The Rake's Irish Lady (Scandalous Kisses Book 2) Page 11

  “Very affecting, but why should you believe her story?” Miles’s voice grated. “Apart from the girl’s vague resemblance to Emma.”

  “It’s not a vague resemblance. Not only that, I—I like Mrs. Black. I want to be of assistance.”

  “To whom?” A cheerful female voice preceded the entrance of Melinda into the drawing room. “Who is Mrs. Black?”

  “Nobody,” Miles said, and when she raised disbelieving brows, he added, “Some woman with whom Colin had a liaison years ago. Nothing to be concerned about.”

  It seemed Melinda already had Miles wrapped around her little finger—which meant Colin had an ally. “She’s not some woman, she’s a lady.”

  Miles shrugged.

  “You heard her speak,” Colin said. “You saw how she comported herself today.”

  “Maybe she’s a good actress,” Miles said.

  The fact that he’d thought the same at first didn’t help Colin’s temper now. “She’s a respectable widow and the mother of my daughter,” he retorted.

  “You have a daughter?” Melinda’s delighted grin was in direct contrast to Miles’s frown. “How old is she?”

  Colin pondered. He took a sip of the wine. Miles was right about its excellence. “I’m not sure. Four, five, maybe six years old.”

  “How wonderful—a cousin about Rebecca’s age.”

  Miles glowered at her. “We don’t know that she’s a cousin. We only have that woman’s—sorry, that lady’s—word for it.”

  “I’m not asking you to house Mrs. Black for the rest of her life,” Colin said. “Just temporarily.”

  “Here?” Melinda asked, understandably surprised.

  “No, not here,” her husband retorted. “On one of my estates.”

  “One of the empty ones, where she won’t corrupt any of our female relatives,” Colin added caustically. Most of the Warren women had already had so many bad influences in their lives that one slightly disreputable widow would make no difference at all, and Miles knew it.

  “That’s not the point, Colin,” Miles said.

  Melinda’s gaze went from Colin to her husband and back. “Dine with us and tell me all about it.” When Lord Garrison frowned, she added, “Don’t be priggish, Miles. I’m not an innocent miss anymore.”

  “I’m not being priggish,” Miles said. “I merely don’t like to see anyone take advantage of Colin’s good nature. He knows full well that any house of mine is at his disposal.”

  “But I want to hear all about it,” Melinda said.

  Miles sighed. “By all means stay to dine.”

  They trooped into the dining room to partake of a simple meal of veal stewed with onions, fricassee of oysters, a jellied aspic and some asparagus and sorrel, followed by lemon curd and coffee. They couldn’t discuss anything but trivialities with the servants in the room. Once the lemon curd and coffee were on the table, Miles signed to the footman to close the door as he left.

  “Finally,” Melinda said. “Tell me everything, right from the start.”

  Colin shrugged. “Mrs. Black wrote to me some few weeks ago, and—”

  “No, no, I mean from the very start. Where did you meet her?”

  If Colin had been the sort to blush, he would have done so now. “Melinda, this isn’t a story for respectable ears.”

  “You must have met her someplace.” She glanced at Miles. “Am I being too nosy?”

  “Probably, but I believe Colin is embarrassed, so now my curiosity is aroused as well. Out with it.”

  “I didn’t precisely meet her,” Colin said. “It was at my place in Lancashire one autumn. I’d invited some friends for a house party.”

  Miles eyed him. “Ah. That party.”

  “What party?” Melinda asked.

  “What do you know about it?” Colin demanded.

  “Only how upset the servants were, as well as the villagers, as well as sundry respectable people thereabouts.” Lord Garrison turned to his wife. “As far as I’m aware, Colin has held only one house party. An orgy, my love, complete with several women of ill repute.”

  “Heavens!” Melinda said. “Then how can your widow be respectable?”

  Colin glared at Miles. “She wasn’t one of those women. I didn’t find any of them appealing, so I left my guests to it and went to bed. Mrs. Black climbed in my window and, er, seduced me.”

  Melinda’s eyes went round. “How very forward of her, although I completely understand climbing in and out of windows, as I’ve done plenty of that. But how did you meet her, Colin?”

  “I just told you how. She climbed in my window.”

  “You’d never met her before?”

  “Not that I was aware, but she certainly knew who I was. She was in disguise—a bizarre costume—and she wore a mask.” He couldn’t help a reminiscent smile. “She never did tell me her name.”

  “You bedded her, then and there, without even knowing who she was?”

  “I told you it wasn’t a story for respectable ears. I was young and foolish, and it never occurred to me to resist.”

  “I find that incomprehensible,” Melinda said, “although men are different, I know. But obviously you unmasked her, and . . .”

  Colin shook his head, unable to suppress another smile. “She had painted a mask on her face under the real mask.”

  “But surely you found out who she was, and about the baby, and . . .”

  “Not until a few weeks ago, and at first I didn’t believe it either.” He explained the letter and advertisements and her visit once again through a window, at which Melinda crowed with laughter. After he’d recounted the events of the last several days, she came to the obvious conclusion.

  “Of course you must help her. Even if you’re not really the father of her child, you can’t leave her to the mercy of that horrid Mr. Fallow.”

  “As I said before, I have no objection to housing her for a short while,” Miles said. “What I do object to is Colin’s belief, on little or no evidence, that he is the father of her child.”

  “You took Rebecca on without knowing whether she was yours,” Colin said. “And as I already told you, Sylvie reminds me of Emma.”

  “One of his sisters,” Miles explained, “who died at about that age and whose appearance he can’t possibly remember clearly.”

  “I do remember,” Colin said.

  “Is Mrs. Black pretty?” Melinda asked.

  “Yes,” Colin said, “but that’s not the point.”

  “It is precisely the point,” Miles said. “She’s attractive and rather voluptuous, very much to Colin’s taste, and therefore he’s willing to let himself be gulled.”

  “Damn it, Miles—” Garrison had it all wrong. Yes, Bridget was a fine-looking woman with the sort of figure Colin admired, but that wasn’t what filled his mind when he thought of her. It was her fierce independence, her lively, indomitable spirit.

  “Are you sure she’s respectable?” Melinda asked. “That sort of thing can be verified. In fact, if she’s from Lancashire, you must know people who are acquainted with her.”

  “I expect I do,” Colin said, “and if Miles is determined to be suspicious, he is welcome to do all the verifying he pleases.” He paused. “As long as Mrs. Black doesn’t find out. She would be insulted, and rightly so.”

  “Do you like her?” Melinda asked.

  Another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “When she’s not ranting or cursing at me, yes I do.” He paused, thinking about it. “Truth to tell, I like her even when she is ranting. She’s courageous, an admirable woman.”

  “Perfect. In that case, I know exactly what you should do.”

  Miles turned the full force of his glare on her. “No, Melinda. That’s not a good idea. He scarcely knows the woma
n.”

  “I scarcely knew you,” she retorted. “And I know it’s none of my business, Colin, but I think perhaps you should marry her.”

  A few hours later, Colin wandered home in the chilly spring darkness, pondering Melinda’s preposterous suggestion. She hadn’t tried to convince him; she’d already annoyed Miles and flummoxed Colin, so she changed the subject and spoke airily of irrelevant matters. After that they played cards and Colin, who couldn’t get his thoughts in order, lost every game. Annoying chit—Melinda had planted a seed, and he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he let it grow.

  He didn’t want to marry, he’d never intended to. He wouldn’t make a good husband. It was one thing to help out a widowed friend and another entirely to make her his responsibility forever. He wasn’t cut out for a respectable life.

  Not only that, marriage meant children, and he wasn’t fit to be a parent. He’d already proven that when Emma had drowned. No matter what anyone said, he could have prevented it. He could have stayed with her. He could have kept her safe . . . but he hadn’t.

  He didn’t know what he was worried about. Bridget Black didn’t even like him much. She didn’t even want to bed him again—not really. It was one thing for her to miss sexual activity and another entirely to crave it with one particular man.

  Or for him to want one particular woman.

  Damn it, he did want to bed her again. For the first time in months, he really wanted a woman. This woman, but he wouldn’t insult her by pursuing her. She deserved better than a cheap seduction.

  She deserved marriage, but with a far better man.

  Bridget’s first thought when she awoke was how could he possibly miss it? Colin was a well-known rake. He had plenty of money to indulge on a mistress. He could do it three times a day if he chose.

  She’d wondered about asking him, but she’d been too preoccupied with her fears to consider it—and a good thing, too, because it was none of her business and a far too personal question besides. And speaking about desire tended to evoke it.

  So did thinking about it. Therefore, she shouldn’t. She rolled over, but she needed to relieve herself and the pressure only made it worse.

  She sat up, and a sensation of misery washed over her. Nothing to do with her current predicament, she told herself; one always felt out of sorts after sleeping in the afternoon. She stretched, determined to shake it off. Judging by the meagre amount of light coming through the window, it was now quite late in the day. She must have been more tired than she’d thought.

  She yawned, got out of bed, and used the chamber pot. A glance into the next room told her that Mary Joan and Sylvie weren’t there. They must have wakened and gone down to supper hours ago.

  She tidied herself and went down as well. The inn bustled with activity; both taproom and coffee room were full, and Millie and Nan scurried in and out of the kitchen.

  “Help yourself,” panted Nan as she rushed past carrying a tray with steaming bowls of mutton stew.

  Bridget thanked her and did so. She retired to a corner to stay out of the way. Millie’s mutton stew, brimming with onions and young carrots, was delicious. Millie came into the kitchen and scowled at her, making Bridget almost wish she’d taken Colin up on his offer of a hotel. At least the servants there might have been polite.

  When Nan returned, Bridget asked, “Where are Sylvie and Mary Joan?”

  “Went out,” Nan said. “For a walk.”

  “I suppose that means down to the apothecary’s shop,” Bridget said.

  “Could be,” Nan said.

  “And good riddance,” Millie said. “I can’t abide children in the kitchen.” Which was absurd; she’d had no objection to Sylvie a few days ago.

  And I can’t abide you, Bridget thought. Tomorrow they would leave the Bellowing Bull for good.

  “They been gone a while now,” Nan said.

  “Surely they wouldn’t go far. Mary Joan doesn’t know the neighborhood well.” Uneasy now, Bridget set her half-eaten bowl of stew on the shelf and went out to find them.

  They weren’t at the apothecary’s shop. Jimmy, the spindly young assistant, paused in his sweeping and leaned on the broom. “They was here a while back, missus, but only for a minute or two.”

  “To purchase something?”

  “No, missus.”

  “So why did they come here?”

  He shrugged, but his gaze slid away, evading her question.

  “I’m aware that Mary Joan fancies you, so you needn’t pretend.”

  “She fancies me?” Astonishment was writ all over his face. “Nah, missus.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and his voice suffused with hope. “Did she tell you so?”

  “No, but she’s here every chance she gets,” Bridget said. “She likes to flirt, so that’s usually the explanation.”

  He shook his head. “She led me about by the nose, but she don’t truly fancy me.” He recommenced sweeping the floor.

  Perhaps she’d felt that Jimmy was better than nothing. “Did she say where she and Sylvie were going?”

  “For a walk. Miss Sylvie wanted to go back to the Bellowing Bull, but Mary Joan said as how she’d get a lovely surprise if she went for a walk first.”

  “How strange. Mary Joan isn’t one to crave exercise.”

  “Could be she took Miss Sylvie to the sweet shop two streets over.”

  This was possible. Both Sylvie and the nursemaid had a sweet tooth, and they’d been there before. Bridget thanked him and hastened to the sweet shop.

  The confectioner was in the process of locking up. “No, they weren’t here today, ma’am,” he said.

  More worried by the second, and with dusk quickly coming on, Bridget went up and down the streets, asking at every shop that was still open, and finally returned to the Bellowing Bull.

  She hurried into the kitchen through the back door. “Have Mary Joan and Sylvie returned?”

  “Think I have time to notice where your brat is?” retorted Millie. Red-faced and sweaty, she hefted a tray and bellowed, “Nan! Get your sorry arse in here!” She plunged into the coffee room.

  Nan sashayed in from the side passage, giggling, and then took a good look at Bridget. “What’s wrong, ma’am?”

  “Have Mary Joan and Sylvie returned?”

  Nan thought a moment, then shook her head. “I ain’t seen ’em.”

  Frantic, her heart hammering, Bridget lifted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. No one was in either of the bedchambers, nor in the attic room they’d shared while Colin occupied theirs. “Sylvie!” she cried. “Mary Joan?”

  No response. She grabbed a cloak and bonnet, clattered downstairs again, and went out by way of the coffee room. “Didn’t know as they’d gone out, Miss Bridgy,” Jed said. “Happen they’re about someplace.” The tapster hadn’t seen them either.

  Bridget hurried into the gathering dusk, terrified now. London was full of lurking dangers, especially at night. A young woman like Mary Joan might become prey for anyone from a drunken blood to a procurer, and as for a little girl, the possibilities were too terrifying to contemplate.

  Oh, Mother Mary. Oh, please help, please.

  “Looking for someone, Mrs. Black, ma’am?”

  It was the urchin, Al, carrying a basket of fish, judging by the odor. “Have you seen Sylvie and her nurse?”

  He set down the basket and scratched his head. “A couple hours ago, maybe? They was leaving the apothecary’s shop.”

  “Did you see where they went?”

  He pondered. “They turned right, down towards Fore Street.” Which was the opposite direction to the sweet shop. “They ain’t come home yet?”

  “No, they haven’t, and I’m worried sick. Would you please help me look for them? Your friend Bob coul
d help, too.”

  “Be happy to, ma’am, once I give this here fish to Nan.” He picked up the basket again. “But Bob, uh, he’s elsewhere just now.” He hurried around the side of the Bellowing Bull and reappeared a minute later.

  Between them, they made a plan—or rather, Al told her where it was safe enough for her and where he’d best take care of the looking and asking. They agreed to meet back at the inn every half hour or so by the church clock.

  Two hours and four meetings later, during which Bridget had asked innumerable people and received several unwanted advances, they were no further than before. It was dark and chilly. How could she find them in this huge city? She dashed away a tear.

  “Don’t cry, ma’am,” Al said. “We’ll keep looking. We’ll find ’em.”

  Bob ambled up out of the gloom. “Summat amiss?”

  Al explained, thank God, for Bridget could hardly command her voice.

  “Best I’d go find Mr. Warren,” Bob said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  Oh, what an excellent idea.

  No, it was a terrible idea. She couldn’t afford to depend on Colin.

  “Yes, please go fetch him,” she said.

  “Mr. Warren, sir!” Young Bob ran up behind Colin, panting. “I been looking for you.”

  They were almost at the door of Colin’s lodgings. “You have news of Mr. Fallow?”

  “Aye, but that’s not it. Miss Sylvie and her nurse have gone missing!”

  “What the devil?”

  “Seems they went for a walk and never come back. Mrs. Black needs you real bad.”

  “She sent you to find me?”

  “Aye,” Bob said.

  “Come on, then.” They hastened to the closest hackney stand. “What news did you gather of Mr. Fallow?” Colin asked, once they were rolling along the dark streets.