The Incomparable Miss Compton (8 page)

The thought of collapsing in her quiet bedchamber had never been more appealing. She could not say that Aunt Belle and Uncle Harold stinted in their material support of her, for all Uncle Harold bemoaned the cost. She had lovely clothes, even if they were all drab, dark colors that befitted her spinster status. She had a beautifully appointed room here in London as well as in Suffolk, both done in blues and golds with bed, writing desk, comfortable chair, and marble fireplace. They were no more hers than any other guest bedchamber. When she moved to the cottage that Norrie said stood next to the Dame School at Wenworth Place, she had already planned to use her meager inheritance to purchase paintings for the walls and porcelain vases and figurines to place on the mantel. Her home would look like Sarah Compton lived there.

Unfortunately, she was not to be left alone that night. While Persy had her own maid (a young lady named Lucy as nearly puffed up in consequence as her mistress), Sarah was long used to fending for herself. She was therefore surprised to find Lucy turning down the bed clothes on her blue-hung four-poster bed when she entered her room.

“Miss Persy thought you might have a need for my services, Miss Sarah,” she explained with a bob of a curtsy. A tiny black-haired girl a year younger than Persephone, she nevertheless had cultivated a reputation for being a knowing one. Still, Sarah was glad for the help for once. It was obvious Persephone was trying to make amends.

“Some help with my tapes would be very welcome,” Sarah acknowledged, turning so the girl could apply deft fingers to the task of unhooking the blue silk gown.

“Let me help you with your nightdress as well,” the little maid admonished as she finished with the gown. She bustled to the dresser and opened the drawers until she found a white lawn gown. In the meantime, Sarah pulled off her dress and chemise and loosened her stays. Before she could have counted to ten, Lucy had her in the nightdress and perched before the dressing table, where she took down and brushed out Sarah’s long, thick, straight hair.

“I could crimp this for you,” Lucy offered, letting the strands run through her fingers. “We could set up the curls real easy. It would draw attention to your speaking eyes.”

Sarah caught herself wondering how Malcolm Breckonridge would react to her hair in curls around her face. Letting Lucy apply the hot crimping irons to her locks would definitely be worth it if she won that look of warmth again when he called.

If he called.

“I could help you in other ways as well,” Lucy continued, watching her in the mirror. “I was told I have a lovely hand. Perhaps I could help you with your correspondence, like to Mr. Compton.”

Sarah stiffened, then turned to confront the maid. “Is that what this is all about? Persy’s afraid I’ll write to her father about her behavior. She sent you to stop me.”

“Oh, no, mum,” Lucy protested, green eyes wide. “Heavens no, mum. Why would you think so?”

Sarah stood. “Perhaps because Persy’s never seen fit to share your services with me before. Nor have you ever seemed so eager to help. Good night, Lucy. You may tell your mistress that I will keep my own counsel, thank you very much. And if I want my hair crimped, I can jolly well do it myself, like I do everything else.”

The maid ducked out, and Sarah stalked to the bed and climbed in. Lucy was new to the household, having only arrived when Persephone was graduated from school. The maid could not know how easily Persy manipulated people. Sarah would have to mention Lucy’s behavior to Timmons. The rest of the staff was immune to the girl’s tantrums and tearful entreaties. If Sarah wanted to keep the household running smoothly, she would have to find a way to teach Lucy to think for herself. Once one stood up to Persy, her cousin often stopped attempting to manipulate.

She plumped the goose feather pillow and lay down her head. Did anyone stop to wonder about the woman who made sure Persephone’s life ran smoothly? If others knew the story of her background, she was certain they would believe she must harbor a deep resentment of her cousin. Persy had been given all the attention, while Sarah had worked harder than most nursemaids. Yet she could not regret her time away from London. In the quiet of the Suffolk countryside, she knew she had grown from a timid, gawkish teenager to a self-confident woman. Ministering to Persephone had taught her patience and presence of mind. As she read to pass the time, she learned things she might never have known. With no one to talk to on her lonely night vigils, she had learned to fill her mind with her own thoughts and to listen for the thoughts of God. She had also learned to analyze what she read by firelight and form her own opinions. Hadn’t Lord Breckonridge praised her for that tonight?

And there she was thinking of him again. Small wonder he was a force in Parliament. He had certainly mesmerized her. She could not remember his thick black hair without wondering how it would feel to run her fingers through it. She could not consider his strength without thinking about how it felt to be held in his arms. She could not ponder her conversation without savoring the deep rumble of his laughter when she’d been witty or audacious. Was she therefore lost?

She sat up and pounded down the pillow, then threw herself flat once more. That was quite enough. She was not some ape leader, some graceless, faceless spinster to feel grateful for a moment of his time. She might be nearly penniless, but she had a purpose and a future. She would focus on that and let Malcolm Breckonridge be hanged. She just had to get Persy married first. Surely she could accomplish that.

 * * * *

She was not so confident the next day. As usual, the knocker sounded repeatedly throughout the afternoon and by the time the duke arrived at four, Persy was surrounded by no less than six suitors, all trying to outdo one another for her favors. Though two had already overstayed their welcome by an hour, none showed the least inclination to leave. The duke had engaged Sarah in fifteen minutes of meaningless conversation and taken himself off in high dudgeon. Persy didn’t even notice.

Nor was she repentant when Sarah pointed out the problem that evening at dinner before a theatre outing with Norrie and her husband.

“He will value me all the more if he knows I am popular,” Persy assured her calmly. “Have we heard any word from Lord Breckonridge?”

Sarah started at the name. Indeed, she had started at every knock at the door that afternoon, only to sag with disappointment when each caller was only another of Persy’s admirers.
Silly woman
, she had scolded herself for her yearnings. He probably wasn’t coming anyway. And even if he was, it was only the day after the ball. It was much too much to think he would appear so soon. True, Persy’s admirers seldom let twenty-four hours go by before rushing to renew the acquaintance, but Lord Breckonridge was hardly a lovesick swain.

“I have heard nothing,” Sarah told her cousin.

Persy sighed, fussing with the skirt of her lavender lustring dress. “Perhaps he was not interested after all.”

“I’m sure we are the least of his worries,” Sarah replied, feeling as if she were trying to convince herself rather than her cousin. “He has a country to run, after all. You cannot expect him to dance attendance on a woman who is not even a close friend.”

“I suppose not,” Persy replied. Her tone was so subdued that Sarah could not help but be touched. Perhaps if Persy could care about Sarah’s potential suitor, all was not lost with the girl.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than Sarah cringed inwardly. She had to stop this nonsense at once. She could not get her hopes up that Malcolm Breckonridge might court her. She was long past the age of whispered secrets and longing glances across crowded ballrooms. She had other plans for her future, and Lord Breckonridge would surely be looking for a woman with more social connections anyway, certainly not a reclusive spinster from the back of beyond. He must have another reason to call.

But if he called on Persephone, she thought she would cheerfully be sick all over her cousin’s fashionable gown.

Chapter Seven

Appleby was tight-mouthed as he dressed Malcolm the morning after Lady Prestwick’s ball.

“I take it the gossip was less than useful,“ Malcolm probed.

“I regret to say, my lord,“ his valet intoned, “that Miss Sarah Compton is a singularly uninteresting female.“

Malcolm chuckled. “I did not find her so. You learned nothing then?“

“Nothing of import,“ Appleby replied with a dour face. “Her servants adore her. Her neighbors find her a model of decorum. She is virtuous, hard-working, and loyal to her family. She has a select group of acquaintances, including the Countess of Wenworth. I could not find a crumb of gossip associated with her name, my lord, outside of the fact that she is nearly thirty years of age and unmarried. I have failed.”

“Not in the slightest,” Malcolm assured him with a grin. “You’ve told me exactly what I wished to know. There will be something extra in your pocket this month. Keep up the good work.”

Malcolm would have thought it was the first time he’d praised the fellow by the sly grin Appleby effected. As Malcolm went down to breakfast, however, he had to own that it probably was the first time he’d ever praised the fellow.

So, Sarah Compton’s servants adored her. He did not know whether that was good or bad. It might mean that she was too generous or too lax in her demands on them. On the other hand, it might mean that she ran an orderly household in which they were proud to work. He caught himself wondering how his servants liked him. He glanced at the footman who was pouring his coffee, but his face must not have been sufficiently composed, for the poor fellow’s hand began shaking and he was forced to set the pot down and back trembling from the room.

God, how he needed a capable wife.

As the morning progressed, he began to think more and more that Sarah Compton could be that wife. Reports from his other sources trickled in throughout the day as he worked with his fellow Parliamentarians. From the snippets of information, he learned that Sarah was an orphan and a graduate of the Barnsley School for Young Ladies in Somerset. Her family was an old and reputable one. Her only known relatives were the aunt and uncle who would be Miss Persephone’s parents. She had apparently made a brief appearance on the social scene some eleven years ago, only to mysteriously disappear. It was not until he spoke late in the afternoon with burly Micky McGaffin, a Bow Street runner who was not above an extra quid in his pocket, that anyone was willing to hazard a guess why.

“Any number of reasons a lady runs off quiet like,” the red-headed runner offered as he ambled beside Malcolm in a quiet corner of Hyde Park where they were unlikely to be observed. “Money troubles, family troubles, suitor troubles.”

“From what I can learn,” Malcolm replied, “her aunt and uncle are rather wealthy, her parents were long dead by the time of her Season, and her list of suitors is remarkably short.”

“That only leaves one thing, then, in my mind,” McGaffin said. He paused to spit as if to lengthen the silence. “She went and got herself in the family way.”

Malcolm jerked to a stop. He seized the surprised fellow by the front of his coat and lifted him off the ground. “If you ever sully Miss Compton’s name in my presence again, I won’t be accountable for my actions. Do I make myself clear?”

McGaffin’s blue eyes bulged from their reddened sockets. “Perfectly clear, yer lordship. No disrespect intended. Lots of very fine ladies find theirselves in trouble that way.”

“Not Miss Compton, I assure you,” Malcolm replied, releasing him so quickly the fellow stumbled. “There must be another reason. I suggest you find it.”

McGaffin bowed. “Right away, me lord.”

Watching him hurry away, Malcolm shook his head. He had never before felt a murderous rage rush over him like that. It was as if something deep inside him refused to believe anything bad about the woman. More, something was quite furious that anyone would even
think
anything bad about her. He shook his head again. No doubt he had been working too hard lately. But with the people free from last year’s Gagging Acts that had banned public meetings, and the rising talk of Parliamentary reform, he feared the Tories would move to enact stricter laws against free speech. The fools in the Commons only made things worse with their cries for radical change. If he could only get both sides to see reason. The more that comments were suppressed, the more dangerous they became. Yet the harder he focused on his work, the less time he could devote to other thoughts, such as the very interesting Miss Compton.

He did, of course, have another call to make. He had promised Lady Renderly a visit, however unpleasant that prospect appeared.

It was nearly as bad as he had feared, with the woman complaining on a variety of subjects while her poor daughter sat chewing her narrow lower lip. Malcolm tried to remain polite, but when the subject of Miss Compton came up, he was once more hard pressed to keep his temper.

“I told Elspeth you had no interest in that whey-faced spinster,” Lady Renderly proclaimed. “And I knew you’d see through the Compton chit in a minute. She isn’t nearly as pretty as they say. Poor blood lines.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Malcolm managed, trying to think of a way to leave before he disgraced his reputation of civility.

“You should notice,” she scolded. “Do you want your children sullied? Timidity, sir. It runs in their veins. Look at the elder Miss Compton. Scared of her own shadow.”

Malcolm frowned. He could not help but glance at Elspeth, who lowered her gaze with a blush. “Reticence would appear to be a congenial trait,” he offered. He thought he saw a brief smile flash across the girl’s face, but her mother reached out to rap his knuckles with the gold edge of her quizzing glass. Malcolm had to fight the impulse to strike back.

“I’m speaking of cowardice, if you please,” Lady Renderly informed him. “There is a difference, sir. Miss Sarah Compton ran away from her Season like the cur she is. She would make you a wretched wife.”