The Mischievous Miss Murphy (2 page)

Jack Watkins had let a band of housebreakers all but denude Sir George Forwood’s house in order to collar a titled Lothario, and his superior knew his only pleasure to be had out of this entire episode would be from verbally ripping a strip off the watchman’s ignorant hide.

The newly released and, amazingly, still amused Marquess paused at the threshold to the street, his interest mildly piqued at the sight of a middle-aged, foreign-looking gentleman dressed in turban and flowing robes, and the man’s strikingly beautiful and obviously irate female companion. Who had the Charlies nabbed now? he thought idly, leaning against the doorjamb and assuming the part of interested bystander. Really, this place was better than having a front seat at Covent Garden for the farce.

“You cannot incarcerate the person of the Maharajah of Budge-Budge,” the female was explaining with some heat. “The King shall have your jobs for this insult. Indeed, you will be fortunate if you escape that easily. Such an affront! Such an inexcusable indignity! I blush to call you my countrymen. Why, we English have...”

Lord, Tony thought in admiration, what a rare beauty! Waist-length hair more white than blonde swirled around her body like sea foam, its style as unorthodox as the exotic slant of the enormous sherry-colored eyes that dominated her heart-shaped face. In a temper, as the female obviously was at that moment, she was glorious. How would she look in bed, heated by another sort of passion? Tony questioned silently, immediately committing himself to answering his own question. And although the sun was up and his belly told him to go somewhere and seek out his breakfast, wild horses could not move him from the spot.

Reluctantly, Tony turned his attention to the girl’s companion, whose determined tugging on the sleeve of her cloak had interrupted her fine, impassioned speech. The dark-skinned man spoke a few singsong phrases in some unknown tongue and then lapsed once more into meditative silence. The girl nodded agreement to whatever the man said and, pressing her palms together as if in homage, favored him with a polite bow before turning back to the assistant constable (who was looking rather shaken, with all this talk of kings and dire punishments and such).

“The Maharajah graciously agrees not to mention this little misunderstanding when he visits Carlton House this evening. But he is fatigued—from his long journey, you understand—and wishes a speedy resolution to this, er, unfortunate incident.”

“B-but,” stammered the assistant constable, “there is still the matter of the price of your food and lodging at The Swan With Two Necks this last sennight. It must be paid.”

“The Maharajah has no English money, as I’ve told you repeatedly. He will settle the bills once he meets with his bankers later today. The innkeeper was precipitate in summoning you,” explained the female with the resigned monotone parents used on children who persisted in asking the same question time and again. “Anyone would think the man believed we were not intending to pay. Three pounds six,” she sneered, giving her glorious head a toss. “Surely a trifling amount when weighed against the consequences of insulting one of his royal majesty’s guests, don’t you agree?”

Get out of that one, my good man, Tony prodded silently, looking at the assistant constable in some amusement. There was definitely something havey-cavey going on here, he knew, having already noticed that the Maharajah’s dark face looked so very out of place when measured against the lily-white hands clasped so reverently across his ample belly, and if Indians had twinkling green eyes, it was the first the Marquess had heard of it.

No, if that man was the Maharajah of Budge-Budge (if such a benighted Indian village even boasted a Maharajah), then Mark Antony Betancourt was the King of Persia. But the girl—that magnificent creature—what had she to do with his counterfeit highness?

While the assistant constable looked to one of his underlings, who was just then busily inspecting the scuffed toe of his left boot, Tony pushed himself away from the doorjamb and sauntered leisurely over to the counter. “Here you go, folks,” he said cheerily, tossing some coins down on the scarred wood. “Never let it be said we English don’t know how to treat visitors to our shores.”

Turning to bow elegantly toward the pair of imposters, he winked broadly, adding, “If I may offer my services, ma’am, your highness? I would deem it an honor to accompany you back to The Swan to redeem your luggage, which I am sure the Doubting-Thomas innkeeper has confiscated.”

The girl looked dubiously at the arm Tony extended to her and then, at a discreet shove from her companion, sweetly smiled her acceptance of his kind offer and placed her hand on his sleeve.

The Maharajah preceded them through the door into the street, and it was not until they were a full block away from the guardhouse that his highness ducked into a narrow alleyway and confronted their rescuer. “And who might you be, laddie?” he asked baldly, a bit of a brogue marking him as Irish.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” Tony drawled, bowing once again. “I am Mark Antony.”

An irreverent sniff came from the female still holding his arm. “Certainly you are,” she said, disbelief evident in her tone. “And I am Cleopatra.”

Tony smiled, an action that sent sparks of mischief dancing in his dark eyes. “No, you’re not,” he contradicted, adding, “Cleopatra’s m’sister.”

The Manchester Defiance was just pulling into the yard as the hackney Lord Coniston had hired arrived at The Swan With Two Necks some scant ten minutes later.  The hustle and bustle of the arriving passengers, mixed with the well-orchestrated pandemonium that marked the inn as the main competition of The Bull and Mouth in Aldersgate in the race to be the finest coaching hostelry in London, caused the Marquess to remember that his bout of drinking and wenching had left him with a fearsome hangover.

“I suggest we adjourn to the breakfast room and to some good eggs and ham before speaking with the innkeeper,” he said, already making his way toward the front door of The Swan.

“I wouldn’t be sorry to get a glass of spirits,” the bogus Maharajah seconded happily. “‘Tisn’t day yet if I haven’t had a bit of good Irish whiskey, y’know. None for the gel, y’know, though I’ll wager she wouldn’t say no to a fine cup of tay.”

From the moment the handsome young lord had smiled at her in the alleyway the girl had not spoken a word, remaining mute throughout the journey to The Swan, her thoughts her own.

In truth, part of her was thankful for the man’s timely intervention, yet another part of her deeply resented his notion that they had indeed been in need of rescue. She thought she had been handling the matter quite well, actually, and would have had them out of their scrape in another few minutes.

As she preceded the Marquess into the crowded breakfast room a smile hovered on her full, dusky-pink lips as she recalled the nervous perspiration on the brow of the assistant constable. The intricate ins and outs of bilking her fellow man were just business; it was the fancy footwork of the thing that gave her such a thrill and got her heart to beating in such a delightful way.

After their order was taken by a sleepy barmaid, Lord Coniston formally introduced himself to his guests and then sat back to see if they were going to return the favor. His sally with the girl in the alleyway had caused the Maharajah to break into delighted laughter and, as the girl could have told him, if you make an Irishman laugh, he’s yours.

And so now, instead of running yet another rig on their savior, the Maharajah leaned over confidentially and whispered, “The name is Murphy, my lord. Maximilien P. Murphy, of the County Donegal Murphys, and this lady here is my young niece and ward, Candice Murphy. We thank you for your service. After all, far better a hasty retreat, y’know, than a bad stand.”

Miss Candice Murphy, who had been studiously ignoring the Marquess’s intent stare, lifted her head to take umbrage with her uncle’s statement. “I take exception to that last remark,” she cut in defiantly, glowering at Mr. Murphy. “We were coming about nicely before his lordship poked his fine, aristocratic nose where it had no business to be poking.”

Turning back to the smiling Marquess, she rested her elbows on the table and narrowed her slanted cat-amber eyes. “Let’s talk with the buttons off, my lord,” she said bluntly. “What’s your lay?” At the man’s questioning look she expanded angrily, “Your enterprise, your pursuit, your angle?”

Tony Betancourt assumed a crestfallen expression. “How you malign me, Miss Murphy. I acted out of good Christian charity only.”

Miss Murphy tossed her head and sniffed unbelievingly, “Of course you did. And when the sky falls, we’ll all catch larks.”

“Here now,” her uncle remonstrated, “it’s a fine broth of a boy you see before you, Candie. Don’t be measuring his lordship’s corn by our own bushel, girlie. He wants nothing more of us than to give us a good turn, or me name’s not Maximilien P. Murphy.”

“Ac-tu-ally, “ Tony interrupted, leaning forward on his chair, “Miss Murphy is not altogether incorrect. I ask no payment for services rendered, Mr. Murphy, but I had hoped you would satisfy my curiosity. Call me one of life’s observers. My interest has been piqued, and I sense a fine story in the tale of your exploits.”

Maximilien P. Murphy measured his breakfast companion with the acquired wisdom of a man who need understand the motivations of his fellow creatures and decided the young lord was in earnest. Besides, if there was one thing Max Murphy craved more than his Irish whiskey, it was flattery, and as his niece moaned her defeat, he spread his hands magnanimously, immodestly acknowledging the fact that, indeed, the story of his life was worthy of great interest.

Candie, knowing the only time her uncle told the truth was when he was somehow unable to summon up a lie, kept her head bowed low over her plate as Max began his tale by claiming kinship to every great Murphy that ever roamed the earth. From the barony of Banagh to Marie Louise O’Murphy (mistress of Louis XV and sometime artist’s model), Max was related to them all. Even Candie did not know how much of this was true, seeing as how Murphy was the most common name in Ireland and Max could just as easily have been the second son of a family of itinerant potato farmers.

Tony listened with what looked like rapt attention to Max’s tale of sheltered youth passed in luxury suddenly stripped away by, begging his lordship’s pardon, some low, conniving Bug (the Irish’s none too flattering term for an Englishman). Left without resources, and with little Candie no more than a babe, he had been forced to live by his wits, and had been doing nicely, thank you, for nearly two decades.

“You catch us a mite down at the heels at the moment, y’know, but we’ll soon right ourselves. But for now, y’know, I think it would be best if the Maharajah of Budge-Budge takes himself on a little holiday.” Rising from the table, Max wrapped his robes about himself and said, “If you meant it about our luggage...”

Also rising, and after helping Candice out of her chair —earning for himself no more than a curt thank you— Tony pressed, “But what will you both do now?”

“He’ll be an inspector of public buildings for a time,” Candie supplied, getting a little of her own back from her uncle, who knew that she meant he would roam the streets with nothing to do.

But Maximilien P. Murphy merely laughed, nudging Lord Coniston with his elbow, saying conspiratorially, “A woman’s tongue is a thing that does not rust, m’boyo, and don’t you go forgetting it either. To listen to her, you’d think I’ll next be landing in the spring-ankle warehouse you call Newgate. Not so, y’know, as I’ve other fish to fry. There’s a lot of wisdom inside this head,” he ended, tapping his massive turban with his finger.

“That there is,
Uncail
,” his niece piped up, grinning, “and a multitude of sense outside it as well.” Looking not in the least penitent, she asked, “And what rig will you be running now,
Uncail
? This pinching of pennies is such a dreadful bore, don’t you know.”

Instead of answering, Max took up one of the portmanteaus the innkeeper had grudgingly dumped on the floor, winked broadly at Lord Coniston, and repaired to the small room off to one side of the inn, leaving his niece alone with their rescuer.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, Candie idly inspecting the people wandering in and out of The Swan and Tony idly eyeing her. When the tension between them grew annoying, Candie offered nastily, “You’re dreadfully in the way, my lord. If you’ve had enough sport, you may be on about your travels now, and it’s not my eyes that will be crying as you fade from sight.”

“Why are you such a prickly pear, sweetness?” the Marquess asked in his smoothest, most seductive voice. “Such a ravishing creature as yourself cannot be unaccustomed to admiration. Why have you taken this particular admirer in such dislike?”