Miss Wonderful (23 page)

Once
again Alistair experienced the sensation of being struck from behind
with a large club. "You what?"

"Pushed
you into the brook," she said.

"But
that's absurd. Why would you try to kill me?"

"The
canal."

For
a moment, Alistair didn't know what she was talking about. In the
next, he was cursing himself.

He'd
forgotten that to her he was an invader, a de-spoiler, the minion of
a villainous viscount.

He'd
forgotten, in fact, to think—except with his reproductive
organs.

He'd
been celibate too long, that was the trouble. He'd avoided women
until his leg was healed and working, more or less. Since then…

Well,
he wasn't sure what had held him back. He'd been numb or not fully
awake in some way. But wasn't it typical that after nearly three
years of apathy toward the fan-sex, he should choose now, of all
times, to wake up from the coma or whatever it had been?

Wasn't
it typical that he should choose her—an unmarried lady—when
the world abounded in merry widows and straying matrons and
out-and-out harlots?

Instead
of concentrating on business, he'd wallowed in fantasies that every
gentlemanly principle forbade his acting upon.

Perhaps
his brain really was damaged.

All
this went rapidly through the remnants of what used to be his mind
while he mustered a faint smile and said, "Murder. Over a canal.
The folk hereabouts must be desperate indeed for excitement."

He
looked toward his valet. "Crewe, have you heard anything of
this?"

The
manservant's gaze darted from one to the other.

"Don't
mind me," Miss Oldridge said. "You've heard about it
belowstairs, naturally."

"The
matter was mentioned, miss, in my presence," he said. "The
staff were as one in their indignation. They said you would never
behave in so dastardly a manner."

"Certainly
not," Alistair said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Who
in his right mind could believe Miss Oldridge capable of devious
behavior?"

Crewe
gave one of his expressive little coughs.

"What
is it, Crewe?" Alistair said. "Have you something to add?"

"Ahem.
No, sir."

"I
believe, were Crewe less discreet, he would tell you my staff are
certain I would never do anything I might be hanged for," Miss
Oldridge said. "This is true. I have always believed that anyone
who must violate the law to achieve his purposes must lack either
intelligence or imagination, probably both."

"Those
are words to make a man's blood run cold," Al-istair said. In
fact, what he saw in her blue eyes made him uneasy. "I begin to
suspect, Miss Oldridge, that the world would be a safer place were
you lacking in both articles."

"I
hope I am not lacking," she said. "I should never stand a
chance against you otherwise. While my conscience is clear on the
score of your accident, I admit it was fortuitous. But I detect heavy
weather bearing down upon me, which means I've upset you—and I
did promise Dr. Woodfrey that we would keep you calm and rested."

She
gave him a quick smile, and Alistair, numskull that he was, felt
cheated. He wanted more: the dancing light in her eyes, the whispery
laughter.

And
when he watched her depart, red-gold curls springing loose from their
pins, hem dragging to one side, and hips swaying, he was not thinking
about ways to succeed with the canal, upon which so much depended,
but about the speediest means of luring her back.

He
forgot altogether to wonder exactly what she meant by "fortuitous."

MIRABEL
decided she'd better not visit the patient again until the following
day, when she'd had time to recover her common sense—and she
must not forget to take Mrs. Entwhistle with her.

Mr.
Carsington was not left solitary, however.

Her
father went upstairs after dinner and stayed with their guest for a
good while. When he returned to the library, he informed Mirabel and
Mrs. Entwhistle that Mr. Carsington had fallen asleep while being
enlightened regarding the differences between Linnaeus's and
Jussieu's systems of botanical classification.

"He
was vastly interested to learn that the one is founded on the sexes
of plants, while the other takes into account the natural
affinities," Papa informed them. "Mr. Carsington made a
witty remark regarding natural affinities, which I cannot recollect
at the moment. He also drew an analogy…" Papa trailed
off, his brows knitting. "I meant to mention the date palms. He
has a cousin, a lady of unusual linguistic talents, who is trying to
decipher the Rosetta stone, and this put me in mind of the Egyptian
date palms. But he made me laugh, and I forgot, and then we spoke of
something else, and by degrees, he fell asleep. Yet I do not think it
is sufficiently restful. I do not like to tell Dr. Woodfrey his
business, but I am surprised he did not prescribe a dose of
laudanum."

"I
believe laudanum is not advised in cases of suspected concussion,"
said Mrs. Entwhistle.

"It
was only recently that Brown brought Jussieu into favor in England,"
said Papa. "We were sadly isolated in our thinking. One must go
abroad, you see, and seek other opinions. Captain Hughes, for
instance."

"What
about Captain Hughes?" Mirabel said. "I cannot follow you
at all, Papa."

He
gazed not at Mirabel but through her, with the faraway look she knew
all too well. "The juices extracted from the seed pod of the
poppy possess remarkable curative powers," he said. "These
properties have been remarked upon time and again, going back to
Hippocrates himself. The Egyptians knew it as well, I am certain.
Once they succeed in unlocking those secrets—and they are bound
to, one of these days—what a vast store of knowledge will be
opened up! I should like to meet his cousin."

Mirabel
looked blankly at Mrs. Entwhistle, who responded with a similarly
uncomprehending expression.

Mirabel
regarded her father. With a shake of his head, he came out of his
musings. He walked to a bookshelf and plucked out a large volume.

"Papa?"

"Yes,
my dear?"

"Papa,
you mentioned Captain Hughes a moment ago," Mirabel said.

"Yes."
Her father started toward the door.

"Did
you mention him to any particular purpose?" "Oh, yes.
Concussions. Perhaps he, too, thinks this does not fully explain. He
would know better than I."

Mirabel's
parent departed, leaving those behind mystified, as usual.

THE
letters from Oldridge Hall, written by Miss Oldridge and signed by
her father, reached their London destinations after midnight.

The
arrival of express letters at odd hours was a common enough
occurrence in Lord Hargate's household. Though not a member of the
ministry, he was active behind the scenes and sent and received
nearly as many urgent messages as did Lord Liverpool, First Lord of
the Treasury.

Consequently,
the letter aroused no panic at Hargate House. Having passed the usual
quiet Sunday, the earl and his lady were at home, in the latter's
boudoir. They were enjoying a lively dispute about their eldest
offspring's domestic affairs when the servant brought them the
letter.

Upon
seeing where it had come from, Lord Hargate merely raised his
eyebrows and passed the missive to his wife to read, which she did,
aloud.

When
she had done, his lordship shrugged and refilled his wine goblet.
"Only a sprained ankle. Confined to Oldridge Hall. It might have
been worse."

"I
rather think," said her ladyship, "it could not be better."

THE
missive from Oldridge Hall awakened far more consternation in Lord
Gordmor's breast, thanks to his sister.

Lady
Wallantree had elected to spend a dull Sunday evening with her
convalescing brother who, even when ill, was less tedious company
than her husband. She was about to order her carriage brought round
for the return home when the servant entered the parlor with the
letter.

Express
letters being very expensive, they were not frequently used outside
military or political circles and seldom carried glad tidings. As a
result, in less exalted households than those of prime ministers and
Earls of Har-gate, they tended to stir excitement, if not alarm.

Lady
Wallantree had no intention of dying of curiosity. By now her family
was asleep. Only a few servants would be sitting up waiting for her.
She saw no reason to inconvenience herself for the sake of mere
servants.

She
no more valued her brother's privacy than she did her servants' or
family's comfort. After giving him two seconds to read the letter,
she snatched it from him.

He
sank back onto his chaise longue with a sigh and wondered why, of the
two people in the world for whom the influenza held no terrors, one
must be one hundred fifty miles away in Derbyshire and the other must
be his sister.

"Perhaps
you will be so good as to acquaint me with its contents when it is
convenient, Henrietta," Lord Gordmor said.

She
read it aloud to him.

He
was still trying to digest the news and decide how he felt about it,
when she said, "I am very glad Carsington is not seriously
injured, but I could wish for your sake he had ended in any other
house but Oldridge Hall. Though Oldridge has signed it, the letter is
in a woman's hand."

"I
wouldn't know, scarcely having a glimpse before it was torn—"

"I
have a strong suspicion the woman is Oldridge's daughter," his
sister continued. "The one who jilted William Poynton and led
him to make such a fool of himself." She pursed her lips and
considered. "But that was before your time. You were still at
school. She must be past thirty now, and those kinds of looks fade
quickly. Not that she was a great beauty twelve years ago. She would
never have taken at all—that apricot-colored hair and such
singular manners, my dear. But who could overlook the fortune? That
was why half the peerage threw their sons at her. Yes, Douglas, I
know you will say your friend's taste is impeccable, and he is
incorruptible as well, like the rest of the family. But keep in mind
that, even if Oldridge remarries—"

"Henrietta,
what are you saying?" Lord Gordmor broke in crossly. "A few
simple points, if you please, in a logical order. Recollect I have
been ill, and my head is not strong."

She
gave him back the letter. "In plain terms, then: As soon as you
are strong enough to travel, you must go to Derbyshire. I do not wish
to alarm you, and I hope I am wrong, but I strongly suspect that both
your friend Mr. Carsington and your canal are in very great danger."

Chapter
9