranda left and made her way back to her room. Her good deed had been canceled out by the mistake she’d made with Flora, but maybe she could fix that too. She could help Flora be something other than a courtesan. Before Miranda left Wootton Bassett, she’d ensure Flora’s talents were put to the best possible use.

As she climbed into bed a short time later, Miranda’s stomach tossed with uneasiness. Was she still upset about Flora? No, she had a plan. Was it because she would be leaving soon? No, because she’d been trying to leave for months. But even as she thought it, her skin crawled. What did she have to look forward to, besides a husband her father would choose for her?

She pulled the bedclothes tight around her body, burrowing into their softness. Sleep, she needed sleep. But when she closed her eyes, the memory of Fox’s hands on her body assailed her.

A long, long time later, slumber finally soothed her aching spirit.

FOX tapped his fingers against the top of the desk in the office at Stipple’s End. Rob was late, but then the rain affected everything—even a short jaunt from Rob’s house to the orphanage. It had continued to fall in earnest all night and into the morning. The great hall was wet and cold. Despite keeping the rest of the manor closed off, the damp chill permeated everywhere he went in the building.

He paused and looked at Mrs. Gates, seated in a wooden chair near the window. They’d already decided to delay moving to Bassett Manor until a relatively dry day. Hell, he’d settle for something less than a torrential downpour. “Perhaps we should hang my old tapestries at the top of the stairs to better guard the second floor from the elements.”

The water sluicing against the window above Mrs. Gates’s head threw mottled shadows onto her white bonnet as she nodded. “An excellent notion, Fox. The upstairs hallway is quite cold.”

“But you passed an acceptable night?” Fox had tossed and turned in his own bed, concerned about the inhabitants of Stipple’s End.