Seeking Celeste Page 6

  Anne smiled smugly. “The hare and the turtle ...”

  “Good God, woman! You don’t mean to compare me to a common hare, do you? As for a turtle, the only thing I noticed in that line was a hedgehog, and why that woman should have a hedgehog hiding in her coat pocket beats me ...”

  Their eyes met in dawning comprehension. Anne’s merely twinkled, but the earl so far forgot himself as to allow the corners of his delectable lips to become involved, too. They twitched now uproariously.

  “Shall you strangle them or shall I?”

  Six

  “The hare must fly.”

  “I disapprove of mixed metaphors, my lord.”

  “There is apparently much you disapprove of, Anne of the bewitching eyes.”

  “My lord ...”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You disapprove of that, too. I shall be very proper and say farewell, Miss Derringer. Be diligent in your duties.”

  “That is better, sir, but would be better yet if you released my hand and did not plant kisses upon my palm.”

  “How very disappointing and dreadfully dull, Miss Derringer! Nevertheless, since I wish to remain in your good books, I shall release your delightful fingers at once and make haste to catch up with Miss Danforth or Dishwater or whatever.”

  Anne giggled, though she tried vainly to be reproving.

  “Danvers, my lord, as I warrant you know!”

  “Shall I have to have discourse with the dragon countess?”

  “Very likely, for she will wonder at the change of arrangements. I have every faith in you, however.”

  “That relieves me, though does not promise for any less tedium. Still, I shall endeavour to earn one of your delightful smiles upon my return.”

  “Which will be ... ?”

  “Heaven knows! A couple of months, I should imagine. There are several bills being passed in the house, and I shall be attending the Tattersall sales ...”

  Anne knew a stab of disappointment, though she skillfully hid it. It was no concern of hers what the earl chose to do with his time. He had not mentioned the galas and balls and ridottos, but she was not so green as to consider he would not be attending. She wondered if there was already some suitable young lady picked out for him and decided, regretfully, that there would be. A man of his rank did not go unnoticed about the ton for long.

  “I shall stay away, Miss Anne Derringer, for if I did not, I may break my promise to you, and that I could not, as a gentleman, countenance.”

  “Your promise?”

  She looked up then and read the tender expression on his face. It was fleeting and replaced, almost at once, with one laden with a teasing irony.

  “Just so.”

  Anne blushed.

  “Fustian! I am no incomparable to hold you enraptured in my toils! You are perfectly free to return when you choose. Stop talking flummery and admit that some other pressing reasons keep you from home.”

  “Perhaps.” The earl folded his arms jauntily and grinned.

  Anne wished he did not look so annoyingly pleased with himself. She bit back a scathing comment, half-ashamed that she should be so piqued at his evident desire to set off.

  “You will say farewell to those rapscallions for me. I wish you joy of them, Miss Derringer!”

  “You may be sure I shall take good care of them.”

  “But will they take equally good care of you?”

  The laughter was clearly visible in his eyes. Anne did not have the heart to persist in her disapproval.

  “Very likely not! I shall write at once if I find my chamber too overcrowded with slugs.”

  “What a poor spirit, you are, to be sure. Write to me, indeed! I wager you will spend half the morning crawling across my estate in search of retaliatory bugs!”

  “I will not take up your wager, sir, for very likely I shall lose my first quarterly pay. I find your idea inspiring!”

  “Excellent, I shall look forward to a lengthy report of the term’s excitements upon my return. By the by ...”

  “Yes?”

  “You are not to be discomposed if you find the estate battened upon by several of my rather ramshackle acquaintances. They are dear fellows, but persist in the belief that this estate—which borders on Lord Anchorford’s hunting box—is merely an extension of the same. Lord knows how they acquired such a chuckleheaded notion, but there it is. Every year I threaten to turn them out on their ears, and every year it is the same. I find I am too soft hearted by far!”

  “It would appear so, my lord! How many people can one reasonably expect at any time?”

  “Lord, I haven’t the faintest notion. My housekeeper, Mrs. Tibbet, generally attends to their requirements. With any luck, they should not be a bother to you at all. The gentlemen tend to be a trifle foxed, but have a satisfying tendency to keep to themselves, since they are usually only accompanied by wives and do not have ...”

  He cleared his throat, aware that he was just about to make a horrible faux pas.

  Anne, apprehending that he was referring to the many less respectable female diversions that London had to offer, smiled in quiet understanding.

  “Just so, my lord.” Her tone was an exact match of his earlier teasing banter.

  “Good lord, Miss Derringer, how shocking that you are not shocked!”

  “It must make a refreshing change for you, my lord, not to have to watch every sentence that slips off your tongue. It may have escaped your attention that though I am not wed, I am also not entirely a green girl.”

  “Thank the lord for that! However, in the matter of kisses—and though I try not to boast upon this point, I feel I ought to point out that I am a connoisseur—I find you green, Miss Derringer. Quite delightfully green.”

  “And I find you dreadfully improper! If you were a gentleman, you would not keep harping upon those kisses! Now go, I pray you, before I change my mind!”

  The earl laughed. “You shall never change my mind, Miss Derringer. I shall have to spring the horses now, for you have kept me in idle dalliance far longer than I anticipated.”

  Anne dimpled, for it was hard to take issue with a man so brazenly impudent as this one, or hold a groat of malice when his very smile caused a fever of excitement to rage quite unaccountably within her.

  She did manage to keep her countenance becomingly demure, however, as she raised a brow at the preposterous accusation.

  “Idle dalliance? My lord, you wrong me!”

  His laugh still rang in her ears as he disappeared in precisely the same mysterious manner in which he had arrived. It was only long after, when she was sipping a cup of chocolate in the cosy upstairs drawing room that the children assured her was actually the schoolroom, that she began to wonder.

  What had he meant? She shall never change his mind? It was a puzzle, but then, everything about the last twelve hours was a puzzle. Anne set her cup down musingly. She wished her employer were not half so young or disgustingly amiable. If her wayward thoughts were to incline too often in that direction ... but no! They would not. She set cup and saucer down with decision. As far as she was concerned, Lord Robert Carmichael was a figment of her fevered imagination.

  Just as well he had chosen to fly the coop and head for the pleasures of London. It made her task so much the easier. From now on, she would don a mobcap and endeavour to play the part allotted to her with dignity, humour and yes—she would allow it—intelligence. She would earn her exorbitant wages if it was the last thing she did.

  “Kitty, it is always best, when striking a pose, to endeavour to look alluring. That pout, though excellently framed, looks more devilish than charming. Here, let me show you ...”

  And so began Miss Derringer’s rather exceptional duties as governess.

  It might be said that the Viscount Tukebury and the older Miss Kitty Carmichael had never before found their lessons quite as unpredictable, alarming and outrageously interesting as they did now.

  London was bustling with activity by the time the ear
l reached the refined portals of Boodles at precisely eleven o’clock. He had only partially recovered his temper by the time he was greeted reverentially at the door and divested of his cane, greatcoat and elegantly crafted beaver.

  Miss Danvers had proved a trying travelling companion, for despite his foresight in travelling in separate conveyances, she had somehow contrived to weasel a lunch at the Red Fox Inn and several stops for “fresh air” out of his much put upon person. As if this was not enough, explanations to the countess Eversleigh had been harrowing.

  Craven, he had toyed with the idea of simply unloading Miss Danvers and her multitudinous parcels and carrying cases. Then, with a sigh, the gentleman had come to the fore, and he had helped her down obligingly, winced a little at her simpers, and handed his card on to the butler.

  The dowager countess had obviously not been overawed by his crest, for she left him kicking his heels in the blue salon for well over half an hour. This incivility alone would not have bothered him overmuch, but his sense of grievance could not help mounting as he was forced to alternately listen to Miss Danvers’s strictures on decorum while watching her bat excessively short eyelashes in his direction.

  The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour with regularity as his poor horses were forced to pace about the courtyard, harnessed, still, to their coaches.

  Finally—finally—the dowager duchess had made her entrance. She suffered the earl to clench her hand in his and nodded distantly at his elegant bow. Then her eyes fixed on poor Miss Danvers, and even the earl—for all his sufferings—had it in him to feel sorry for her.

  A lesser woman might have quailed under the glare, but it was fortunate, indeed, that Miss Danvers was made of hardy stuff. She simpered ingratiatingly at the dowager and commented how awed she was to fall under her provenance.

  The dowager’s beady eyes passed from her, then back to the earl.

  “Who is this woman?”

  The earl was forced to explain, his long and careful dialogue interrupted at times by the simpering interpolations of Miss Danvers, who searched her enormous reticule for the various tomes of references she invariably carried upon her person.

  The countess waved them away irritably, then pointed, once again, at Lord Carmichael.

  “Who did you say she was?” With a sigh, the earl began again, only suspecting on his third retelling that the Dowager Countess Eversleigh might be a trifle deaf.

  When her hearing aid was finally procured, he managed an abbreviated account into the long horn and cursed himself for a fool to get involved in the unlikely imbroglio. Only the thought of Miss Derringer’s piercing, pleading tourmaline eyes kept him from making an ignoble exit down the dull marble stairs.

  Finally, it was done. Miss Danvers’s luggage was safely bestowed on the second lackey in the servants’ quarters, and the earl was free to make his escape.

  Staines was a good way away from his bachelor establishment in Mayfair, judiciously across from Grosvenor Square and overlooking several of the outstanding gardens that gave colour to the city, even in the duller, more lackluster months. So it was much later, indeed, that he made his weary entrance forcing—unbeknown to him—a footman, a valet, a housekeeper and a bevy of underservants from their beds.

  By ten the next morning he had recovered sufficiently to partake of a mild repast, scan the Morning Post for any items of interest—there were none—and head on to his club.

  Boodles was quietly active, for the season was about to begin and many other entertainments that were undoubtedly occupying the minds of member’s spouses and hopeful offspring. Lord Robert Carmichael, however, had other matters on his mind.

  “Morning, Edgemere!”

  “Morning, Rutherford! I hear you won your wager.”

  “On Black Bess? But naturally. I’ve set my sights on another filly, however.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, and not of the equine type.” Lord Justin Rutherford looked too smug for Robert to misunderstand his meaning.

  “Another opera dancer?”

  “Spare me, Robert! I have had my fill of them. No, this one is an actress.”

  Lord Carmichael’s eyes twinkled, but his voice was solemn as he judiciously agreed that that made all the difference. Heartened, Rutherford rather generously admitted that Miss Martin had a friend with ravishing guinea gold hair.

  “Care to make her acquaintance?”

  The Earl of Edgemere regretfully declined, for there were other matters requiring his attention.

  “Justin?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you still have contacts in the home office?”

  “By God, Robert, you know I do! Why the interest?”

  Carefully, Lord Edgemere explained. He was so unusually delicate about the query that Lord Rutherford’s lazy interest was piqued.

  When a simple ribbing caused his good friend to make a curt and quite unnecessary reply, his suspicions were confirmed. Miss Derringer—whoever she was—had better have a spotless record. Whilst Robert was as notorious as he for delighting in the muslin set, he had never before shown any matrimonial interest in the female sex.

  The sharp set of his jaw and the uncommonly reticent manner of his speech confirmed Lord Rutherford’s worst fears. Robert, at last, was hooked. He only hoped that this Miss Dernnger-Anne, was it?—lived up to expectation. The name rang a faint but familiar bell in his head. Robert was right. There was something... .

  The offices of Messrs. Wiley and Clark were bustling but surprisingly clean given their location just two streets down from the dockyard. The Thames was notoriously murky on this side of town, but none of the grimier aspects of the city were evident in the Spartan but elegantly furnished rooms.

  The senior of the two men seated at an oak table almost the length of the second chamber looked up from his books and eyed his partner with interest.

  “Any news, yet, Ethan?”

  His inquiry was met with a shake of chestnut curls and a grimace at the large, hand-inscribed books in front of him.

  “None, I am afraid. I have contacted the other beneficiaries, but the two remaining parties remain elusive. So far, the inquiries have not been exhaustive, but I might say they have been reasonably efficient. Any further search would involve a capital loss to the firm unless the investigation is offset by the sums held in trust.”

  Old Mr. Wiley set down his monocle and sighed. “I am not certain I can authorize such a step.”

  “But the parties can surely not object—”

  “My dear Ethan, when you have been around as long as I have, you will learn not to make such foolish and ingenuous assumptions. Greed is limitless and rears its head in the most unlikely of places. No doubt Lord Featherstone and Miss ... Derringer, was it? ... ought to be grateful for the intelligence we bring. It is a guinea to a groat, however, that if we use some of the capital to locate them, one or other will lay a complaint against us to the authorities. It may not be fair, it may not be natural, but by godfathers, it is life.”

  The younger man still appeared troubled. “What shall I do, then?”

  “Reinvest the capital. The money was earned on change; it is reasonable to assume the investors would keep it there. Merchant shipping is a good line; record the details carefully and buy in again.”

  “And the interested parties?”

  “To hang with the interested parties! If they did not respond to the advertisements in the Morning Post, it is not our fault. We still have our contacts in place at Whitehall. If they can help, so much the better. If not, well, no one can say that as a company we have not acted in the best interest of all concerned.”

  Mr. Clark sighed. Lord Featherstone he knew nothing about, but Miss Derringer ... she was a different story. Above his touch, of course, but nevertheless not so stiff as to hold him in contempt.

  They had spent a memorable hour together when Miss Derringer had recklessly placed all of her competence on change. He remembered advising her to go with a safer option,
but she had smiled, simply shaking her glorious raven head. Her eyes had glowed bright as emeralds and she had had a reckless air about her. The air, Ethan knew, of a gambler.

  He was not to know the despair that had driven her to him, or the do or die attitude that had caused her to be so unthrifty. Anne had decided that either way, with the competence or without, she would be doomed to a life of humble servitude. Betting on the Polaris was a whimsical way of casting caution to the winds. She had known, he knew, the risks. Unlike most gamblers, she had seemed not to care. When the Polaris had been sunk, she had nodded fatalistically and thanked him in quiet tones. It was what she had expected.

  Now, it seemed, that communication had been false. It was the sister ship, the Astor, that had been caught on the rocky shores of the Eastern Hebrides. Polaris was late docking because it had been trading, quite profitably, in spices, tea and silk. Miss Derringer’s competence had not grown into a fortune, but it had certainly trebled in the year or so that the Polaris had been trading.

  Mr. Clark tapped his fingers on the table. He wished Miss Derringer had not been so precipitate in leaving Lady Somerford’s, her last known address. Inquiries had led him nowhere. There was nothing, he knew, that he could do about the situation. He ticked a column in his ledger, then shut the book with a sigh.

  Mr. Wiley chuckled. “Here’s a thought, Ethan! You could locate Miss Derringer, then marry the wench!”

  Not for the first time, Mr. Clark reflected on the bad taste of his partner. Still, he was a kindly man, so he managed a faint grin and endeavoured to ignore the thrust of the poor humour. Perhaps in his afternoon off he would make some investigations of his own. After all, people could not simply vanish into thin air. Or could they? Interesting thought.

  Mr. Wiley held out the basket of delectable-smelling buns from Gunther’s. A luxury, but it was his sixtieth birthday. Ethan bit into the sweet delicacy with unfeigned enjoyment. For the moment, the business of locating Lord Featherstone and the mysterious Miss Derringer was entirely set aside.

  Seven