Once Upon a Wallflower (3 page)

Sarah paused to collect herself before continuing in a stronger voice. “No, Miss Fitzhenry, I know my sister was murdered,” she stated emphatically, “and Ashfield killed her.”

…

As the exhausted Fitzhenrys made their way home from the ball, they rode in relative silence.

Suddenly Kitty barked out a laugh. “For a murderer, that Ashfield is a charming fellow.” Her own joke sent her into a gale of laughter, George following close behind.

“No one knows if Nicholas is guilty,” Mira protested softly, turning her head to stare into the darkness beyond the coach’s window.

But as she watched the fog of her own breath dissipate on the glass, Mira realized her words were not true. One person did know for certain if Nicholas was guilty: Nicholas himself.

Guilty or innocent, perhaps he would betray his true nature when she ventured out alone with him the following day.

Chapter Three

“Good afternoon, Mira. You are looking fit. That shade of pink becomes you.”

Mira knew very well that pink of any shade did not become her in the least. She tallied another point in Nicholas’s favor.

Nicholas ushered her out to his phaeton, an elegant vehicle drawn by four exquisite horses—all the same shade of pale gray as Nicholas’s eyes. After handing her into the carriage, he climbed up to take his place beside her, his movements surprisingly graceful given his bad leg.

There was no way to avoid touching one another on the phaeton’s single seat. When they had danced the night before, his hand had touched the curve of her waist, but this was more intimate. More than the touch itself, she felt the radiating heat of his body. The scent of sandalwood, warmed by his skin, mingled with the faint aroma of Mira’s rosewater to create a lush new perfume.

“So. Well.” She could not think of anything clever to say, and the silence begged to be filled. Her gaze sweeping the sky with its oppressive yellowish haze, she remarked, “It is a lovely day, isn’t it?”
What a noddy
.

As Nicholas urged the horses forward, Mira caught him casting a sidelong glance in her direction. “Mira,” he said, “do I make you uncomfortable?”

A nervous bark of laughter escaped her lips before she could clamp them tightly together. “Well, my lord, you certainly do not prevaricate, do you?”

Nicholas merely smiled.

“Indeed, if you must know, you do make me a bit uncomfortable. Please take no offense.” She could not bring herself to look at him, so she concentrated on a snag in the fabric of the bright pink pelerine she wore over her rather plain gray morning dress. The pelerine belonged to Bella, who would be livid if it came to harm.

When it appeared that Nicholas did not intend to comment, Mira rushed on. “It is really not surprising that you should make me nervous. After all, we have only just met, and yet we are affianced. I cannot imagine one could ever adequately prepare for such a situation. So, you see, it is not you
per se
who makes me nervous, it is the circumstance in which we find ourselves.” She coughed lightly and turned to view the passing scenery.

“I do not. Take offense, that is. But I do not think the circumstances are entirely to blame. I think, perhaps, you are nervous because you have heard the rumors, and you wonder if they are true.”

Mira snapped her head around, stunned.

Nicholas, himself, appeared utterly indifferent, his expression no more animated or expressive than if he had just commented on his preference in tea. He did not appear to expect a response, and Mira had no notion of what to say.

Certainly she was concerned that the stories might be true. She did harbor some concern, even, for her own safety. But she could hardly admit that to him. Yet, at the same time, she could not deny her fears. She was simply not that accomplished a liar.

After a beat of silence, Nicholas turned the subject quite suddenly. “Mira, do you believe in magic?”

Mira laughed. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity. I would think that magic would suit you.”

“I’m afraid I do not. Magic is for children. Adults must rely on reason and logic, no matter how unpleasant.”

He tsked softly. “Poor Mira. The world is full of magic. You have only to look for it.”

Mira huffed in disbelief. “Nonsense. If we look for magic, we may
seem
to find it, but it is not real. There is a rational explanation for every phenomenon we encounter. It just requires a little thought to find the explanation. Sometimes, it is simply easier to ascribe things to magic.”

A slow smile spreading across his face, he shook his head. “Mira, believing in magic is not easy at all. I think it is easier to close yourself off from the wonder of the world by confining yourself to order and logic.” He pointed to a bed of jonquils blooming in a window box.

“There is magic,” he said.

“The flowers?”

“Yes. Have you ever paused to wonder how they know when to open? If they bloom before the temperature is warm, they will die. If they wait too long, the summer heat will kill them off. Yet somehow, they know exactly when to bloom. Naturalists cannot predict the precise date of their flowering, but it is always the right date. The date that will give them the longest time to grace us with their beauty.”

Mira frowned. “I suppose I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“Well, now you have. The jonquils know when to bloom, and you will know when to do the same. Without reason, without logic, but with magic.”

Nicholas’s curious comment having effectively foreclosed idle conversation, they rode in silence to Hyde Park, where the fashionable had turned out in droves to take advantage of the refreshing breeze that had blown in the night before. Mira had never been to Hyde Park during these celebrated late afternoon hours. The sheer number of people was astounding. Here, young bucks came to demonstrate their skills with horse and carriage. Here, matchmaking mamas came to display their available daughters. Here, the fashionable impures came to seek new protectors. And here, courting couples came to enjoy some respectable privacy. She craned her head in every direction to take in all the sights.

And, thus, she saw trouble coming. There, heading straight toward them, was Bella in the company of a painfully pretty young man who could only be Mr. Henry Penrose. Worse yet, Bella had clearly seen Mira, as well, for she clutched Mr. Penrose’s arm and gestured urgently toward Mira and Nicholas.

Mira had only a moment to brace herself before Bella began waving and shouting excitedly. “Mira! Mira! What a wonderful surprise!” Even as Bella called Mira’s name, her inquisitive gaze was firmly trained on Nicholas. Mira knew what Bella was thinking, that she would finally have a chance to meet the monster in the flesh.

Bella’s companion expertly maneuvered his gig up alongside Nicholas’s and drew up the reins so they might stop to chat. Bella wasted no time. “Mira, may I introduce Mr. Henry Penrose. Henry, this is my cousin Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry.” Bella, impatient for an introduction, looked pointedly back and forth between Mira and Nicholas.

With glum resignation, Mira obliged. “So pleasant to meet you, Mr. Penrose. Mr. Penrose, Bella, this is Nicholas, Lord Ashfield. My lord, permit me to introduce Mr. Henry Penrose and Miss Mirabelle Fitzhenry. My cousin.”

One side of Nicholas’s mouth quirked up a bit, but that was the only indication he gave of being surprised at meeting the other Mirabelle Fitzhenry. His voice betrayed no emotion at all when he remarked, “You must be George and Kitty’s daughter?”

Mira winced. It must have been difficult enough for Nicholas to realize the night before that he had been duped, saddled with the lesser marriageable Mirabelle Fitzhenry, but for him now to see what might have been…it was painful beyond bearing. Here Mira sat, feeling like nothing so much as a gray potato in a bright pink scarf, her garish red hair a gaudy banner atop it all. And there sat Bella, her perfectly pressed pale blue day dress setting off her sky blue eyes to perfection, her rosy lips pursed in a delicate pout, her golden ringlets framing her heart-shaped face, her pristine straw gypsy bonnet shielding her creamy skin from what little sunlight filtered through the London sky. Nicholas must be livid.

For a long and rather awkward moment, Bella thoroughly studied the infamous viscount, her narrowed gaze moving slowly down his long, rangy body, from the top of his unfashionably bare head to the tips of his well-worn boots. Apparently satisfied that he was just an ordinary man after all, Bella began chattering away. Mira was too lost in misery to pay attention. She kept her eyes fixed firmly on a spot just beyond Bella’s shoulder and did her best not to contemplate what Nicholas must be thinking. Because as soon as her mind wandered in that direction, and she thought of how she must compare to Bella, tears welled in her eyes.

Mira was vaguely aware of Bella and Mr. Penrose taking their leave, and she managed the necessary niceties. Then the phaeton began moving, and Mira was alone again with Nicholas. Now she would likely have to explain.

She braced herself when he cleared his throat to speak.

“Might I be so bold as to ask a personal question?”

Around the lump in her throat, Mira managed to choke out an answer. “Of course, my lord.” Of course he would cry off now. She had planned to offer him a way out of the engagement, but now that the words were about to be spoken, by him instead of by her, tears pricked her eyes.

“Nicholas,” he corrected. He paused for a moment, as though trying to determine how best to broach the horrible topic.

Mira gripped the seat of the phaeton for security and focused her sights on the swaying rump of the horse in front of her. Still, she was totally unprepared for what he finally said.

“I am curious how two young women, so close in age and kinship, came by the same rather unusual name.”

Mira gave an abrupt laugh of mingled relief and mortification. It was not the confrontation she was expecting, but it was wretchedly embarrassing nonetheless. “Oh. That. Well, yes, I can imagine.” She glanced about, seeking some distraction with which to avoid having to answer. She saw nothing but a sea of strangers and the nodding heads of horses. Apparently, there would be no
deus ex machina
to save her. With a small sigh, she explained.

“Uncle George and my father, Arthur Fitzhenry, were twins. No one was certain which brother had been born first. So it was equally uncertain to which brother my grandfather, Charles Fitzhenry, would leave the bulk of his estate. And this was a matter of some importance, because neither George nor my father possessed the financial sense to build their own fortunes, and neither had married great heiresses—Aunt Kitty came from a titled family but not from money, and my mother came from neither. My grandfather was quite spectacularly wealthy. He made a fortune in trade with the American colonies. Before they rebelled, of course.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but wouldn’t your grandfather simply split the inheritance evenly between his sons?”

Mira’s mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “One might think. But then one would not know my grandfather particularly well. He was not a nice man, and he was deeply disappointed by his sons. He was forever pitting them against each other in hopes of prodding at least one of them to success. Anyway, both my father and Uncle George would have named their firstborn sons, if they had had sons, after my grandfather. As it was, they instead named their daughters ‘Mirabelle’ to please him.”

“Ahhh. So Mirabelle was your grandmother’s name?”

“Um. No. It was not.” Mira’s voice was tight with embarrassment.

Nicholas glanced at her, his face registering obvious shock. “Please do not tell me that you are cognizant of the identity of your grandfather’s…his…well, his paramour?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that!” Dear heavens. Mira could not imagine how red her face must be. There was no help now but to explain the whole of it. “Grandfather raised spaniels. He loved them better than he did my grandmother, better than his own sons even. He had one bitch of which he was especially fond. She gave him eight large litters, all first-rate pups. Her name was Mirabelle.”

It started as a low vibration, a rough rumbling in his chest like a rusty millwork coming alive. But soon Nicholas was laughing unabashedly, a full hearty laugh. “A spaniel? You were named for a spaniel?”

As a smile crept across her face, Mira studied the man sitting beside her. When he laughed, a dimple appeared in his cheek. A lock of hair had escaped the queue to curl around his ear. He did not seem at all intimidating or threatening. He did not seem like he could be a killer.

When he finally collected himself he asked, “So to which brother did your grandfather leave his money?”

Mira chuckled. “Neither. In the end, he left every shilling to his kennel club.”

Nicholas completely lost his composure, erupting in deep, rusty laughter. He had to steer the phaeton to the side of the path until he could recover himself. Mira was utterly delighted by the sight of him shaking with laughter. And the fact she had been the one to make him laugh gave her an unaccountable rush of pleasure.

As the last few chortles rumbled through his chest, he took up the reins and urged the horses forward. Eyes on the road ahead, he reminded her that she had been the one to suggest this outing. “I believe you mentioned last night that you had something important you wished to discuss?”

The plan. The plan to offer him a way out of the engagement. But the echo of Nicholas’s laughter still rang in her ears. Surely a monster could not wear such a charming mask. She could not quite bring herself to divulge her scheme just yet. “Mmmm. Well, whatever it was, I have quite forgotten it. I suppose it was not all that important after all.”

Today she would enjoy her ride through Hyde Park. Tomorrow would be soon enough to ruin her reputation forever.

Chapter Four

The dream was always the same, the events unfolding slowly, vividly…and inevitably.

Nicholas stood on a broad, flat boulder, with his feet bare and the cuffs of his breeches turned up, the waves licking at his toes as they crashed upon the shore. Sometimes he stood there as a grown man, other times he was a boy of seven, but he always stood upon the same rock, staring out at the same point on the horizon, trying to catch sight of a ship’s sail that he thought he had seen from the cliff above. And his left leg was always whole.