Her Wicked Ways (5 page)

“Yes.”

“And you live in London?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Foxcroft interrupted. “Flora, Lady Miranda would like to wash up. You can interrogate her later.” He’d set the bucket on the table and now leaned against the edge.

“But, I just have a few—”

“Go.” His tone was kind, yet firm.

The girl obeyed, but not without casting a longing glance over her shoulder at Miranda.

“I didn’t mind answering her questions. The girl was positively charming.” In fact, she’d given Miranda her nicest reception since arriving in this backwater.

“If you come back another day, you can do so. Forgive me for saying, but you don’t seem the type to visit orphanages. In truth, you seem as if you belong in a ballroom.”

How…expected. He saw her beauty and judged her a mindless ninny. She peeled back her sleeves from her wrists as she walked to the basin. Eagerly, she thrust her hands into the hot water, closing her eyes briefly as the heat seeped into her flesh and raced up her arms. The comfort banished the sensation that her skin crawled with lice. When she opened her eyes, she found Mr. Foxcroft staring at her. He was quite presumptuous for his station. Adopting her haughtiest tone, she endeavored to remind him of his place. “Have you worked at the orphanage long?”

He didn’t flinch. “I own Stipple’s End. My family founded this orphanage over four hundred years ago.”

“Pardon, I assumed you were an employee.” She cast him a glance, her gaze flicking down to his dirty fingernails. Now he reacted, quickly clasping his hands behind his back, and she felt a moment’s regret. She’d judged him as certainly as he’d judged her.

“I do work here, but I also have my own estate to look after.” He stood only a foot or so away, and from this distance she caught the scent of raw earth and something else. An herb. Rosemary, perhaps? His eyes glimmered in the gray light filtering through the window.

Miranda looked around for soap just as he handed it to her. The small cake felt greasier than she was used to and wasn’t fragranced with roses or honeysuckle.

“The orphans make the soap. That’s a special kind for lice, but the older girls make some flowery-smelling cakes which we sell at Mrs. Abernathy’s in the village.”

“How curious.” Miranda couldn’t imagine making soap, especially for the purpose of eradicating vermin. She scrubbed her hands and murmured her thanks when Mr. Foxcroft set a towel next to the basin. “Does everyone here have a specific job?”

He nodded. “I suppose so. Except the younger children. Although learning to read and figure is probably a job to them.”

She dried her hands and turned, resting her hip against the table. “You teach these children to read?” What sort of lives could these orphans possibly aspire to? Miranda had no idea, but assumed they would end up as chimney sweeps or scullery maids.

He crossed his arms over his chest with a half-smile. It was the kind of smile that didn’t readily expose his emotion. Amusement? Annoyance? “We teach them to do any number of things.”

She was surprisingly interested in this conversation. “And where do they go from here?”

His shoulder lifted slightly. Still no clue as to what he thought behind those peculiar eyes. “Wherever they want.”

“You pay for them to travel somewhere?” She found this not only odd, but…charming. And that in itself was odd.

He dropped his arms, his left hand smacking down against the rim of the basin, crushing a large spider she hadn’t seen crawling toward her. “Excuse me.” He moved to take her place in front of the basin, and she barely jumped back before their bodies could occupy the same space.

He rinsed his palm in the water and then grabbed the towel she’d so recently discarded. “You misunderstand. We do our best to find a place for them, either here in Wootton Bassett or elsewhere in the district. Some leave and find their own way. It’s entirely up to them what they make of themselves. We merely try to give them some useful skills and at least a rudimentary education.”

“How kind of you.” That seemed an inadequate observation, but she could think of nothing better. She’d never before met anyone who would invest such time and energy. “And what is it you provide?”

He blinked. “Everything.”

“Well, if that’s the case, you should repair the leak in the hall. It smells dank and the chill is pervasive. I’ve the impression it’s been leaking for quite some time.”

His eyes narrowed, and his lips pressed into a firm line. She caught herself staring at them again and shook her head at her fancy.

“It hasn’t been leaking long, actually. And I
will
repair it. I’m certain things happen very quickly and perhaps without due consideration in your sphere. How fortunate you must be to have the benefit of time, wealth, and ability.” Ice hung from his tone. He might be able to match her father in haughtiness. And she was right sick of being talked to that way, by her father, her mother, everyone.

Miranda turned toward him and propped her left fist on her hip. “There is no call to be rude. You don’t know anything about my ‘sphere.’”

“I can well guess. Just look at the gown you wore to delouse orphans.” His gaze flicked over her, further pricking her ire.

Miranda gritted her teeth. “I didn’t know I would be
delousing
orphans.” What else could she say? She’d no idea dressing for a tiny hamlet would be as complicated as dressing for London. “Don’t you have a roof to fix?”

His eyes were ablaze with emotion. “I’ll leave you to your chores.” He turned away, and she wilted a little without the fervor of his stare.

What a disagreeable man! As he strode toward the door, she gave in to devilish impulse. “I’d be happy to give you a lesson in wardrobe selection and the latest fashion in men’s hairstyles.”

Mr. Foxcroft paused but didn’t turn. Miranda waited, breathless, for his response. He left without another word.

Mrs. Gates appeared in the doorway. “Are you ready to continue? Neville is waiting for you in the hall.”

Miranda’s stomach knotted. She’d rather hoped she was finished.
No
. She could do this. She’d prove to all of them—her parents, the Carmodys, that insufferable Foxcroft—that she was made of the sternest stuff. She squared her shoulders. “Lead the way, Mrs. Gates.”

The headmistress’s eyes lit with appreciation. “Since Bernard’s infested, you’re like to find other cases. I’ve asked Beatrice to help. She’s got enough experience with this for both of you.”

Beatrice rounded the corner just then. “Are you coming, Lady Miranda?” Her sharp tone and pursed lips revealed her judgment: she found Miranda as empty as Mr. Foxcroft had.

Oh yes, she was ready to prove them all wrong. Miranda smiled sweetly. “Of course.” Then she carried herself into the hall with all of the regal poise her three governesses had instilled. She’d conquered London. Wootton Bassett couldn’t possibly be more difficult.

Resolved to show Beatrice she was no London ninny, she faced the young boy awaiting her on the chair then bit her cheek to keep from cringing. For he was quite earnestly and thoroughly scratching his scalp.

Chapter Three

THE Thursday afternoon was far too cold for June. After scraping frost off the orphanage roof that morning, Fox and Rob had studied the hole and concluded the repair would be costlier than anticipated. In the meantime, they’d done what they could and managed to plug the leak, if not completely fix the damage. But now Fox’s visit to the vicar’s tea was suddenly quite necessary.

As was launching his courtship of Miranda. With luck, she would be here at the vicarage today. He hadn’t exactly made a grand first impression last week at Stipple’s End, but then she hadn’t made things easy with her arrogance and presumption. Still, he had to make this work.

Fox handed his reins to the stable boy and turned toward a carriage rattling up the drive. He inwardly groaned at the sight of the scarlet coat of arms emblazoned on the ebony door.

Stratham.

Fox balled his hands into fists, the worn leather of his gloves pulling taut over his knuckles. Should he do the socially appropriate thing and await Stratham’s arrival, for surely the man had seen him standing in the drive, or should he ignore the insufferable rotter and go into the vicarage? Fox turned and rapped on the large oak door. Social graces were for Society, and he wasn’t Society.

The vicar’s housekeeper, Mrs. Wren, greeted him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Foxcroft! We haven’t seen you at tea in some time. Mrs. Johnson will be thrilled.” Her gaze darted to the drive behind Fox. “I see Mr. Stratham is here and the Carmodys arrived with a special guest. Oh, this shall be the vicar’s most illustrious tea ever.”

She was here
.

“I am pleased to be included in such an event.” He stepped over the threshold and down the short corridor to the solar, where the vicar and his wife gave tea every other Thursday.

Perched on a settee in the center of the room, drawing the attention of probably every person there, Miranda—he simply couldn’t think of her as Lady Miranda after having kissed her—held a teacup to her mouth. Fox watched as she puckered her pink lips and took a delicate sip. Sparkling aquamarine eyes peered at him over fine porcelain. He’d been right about their color—a fact he’d relished upon “meeting” her at the orphanage in the light of day.

“Fox!” The vicar, Samuel Johnson, jumped to his feet and clapped Fox on the back. “Pleased to see you. I’ve been meaning to stop by and discuss the planting…”

Fox listened to the vicar with one ear while the other picked up Mrs. Wren welcoming Donovan Stratham into the cottage. As Mr. Johnson droned on about which fields he ought to leave fallow, Fox covertly eyed Stratham. Of average height and build, with dark, wavy hair, and a ready smile, women generally found him attractive. He was also wealthy, well-dressed, and the hardest work his hands ever saw was extorting “tribute” money from his constituents. Fox looked to see Miranda’s reaction to him.

She’d replaced her teacup on the table and perused Stratham with unguarded interest. For his part, Stratham walked straight toward her and immediately took her hand. Carmody introduced them.

“So, what do you think then?” The vicar leaned in close as he finished his monologue.

Fox tore his gaze from Miranda and Stratham. “I think you’re right to plant potatoes in the south field. Pardon me for a moment, vicar. I’d like to speak with someone.”

The vicar nodded, and Fox moved to stand near Miranda’s settee. Stratham took a chair next to her and set his walking stick against its side.

Carmody came up beside Stratham and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re the MP. What have you heard about this highwayman? Has he struck again?”

Stratham accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Wren. “I don’t know anything other than the details of your unfortunate robbery.” His lips parted in the familiar, condescending smirk he’d adopted since becoming MP…what, four years ago? When he turned back to Miranda, his face lost its superciliousness and he appeared earnest and sincere.

Weasel
.

Carmody’s chest puffed out, and his dark brows beetled over his small brown eyes. “I’m sure the blighter will strike again. He had gall, that one.”

Miranda folded a napkin in her lap. “I found him rather dashing. Not at all what one might think of the criminal class.”

Carmody narrowed his eyes at Miranda. “Careful, gel.”

Fox couldn’t keep himself from leaning toward her. “Dashing, really?”

Miranda turned her aqua gaze toward him. “He wasn’t violent in the slightest. I doubt he’d have harmed any of us.”

Stratham flicked a speck of something from his sleeve. “Doesn’t sound like much of a highwayman.” His tone held a wealth of disdain.

Carmody harrumphed. “Don’t let her tale fool you. There was a band of them. We were outnumbered.”

Fox wanted to hear more of Miranda’s reaction, but it was enough to know she’d been as affected by the highwayman as he’d been by her.

Miranda reached for a biscuit from the tray on the table before her. “You are a member of Parliament, Mr. Stratham?”

“Indeed, my lady.” He nodded. “My family has served the crown for generations. I consider it my duty and my honor.” And so the conversation turned to Stratham. Fox refrained from rolling his eyes.