Miss Marcie's Mischief (20 page)

Zounds,
thought Cole. What an impossible conversation this was proving to be. He dismissed the idea of pumping the man for more information. The highwayman was obviously having some sport at the expense of Cole's feelings. Jack couldn't possibly know what was in Marcie's heart.

Or could he?

Cole suddenly turned back to the man. "Tell me all and tell me now," he demanded.

Jack raised one bushy eyebrow. "Ask me nicely and I might just tell all. Then again..." Jack allowed his voice to trail off.

Cole gritted his teeth. "For the love of God, man, has Marcie expressed an interest in me or not?"

Jack shrugged.

Cole balled his hands into fists. "Then tell me this: have I a prayer of winning her heart?"

"Perhaps," was Jack's cryptic reply.

"That's it?" Cole nearly shouted. "That's all you can say? Devil take it! Just what do you propose I do?"

"Be honest with her," Jack replied reasonably. "Tell her what's in your heart, that's all."

"That's it?" Cole demanded. "That is your advice?"

"Aye," said Jack, still cleaning his nails.

Cole fumed. His palm itched to yank the knife from Jack's thieving hands, place that same knife against Jack's neck and—
Egad,
thought Cole,
I am losing my mind.
Who among his friends of the ton, and himself included, would have ever imagined the stuffy Marquis of Sherringham harboring such thoughts?

Yet here he was, dressed as a coachman, bouncing along a snowy path in a decrepit sled, and his heart near to bursting with love for some runaway minx who claimed to be a miss of means! Too, he was actually considering doing bodily harm to an inept highwayman who had managed—where his lordship had not, dash it all!—to become a confidant of the fiery-haired runaway. It was all too preposterous, quite unbelievable, and not at all appropriate for the Marquis of Sherringham's stuffy life.

But that life, Cole soundly reminded himself, was far away at the moment. And though he did not wish to reject it totally, he did wish to return to Town a saner man—after all that was the very reason he'd taken on the running of the Royal Mail coach in the first place.

So thinking, Cole forced himself to relax and regain his composure. Gradually, he even managed to gather his thoughts.
Hm,
he thought to himself,
perhaps Jack is right. Perhaps I should confess to my Mistress Mischief and tell all.

The very idea lifted a heavy, dark cloud from above him, and he began to feel a bit better. But the dilemma still remained, however, as to which truth should spill from his lips first to Marcie—that he loved her... or that he was, in fact, the Marquis of Sherringham and not the coachman he pretended to be.

* * *

Marcie, beset with jitters as to what Jack might or might not be doing, found she couldn't sit another minute within the cloying confines of the warm kitchen. She left the others to their cake-making, and hurried away in search of some solitude.

Unfortunately, she encountered the voluptuous Miss Deirdre in the hall.

"Marcie!" exclaimed Miss Deirdre. "You are the very one I had hoped to find!"

"I am?"

"Indeed. We have not yet had time to become better acquainted, you and I. Pity that, for I feel we have much in common. Come," said Miss Deirdre, leading the way to the sitting room.

It was Marcie's opinion that she and Miss Deirdre had little in common save the fact they were both more than a bit interested in the handsome Cole Coachman. Marcie, though, couldn't help but feel a certain curiosity about this female. She wished to learn for herself why Cole, Jack, and even the Prince Regent had become so smitten with the lady—all obvious physical reasons aside, of course—and so she followed the woman's lead.

The two were soon settled in the sitting room, whereupon Miss Deirdre commenced a brief and surprisingly touching explanation of her life's history.

She was the seventh daughter of nine born to an impoverished viscount and his lady. Her father, a man often in his cups, was given to verbally abusing both his wife and daughters, and it was the man's excessive need for drink and his subsequent tirades that finally forced Miss Deirdre to take drastic action.

What little respectability her birth gave her was soon lost when Miss Deirdre, at the tender age of fifteen, fled from beneath the severe hand of her drunken father and became mistress to a noble lord. A succession of peers soon followed, each of whom she claimed to have loved at the time she'd consented to become their mistress. Alas, she soon either learned of some hidden blemish in their characters or found their constant company to be quite boring after the first heat of passion faded fast away.

Though Miss Deirdre's life had been colorful, to say the least, she did not hesitate to point out that her chosen path in life had been unutterably lonely at times. Her father disowned her. Her sisters, those who chose to visit her on rare occasions, hid their faces behind heavy veils lest someone spy them paying a visit on a female of her class.

"Ah, but I am allowing my story to become quite dispiriting," said Miss Deirdre suddenly. "That was not my intent at all! Oh, I have suffered some trying moments, but all in all, I have been quite happy... that is, I thought I was happy. Until now."

Marcie was caught up in the woman's story. And truth to tell, she was rather impressed with Miss Deirdre's strong constitution. It was no secret that should a female not be blessed with connections or a healthy purse, she found herself at the mercy of "protectors."

Marcie had been saved from dire circumstances because her father had left her an independent heiress. Who knew what she'd have done had she been in Miss Deirdre's position.

"And what is it about the 'now' that has caused you to reassess your estimation of happiness?" asked Marcie.

Miss Deirdre gave a delicious sigh. "A man," she whispered. "I have met a man who has made me quite rethink my choices in life."

Marcie stiffened. She had no doubt who that man might be.

"I see," Marcie managed.

"I thought you would understand." Miss Deirdre leaned forward, clasping Marcie's hands in hers. "Dear me, but I have gone on at great length about my own self. Truly, that was not my intention. Here now, you must tell me about yourself, Marcie. Have you ever been in love?"

Marcie looked away, taking a deep breath. "Yes," she said softly.
And unfortunately,
she thought,
the two of us have fallen in love with the same man!

"Do tell," urged Miss Deirdre.

Marcie hesitated. She returned her gaze to the woman's lovely face. "Th—there isn't much to tell," she said truthfully. "The man hardly returns my sentiments."

"Oh?" replied Miss Deirdre, suddenly frowning. "Are you quite certain?"

"Quite."

"Hm... well," she muttered, looking utterly perplexed.

Marcie couldn't for the life of her deduce why the woman had become so tongue-tied. What could it possibly matter to Miss Deirdre if Marcie had fallen in love with a man who didn't return that love? Why, the woman looked positively upset!

Marcie sought to soothe. "Really," she insisted, "it is of little consequence. I suppose my heart shall soon mend."
But it will not,
Marcie added to herself.

Miss Deirdre eyed her closely. "There are others in this world, my dear."

"Beg pardon?" Marcie said.

"Take Cole Coachman—for example only, of course," Miss Deirdre added quickly.

"Of course," Marcie replied, feeling hurt the woman would toss his name into this impossible conversation.

"What woman would not wish to be by his side?" Miss Deirdre exclaimed. "Why, he is ever so handsome, not to mention handy with the reins and a veritable god along the roads. Why, I wouldn't even be surprised if he has connections higher up. He is quite the most magnificent man I have ever met!"

Marcie suddenly wished her chair would open up and swallow her whole. It pained her greatly to hear Miss Deirdre expound on Cole's qualities. Better the woman just took a knife and pierced it straight into Marcie's heart.

"Please," Marcie whispered.

But Miss Deirdre went on at great length singing Cole Coachman's praises.

Marcie began to feel physically ill, for now that she'd heard Miss Deirdre's tale, she felt a certain compassion for the woman. She could no longer despise Miss Deirdre for being overly beautiful and far too cunning when it came to matters of the male sex. The woman had had no choice but to make use of her fair face.

Still, Marcie could not help but remember the feel of Cole's lips pressing down over her own. How dare the man toy with her emotions while swaying the comely Miss Deirdre into his grasp?

Marcie shot to her feet. "Excuse me," she blurted, "but I—I must find my owl. I seem to have misplaced him."

Miss Deirdre sat back in her chair, stunned. "If you insist."

"I do," mumbled Marcie. She hastened toward the door, lifted the latch.

"Marcie?" called Miss Deirdre.

Marcie paused, but only because she'd come to like the too-lovely mistress of so many men. "Yes?" she said.

"This man you mentioned... are you truly in love with him?"

Marcie sucked in a deep, numbing breath.
More than anything.
"Yes," she whispered. "I am truly in love with him."

"Then let him go," said Miss Deirdre. "And if he returns, he is yours. If he does not, he never was. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Marcie bit her lip, holding her tears at bay. "I think I do," she whispered.

And then she thrust the door open and hastened away.

* * *

Cole returned to the vicarage much the worse for wear. His coach was now freed, thanks to the vicar's neighbors, and was positioned down near the footbridge. Cole, running one hand through his wet hair, went in search of Miss Deirdre. He found her in the sitting room, gazing out a window. "Well?" he asked, after closing the door soundly behind him.

Miss Deirdre bolted out of her chair. "Cole! What a fright you look."

"Forget that," he said. "What of Miss Marcie? Had you a moment to speak with her?"

Miss Deirdre frowned. "I did," she said. "I am sorry, Cole, but she seems to have fallen completely in love with someone else!"

"Who?"
he demanded.

Miss Deirdre shook her head. "I haven't a clue, but I can tell you the man does not return her favor. Oh, it is a sad story, to be certain, but there you have it. Miss Marcie is most definitely in love, Cole."

Cole batted his coachman's hat against his leg. "Drat!" he muttered. "I had thought, during that moment we shared at the bridge, that the two of us had come to an understanding. I had thought... well, it doesn't much matter, does it?"

Miss Deirdre moved to touch his sleeve with a soft caress. "I am sorry, Cole. I did my best to cast you in a favorable light. But she loves another."

Cole's eyes turned stormy. "B'gad," he muttered passionately. "I would like nothing better than to wring the man's neck with my bare hands!"

"Oh, pray, don't!" cried Miss Deirdre. "You would succeed only in further cleaving her heart in two! Ah, Cole, but she is so young and impressionable. Perhaps she shall soon forget the man? Perhaps, if you made your intentions known, she would turn her thoughts to you?"

Cole stiffened. "I will not be second choice," he said. "Never again." And here, he thought of the brothers he'd lost, and how he'd been second to them in their father's eyes.

No! Cole would never, ever be second best again. And certainly not with Marcie. He wished to capture her heart totally, not to play second fiddle to some faceless being.

Cole drew himself up to his full height, and, suddenly, he was no longer simply Cole Coachman but the titled swell, the Marquis of Sherringham. Cole Coachman was no more.

Miss Deirdre drew back, clearly recognizing the change in him.

"My lord," she whispered, "please do not judge her too harshly."

Cole glanced over at the woman. "I shall not judge her at all," he said, emotionless. "I shall simply deliver her to Burford and then... ah, then," he whispered, "I will be rid of the mischievous miss and her confounded bird once and for all."

His words caused a prick of pain to target directly into his heart. Cole ignored the piercing pain; he knew it only too well. He lifted the latch of the door, intending to leave the vicarage and never again set eyes upon it.

But Miss Deirdre's soft cries stayed him.

Cole turned to look over one shoulder at her. "Surely you are not shedding tears for Miss Marcie and me," he said, sounding for all the world like the peer of the realm he was.

Miss Deirdre stiffened. "No," she said, brazenly. "I am crying for what might have been. The tears I shed are for Marcie, and for the Cole Coachman she thought she knew."

"'Tis a waste," replied Cole. "Cole Coachman and his Mistress Mischief never had a chance. The two were woefully mismatched. Two such wayward souls were trouble in triplicate from the moment they met."

Miss Deirdre lifted her chin. "And if I told you I think not, my lord? What would you do?"