The Importance of Being Wicked (Millworth Manor) (28 page)

“Does no one knock anymore?” Win snapped.

“Welcome home, Grayson,” Miranda said with a weak smile.

Chapman threw Win a warning look.

“It’s good to be home,” Gray said cautiously.

“Gray.” Win met his cousin’s curious gaze. “I don’t believe you’ve met my architect, Mr. Tempest.” He turned toward Chapman. “Mr. Tempest, this is my cousin, Mr. Grayson Elliott.”

“I’m honored to meet you, Mr. Tempest,” Gray said, as coolly as if he met investigators pretending to be imaginary architects every day. “I’m a great admirer of your work.”

“Thank you, Mr. Elliott. And I do need to be on my way.” Chapman cast a smile at Miranda and Win. “Good day.” With that, he finally took his leave.

“What an unexpected . . . pleasure.” Gray’s smile was noncommittal, but laughter danced in his eyes.

“Not exactly,” Miranda said softly, staring at the door.

“Miranda.” Win braced himself. “We have much to talk about.”

“Yes, of course.” Miranda wrenched her gaze from the door and smiled at him. “I am sorry that everything got so terribly out of control. And I do apologize for calling you a twit.”

He drew his brows together. “When did you call me a twit?”

“Oh, you might not have heard that.” She shrugged. “It scarcely matters now.”

Gray’s gaze slid from Win to Miranda and back. “Should I leave?”

“Yes,” Win said.

“No,” Miranda said firmly. “I’m sure you both have a great deal to talk about and I have a great deal to accomplish today. Lady Fairborough and I had planned to spend the afternoon at the hall in preparations for the ball.”

Gray’s eyes widened. “Is Fairborough complete then?”

“Not entirely. But the wings that were untouched by the fire are again habitable. As those included the family’s private rooms, your aunt insists that we dress at Fairborough and spend the day of the ball there. Which makes perfect sense, of course, as there are all sorts of minor details that will still need attention. As for the rest of the work, the finishes—woodwork, trims, plaster details and that sort of thing—will still take well into the autumn to complete. But as most of the destroyed portion of the hall has been rebuilt, the noise, the disorder and mess of construction is essentially over. The family can take up residence again within the next few weeks.”

Win stared. “I had no idea.”

“You haven’t been here,” Miranda said pointedly.

Gray’s brows drew together. “Where have you been?”

Win waved off the question. “It’s a long story.”

“However, the ball will be held at Fairborough as it has been for the last 127 years.” She turned to Win. “I know you and I have much to discuss as well, but it shall have to wait. I have other matters I need to attend to first.”

Win stepped closer to her. “I understand that, but—”

“We have time, Winfield,” she said firmly. “All the time in the world, really. This can wait until after the ball, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, I suppose, but—”

“But know this.” She met his gaze directly. “I do trust you. Now, I must ask that you trust me as well. Can you do that?”

He stared into her eyes, brown today and flecked with gold and simmering with promise and something else that was surely love.

“Of course,” he murmured. In truth, he had no choice at the moment thanks to the farce her brother had orchestrated.

“Good.” She turned to leave, then turned back, grabbed his jacket and kissed him fast and hard. Before he could so much as breathe she released him and turned to leave. She nodded at his cousin. “Your aunt will be so pleased you’re back in time for the ball.”

“I wouldn’t think of missing it,” Gray said with a stunned smile.

Miranda smiled, cast a last look at Win and sailed out the door, closing it firmly in her wake.

Win stared after her. It was at once a pity and a very good thing she had left so abruptly. Otherwise he wasn’t sure he could have resisted the need to pull her into his arms and ravish her right here in the library in front of his cousin and anyone else who might burst in unexpectedly.

“Well, that was certainly interesting.” Gray studied his cousin. “I gather a lot has happened in my absence.”

“You have no idea.” Win sighed and returned to his chair behind the desk.

Gray settled in the chair in front of the desk. “Then perhaps you could enlighten me as to what I have missed.” He grinned. “I too have all the time in the world.”

Win narrowed his eyes.

“Come now, cousin. It’s obvious you and Miranda have resolved your differences. Given her comment when she left, I am curious as to what end.”

“That does seem to be the question, and at the moment I’m not sure of the answer. This is a reprieve, Gray, nothing more than a pause in the battle. I suppose I should start at the beginning.”

“That does usually work best.”

“Usually.” Win blew a long breath. “The day you left for America, I was invited to join Miranda’s family for dinner. . . .”

Quickly Win recounted all that had occurred since Gray had left, starting with his defense of Miranda at dinner and her subsequent standing up to her family. He did, of course, skip the more intimate details of that night. Win explained Miranda’s reluctance to accept an engagement, the questions of trust that had risen between them, his continuing concern about her feelings for her late husband, his sojourn in London, his meeting with her brother and Chapman’s subsequent visit today.

Gray stared in disbelief. “I can’t leave you alone for a moment, can I?”

“Not all of this is my fault.”

“No, not all of it.” He shook his head. “But I never thought you were a coward.”

“I’m not.”

Gray’s brow rose.

“I’m not,” Win said staunchly.

“What do you call a man who flees before the battle is ended?”

“Intelligent,” Win snapped.

“An intelligent man would have stayed here. Once the two of you had calmed down, you could have worked out your differences. Then you would not have met with Waterston and he would not have set this absurd plan in motion.” Gray studied him closely. “But you know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that. I am apparently much smarter than I look. Or less, I suppose.” Win ran his hand through his hair. “I’m not certain of anything at the moment. Nor have I been since the moment her ugly shoes stalked into my life.”

Gray considered him thoughtfully. “You’ve always been able to charm a woman into doing very nearly anything you wished.”

Win snorted. “With the notable exception of those I have asked to marry me. They seem well able to resist my charming nature.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Obviously, I am going to have to tell her everything.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Timing is crucial if I don’t want to lose her.” Win drummed his fingers on the desk. “I have until next Thursday, when she intends to meet with Chapman. She has to know the truth before then.”

“Not that he will actually appear for their meeting.”

“There is that.” Win brightened. “Perhaps I could simply do nothing and this will all work itself out.”

Gray scoffed. “Coward.”

“There is a fine line between cowardice and wisdom,” Win said in a lofty manner.

Gray laughed. “No, there isn’t.” He paused. “It will only get worse, you know. The longer you put off telling her who Chapman really is, as well as how long you have known the truth about her work.”

“I know.” Win thought for a moment. “It seems to me, it might be wiser to wait until after the ball to reveal my, oh, let’s call them mistakes in judgment.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s what Miranda will call them.”

Win glared at the other man. “I know you find this all most amusing.”

“Forgive me, cousin, but as I was not here for your first three engagements . . .” Gray snorted back a laugh. “Yes, I do find this extremely entertaining. I must say, I cannot wait to see what happens next.”

“Neither can I.” Win blew a long breath. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I finally found the one woman I cannot live without when I wasn’t actually looking at all. And now, it’s all so very messy and complicated.”

“In my experience, love is usually messy and complicated.”

“You could have warned me.”

Gray chuckled. “I only recently discovered that myself.”

“I’ll do what I have to do. Tell her everything and hope for the best. I can no longer imagine my life without her.”

“You’ve never had to fight for a woman before.”

“I’ve never met one worth fighting for. No matter what else happens, I will not give up.” He met his cousin’s gaze. “I will not lose her.”

 

 

Miranda closed the library door behind her and collapsed back against it. Who was this man? And more to the point: What did he want? There was, of course, a Mr. Tempest, but he was a silent investor, not the primary architect of Garret and Tempest.

Damnation, she did not need this now. When she and Winfield were so close to resolving their differences. She suspected—no, she knew—he would come to her rescue if asked, but she would much prefer not to have to be rescued. Besides, if she asked for his help now she would have to tell him everything, and while she fully intended to do so, she hadn’t planned to do so quite yet. She would much prefer to reveal that she had, well, misled him after another night in his bed. And perhaps after she told him she did indeed want to marry him. And even possibly after she agreed to an engagement, a short one. Yes, that would be a good time to tell him everything.

Still, the very idea was terrifying. After all, while she didn’t consider that her deception had been directed at him—she had fooled everyone after all—he might not see it exactly the same way. He could be most annoying in that respect. Besides, as questions of trust seemed to be the biggest difficulty between them, even if he did love her, he might feel he could never trust a woman who had not been completely honest with him.

She pushed away from the door and headed toward her room. She would have to write to Clara at once warning her and Emmett of this imposter pretending to be Mr. Tempest. There was little else she could do at the moment. She certainly couldn’t return to London until after the ball. There was entirely too much to accomplish. With the appearance of this charlatan, it was more important than ever that she receive the bonus Winfield had promised her for having the ball held at Fairborough. Garret and Tempest’s days could very well be numbered. Even if accepting that bonus did now seem the tiniest bit wrong of her, it would go for a good cause. She was not about to allow her employees to lose their livelihoods without some sort of financial compensation.

Besides, the Midsummer Ball was a tradition at Fairborough and was important to Winfield and his family. Miranda would do all she could to make certain it was an evening to remember.

Then she would deal with the fraudulent Mr. Tempest.

Then she would confess all to Winfield.

In the meantime, it might be best to keep her distance. The man was entirely too tempting to resist. But then, hadn’t someone told her that wicked men usually were?

“I think it looks quite marvelous.” Lady Fairborough gazed around the newly rebuilt grand entry of Fairborough Hall and gestured with the notebook that had become permanently affixed to her hand in recent days. “There’s an element of, well, magic about it, I would say.”

“Exactly as we intended,” Miranda said with a satisfied nod.

“I couldn’t be more pleased with the progress here, even if the hall is not completely finished. But, as we do want everything restored to its original appearance, that cannot be helped. It was really foolish of any of us to think . . .”

In the last week, Mr. Clarke’s men had been split between work on the house itself and preparations for the ball, as had most of the servants from the manor. Ferns and palms and all manner of tropical foliage had been gathered from the Fairborough conservatory—untouched by any damage from the fire—as well as borrowed from the conservatory at Millworth and arranged to form a sort of living corridor leading guests from the front entry to the grand stairway. Interspersed with the foliage were white painted, simple, tall, square pedestals with chandeliers affixed to them to provide adequate lighting while still being far enough away from the plants to prevent any possibility of fire. Here in the grand entry, as well as on the ground and first floors leading into the ballroom, all the walls were covered in dark blue dyed muslin with silver spangles glued on in a random manner to give the impression of the night sky. Here too the walls, as well as the ceiling, were hidden by blue fabric dotted with spangles. The enormous chandelier that Lady Fairborough had selected in London to replace the one lost in the fire had been delivered some weeks ago but only uncrated and hung in recent days.

But the ballroom was little more than a large open space leading guests to the terrace. While the tall French doors had been installed, they would be taken off their hinges tomorrow and removed. Guests would freely flow from inside to the out-of-doors, the idea being that one might not be sure if the stars one was under were real or an illusion. Each doorway was flanked by large urns, which would be filled to overflowing with fresh flowers. That was a final touch and could not be arranged until hours before the first guests arrived.

Below the terrace, much of the lawn was hidden by a temporary wooden floor for dancing. Tables and chairs had already been placed on the tennis and croquet courts. Fairborough’s kitchen had been cleaned of the lingering effects of the smoke and was now operational. All in all, preparations were very nearly completed for the Fairborough Hall Midsummer Ball.

Something of a pity, really.

As long as Miranda’s head was filled with the myriad details of turning a half-finished construction site into the magical location for a century-old tradition she didn’t need to consider the implications of the fraudulent Mr. Tempest. For the life of her, she couldn’t figure out who he was or what he had to gain from his impersonation.

The question of what to do about Mr. Tempest led directly to the question of what to do about Winfield. Yet another thing she could not get off her mind. When she wasn’t thinking about Tempest, she was thinking about Winfield. When she wasn’t thinking about Winfield she was dreaming about him. Oh bother, it was all so blasted complicated and she had no—

“Miranda? Are you listening to me?”

Miranda’s attention jerked back to the older woman. “Yes, of course.”

Lady Fairborough arched a disbelieving brow.

“My mind might have wandered for a moment . . .”

“My dear girl, your mind has been anywhere but on the matters at hand ever since Winfield returned yesterday.”

“Oh, I daresay—”

“What is even more puzzling”—Lady Fairborough’s eyes narrowed—“is that you seem to be avoiding him as well.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Lady Fairborough.” Winfield’s mother was far more perceptive than Miranda had realized. It did seem best, at the moment, to stay as far away from him as possible. Being around him just muddled her mind and made her long to be in his arms. Miranda busied herself adjusting a potted banana tree and adopted a casual tone. “I have simply had a great deal on my mind, that’s all. The ball is tomorrow and there is still much to accomplish.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought.” Lady Fairborough started up the stairs and Miranda trailed after her. “I didn’t for a moment think that it was because someone was unsure of his or her feelings.”

“Lady Fairborough.”

The older woman stopped and glanced back at her. Miranda met her gaze directly. “I am not the least bit unsure of my feelings.”

“I see,” she said thoughtfully. “And Winfield’s?”

Miranda shrugged. “That is another question, isn’t it? One only he can answer.”

“How very interesting. Well, we shall see, won’t we?” Lady Fairborough continued up the stairs. She reached the top, looked around and nodded with satisfaction. “One cannot discount the influence of magic, you know.”

“Magic?” Miranda’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Look around, Miranda.” Lady Fairborough swept into the ballroom, pride sounded in her voice. “We have created nothing less than magic here. Why, anything can happen in a setting like this. Tomorrow night will certainly be a night filled with magic.” She sighed. “It’s a pity the queen isn’t coming, although she would have been a great deal of trouble.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Not at all. I really never expected that she would come. It was scarcely more than a rumor that she would attend in the first place.” She shrugged. “Besides, as I said, it would have been a great deal of trouble and we still have more than enough to do without a royal visit.” She glanced down at her notebook.

“Lady Fairborough,” Miranda said abruptly. “Might I ask you a question?”

“Of course. Anything, dear,” the older woman said absently, her gaze shifting from her notebook to the blue spangled fabric on the ceiling.

Miranda drew a deep breath. “Do you think complete and total honesty is important between a husband and wife?”

Lady Fairborough glanced at her. “Complete and total honesty?”

Miranda nodded.

“That was not the question I was expecting.” She chuckled. “However, I do think complete and total honesty is without doubt the worst thing that can happen between two people. It leads to comments like him saying your favorite gown makes your waist look wide or you pointing out that perhaps if he had ever learned to drive properly, your carriages wouldn’t lose quite so many wheels. That sort of thing.”

“I see.”

“However, before one marries, relative honesty does strike me as a good idea.” She picked a stray thread off the fabric. “Is whatever it is you’re hiding so very terrible then?”

“Oh, I didn’t say—”

“Did you poison your first husband?” she asked in a casual manner.

Miranda gasped. “Of course not!”

“Are you secretly married to an Italian count?”

Shock widened Miranda’s eyes. “Lady Fairborough!”

“Have you ever been employed by or managed a brothel for wealthy gentlemen of society?”

Miranda gasped. “I cannot believe—”

“Have you changed your name after committing a heinous crime?”

Miranda stared at the older woman.

“I thought not.” Lady Fairborough shrugged. “If we can eliminate all of those possibilities, then I can’t imagine your secret to be at all dreadful.”

“I am the architect of Fairborough Hall,” Miranda blurted.

“Don’t be absurd. He died nearly three centuries ago.” Lady Fairborough thought for a moment. “Perhaps a bit less, but I really cannot be certain.”

“No.” Impatience sounded in Miranda’s voice. “I mean I am the architect who designed the plans for the rebuilding.”

“Oh, I see.” Winfield’s mother smiled. “How delightful.”

“Delightful?” Miranda stared. “You’re not shocked that I am doing work that has always been the purview of men?”

“Perhaps I would have been before I met you. Before the fire, really.” She directed a firm glance at Miranda. “Losing much of what you hold dear puts everything in a much different perspective. I might well have been a little shocked if I hadn’t known that you don’t merely represent Garret and Tempest but you run the firm as well.”

Miranda drew her brows together. “How did you know that?”

“Your mother told me.” Lady Fairborough checked something off in her notebook, then proceeded across the ballroom floor to the open doorways leading to the terrace.

Miranda hurried after her. “How did my mother know?”

“I have no idea.” Lady Fairborough’s gaze scanned the terrace. “I have long made it a point not to question where other people get their information, but mothers do tend to know everything. One can rarely hide something from one’s mother.”

“But . . .” Her brothers, of course! They must have told Mother everything. Her jaw clenched. She would have to kill them. All of them. Slowly and with a great deal of satisfaction on her part.

“Although, if I recall correctly, didn’t you say you intended to tell your family yourself?”

“I did tell them.” Miranda ignored the slightest twinge of guilt. “Some of them, anyway. When did you see my mother?”

Lady Fairborough cast her a chastising look. “I thought you only had one question?”

“One just seems to lead to another.”

“It always does.” She waved off the comment. “I saw your mother when I went into London to tell my son he was being something of a . . . of a . . .”

“A twit?”

“Exactly.” Lady Fairborough stepped onto the terrace and frowned. She waved her notebook at the scaffoldings still in place on the ground on either side of the terrace. “I assume those will be taken down before the festivities? They’re not at all in the spirit of the event.”

“They’re just finishing up work on the windows. They’ll come down tomorrow.” She paused. “One more question.” Miranda held her breath. “Should I tell Winfield the truth about my work?”

“Under other circumstances, I would say that particular revelation could wait until after the two of you are wed. However . . .” She thought for a moment. “My son has had three fiancées who were not completely honest with him. With them, as it turned out, it was not overly significant. But with you . . .” She smiled. “He is in love with you, my dear. Your deception might well hurt him deeply.”

“And he would think I didn’t trust him,” Miranda said under her breath. “I am willing to give up Garret and Tempest, but I do wish to continue my work.”

“As well you should.”

“What if he forbids it? As my husband, that would be his right.”

“Precisely why you should tell him before you marry. But I can’t imagine him forbidding you to do anything, nor can I imagine you not standing your ground.”

“He has very strong opinions on what women should or should not do.”

“And I doubt if that has changed. But Winfield is not an idiot. Your love of your work makes you who you are, the woman he has fallen in love with. You have a gift, Miranda, and my son has recognized that. You have proven to him, to the world really, that you can do this as well as any man. And to that I say bravo!”

“Thank you, but—”

“And I would be quite disappointed if you were to abandon work that you love and do so well.” She studied the younger woman. “Let me tell you something about myself. I have spent my entire life doing and being exactly what and who I was supposed to be. I married well, as I was expected to do, raised my son, ran my household and I’ve been a perfect hostess, wife and mother. I never ran off to Paris to live in an attic in Montmartre and create wild, improper works of art. I never had mad, impetuous affairs with foreign princes and counts with unpronounceable names. I never swam nude in a mountain lake while a poet composed sonnets about the color of my eyes.”

Miranda stared.

“All of which is far more unforgiveable in the eyes of society than what you have done.” She thought for a moment. “Do not take my comments for regret. I have quite enjoyed my life although I do wish I had done more. And once Winfield is settled, I intend to.”

“You do?” Miranda said cautiously.

“There are things in this world I will never do, but there are any number of things I wish to see. And I intend to drag my husband along with me. We shall see the pyramids and China’s Great Wall and buffalos in the wilds of America. And when we return”—she squared her shoulders—“I intend to vote.”

“I’m not sure I would tell your son that. About voting, that is,” she added.

“Oh, but telling Winfield will be the most enjoyable part of it.” She flashed Miranda a wicked smile.

Miranda laughed, then sobered. “You’re right though, I do need to tell him everything. Especially . . .”

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“I’m afraid so.” Miranda explained the appearance of the fraudulent Mr. Tempest.

“That is a problem. And I can certainly see why you don’t wish to involve Winfield in this. At least not yet. But you do need something of a plan, I think.” Lady Fairborough’s brow furrowed in a considering manner; then her expression brightened. “I have it. You, my dear, need a professional.”

“A professional?”

“An investigator.” Lady Fairborough nodded. “You need to uncover the truth about this man as quickly as possible. Although nothing can really be done until after the ball.”

Miranda shook her head. “I have no idea how to find an investigator.”

“Nor do I, but I would wager Camille does. She can no doubt supply the name of someone who will be both efficient and discreet.”

“That is a good idea.” She should have thought of it herself. At once, it was as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. The moment she disposed of the problem of the imposter, she could tell Winfield everything. Then, of course, she’d probably have to do battle with the stubborn man. Still, there was nothing quite as much fun as arguing with him although this was much more important than any of their previous disputes had been. This one she did not intend to lose.