Her Wicked Ways Read online

  It was no surprise Jane Pennymore had chosen Mr. Stratham. He demonstrated greater charm than Mr. Foxcroft, who had poked fun at Miranda for wanting to teach embroidery to the orphans. Perhaps he’d done something to offend Miss Pennymore. But to be fair, he’d also rescued her from Mr. Carmody that day at the vicarage, proving Mr. Foxcroft possessed at least a smidgen of social cunning.

  Nevertheless, Mr. Stratham cut the much finer figure with stylish, well-tailored clothes and perfectly shorn hair, while Mr. Foxcroft’s attire appeared second-rate and his too-long hair perpetually windswept. Even so, he was quite tall and seemed more impressive than the shorter Mr. Stratham. She had to give Mr. Foxcroft the advantage there. And the eyes. Mr. Foxcroft definitely won on that count.

  Miranda shook her head. As she’d told Beatrice, she wasn’t interested in either man. No, if she wanted to give in to impossible fancy, she’d much rather think about the highwayman. Such an exciting figure. She flattened her suddenly tingling palms against the top of the desk. Then she frowned. She shouldn’t be thinking about him either. To lust after a criminal would only get her in trouble, and, sneezing again, she didn’t need any more of that.

  FOX always spent a great deal of time at Stipple’s End, but if anyone noticed his increased attendance over the past fortnight, they didn’t say so. And if they had, he could’ve given them a dozen answers and still avoid the truth: he was on the hunt for an heiress.

  Christ, that sounded positively mercenary.

  Today he would investigate the orchard to see how the apples were coming along—if they were coming along, thanks to the persistently cool temperatures. It was July, and still summer lurked somewhere behind gray skies and damp earth. He strolled down the hill and immediately quickened his pace at the sight of Miranda standing beneath a particularly large tree.

  Little Jemmy sat high on a branch, his tongue extended at Miranda. Frowning, she tapped her foot in a rhythm of peeved impatience.

  Fox came up beside her. “May I be of assistance?”

  She glanced at him before redirecting her disapproval toward Jemmy. “It’s time to go inside, and Jemmy is refusing to come down.”

  Her lips twisted into a moue of annoyance, which Fox found completely distracting. Marshaling his self-discipline, he looked up at the young boy whose little face was scrunched into an expression of mutinous resolve. “And why is that, lad?”

  Jemmy glared at Miranda. “She’s gonna cut off my hair.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I’m not. Mrs. Gates is. Or someone else. I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t wanna cut my hair.” He shook his head, his rather short, straight locks whipping about his head with the motion.

  “He doesn’t need a haircut.”

  Miranda exhaled loudly. “He has lice.”

  Right. And a nasty case if Mrs. Gates wanted to shear his hair.

  “I’m not coming down!” Jemmy shook his head violently and nearly came tumbling out of the tree.

  Fox leapt forward. “Careful there, Jemmy.”

  Jemmy leaned over and wrapped both arms around the branch, his eyes wide.

  Miranda moved to Fox’s right, joining him directly beneath the boy. “Are you all right?”

  The boy nodded. Cautiously.

  Fox understood Jemmy’s recalcitrance, but some things in life were unavoidable. The loss of one’s hair to obliterate a lingering case of head lice happened to be one of them. “Jemmy if you have lice, it’s best to get rid of them once and for all. Cutting your hair is the best method.” How to get the boy down? “If you come down I might be able to get you a spot of treacle.”

  The boys eyes lit and his grasp on the branch loosened. “You promise?”

  Fox nodded, sensing victory. “I do.”

  “How do you accomplish these things so easily?” Miranda muttered before adding to Jemmy, “I’ll even promise, too, if it will get you to come down.”

  “All right.” Jemmy looked at the ground and then at Fox. “I can’t get down.”

  “Yes, you can.” Miranda waved her hand at the thick trunk with its many footholds and branches. “You climbed up there, and you can climb down.”

  Tears gathered in the boy’s eyes. “No, I’m too scared.”

  Fox laid his palm against the trunk of the tree. “It’s all right, Jemmy. I’ll help you down.” He spryly climbed up to the branch on which Jemmy perched. “I can’t come out there because I’ll break the limb. Jemmy, you’ll need to scoot toward me and give me your hand.” Fear creased the boy’s dirty face, and Fox added, “I won’t let you fall.”

  Jemmy looked down at Miranda, who studied the activity in the tree with a furrowed brow. Her obvious concern wouldn’t help the situation. Sure enough Jemmy shook his head again. “No. I’ll just stay here.”

  Fox took a deep breath. “Lady Miranda, perhaps you could reassure Jemmy? Explain he’ll be quite all right?”

  Miranda’s eyebrows arched. “Yes, certainly.” She smiled at Jemmy and, jealously, Fox wished she’d given it to him instead. “When I was small like you, I climbed a very large tree at our estate. My brother, Jasper, dared me to climb as high as him. I couldn’t make it, but then I got scared and couldn’t get down, either.” She paused with a thoughtful expression and darted a brief look at Fox before returning her attention to the child. “Jasper simply laughed and started to climb down without helping me, the rotter. I began to cry, and then Jasper fell and hurt his arm. And then I laughed. Served him right.”

  Jemmy’s mouth gaped. “Your brother fell?”

  “Only a little fall.” She held her hands up to illustrate a very small amount. “And it wasn’t a bad hurt. I shouldn’t have laughed if that were the case.”

  Jemmy’s expression turned to one of interest instead of trepidation. “How did you get down?”

  “I believe Sherman, the gardener, aided me. He climbed up, and much like Mr. Foxcroft is doing, helped me to the trunk. Then he carried me down. I wasn’t scared afterward and climbed that tree until just last year.”

  Fox joined Jemmy in a chorus of, “Really?”

  Miranda laughed. “Well, maybe not last year, but I did climb it an awful lot.”

  Fox imagined a blond girl running around her family’s estate, climbing trees with abandon and likely driving her brother to the brink of madness. How he would’ve liked siblings.

  He pulled his admiring gaze from Miranda. “Jemmy, are you ready now?”

  Apprehension flashed in the boy’s eyes for a brief second, and then he nodded.

  “All right, just come toward me a little and then give me your hand.”

  Unfortunately, Jemmy overreached and consequently lost his balance. With a shriek he fell through the air and landed…on top of Miranda. Both of them lay in a heap on the ground.

  Fox jumped out of the tree and knelt beside them, his stomach withering into a tiny ball at the thought of either of them injured.

  Jemmy giggled. The giggles became laughs and the laughs became guffaws. “That was fun!”

  Fox’s relief was replaced by mild irritation as Jemmy seemed unaware of the seriousness of falling on Miranda. She struggled to get up—an impossibility given Jemmy still sprawled on top of her. Fox plucked the boy from her midriff and set him on his feet. Assured Jemmy was as fit as ever, Fox held a hand out for Miranda and helped her to stand. “Are you hurt?”

  She glanced down at the mud stains coating her dress. “Not that I can tell, though this dress is ruined.”

  Fox couldn’t help but smile at her concern for her attire. She was definitely all right. He returned his focus to the boy. “Lady Miranda is very brave and strong to have caught you, Jemmy. Aren’t you going to thank her?”

  “Thank you, Lady Miranda.”

  Fox put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Now, apologize for causing Lady Miranda to coax you from the tree.”

  Jemmy kicked at the dirt, all of his earlier glee disappearing. “Yes, sir. Sorry, Lady Miranda.”

&nb
sp; She took Jemmy’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you, Jemmy. I’ll tell you a secret. I rather like boys with very short hair. Terribly handsome.” Fox resisted the urge to run his hand through his overlong locks.

  The boy blushed to the tips of his ears before turning abruptly and dashing to the house.

  It was not lost on Fox that Miranda seemed different from when he’d first met her. She’d gone from being frightened nearly to death by Bernard’s lice to coaxing a lice-ridden Jemmy from a tree. Rather cleverly, too. Respect joined the emotions he was beginning to feel toward her—he didn’t want to think about what those other emotions were just now.

  Miranda put a hand to her head. “You don’t suppose any of those lice jumped from him to me, do you?”

  Fox tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help himself. She rewarded him with another smile, which surprised him a little. “If I were a louse, I’d abandon his head for yours in a blink.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re not a louse, then.”

  What an inane conversation. Fox grinned like a cat who’d just lapped up a giant bowl of cream.

  She studied her formerly white gloves, the palms now brown with dirt. “What a mess.” She looked back at him. “Thank you for helping.”

  He’d done nothing compared to her. “You were the hero.”

  She waved her hand. “Hah! Kind of you to say, but it was an accidental thing.”

  “Not you catching him, the story you told to ease his fears. I admit I’m surprised to learn you climbed trees.”

  She leaned toward him as if imparting a secret. “Well, only the one time.” He caught her unique scent of cloves and orange. How he loved that smell.

  “But you said—”

  She straightened and he lamented the increased distance between them. “I know what I said, but as you pointed out, I was trying to ease his fears. I was the one who fell out of the tree when Jasper tried to help me. I couldn’t use my left hand for a week.”

  She was full of surprises. Wonderful, exciting surprises. “So you were the one in trouble.”

  “Mmm, yes, I usually am.” She arched a brow at him and then shook the dirt from her hem. “My brother has rescued me from more than one scrape, I suppose.”

  “How nice that you have him.” And how he wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon asking her about those scrapes.

  She bent and flicked a large, clinging piece of mud from her skirt. “Have you no siblings?”

  It had been a long time since he’d discussed his family. “No. I’m the firstborn, and my mother died in childbirth.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. My eldest brother died when I was very small. I barely remember him. Were you and your father close then?”

  Thoughts of his father intruded on the pleasant exchange like a dark storm cloud. “Not particularly.” Her eyes flared briefly, and he regretted his terse reply. But he didn’t offer more. He despised thinking about his father, let alone talking about him.

  “I should go inside. And finish checking the children for lice.” With a wrinkle of her nose, she took off toward the house.

  A surprising desire for a future with this woman—and not just because of her financial benefits—skipped through his chest. “You really were wonderful with Jemmy. Working here seems to suit you.”

  She turned with a laugh. “You think so?” She cocked her head as if pondering his assertion. “I’ll own it’s not what I expected.”

  He watched until her muddied form disappeared into the manor. No, she wasn’t what he expected, either.

  AFTER dinner that night, Miranda followed Mrs. Carmody and Beatrice into the small parlor they retreated to every evening. What would tonight’s torture be? Straining to embroider in the meager light provided by the too-few candles? Listening to Beatrice commit atrocities on the pianoforte? Or reading scripture, the only “literature” she was permitted?

  When Mr. Carmody unexpectedly trailed them, Miranda despaired at having a new horror inflicted upon her person. Perhaps he planned to read the scripture aloud? Or, heaven forbid, try his hand at the pianoforte.

  Mrs. Carmody claimed the seat she always took, an overstuffed floral wingback near the fireplace. Beatrice sat on the settee and Mr. Carmody stood near the pianoforte. Miranda held her breath waiting to see if he moved behind it.

  Instead, he directed his gaze at her. “Sit, gel.”

  Miranda complied with alacrity, positioning herself beside Beatrice on the settee. Following his autocratic directives could only improve his disposition toward her, especially when he wrote to her parents every few days. She needed him to make positive reports.

  Mr. Carmody clasped his hands behind his back. “Next week is the assembly and although you won’t be attending, Lady Miranda, I expect you to assist Beatrice with her preparations. Teach her the latest dances, ensure her costume is de rigeur.”

  Disappointment stabbed Miranda’s chest. “What assembly? I wasn’t aware of an assembly.”

  Mrs. Carmody positioned the embroidery hoop stand before her and picked up her needle. “The quarterly assembly. You cannot accompany Beatrice given your parents’ edict.”

  Of course. Rather than giving in to irritation and glaring at her jailers or saying something that would likely get her into trouble, Miranda tried to focus on doing what she must to escape Wootton Bassett. She composed her face into a serene expression. “I understand. I will do my utmost to ensure Beatrice is a smashing success.”

  If she didn’t absolutely believe Mr. Carmody would ensure she was confined to her room for the duration of the summer, Miranda would already be plotting a way to sneak into the assembly. But there was no way she could enjoy herself at the event and keep her presence from them. Pity.

  “Beatrice, perhaps we should spend our evening reviewing dances. And tell me, what do you plan to wear?”

  The new curls framing Beatrice’s face were an improvement over her formerly severe hairstyle, and a flattering dress could transform her into a very pretty girl. “My new gown will be ready day after tomorrow.”

  Miranda dearly hoped it wasn’t pink or yellow. Beatrice’s wardrobe seemed to be made up of only those two colors and neither did much for her complexion. She needed earthier tones, a rich red or a deep plum. “What color is it?”

  “Daffodil.” Mrs. Carmody answered for her, piercing her needle into the linen. “My favorite flower. Beatrice looks lovely in yellow.”

  Miranda weighed whether to speak or not. Good Lord, when had she ever thought twice about speaking? They had asked her to provide input and it didn’t seem right for her to say nothing. “Daffodils are splendid flowers. However, I wonder if Beatrice might look more vibrant in persimmon.”

  “Oh!” Beatrice lit up. “I love red!” She glanced at her mother whose entire face had puckered. “But the dress is nearly finished.”

  Miranda nodded. “Perhaps next time, then.” She paused a moment and then risked plunging forward. “You have beautiful skin, Beatrice, but pink tends to make you look pale and yellow tinges you, well, yellow.” She smiled apologetically. “I don’t mean to offend, merely capitalize on your strengths.”

  Mr. Carmody tapped a finger against his chin. “Does her gown have so much effect, then?”

  Miranda studied the older man, a bit surprised at his interest, but then he did want to marry Beatrice off. “It can. In London, one’s wardrobe can greatly influence a person’s acceptance. I’m sure the right gown will transform Beatrice. You would undoubtedly be pleased with the results.”

  His lips flattened, and he remained silent for a moment. At length, he said, “Tomorrow, Lady Miranda, you will accompany Beatrice to town and select a new gown for the assembly. You will also commission three other new gowns.”

  “Ouch.” Mrs. Carmody shook her finger out after apparently poking it with her needle. “Four gowns? We can’t afford such extravagance.”

  Mr. Carmody narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t question my authority. The chit made Bea’s hair look better, so I’m
inclined to listen to her opinion—at least in this. And no, I am not changing my mind about a new chair for your sitting room.”

  Mrs. Carmody glared, first mutinously at her husband and then malevolently at Miranda. Oh dear, she might’ve helped Beatrice, but at what cost? Miranda chanced a look at Mr. Carmody who didn’t appear the least bit ruffled by his wife’s irritation. Just as well, since Miranda was more concerned with his opinion of her than his wife’s.

  Beatrice fairly beamed. “Thank you, Father.”

  Miranda silently triumphed. Beatrice’s excitement had been worth Mrs. Carmody’s vexation.

  Mr. Carmody stepped away from the pianoforte. “You may thank me by landing a husband.”

  “I will, Father.” Beatrice looked back down at her hands.

  Such a cold, unhappy family, not that Miranda’s was any better. She loved her brother, but he didn’t live at Holborn House and was quite content to stay as far away from their father as he could. Miranda had no such luxury. Except for when she misbehaved.

  Now, to turn the disappointment of missing the assembly into something positive. “Since I will not be going to the assembly, perhaps I may spend the evening at the orphanage so Mrs. Gates and the others might attend. I suspect they don’t enjoy many social occasions.” And an evening alone in a library full of novels would be a treat indeed.

  Beatrice’s head snapped back up. She regarded Miranda with astonishment that quickly softened into admiring approval. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Miranda.”

  A twinge of regret prickled Miranda’s neck. Did it matter her offer was not entirely altruistic? Certainly she didn’t mind helping and allowing Mrs. Gates to attend the assembly, but more importantly this endeavor might improve Mr. Carmody’s opinion of her. And he’d share his new opinion with her parents, which just might get her out of here before fall. In addition, there was the library…

  “Indeed.” Mr. Carmody paused on his way out of the room. “I’m surprised at your offer, but perhaps you are learning from being here after all. Your parents will be pleased.”

  Miranda pushed her guilt away. A reprieve from the Carmodys’ house was worth anything.