CHAPTER 2
This pronouncement had the effect of rendering her audience speechless, as Miranda and her father stared at Elizabeth. Under their gaze, Elizabeth colored a little self-consciously and sat back down.
“That is, well, I mean, I don’t think that it would be a good idea for Miranda to marry him. He is, well, he has a…an unsavory reputation.”
“Do you know him, dear?” her husband asked.
“Oh, no. He was far above my touch, of course. But…I had heard of him. Everyone had heard of him. He had a scandalous reputation. That was before he was the earl, of course. His father was Ravenscar then.”
“What was wrong with him?” Miranda asked curiously. “What did he do?”
“Oh, the usual things that young noblemen do, I imagine,” Elizabeth replied vaguely. “Not the sort of thing suitable for your ears.”
Miranda grimaced. “Oh, Elizabeth, don’t be stuffy. I am twenty-five years old and not a bit fainthearted. I am not going to collapse in shock.”
“Yes, what did he do, Elizabeth?” Joseph prodded.
“Well, he gambled and…consorted with unsuitable types.”
The other two waited expectantly, and when she said nothing more, Miranda asked disappointedly, “Is that all?”
Elizabeth shifted uncomfortably. “He was, they say—” her voice dropped “—a womanizer. He seduced young women, led them astray.”
She colored at speaking so plainly and began to ply her fan.
“Ha!” Joseph let out a short bark of laughter. “I’d like to see him try anything with my Miranda. Besides, if he’s marrying her, you can scarcely worry about him ruining her reputation.”
“I suspect she is worried more about his faithlessness, Papa,” Miranda pointed out wryly.
“Faithless? To you?” Joseph’s brows rushed together, and he said again, “I’d like to see him try! Trust me, my dear, I’ll make sure he knows what’s expected of him.”
“Nothing is expected of him,” Miranda stuck in pointedly. “I’m not marrying him.”
“Of course, dear, not unless you want to,” Joseph replied easily. He turned to Elizabeth. “Besides, Lizzie, that was years ago. He was just a boy then. Lots of men are wild in their salad years, but they straighten out as they get older.”
“Yes, I know.” Elizabeth agreed, but her forehead remained creased with worry.
“Besides, we would make sure it was all wrapped up right and tight before she married him. You know we would not allow a wastrel to endanger Miranda’s fortune.”
“It wasn’t her fortune I was thinking of,” Elizabeth retorted with an unusual touch of asperity. “It was her happiness.”
“I know.” Touched by her stepmother’s putting Miranda’s happiness over her own desire for her to marry a peer of the realm, Miranda went to Elizabeth and sat down beside her, taking her hand. “And I appreciate that. Truly.”
“Miranda can hold her own with any man,” Joseph said confidently.
“Yes, I can,” Miranda replied with a grin. “And that includes you…so don’t go thinking that you’ve won me over.” She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “I only agreed to meet this earl, and I have no intention of marrying him, I assure you.”
Her stepmother retained her worried expression. “But you haven’t seen him yet. He’s, well, the sort who can change anyone’s mind.”
“Handsome, is he?” Joseph asked. “Well, that’s good, isn’t it, Miranda?”
“And charming—or so I understand,” Elizabeth added.
“That was fourteen years ago,” Miranda pointed out. “Fourteen years of dissipated living can do a lot to change one’s looks.”
“That’s true.” Elizabeth brightened a little.
“Anyway, I am not about to be swayed by a pretty face. You must realize that. Remember how angelic looking that Italian count was? And I wasn’t the least tempted to accept his offer.”
Elizabeth did not look entirely reassured, but she smiled faintly at Miranda. “I know. I can still see the shock on his face when you turned him down.”
“And this one will look the same,” Miranda told her confidently. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Devin could not get the idea of the American heiress out of his mind after his relatives left. Finally he picked up his hat and left the house. He walked, hoping that the air would clear his still-aching and foggy head, but when he arrived a few minutes later at Stuart’s apartment, he felt little better. Stuart’s valet answered the door and looked a trifle shocked when Devin suggested he awaken his master.
With an impatient noise, Devin pushed past him and took the stairs two at a time up to Stuart’s room, the valet running at his heels, squawking anxiously. The noise awakened Stuart, and he was sitting up in his bed, sleeping cap slipping to the side, looking both annoyed and befuddled, when Devin opened the door and stepped into the room.
“Hallo, Stuart.”
“Good Gawd, Ravenscar,” his friend replied without any noticeable appreciation of his visit. “What the devil are you doing here? What time is it?”
“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon, sir,” the valet put in, wringing his hands. “I beg your pardon, sir, I could not keep him out.”
“Oh, give over.” Stuart waved the nervous man out of the room. “I’m not blaming you. No one can keep Ravenscar out if he decides to come in. Just go fetch me some tea. No, make that coffee. Very strong.”
“Very good, sir.” The man backed subserviently out of the room.
“When did you get him?” Devin asked, strolling over to a chair and flopping down in it. “Nervous sort.”
“Yes. I know. Afraid I’ll let him go. I will, too,” Stuart went on meditatively, “if he don’t stop messing up my ascots. I miss Rickman. Damn that Holingbroke for stealing him away from me.”
“Hardly stealing,” Devin pointed out mildly. “I believe he offered to actually pay the man.”
Stuart grimaced, muttering, “No loyalty.” He rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “Damn, Dev, what are you doing here? I have the most ferocious headache.”
“Mmm. Not feeling too well myself. But my mother and sister visited me an hour ago.”
“No excuse to inflict yourself on me,” his friend pointed out reasonably.
“Lady Ravenscar wants me to marry.”
Stuart’s eyebrows rose. “Anyone in particular?”
“An American heiress. Fur trader’s daughter or some such thing.”
“An heiress, eh? Some people have all the luck. What’s her name?”
“I have no idea. I have no intention of marrying her.”
“Good Gawd, why not? You’re on your last legs. All of London knows it.”
“I’m not done in yet,” Devin protested.
Stuart snorted. “You owe at least three gentlemen of our acquaintance gambling debts, and you know your name will be blackened if you don’t pay them soon. Last night we had to leave by your back door, if you’ll remember, because that damned bill collector was hanging about out front. No need to pay a tradesman, of course—won’t ruin your name. But it’s a damned nuisance, tripping over those fellows all the time.”
Devin sighed. “I know. It’s worse than it was that time Father cut me off. At least then everyone knew I had an inheritance coming when he died. Between gambling and putting people off, I did all right.”
“Not the same now, though. There’s no blunt lying in your future. I’ve experienced it for years—younger son, they know I won’t inherit, never give me an inch. It’s bloody unfair, but there you have it. Tailors are the worst. As if it don’t bring them plenty of other business, my wearing their suits.”
Devin smiled faintly at his friend’s logic. “That’s true. It’s terribly selfish of them to want to get paid.”
“That’s what I told that Goldman chap, but he just kept chattering about payment. Finally had to give him a few guineas to shut him up.” He brightened a little. “Mayhap I’ll pay him off, now that I won that pot.” He stopped, frowning. “But no, there’s that gold-handled cane I saw yesterday—rather spend it on that. What’s the use of paying for something you already have?”
“Good point. I am sure Goldman will understand.”
“Oh, no.” Stuart, not given to sarcasm, especially upon waking, shook his head. “He’ll squawk. I may have to start going to another chap. Pity. Fellow knows how to make the shoulders of my coats exactly as I like them.”
“Padded?”
Stuart rolled his eyes. “Why did you say you came here?”
“The American heiress.”
“Oh, yes. Are you saying you’re thinking of not jumping on the offer?”
“The last thing I want is a wife.”
“Yes. Damned nuisances, usually. Still…hard to argue with having coins in your pocket. What else are you going to do, anyway? You’ve run through your entire fortune. Told me so yourself.”
“Such as it was. The earls of Ravenscar have been improvident for years. Even my father, holy soldier that he was, spent money like water.”
“There you have it. Have to do something to recoup the family fortunes. It’s your duty as an Aincourt and all that. That’s the good thing about being a younger son. Don’t have to worry about family duty much. Usually involves doing something boring, duty does.”
“Yes.” Dev was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “What about your sister?”
“Leona?” Stuart looked at him uncomprehendingly. “What does it have to do with her?”
Dev raised an eyebrow and looked at him pointedly.
“Oh, that. Well, it makes no difference if you’re married, does it? Leona’s shackled to Vesey. Been that way this whole time, hasn’t she? Why shouldn’t you be married, too? This fur trapper’s daughter won’t change anything. Get an heir on her and pack her off to Darkwater and enjoy her money.” He looked up as the door opened and his valet entered with a tray. “Ah, there you are. Set it on the table and fetch my dressing gown. Dev, be a good chap and look in that cabinet. There should be some Irish whiskey in it. Make the coffee palatable.”
“Of course.” Devin went over to the small Oriental cabinet and rummaged about in it until he found a small bottle of whiskey. He didn’t know why he worried about such things, he thought as he pulled out the bottle and added liberal splashes of alcohol to the cups of coffee the valet had poured for them. Stuart, and nearly everyone else he knew, would not give a moment’s thought to marrying this woman. And if they did hesitate, it would be only at the thought of mingling their blue blood with her common sort. Once they were married, he would, of course, have control of her money, and there would be nothing to stop him from leaving her at Darkwater as Stuart suggested, while he went back to his life in London—with Leona. Nor would he be technically disloyal to Leona. She was married, after all. And one could hardly expect him to let the line of Aincourts fail just because he loved a married woman.
It was foolish of him to balk, he told himself. It was scarcely as if he lived the life of an honorable man. He lived, as his father had pointed out many times, among the dregs of polite society, consorting with cardsharps, drunkards and bawdy women. It seemed absurd to hesitate about taking a wife because of his mistress—or because he would undoubtedly make this rustic heiress miserable.
“You’re right, no doubt,” he told Stuart, taking a sip of the liberally laced coffee. His stomach shuddered a little when the strong mixture hit it, but then it calmed, and the rest went down smoothly.
“’Course I am. You going to offer for her?”
“I’m not sure. I told Mother I would meet her. Dinner at Lady Ravenscar’s tonight.”
“Grim.” Stuart made a face at the thought. “Much better go with us. Boly and I are visiting Madame Valencia’s.”
“I am sure a brothel would be more entertaining,” Devin agreed. “But I ought to meet this chit, I suppose.”
“Well, if you don’t offer for her, give me her name,” Stuart told him, grinning. “I’ll take her—squint, bow legs, spotty skin and all. I’m always short of the ready.”
“I shall keep you in mind,” Devin told him gravely, and they settled down to the far more enjoyable business of drinking and discussing a curricle race they had attended the week before.
* * *
Miranda leaned closer to her father and whispered in his ear, “I believe this little dinner to meet Lord Ravenscar might have been more of a success if Lord Ravenscar had actually attended it.”
“Now, Miranda, my love,” Joseph said ingratiatingly, “he might still come. It’s only—” he sneaked a glance at his pocket watch “—ten-thirty.”
“The invitation was for nine,” Miranda reminded him. The party had waited for Lord Ravenscar for almost thirty minutes before they went in to eat. But the elaborate, multicourse dinner had now drawn to a close, and the company had retired to the music room, where one of the guests, a blond, rather toothy woman, was butchering Mozart.
“Unless the man was run over by a wagon or something of equal severity,” Miranda went on in a whisper, “he is at the very least excessively rude. Personally, I am putting my money on his not showing at all.”
The female pianist stopped, and everyone applauded graciously. Fortunately, she did not offer to play another piece. Lady Westhampton turned in her seat so that she was facing Miranda and smiled. “Miss Upshaw, I am so sorry,” she said sweetly. “I must apologize for my brother. I cannot imagine what has detained him.”
“From what I have heard about him, I imagine it was a game of cards,” Miranda replied crisply.
“Miranda!” Joseph turned to Rachel. “I beg your pardon, Lady Westhampton. My daughter is not usually so…so…”
“Truthful?” Miranda put in helpfully. “No, I’m afraid that I am, Papa. But I am sorry, Lady Westhampton, if I offended you. I like you a great deal. You are by far the nicest member of the Ton that I have met.”
Rachel smiled. “Thank you, Miss Upshaw. And I have to admit that I understand perfectly your feelings at the moment toward my brother. It is terribly impolite of Devin to be this late.” She looked pained. “You are probably thinking that he will not make an appearance at all, and you may be right. You can see that he needs someone to take him in hand.”
“No doubt he does. However, I am not looking for a husband, let alone one who must be schooled like a child. I came here only because my father was eager for me to meet Lord Ravenscar, and I feel that I have done enough to satisfy my obligation to him. Papa?” She turned to Joseph. “I am ready to take our leave now.”
“Oh, surely, not,” Joseph protested immediately. “Why, there’s, uh…”
“Cards, later, in the drawing room,” Rachel supplied. “I believe Lady Ravenscar promised your father a game of whist.”
“Yes, that’s it. Whist. Quite looking forward to it.”
“Very well, then,” Miranda said reasonably. “I shall take the carriage home and send it back for you later.”
“Please.” Rachel reached out impulsively and took Miranda’s hand. “Can I not persuade you to remain a few minutes longer? My brother is rude, I agree, but he is a good man at heart, I promise you. He is, as you doubtless are, reluctant to enter into this sort of relationship.”
“I must think the more highly of him for that,” Miranda agreed. “However, if he is reluctant and I am reluctant, there seems little purpose in our meeting. No doubt he realized it, and that is why he did not come tonight. But it would be foolish of me indeed to linger here in that case.”
Rachel sighed. Miranda squeezed her hand and smiled. She had liked Lord Ravenscar’s sister from the moment she met her. The young woman had a pensive, lovely face, her big green eyes touched by a hint of sadness, and there was a quiet warmth in her manner that made her seem approachable despite her beauty, and her fashionable hair and attire.
“Lady Westhampton, I truly do like you,” Miranda went on. “And I think more of your brother that he is reluctant to attach himself to any rich woman who comes along. However, like him, I have no desire for this marriage, and it seems quite useless for me to remain.”
“I would so like for him to meet you. Now that I have met you myself, I—I am even more in favor of his marrying you. He is a very charming man, really. You would be bound to like him. And he would be so sur—well, pleased to meet you.”
“Surprised, you started to say?” Miranda asked, a smile curving her mouth. “Why? Did he think I was an untutored rustic?”
Color rose in the other woman’s cheeks. “It’s…well…possible. You see, we didn’t know.” She sighed and raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “I am sorry. I am making even more of a hash of it. But I admit, I had not expected you to be…so fashionably dressed or to speak so, well, almost like an Englishwoman.”
“My stepmother is English,” Miranda replied. “She always made certain we spoke correctly and behaved politely.”
“Oh, I see.” Rachel colored even more. “Now I feel even more the fool. I—is your stepmother here? I don’t remember meeting her.” Rachel glanced around the room.
“No. She wasn’t feeling quite the thing this evening. She is often a trifle ill, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sorry.” Rachel looked at her for a moment, then said, “Miss Upshaw, may I be quite frank with you, as you were with me a while ago?”
“I prefer it.”
“I am afraid that we seem very different to you, this way we marry for alliances rather than for love. It is somewhat cold, I admit. But that is the way it has long been among us—the aristocracy, I mean. We have a duty to our family, our name, the very house where we were born and all the people who work there, who live there. We are not always able to do as we choose. I, too, married as my parents wished.”
Miranda wondered curiously how that marriage had worked out. She had not met a Lord Westhampton here tonight.
As if seeing Miranda’s thoughts on her face, Rachel added, “You have not met my husband. Lord Westhampton resides at our country estate most of the year.” She hesitated, then went on, “Surely you can see that sometimes it is a necessity to marry well, not to marry as one desires. It seems that you would encounter the same sort of thing in the United States. Your father’s business will need someone to take his place when he dies, will it not? If you did not have a brother or uncle or whoever to run the business, then wouldn’t you feel the obligation to marry someone who could take it over?”
“I have no brother or uncle. But when my father dies, I will take over his business. I will not need a husband to do so.”
Rachel stared at her for a long moment. “You will run it?”
“Yes, of course. There is no one who knows more about it than I. I have been helping my father with his work since I was seven years old and totted down the numbers and prices for furs when he was trading with the trappers. I know the fur business from the ground up, and now that he has sold it to Mr. Astor, frankly, the business that he has now is more my doing than his. I invest the majority of his money for him in real estate and businesses and such.”
“But I—You deprive me of speech, Miss Upshaw. I am amazed.”
“It will be mine one day, mine and Veronica’s. It would seem very foolish not to know all I can about it. Besides, it’s quite a bit more interesting than paying calls all day. Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”
“That what I do is useless and boring?” Rachel finished her sentence for her. “Don’t worry. I’m not angry. It’s the simple truth. What I do is rather useless and often boring.” She smiled, a dimple popping into her smooth cheek. “But I am afraid I would not have the slightest idea how to run the estate or how to make money to repair it. And, besides, here it would not be considered proper.”
“Oh, I doubt it is considered proper where I live,” Miranda replied cheerfully. “But if I lived my life by what society matrons considered proper, I would scarcely ever get to do anything I enjoyed. I am not a very proper person, I’m afraid, so you can see that it is just as well that your brother does not marry me, for I would doubtless be forever doing things that would shock everyone.”
Rachel smiled. “But life would be much more entertaining for us.”
“Perhaps.” Miranda smiled back and rose to take her leave.
Lady Ravenscar came over at her daughter’s signal, smiling in her rather stiff way and saying, “Oh, no, you must not leave us so soon, Miss Upshaw. Why, you have not yet met my brother. Rupert…” She turned and gestured toward an older gentleman standing a few feet away. “Do come here and meet Miss Upshaw. This is my brother, Rupert Dalrymple, Miss Upshaw.”
Rupert Dalrymple was an affable gentleman, far more genial than his sister, a trifle portly, with an almost completely bald pate, which he strove to make up for by cultivating a luxuriant white mustache that curved down far past his upper lip. He, too, strove valiantly to convince Miranda to stay, offering card games and more music as amusements and assuring her that his nephew Dev was one who tended to lose track of time—“no insult intended to you, I can assure you”—and would soon appear.
Miranda smiled but stood her ground, and a few minutes later she was outside Lady Ravenscar’s door, waiting for her carriage to pull up in front.
Lady Ravenscar’s house, for all her complaining about its inadequacies, was a pleasant white house of the Queen Anne style, and, while not large, it sat on a crescent-shaped street, the other side of which held a small park, protecting the little street from a larger thoroughfare. After the carriage pulled up and Miranda climbed into it, they drove forward, curving around the crescent and joining the large thoroughfare, empty of traffic at this time of night.
Miranda pulled back the curtain to look out into the night. Most people, she knew, preferred the privacy of the curtains, but on such a pleasant night as this, warm and not rainy, it seemed a shame to sit in a stuffy, enclosed carriage. She would frankly have preferred to walk the few blocks home and enjoy the balmy evening up close, but the sort of soft evening slippers she wore were not made for walking, and, besides, she knew that her stepmother would suffer a collapse at the thought of Miranda walking alone at night amid the dangers of London.
As her driver turned right at the next street and started up the block, Miranda saw a man strolling down the street toward them. He was dressed in elegant evening attire, his hat set at a rakish angle on his head. Miranda noticed that as he walked along, his steps were less than straight. Though he did not stagger or lurch, he was, Miranda decided, definitely “bosky.” There was something about the overly careful way he strode along, his steps meandering first one way and then the other.
A gentleman coming home from his club, she thought, and wondered if he was walking in the hopes that the evening air would sober him up a bit before he had to face his wife. She had noticed the propensity of the aristocracy to drink, but it was a trifle early for a gentleman to be quite this far in his cups. He must have started rather early.
He passed a narrow strip of black that indicated a passageway between two of the houses, and as he did so, three men erupted from the little alley and launched themselves at him. He fell to the ground under their attack, the others on top of him. It was scarcely a fair fight, even if the man under attack had been sober, and Miranda’s innate fairness was aroused. Sticking her head out the window, she shouted at her driver to hurry toward the knot of men.
“But, miss!” the driver exclaimed, shocked. “They’re fighting. You don’t want to—”
“Do as I say,” Miranda replied crisply. “If you favor keeping your job.”
Having driven the Upshaw family for a week now and having a fair idea how things stood with them, the driver did not hesitate to obey Miranda. He shouted to his horse, slapping the reins, and they clattered forward. Miranda glanced around the inside of the carriage for a weapon, and her eye fell upon an umbrella in the corner, kept handy for the inevitable rain. She grabbed it, threw off her light shawl, and, when the carriage pulled to a halt, she opened the carriage door and leapt down, shouting to the driver to follow.
She ran to the knot of men, who were rolling across the sidewalk, punching and kicking. Without hesitation, she raised her umbrella, grasping the shaft with both hands, and brought it down hard, handle side down, onto the back of the nearest assailant. He let out a cry of surprise and pain and whirled around, rising to his knees as he did so. It was a foolish move, for it exposed his front without giving him the leverage of height, and Miranda quickly took advantage of his move. She whipped the umbrella around so that she held the heavy curved handle and thrust it hard into the attacker’s midsection. His initial expression of outrage was quickly followed by one of astonishment upon seeing that it was a well-dressed woman who had hit him and then by one of intense pain as the pointed end of the umbrella poked into his belly.
He rose with a howl of pain and grabbed for the umbrella, but Miranda stepped neatly backward and whacked the umbrella shaft across his outstretched arm. At that moment the carriage driver, having paused to secure his horses, arrived at the fight, carrying the short, thick club that he always kept tucked beneath his seat. He used it now to good effect, bringing it down on the back of Miranda’s opponent’s head just as he managed to grab the other end of Miranda’s umbrella. The ruffian’s eyes rolled up, and he slumped to the ground without a sound.
Meanwhile, the drunken gentleman landed a fist in the gut of the third man, who rolled away, gasping for breath and holding his stomach, while the gentleman was able to pull away and stagger to his feet. He reached down and jerked the man up by the front of his shirt, punching him in the stomach and finishing it with a quick right to the jaw. The man crumpled and went down. The gentleman turned toward the first assailant, as did the coachman. The ruffian, seeing the two of them coming toward him, quickly jumped up and ran off.
The gentleman grinned at the other man’s flight. He dusted off his clothes as he turned to the carriage driver. “My thanks, sir.” His voice was deep and well-modulated, only a slight slurring indicating his inebriation.
He turned past the coachman to face Miranda and stopped, his expression one of comical surprise. “A lady!”
Quickly recovering, he swept her an elegant bow. “My deepest gratitude, madam, for coming to my rescue. You saved my life.”
She had not seen his face clearly before, and now Miranda stared at him, stunned by the jolt of feeling that ran all through her. She was at once breathless, tingling all over, and so giddy she wanted to giggle. The man was undeniably handsome. His thick black hair, tousled from the fight, dangled down over his forehead; that, coupled with the twinkle in his eyes, gave him an undeniably rakish look. His face was strong, with a firm chin and square jaw, and cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut paper. The almost fierce lines of his face were softened, however, by a full, sensual mouth, curved now into a grin, and by the thick black lashes that framed his eyes. He was tall and leanly muscled, his shoulders inside the black evening suit impressively wide. A red mark blazed on his cheek where one of the men had hit him, and blood trickled down from a split lip, but even those marks could not detract from his appeal.
However, it was not just the fact that he was handsome that made her feel as if she had been hit by a bolt of lightning. She had seen good-looking men before. But never before had she felt that sizzle of excitement, that elemental pull of lust—or the strange, deep connection, as if somehow she knew him. Crazily, the thought that had come into her mind was that this was the man she wanted to marry.
That, of course, was absurd, she knew. It was just a strange quirk of thought. However, he was certainly intriguing. He was unlike any aristocrat she had met so far in Europe or England. He was as handy with his fists as any man she had met among the trappers in the backwoods, and there was an impish humor that gleamed in his eyes. He was dressed fashionably but with none of the extremes of a dandy, and the admirable set of his clothes on his body owed more to the firmness of his muscles than to the padding of shoulders and legs that she had seen on other gentlemen. Obviously surprised to find that he had been rescued by a woman, he had managed not to spoil his thanks with any remark about the impropriety of her doing so.
“You seemed handy enough with your fists,” she replied, glad to find that her voice came out more casually than she felt.
“They caught me unaware, however, and, I confess, not at my best.” Again the charming smile lit his face, encouraging her to smile back. “I am fortunate that you were gallant enough to stop.”
“I could scarcely drive by when there were three of them to your one,” Miranda pointed out. “Hardly fair.”
“Indeed. I think that was the idea.”
“Did you know them, sir?” the coachman asked, going over to one of the unconscious men and peering down into his face. “Aright vicious-lookin’ one, this ‘un.”
“No, I’ve never seen them before.” The man shrugged. “No doubt they were simply thieves hiding in wait for the first person to happen by.”
“Not usually an area for thieves,” the coachman remarked, glancing around at the expensive houses on both sides of the street.
“No,” the man agreed without much interest. “They must be growing bolder.”
He dusted off his coat again, without much success. “I am afraid my valet will be quite perturbed to see what I have done to his careful work.”
“You are bleeding,” Miranda observed, fishing her lace-trimmed handkerchief out of her pocket and stepping forward to wipe away the blood that trickled down from his mouth.
It was unnerving to stand this close to him. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the liquor on his breath. Miranda looked up into his face. She could not see the color of his eyes in this dim light, but they were warm and compelling…and, at the moment, somewhat unfocused. He swayed a little, and Miranda grabbed his arm to steady him.
“Sir? Are you all right? Beldon…” she called to the coachman, and he came up to close his large hand around the man’s other arm.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Just a moment’s dizziness, that’s all.”
“Perhaps you ought to let us take you home,” Miranda suggested. “My carriage is right there.”
“Miss…” the driver said warningly.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Miranda said impatiently. “It wouldn’t be the thing for me to give a stranger a ride. But I don’t think he is going to harm me. I mean, really…”
“You are a woman of warmth and courage,” the gentleman said, “but you need not worry. I can make it without help. I am only going another block or so, to my mother’s.” He looked in the direction from which Miranda had come, then frowned and said, “Well, perhaps not. I am a trifle late. I fear I stayed too long with my friends. And in this condition…But it isn’t far back to my house, either. I shall be fine.”
“I insist on driving you. You have received some blows to the head, I warrant, and even with a hard head, that is bound to affect you.”
He smiled faintly at her jest. “Perhaps you are right. I must admit, it is beginning to pound—though I’m not entirely sure if that is due to fists or to too much brandy.”
He went with them to the carriage, but, agreeing with the driver that it would not be seemly for the lady to ride with a stranger, he opted to climb up beside the coachman. They drove the few blocks to the address he gave them, and as she rode in the carriage, Miranda considered the situation. He had said he was going to his mother’s and had pointed in the direction of Lady Ravenscar’s house. Could the man she had rescued be the man she had been supposed to meet tonight? Was it possible that this handsome, rather charming man who was good with his fists was the Earl of Ravenscar? It made sense. And his state of inebriation would certainly explain his tardiness, as well as match what she had heard of him. And Elizabeth had said he was charming and handsome—though mere words could not convey the intensity of his roguish appeal. There had been a strange moment when her entire being had thrilled to him, when she had thought that she belonged with him…This was the sort of man who could make a woman forget all else.
They came to a stop in front of his house: a small, graceful abode in the fashionable district, just the sort of house a bachelor of means and name might live in. The gentleman climbed down with the coachman’s help, and Miranda opened the door of the carriage and leaned out.
“Good night, sir.” She was reluctant to let him go, she found, another odd sensation for her. If only she knew if he was the Earl of Ravenscar… But she did not want to introduce herself to him. If he was Ravenscar, she did not want him to know that she was the heiress he had spent the evening drinking to avoid.
“Madam.” He bowed again, but she noticed that he was rather more unsteady now. “You are an angel from heaven.”
“That is a rather large exaggeration, but I thank you,” Miranda replied wryly.
He turned and made his weaving way up the steps of the house. A moment later, the door opened, and he went inside.
“Let’s go home, Beldon,” Miranda said, and the carriage rolled forward.
As she drove home, her thoughts circled around the man she had just rescued. Was he Ravenscar? And what would have happened if he had not been late to the party tonight? One thing she was certain of: if this man had been there, she would not have left early.