Tempting Fate (22 page)

“It’s his place,” he corrected, watching her carefully. “Your hands are shaking.”

“I’m angry.”

“Your hands fist when you’re angry,” he countered. “I should know.” He brought his gaze up to study her face. “You’re more than a little pale, as well.”

“I had too much pudding at dinner.”

He chose to ignore that preposterous excuse entirely. He looked at her instead, long and hard, and what he saw made his chest hurt. “There’s fear in your eyes,” he whispered. Without thought, he reached out to grip her shoulders. “What’s scared you, imp?”

“Nothing,” she answered with a lift of her chin. “I’m not afraid.”

“Tell me what’s the matter. I’ll—”

She knocked his hands away for the second time. “You’ll what?” she snapped. “Agree to leave my uncle alone?”

“I can’t do that.”

“And there’s nothing I can say to change your mind?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

She jerked her head once in a nod and handed him back the key. “Then we are at an impasse. I’d like you to go now, please.”

“Mirabelle—”

“Go.”

He wanted to continue the argument, but reluctantly took the key and let himself out instead. Mirabelle was right—neither of them was willing to give in, and neither was in a position to stop the other from doing what the other pleased.

He stopped in the middle of the hall.

Not in a position to stop her, when what she pleased was to engage in an act of espionage against her own family? What if one of her uncle’s guests turned out to be an accomplice and caught Mirabelle poking about where she shouldn’t?

To hell with that.

He spun around and headed back to the room. She would see reason, damn it—or not—but either way, she would do as she was told. She would do what ever he thought was necessary to keep her safe. He was an earl, for God’s sake—that bloody well ought to count for something.

When he entered the room, she was standing at the window with her back to the door. He marched up to her and spoke to the back of her head.

“As this matter involves your safety, I’ve decided this conversation is not over. It will end when I am satisfied you understand what is at stake here. I have also decided…” He trailed off, uneasy suddenly that she hadn’t turned around. “Are you listening?”

“No.”

He opened his mouth, shut it again at the sound of a sniffle. He took one full step back. “Are you…are you
crying?
”

“No.” Her response was delivered on a hiccup.

“Dear God, you are.” Bewildered, horrified, he stood rooted to the spot, and said the first thing that came to mind. “I sincerely wish you wouldn’t.”

Even under duress he recognized it was a foolish thing to say, but bloody hell, the imp didn’t cry. In all the years he’d known her, he’d never seen her cry. “Mirabelle—”

“Go away.”

He was tempted, sorely tempted, to do just that. And it wouldn’t be terribly difficult to justify his retreat. A gentleman never pressed his presence on a lady who desired to be left alone. He’d only be acquiescing to her demands if he left. It would be best if he gave her the time to compose herself, then they could work this business out.

But even while his mind whirled with all the reasons he could walk away, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t…imp, don’t.”

She pulled away from him. He pulled her back. He couldn’t stand it.

“I’m sorry, imp. I’m sorry. Please, don’t cry.”

She stilled against him, but the tears still came. He could hear it in the ragged catches of her breath. He held her, rocking gently, until her breathing smoothed into a steady rhythm.

“Won’t you tell me what this is about?” he asked softly, turning her in his arms.

She pulled back to look up at him. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I know, but I haven’t any choice.” He wiped a lingering tear from her cheek. “Can’t you see—”

“You do have the choice,” she cried, pulling out of his arms. “You could stay here. You could let me go alone.”

“No,” he replied resolutely. “I cannot.”

“You won’t trust me to see to this myself.”

“This has nothing to do with trust.” He frowned at her. “Or perhaps a great deal to do with it. Why won’t you tell me the reason you’re crying?”

“I just did.”

“No, not all of it.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “We’re right back to where we started.”

“We wouldn’t have to be, if you’d talk to me.”

“And will you talk to me?” she asked with a hint of accusation. “Will you tell me how William knew of this, or why you’ve experience with counterfeiting, or why—”

“No.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Damn it, I don’t want you involved in it. In any of this.”

“As I don’t want you involved.”

“It’s entirely different,” he snapped.

“No, it’s not.” She shook her head and moved past him to the door. She paused with her hand on the handle.

“I don’t want you to come,” she repeatedly quietly. “You won’t be welcomed.”

The words wounded, deeper than he would have expected or cared to admit, and in a force of habit, he lashed out in return.

“Lack of welcome never discouraged you. Consider it my revenge.”

Even as regret had him forming the words of an apology, she nodded once and left.

Seventeen

T
here are all kinds of embarrassment—humiliation, mortification, shame—and it occurred to Mirabelle as she made the trip to her uncle’s house that she was destined to experience each and every one in the course of a single month. First the fall down the hill, then being tormented by a thirteen-year-old, crying in front of Whit, and now the worst, his visit to her uncle’s home.

She’d rather fall off a dozen hills and be set upon by an entire tribe of infantile monsters when she reached the bottom than have any member of the Cole family witness how her uncle lived—and how she lived when forced to be under his roof.

There had always been rumors of her uncle’s behavior—whispers of the reclusive baron’s fractious nature and fondness for drink—but eccentricity from the titled was tolerated, and his secluded lifestyle kept the full extent of his sins from becoming public knowledge. His reputation—and hers by association—remained essentially intact.

What would Whit do once he learned the truth—that her only living relation was a dissolute scoundrel? Not a counterfeiter, mind you. That absurd piece of business could be cleared up. The remainder of her uncle’s offenses, however, could not be denied.

She remembered the time he’d paid for several prostitutes to visit from London. And the memorable dinner at which Mr. Latimer had jokingly offered the baron twenty pounds to take her off his hands. Mr. Hartsinger, overseer of the nearby asylum, St. Brigit’s, had then not so jokingly upped the bid to thirty.

In the eyes of many, both occurrences would be enough to ruin her.

If Whit found out…Her heart stammered painfully at the thought.

Whit had worked so hard to rebuild his family’s good standing in society, and an association with a man like her uncle, or a ruined woman, could undo much of the progress he’d made. Would he distance himself and the rest of the Cole family from her?

It might not be fair that a person be judged by the actions of their relatives, but it was the way of the
ton.
Whit knew that well enough. It had been the actions of his own relatives, after all, that had so damaged the Cole name initially.

And now he would see. He would know. He would
judge.

And there wasn’t a single blasted thing she could do about it.

She had spent the whole of the night frantically trying to find a way out of the situation, but nothing short of running off with the gypsies—or bribing the gypsies to run off with Whit—had occurred to her. The best she could do was to arrive early and attempt to elevate at least some small portion of the house to habitable. With any luck, Whit would be too preoccupied to care overmuch about the condition of the old manor. With an enormous amount of luck, Whit’s presence might induce her uncle and his guests to restrict their revelry to the merely embarrassing, rather than the unforgivable.

The idea that they might behave well was nearly laughable. Nearly.

Her pride, she knew, was going to suffer tremendously. She could accept that or, at the very least, learn to accept it.

So long as she wasn’t banned from Haldon.

She pressed the back of a shaking hand across trembling lips and wished, as she had wished for years, that her mother and father had cared enough to will her into the care of someone like the Coles.

She’d been seven years old when her parents had died in an outbreak of influenza. In life, they had been indifferent toward their only daughter, choosing to have her raised the
ton
way, by a series of servants.

In death, that indifference proved cruel. They’d warded her to an uncle they barely knew. But the man was a baron, and apparently her mother and father had felt that the title was all the character reference required.

Upon arrival at her uncle’s, she had been swiftly relegated to an out-of-the-way room in the back of the house, assigned a disinterested governess, and otherwise ignored by the baron and his staff alike.

After two months of such treatment, Mirabelle had taken it upon herself to seek out her uncle and demand a room with a properly functioning fireplace, regular meals, and, if it wasn’t too much to ask, a mattress with its insides on the inside. She was, after all, the daughter of a gentleman and a member of the baron’s family.

Her uncle had responded with the back of his hand, an action that had so shocked Mirabelle she had been rendered mute and unable to move. For a moment her head had felt curiously detached from her body and she numbly wondered if she would be forced to spend the remainder of her life on the floor of her uncle’s study. But he had quickly dispelled that notion by coming around the desk, grabbing her arm and dragging her forcibly out the study’s door. Only when it appeared as if he might follow her, did Mirabelle regain her senses and bolt—down the hall, out the front door, and into the woods on the eastern side of the estate’s property.

She had run until she could no longer feel her legs. Until she thought her lungs and heart might burst inside her chest. Until she had turned a corner, lost her footing and tumbled straight down a hill, and into the arms of lovely lady in a crisp white dress that smelled of starch and mint.

The woman had held Mirabelle until the tears stopped. She had checked her over for any serious injuries and admonished her gently for running about the countryside and rolling down hills like a wild animal. Now she would have a bruised eye to show for it, silly child.

Then she had introduced herself as Mrs. Brinkly, governess to young Lady Kate—a small, blonde-haired sprite of a girl who had stepped forward and shyly offered Mirabelle the remains of a sticky bun—more sticky than bun at this point—encased in her little fingers. Mirabelle had accepted the treat gratefully and the silent invitation for friendship that came with it.

Such was her introduction to the Cole family. A kind twist of fate that had made all the difference.

Their estate of Haldon sat not two miles from her uncle’s home. Upon hearing that their neighbor had been made guardian to an orphaned child, Lady Thurston had groaned in disgust at the absurdity of the inebriated baron raising a young girl. She immediately saw to it that Mirabelle received an open invitation to Haldon Hall. While visiting, Mirabelle was properly fed, clothed, and educated. The countess had even insisted that Mirabelle accompany the family to London for a come out, and subsequent Seasons.

She’d spent the majority of her childhood in the company of the Coles, and to Mirabelle, Haldon and its inhabitants were straight out of a fairy tale.

But if Haldon had been a shining castle filled with knights and fair maidens, her uncle’s home had been a dungeon complete with ogre.

It still was, she thought with a grimace as the stone building came into view around a curve in the road. And it was every bit as glum and unwelcoming as Haldon was bright and gracious. With its pillared front entrance, two rows of windows and multiple chimneys, the old stone building may have carried the hallmarks of respectable—if limited—affluence from a distance, but one needed only to draw a little closer to discover the truth. It was dark, dank, and in disrepair. The pillars were buckling, the windows were cracked, and the chimneys were crumbling.

There were no gardens to speak of, just the moldering ruins of an old half wall and gardener’s cottage out back. Nary so much as an herb patch was to be found on the grounds. Her uncle didn’t care for vegetables, and she suspected he had lost his sense of taste to spirits some time ago. It would explain why he complained routinely to the kitchen of the lack of food, but never of the food’s near
inedible nature. Quantity surpassed quality in importance as far as he was concerned.

With her valise in hand, she hopped down from the carriage. She’d brought only two gowns with her from Haldon, and those only because Whit was coming. She’d have made do with the very old dresses she kept at her uncle’s home otherwise.

“Shall I carry that for you, miss?”

She smiled and shook her head at the waiting footman. She’d never let any of the staff enter her uncle’s home. “Thank you, but no. You should return. I’m certain Lady Thurston could use your help with all the guests packing and leaving today.”

“Very good, miss.”

She watched the footmen swing lightly back onto the carriage before it rolled away. Then, straightening her shoulders she turned and headed toward the house.

An enormous dog—the sort that looked as if it might fit a person’s entire arm in its mouth—was chained at the side of the front steps. A massive beast of questionable lineage, it was fond of snapping at women’s skirts and men’s ankles as they hurried past, (though whether its purpose was to discourage unwelcome guests or
all
guests was something Mirabelle had never been able to work out.) It had always put her to mind of Cerberus guarding the gates to hell.