This Rake of Mine (19 page)

And a part of her regretted that she hadn't let him delude her for just a few minutes more.

Birdwell and Bruno emerged from opposite sides of the foyer, their low chuckles revealing that they had seen more than enough of his encounter with Miss Porter.

"I don't see what's so funny," Jack muttered as he rubbed the top of his head. The little minx had given him a good wallop.

"Scared her good, eh, milord?" Bruno chuckled. "Looked like she finished the job for you. Put my money on her, next time you two go a few rounds."

Jack frowned at him. "She's not your usual lady."

"Because she didn't fall prey to your charms, my lord?" Birdwell asked. "Rather, I suspect the lady possesses a rare intelligence."

"Too intelligent," he said, glancing up toward the darkened stairwell and motioning them to follow him into the privacy of the library. "How much do you think she heard?"

Bruno shook his head. "Hard to tell. But she was snooping about for certain. Coming tiptoeing down the stairs. Didn't hear her until she was right next to me."

"You weren't asleep again, were you, Mr. Jones?" Birdwell asked.

"Asleep?" the man bleated. "Why of all the insulting—"

"It wouldn't be the first time," Birdwell pointed out to no one in particular.

"Milord—" Bruno protested.

Jack held up his hand, staving off any more of their bickering, at least for the time being. "All I want to know is how much she heard—she obviously heard enough to know I wasn't alone."

"In Mr. Jones's defense," Birdwell said, "it wasn't like you were using proper discretion. I'm surprised Sir Norris hasn't arrived, hoping to catch you at last."

"That will be the day," Jack said with a short laugh. "However annoying our neighbor may be, he isn't half as worrisome as Miss Porter and her charges. What the devil was she doing down here? A fine excuse, that notebook. No, I don't trust her."

"Hard to trust a woman who can flatten you like that," Bruno offered. "You don't think she was sent to look about, do you?"

Birdwell was shaking his head furiously before Jack could answer. "That's ridiculous, Mr. Jones. What sort of woman would use three innocent girls in such a deception? No, it is impossible that she has been sent here by our enemies."

Jack wasn't so sure. Miss Porter had him at sixes and sevens with her red hair and tart remarks. Could he have been so distracted that he'd mistaken the light in her eyes for desire, rather than the deception it might be?

He'd used his charm on more than one lady to get his way; who was to say a lady couldn't do the same?

"Do you think we're being watched, milord?" Bruno whispered. "Like her ladyship said?"

Jack glanced out the library door and into the darkness beyond. "I don't know. But I mean to find out."

"Miss Porter and the young ladies will be gone at first light," Birdwell said, continuing his defense of their guests. "Even if she heard anything, I am sure she drew the wrong conclusion, given your rather infamous reputation."

Jack shrugged off his butler's assurances. If Miss Porter had heard too much, well, then… he didn't want to think about what they would need to do.

Not that Bruno was opposed to such postulating. "Still think we ought to crate the lot of them up and sell 'em to Dash afore they discover what's about. 'Sides, the gold would come in handy since we ain't got what we were promised."

"Dash has taken my word in the past. Let us hope he is in a generous mood when he arrives," Jack said. "In the meantime, I need to go light the lamps and see if we can't lure him across the Channel, despite the fact that another storm is upon us. That cargo is imperative, now more than ever."

"What if I catch her nosing about the place?" Bruno asked.

Jack did his best to ignore the hope in his secretary's voice. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Bruno rubbed his hands together with glee. "Then I'll get me crates ready." He glanced over at a very indignant Birdwell and added, "Just in case."

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"L
adies, finish your breakfast so we can take our leave," Miranda said to her dawdling charges.

The girls stared down at their food and continued to pick at the tasty feast Mr. Birdwell had provided. Even Pippin, who could be counted on to finish several plates, was being unusually sluggish.

They were, Miranda decided, out of sorts over their failure to make their match.

On the other hand, the prospect of departing was brightening her mood immeasurably.

"This breakfast is marvelous, Mr. Birdwell. Lord John has an excellent cook," Miranda told him. "Please send our compliments."

The man bowed. "Actually, miss, I do the cooking."

Miranda's gaze swung up. Just when she thought nothing more about this household could surprise her, here was this revelation.

"You, Mr. Birdwell?" Felicity asked. "Where did you learn to cook?"

"My father was the Duke of Haverford's chef. I learned at his able side."

"So why are you Lord John's butler?" Leave it to Tally to ask the question that was on everyone's mind.

Birdwell smiled at her. "My mother was the housekeeper at Haverford House. You could say I have many skills."

"You grew up in the Duke of Haverford's household?" Felicity sounded incredulous. "But they live in the north, and on a magnificent estate, if Mr. Billingsworth's travel account is to be trusted, while Thistleton Park is… is…"

"Such a steep descent?" Birdwell offered.

"Precisely," Felicity said, never one to dwell on niceties. "I would think you could have employment wherever you would like."

"Life doesn't always turn out as we plan, Miss Langley. No matter how well we think we have matters in hand."

It was the resigned finality to his statement that gave Miranda pause. Suddenly Jack's butler had a secret of his own—something quite substantial if it kept him from the refined and hallowed homes of London or the lofty reaches of Haverford House.

Miranda glanced over at the kindly old man and realized that perhaps Birdwell wasn't so out of place at Thistleton Park as he had seemed before.

"You don't still have any contact with Haverford House, do you?" Felicity asked over her shoulder.

"No, miss," Birdwell told her. "I do not."

That sealed it for Miranda—the once seemingly innocent butler also harbored a dark secret. Was there anything about this house that wasn't embroiled in mystery?

Felicity heaved a sigh. "That's unfortunate. I was hoping you had some information for me on the current duke's heir."

The butler did his best to hide a sly smile as to the girl's tenacity.

"So how is it that you came here, Mr. Birdwell?" Tally asked. Like her sister, Tally thought nothing of prying.

The man came around the table and filled their teacups. "I was previously employed by his lordship's brother, the Duke of Parkerton, at his London residence. When Lord John was"—the man paused and refilled Miss Porter's cup—"given the opportunity to live here, I came with him. It seemed to be where I was needed most."

"Well, I for one am glad you are here," Pippin told him. "I'd hate to see what Mr. Jones would do to the kitchens."

"And I as well," Birdwell told them, offering an uncharacteristic guffaw at such a notion.

Soon the girls were giggling as well, and even Miranda had to suppress a smile at the thought of the large and brooding Mr. Jones amidst the pots and pans.

Their good spirits lasted but for a short time before Tally turned a petulant face to her teacher.

"Miss Porter, do reconsider. I would dearly love to finish my sketch of Albin's Folly," she complained. "A few more hours, and I will be able to catch the very essence of the setting."

"You will have to rely on your memory and imagination, I daresay," Miranda told her, immune to their begging and ploys for a bit more time at Thistleton Park. They'd been making one bid after another to continue their stay since she'd roused them from their beds before dawn.

They had also been quite put out when they'd arrived in the dining room to find breakfast set out with only four place settings.

Apparently their host wasn't joining them.

"Jack will certainly think ill of us if we don't bid him a proper farewell. It will reflect badly on Miss Emery as well," Felicity said. She glanced over her shoulder at the butler standing in the corner. "Mr. Birdwell, doesn't Lord John usually arise early? He was up by now yesterday morning."

"Yesterday was unusual, Miss Langley," the man told her.

Unusual was the word for most everything and everyone around Thistleton Park, Miranda surmised.

Birdwell moved around the sideboard, straightening the trays and collecting the empty ones. "Lord John prefers to keep Town hours, and as such, sleeps until midday."

Leaving them free to flee while the lion was still in his den, or in this case, his bed.

"Lord John will understand if we are gone when he arises," Miranda told them. "And no, Felicity, I will not listen to any more arguments about propriety, for I have penned a perfectly good note detailing our appreciation that Mr. Birdwell will pass along to our host."

She glanced at the clock on the mantel and sighed. "Really, girls, it isn't like you to dawdle like this over your meals. Mr. Stillings assured me that he would have the carriage ready by now, and if we are to reach Lady Caldecott's by nightfall, we must leave at once."

The girls glanced at each other, and she assumed they were urging one another to come up with some last desperate bid to change her mind.

Too late for that
, she mused as the door to the dining room opened and Stillings came in, hat in hand. "Uh, ma'am?"

"Ah, Mr. Stillings, right on time," Miranda said, rising from her seat. "Glad to see someone is following our schedule this morning. If everything is ready, then the ladies and I will be—"

"That's just it, ma'am," he said, interrupting her smooth flow. "There's a bit of a problem."

A chill, not unlike the one from the night before, invaded her bones.

Their driver nodded toward the door. "If I could be having a word with ye, ma'am."

The ominous tone of his words set her teeth on edge, so much so that she forgot utterly to fold her napkin properly and place it where it belonged. Instead, it fell absently to the floor as she hurried after their driver.

"What is it, Mr. Stillings?" she asked once the door to the dining room was closed behind her and they had moved to the far end of the foyer, well away from prying ears.

" 'Tis one of the horses. The lead beastie. He's gone and lost a shoe."

"Lost a shoe?" Miranda shook her head. Even with her limited knowledge of horses that sounded odd. "How did that happen?"

"I'm at a loss, I am, ma'am. Horses don't just lose shoes like that. Not all tucked up nice in their stalls, they don't."

A draft sped through the hall, bringing with it another chill of foreboding. "Can you put it back on?"

He shook his head. "That's what's so odd about it. I can't even find the damn thing. Pardon me for saying so, ma'am."

She waved at his apology. It wasn't like she wasn't thinking the same thing herself. "How could a horse just lose his shoe, let alone have the thing vanish?"

Stillings leaned in close. "I think this place is as accursed as they say."

"Sir, I doubt very much a curse would affect a horse's shoe."

The man sniffed, as if he thought such ways of the world were obviously beyond her ken, though Miranda had another theory about this unforeseen problem.

Mad Jack Tremont.

She drew a deep breath. "Now how do we go about getting a new shoe?"

As quickly as possible.

"The stable lad says the nearest smithy is in Hastings."

"Hastings! Surely there's someone closer?"

He shook his head. "The old smithy died about four months ago, and his apprentice is as likely to geld the animal as he is to get a good shoe on the poor beast."

"Perhaps he could put on a temporary—" she offered.

But Stillings looked horrified that she'd even consider such a notion. This would have been entirely easier if the earl's driver didn't look after the horses as if they were the actual heirs to the family fortune and title.

"Or perhaps we could just harness two of the horses and make a slower go of it. You did say the carriage you found wasn't as large—"

Given the outraged expression on the man's face, she might as well have suggested they use them to pull the oak out of the way. Really, they were just horses.

But not to their driver, and most likely not to the Earl of Stanbrook. If any harm came to the animals, she had to consider that the blame would land squarely on
Stillings' large shoulders. He'd be sacked for certain, the earl reputed to care more for his cattle than for his lands or his family.

She doubted the safety of his daughter would have much weight in the matter.

Meanwhile, Stillings was shifting in place, passing his hat from one hand to the other. "I know you're keen to be going, but I don't see any other way about it than for me to go fetch the smithy."

"Yes, yes," Miranda said. "How long do you think it will take?"

"The morning to get there," he said. "The afternoon to return. See to the shoeing and we could be on our way tomorrow." Seeing the look of shock on her face, he added, "At first light, miss. That I promise you."

Miranda wanted to groan. Another day? She could just imagine what mischief the girls could manufacture in that time.

Not to mention their host.

"Then you had best be going, Mr. Stillings," she told him.

The man bobbed his head and took his leave.

She turned around and found Lord John standing on the staircase looking down at her. He had the same clothes on as the night before, albeit wrinkled and tousled. Why, if she didn't know better, she'd think he'd been up all night.

And if he'd been up all night…

"Problems, Miss Porter?"

As if he didn't know. She wouldn't put it past him to have removed the shoe himself. But whatever for?