Her Wicked Ways (4 page)

Just what did he mean? This might be the edge of nowhere, but Miranda was fairly certain small villages had entertainments of some kind. And how could she aid Beatrice if she didn’t attend those entertainments with her? Really, how
did
a woman find a husband out here?

“If you’re finished, Miranda, we should be on our way to Stipple’s End.” Beatrice folded her napkin next to her plate. “May I be excused, Father?”

“Yes.” Mr. Carmody turned an irritated eye on Miranda. She realized it didn’t matter if she’d completed her meal or not.

Miranda half stood. Mr. Carmody’s nostrils flared. Retaking her seat, she sought her faux smile once more. “May I be excused?”

“Go, then.”

Such charm. Miranda followed Beatrice from the room, hoping against hope the orphanage would be a mite more pleasant than Birch House.

STIPPLE’S End looked to be an old medieval hall repeatedly enlarged over the ensuing centuries. The building rambled at the end of a long lane, surrounded by gardens that were obviously tended to, but devoid of order. In fact, it looked as if trees and shrubbery were allowed to bloom and grow wherever they seeded themselves.

A stone path led from the lane to the front entrance. Miranda followed Beatrice to the large oak door, her feet aching from the lengthy walk from Birch House. It opened before Beatrice could knock. A small, rather round woman greeted them with a wide, warm smile. “Beatrice! A delight to see you this morning.”

Beatrice stepped inside. “Miranda, may I present Mrs. Gates, the headmistress here at Stipple’s End. Mrs. Gates, Lady Miranda Sinclair, who is staying with us this summer and is eager to help.”

Miranda flinched at the word “eager,” but gave the portly Mrs. Gates her sunniest expression as she entered behind Beatrice. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Miranda eyed Beatrice’s sturdy cotton dress and worried anew about the type of work she’d be assigned.

Her assumption the house had once been a medieval hall was verified in the interior. She shivered—everything about the country was perpetually cold. Especially this drafty old place. She studied the high ceiling, noting a water-stained hole in one corner. No wonder she was chilled. “You have a leak?”

Mrs. Gates folded her hands over her yellowed apron. “Yes. The orphanage is always in need, I’m afraid.”

Miranda could see that quite clearly. The furniture looked as if it might collapse at any moment. The carpet beneath her feet was battered and moth-eaten. She itched to move away, wondering if anything
lived
in the dingy threads.

“I’ve brought some biscuits for the children.” Beatrice handed a stuffed basket to Mrs. Gates. “How can we help you this morning?”

“Thank you, dear. We’ve two young boys who arrived last night. One’s rather ill. Would you be up to nursing him for a bit? Annie’s been tending him all night and could use a respite.”

“Of course. I’ll go at once.” Beatrice departed toward a staircase against the right wall, leaving Miranda to fend for herself.

“It’s nothing catching, is it? I’d hate for Beatrice to become ill.” And in turn make
me
ill, Miranda mused.

“We can’t often tell. I’m afraid we can’t afford much in the way of a physician. Beatrice has nursed plenty of our charges and hasn’t suffered even a sneeze. Don’t you fret about her.” The broad-bosomed headmistress touched Miranda’s arm. It was a tiny gesture, but full of kindness. And completely outside of Miranda’s experience. “Now tell me how you think you can help.”

Miranda shifted and Mrs. Gates’s hand fell away as if it had never breached the distance between them. “I don’t suppose you need anything embroidered or water-colored?” Not that she had a particular talent for either, but she truly couldn’t think of what she might offer.

Mrs. Gates’s mouth puckered, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should laugh or frown.

“I’m sure you’ll find something suitable.” Miranda only prayed it didn’t involve chafed hands and broken fingernails.

“I appreciate your willingness to help, my lady. As it happens, I was just preparing for a task right here.” Mrs. Gates gestured to a table in front of the wide windows facing the drive. On it were two bowls and a row of combs. Was she to style the children’s hair? “Those are lice combs. This basin of water is for cleaning the combs as it becomes necessary.”

Miranda clenched her teeth together, lest her jaw drop. “I see.”

“Comb through each child’s hair.” Mrs. Gates picked up a comb and waved it about for a moment in demonstration. “Be sure to look for the eggs as well as the lice themselves. The eggs like to cling right to their little skulls.”

The notion of lice and eggs “clinging” to these poor children’s heads turned Miranda’s stomach, but she refused to beg off. The Carmodys only needed another reason to disparage her to her parents.

“And if I should find any lice?” Miranda voiced the question even though the answer somewhat frightened her.

Mrs. Gates replaced the comb on the table. “I don’t suppose you have any experience scrubbing them out?”

Miranda blinked at her. “My father is the Duke of Holborn. I wouldn’t recognize a louse if it appeared at my mother’s bi-weekly tea and engaged my father in a political debate.”

Mrs. Gates chuckled. “Now, that would be a sight. My apologies. I should have realized someone of your station wouldn’t have this sort of experience.” Mrs. Gates smiled apologetically, and Miranda felt a trifle guilty. The woman was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt—no one ever did that. People made their assumptions based on her appearance and social status, and that was simply the way things were. “If you find an infestation, come find me in the kitchen, and we’ll take the child to the bathing chamber.”

Before Miranda could stall with further questions, two boys strode into the hall. “Ah, here are Philip and Bernard.” Mrs. Gates beckoned for the children to come forward. They appeared to be about ten years old. “This is Lady Miranda. She is going to check your heads today. Don’t give her any trouble, now.”

The boys eyed Miranda and grinned.

“You’re pretty,” the taller of the two said.

Miranda had heard much lovelier praise, but was surprised at the nerve of a ten year-old country boy. “Thank you.” Normally, she would turn the flirtation back on the instigator, but…what did one do out here? Since she knew nothing else, Miranda continued on as she would have done in London, giving the boy a slight curtsy. “You are a handsome lad yourself.”

The other boy laughed while the first one turned the color of her favorite ruby necklace.

Mrs. Gates nodded approvingly at Miranda. “I shall leave them in your capable hands.”

Miranda didn’t want her to leave, but if she stayed what was the point of Miranda doing the task at all? The headmistress departed, and the boys stood rooted to the floor.

“All right then. Who’s first?”

Each boy pointed at the other and said in unison, “Him.”

“How about you?” She gestured to the taller boy, wondering if he was Philip or Bernard, whose color had faded to normal.

“Sure, Philip, you go.” Bernard pointed to the chair positioned next to the table.

Philip’s shoulders drooped, and he took his seat. Miranda stepped behind him and contemplated the top of his sandy brown head.

“Are you going to gawk at ‘im all day then?” Bernard folded his arms across his chest.

“No.” Miranda refused to be cowed by two young boys with a legion of bugs on their heads—God, she hoped they were lice-free. She turned to the table and studied the combs. They looked dirty. Swallowing her trepidation, she plucked one up using the very tips of her fingers. Upon closer scrutiny, she determined they were clean, just stained from age. Allowing her fingers to curl about the implement more securely, she thrust it into Philip’s hair with a quick, jerky motion meant to minimize her contact with the boy and his potential lice.

“Ow!” Philip flinched as she caught a knot.

“Sorry.” She recalled the brutal hair brushings from her nurse and didn’t want to unduly torture the boy. She tried again, more gently, but with the same elevated concern for her cleanliness. After several moments, relief poured through her and she declared, “I don’t see any lice.”

Bernard took his turn in the chair. “My ‘ead’s been itching a bit.”

“I’m sure it’s, er, the cold weather.” Miranda prayed it was so.

“I had lice last year. Felt the same.”

He’d already had lice. Miranda swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. Best to be done with this.

Thrusting the comb into the boy’s thick mop, she shrieked at the sight of a small creature leaping from his scalp. Dropping the comb, she jumped back and shook her hands furiously. At once, she felt a thousand tiny legs crawling over her body.

“That’s quite a racket you’re making. Am I infested again, then?” He turned in his chair and Miranda realized she was still squeaking.

“What’s the matter?”

Miranda had no idea who had spoken. After a moment, hands grabbed her upper arms. “Are you all right, Lady Miranda?” Mrs. Gates studied her with grave concern.

Her body shaking, Miranda managed to stifle her screeching and nod. “There was a…thing…bug…louse.” She pointed at Bernard, now vigorously scratching his head.

“I see. We’ll have to cut your hair again, Bernard.”

The boy sighed heavily, but nodded.

“And Philip, you’ll need a good scrubbing. I bet you’ve got an egg or two since you and Bernard share a bed.”

Miranda lifted her hands, raking them for a telltale sign of anything moving. Or anything egg-like. One day in the country, and she was going to have lice.

“Come, boys.” Mrs. Gates put an arm around each of them and stopped short. “Oh, Fox, maybe you can help Lady Miranda. She’s had a fright with Bernard’s lice.”

Miranda spun toward the doorway leading to the back of the house. A tall man stood just inside the hall. Thick, too-long, brown hair swept back from his face. Garbed in simple brown woolen breeches and topcoat, he was utterly undistinguished.

“I wondered what the screaming was about.” He came toward her, his gait and stature quite confident for a retainer. He passed the departing Mrs. Gates and assumed a stance before Miranda. “Lady Miranda, I presume? Montgomery Foxcroft at your service.”

He offered a courteous bow and when he raised his gaze…she froze. Completely. Never had she seen such eyes. They were blue. Or green. Or maybe amber. All of them, she realized. Cobalt at the outside, they shaded to rich jade toward the middle and were flecked with gold just around the pupil. And upon closer inspection she couldn’t exactly discount the rest of his face either. He was rather handsome, in a rugged sort of way, she supposed. His jaw was quite square and his lips—which she shouldn’t be looking at, but that had never stopped her—were just full enough to provoke the notion of a kiss… She abruptly raised her gaze to his eyes again, noting the tiny lines that fanned out making him look as if he smiled often, something her family rarely did.

He looked at her hand, and she suddenly remembered she could be crawling with lice.

“Do I need a bath? That boy’s head…”

“No, a simple hand-washing will suffice. I’ll show you the washroom.” He held out his arm.

“I, ah, you don’t mind my touching your arm? I could be infested.”

He laughed, the rich, dark timbre of his voice warming her in the way she’d sought that very morning. “I doubt that. Have you no experience with lice?”

“No, I’m from London.”

He laughed again. “And you expect me to believe there are no lice in London?”

“There aren’t at Holborn House.” Miranda wasn’t wearing her finest gown, she had no jewels on her person, and her hair had been pulled into a rather severe style, but surely he recognized her station? “I’m Lady Miranda Sinclair. My father is Holborn. I’m visiting Birch House. Miss Carmody invited me to join her here this morning.” Never mind this wasn’t precisely the truth.

“Ah yes, Miss Carmody. She gives Stipple’s End so much of her time. Come.” He tucked her hand over his arm and led her from the hall. “You make time for charity work, then?”

Had he heard nothing she said? Or were pedigrees unimportant in the country? “Er, no. Though, I’m certain my father—the duke—donates to several charitable causes.”

“Which ones?” Those unique eyes of his bored into her, the amber-flecked centers sizzling like burning embers. She felt strangely hot beneath his regard.

He steered her into a small room at the end of the back hallway.

“I don’t know.” Unless a topic pertained to her future marriage or her behavior, her father didn’t discuss it with her.

He gestured to a large basin set into a long table beneath a small window overlooking the rear yard. “You can wash there.”

A girl entered just then bearing a large bucket of steaming water. “Mrs. Gates thought you might need some hot water to clean up.”

“Thank you, Flora.” Mr. Foxcroft took the bucket and poured the water into the basin beneath the window.

Flora gaped at Miranda. “Are you really a lady?”