Miss Quinn's Quandary Page 3

  “If you hadn’t flirted so shamelessly on the ship, I would never have suggested it.”

  “Shameless flirting?” A confused look crossed his face. He had tipped his hat and wished her a good day. “I was merely being polite.”

  “Well, when one comes from a ladies’ seminary, one isn’t accustomed to such behavior from a gentleman.”

  Randall felt the same unsettled confusion as when he spoke with his Uncle Cyrus. “Coming from a ladies’ seminary, one wouldn’t be accustomed to men at all.”

  “My point exactly.” Larissa punctuated her statement with the nod of her head.

  It was like speaking to his Uncle Cyrus. It was best just to end the discussion. He had apologized, and it seemed to him no harm was done. “Good night, Miss Quinn, and goodbye.” With as formal a bow as one could perform in one’s shirtsleeves and stocking feet, he left.

  Larissa watched Sir Randall make his retreat. With a distinct click of the door handle, he was gone. She removed her cloak, dropped it onto the bed and crawled under the covers.

  She would remember him for as long as she lived. She would dream about him in the dreary days, months, and years that followed. Perhaps she even loved him, just a little, for he was the first man to kiss her. It was a moment she would hold in her heart forever.

  She had hoped he had come to kiss her goodbye. It was far more than she could wish. It was more likely she would never lay her eyes or her lips upon him again.

  Chapter Four

  Randall’s hired hackney rolled up the long, winding cobblestone drive leading to Rushton Manor. Randall sat quietly, still weary from the trip from The Blue Boar to the White Horse in Oxford. It had been two days and thoughts of Larissa Quinn were only beginning to ebb. During the day he busied himself, but at night she would come to him in his dreams.

  Larissa’s angelic face peering through the long, loose blond hair tumbling about her shoulders, falling almost to her waist. The image lacked color as it had that memorable night in the darkened room. In his vivid recollections he thought of her voice as soft and low as she called to him. Why could he not forget her?

  Sleep was a luxury these days. By the end of the week, even tonight perhaps, he would return to a night of normal sleep. He could count on an interesting, if not somewhat unusual evening spent in his Uncle Cyrus’ company. That would be all that was needed to remove thoughts of Larissa from his mind.

  The coach stopped in front of the looming Tudor and Randall disembarked. He approached the great double oak doors and knocked. He could easily study the intricate carvings of the fifteenth-century doors for an extended period of time. One had no choice but to examine the detail because it took an extraordinarily long time for the butler, Watkins, to admit awaiting guests—if Watkins still held the post of butler.

  Watkins was old during Randall’s last visit three years ago and barely mobile then. As Randall stood pondering the possibilities, he hardly noticed the lengthy stretch of time creep by before the massive front door began to inch open.

  Randall leaned toward the small opening, finding it wasn’t large enough to squeeze through yet. He felt torn as to whether he need help Watkins with the front door or not. If the butler was ancient before, the man must be near the age of Methuselah now. He was slow as treacle in the dead of winter and as fragile as fine bone porcelain, but to Randall’s amazement the elderly butler still thrived.

  Randall stepped inside as soon as the space between the doors allowed his entry.

  “Good day, Watkins.”

  “Yes, sir,” is all the butler said.

  “Is my uncle about?”

  “If I were you, sir, I would not be speakin’ ‘bout his lordship in those terms.”

  The butler’s response bewildered Randall long enough for the ringing of heels on the marble floor to announce the Earl of Rushton.

  “Welcome, my boy! Welcome!” He took Randall’s hand and pumped it with vigor. Rushton clapped his nephew on the back. “Let me take a good look at you.” Rushton circled him like a vulture. “You’re looking well, very well indeed.” He examined the cut of his coat, the fit of his breeches, and the intricate folds of his cravat.

  “Will there be anything else you require, your lordship?” Watkins gave the appearance of always being on the verge of tottering over and Randall kept on guard to catch him.

  “We’ll have port in the library,” Rushton ordered.

  “Very well, my lord,” Watkins answered and shuffled off down the hallway.

  “Would have thought Watkins dead by now, Uncle, or at least retired.” Randall watched the butler disappear into the library.

  Rushton shook his finger at his nephew. “Don’t be disrespectful, boy.” He gave Randall a push, starting him toward the library. “He was butler for my father, and his father before him.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me at all, to find he worked for the first Earl of Rushton,” Randall snorted, just before stepping into the library.

  “Not so loud, lad. Watkins will hear you.”

  Randall spun to face his uncle. “Hear me? He can still hear?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for asking,” the butler responded. “And the wife still resides here also.”

  Between his uncle’s ramblings and the butler’s questionable interpretation, conversation must be interesting around the manor, Randall thought.

  Rushton motioned to the wingback chairs in front of the blazing hearth and they sat. “Now tell me, how was your trip?” He closed one eye and gave a measuring glare. “You seem a bit frayed around the edges.”

  “Well, it was long and troublesome. Nothing I’d want to relate. Would rather put it all behind me, really.”

  “Good! Good!” Uncle Cyrus praised in a fevered pitch. Watkins had insinuated himself between them and proffered a tray with two glasses. Rushton took one glass. “I shall have my valet speak to you at once. You look bang up to the mark, dressed in the first stare of fashion and all that.”

  “What’s the urgency?” Randall asked, taking the remaining glass. Although his uncle was somewhat unpredictable, he always had a reason for his actions. Not necessarily good ones, but Randall was becoming increasingly curious.

  “I’ve called you here so you could accompany me.” Rushton took a swallow of port and his eyes grew large with excitement. “We’re off to London.”

  “London? Whatever for?” The news did not please Randall.

  “I’ve come to the conclusion it’s high time I remarry,” Rushton announced. “Don’t you think?”

  Randall tried his best to hide his amused smile and gazed into his glass. “Well, I really can’t speak for you, Uncle.”

  “Of course not!” Rushton bellowed. “Wouldn’t permit it. Would be demmed pretentious of you. But I’m not getting any younger, you know.” He patted his rounded belly and grazed his hand over the scant hair covering his head. “Haven’t got the looks you have, what?” It had occurred to Randall if they had been related by blood and not by marriage, they might have looked more similar. “But a man needs companionship in his advancing years. And the comfort of a woman every now and again, even at my age.”

  “If you say so, sir.” It was becoming an increasingly difficult task for Randall to keep his laughter reined.

  “Of course I say so,” Uncle Cyrus blustered. “My wealth and my title are my best features, I’ll wager. But make no mistake, I’ll still have my pick.” He set aside his glass and stood. “Stand up, let’s have another look at you, boy.

  Randall did as requested. His uncle rotated him slowly to have a good look at the back of his coat. Completing the turn, Randall could not help but notice his uncle staring at the dark curls that graced Randall’s head.

  “I do admire those curls of yours.”

  Randall got the distinct impression it was not the curls that drew his uncle’s admiration, it was the amount of hair, plain and simple. Uncle Cyrus hadn’t any to spare, another reason to keep Watkins around as butler. He was the only one who ha
d less hair than Randall’s uncle.

  Uncle Cyrus had tried to create the illusion of a pompadour by pulling his long strands of hair from the sides of his head and curling them around on the top like a braided rug, plastering the mass down with a mixture of sugar, glycerin, and water. It wasn’t in Randall’s nature to stare at the phenomenon, but one couldn’t help but have one’s eyes drawn to the elaborate, manmade configuration.

  “Uncle Cyrus, you make yourself sound positively ancient.”

  “We won’t be a pair of young bucks waltzing into Almacks. I’m counting on your dashing good looks to draw the beauties, while I do the pretty.” He sketched a practice bow for his nephew’s consideration. “Still, I think I can always use a few pointers, don’t you?” He leaned over and caught the hem of Randall’s brocade waistcoat between his fingers and felt the fabric. “Nice, yes, very nice. I’ll need a new wardrobe and maybe a …” He sucked in his gut and gave his slightly protruding midsection a pat.

  “Corset? Good heavens, no, Uncle,” Randall gasped. “Those things look so demmed silly. You’ll be all red in the face and go about creaking. People will talk behind your back about what a trussed-up ass you are.”

  “The Regent wears one, if I’m not mistaken,” Rushton stated with a haughty air.

  “No one said Prinny was fashionable. No one dares say it to his face, anyway.” Randall sat in his chair and took up his glass. “If he were not a prince, how many ladies would be after him, corset or no?”

  “You’re quite right. I’m an earl. I don’t need a corset.” Rushton returned to his seat, retrieving his drink. “You don’t suppose someone would marry me just for me, do you?”

  Randall gave a smile. “I don’t see why not. You’re a fine man, any woman should consider herself lucky to have you.”

  “Thank you, my boy.” Rushton sat back in his chair. He raised his glass toward his nephew in appreciation. “I knew there was a good reason I took a liking to you. I hope you’re up to traveling. I’ve told my valet we are to leave in two days’ time.” Randall did not have a chance to give an answer. “When I was your age, I’d be ready at a moment’s notice, and could travel all night if need be.”

  “I shall be ready, Uncle,” Randall offered. “Who else will accompany us?”

  “I’ll need Georges, of course. A good valet will prove indispensable once my new wardrobe is assembled.”

  Randall hid his smile. He wondered exactly when it was his uncle had become a slave to fashion. “Will Watkins be with us as well?”

  “I’m afraid not.” Rushton glanced about for the butler. “He’s better off left in the country.” He leaned closer to his nephew. “I’m afraid his Portman Square days are over. He’s not able to manage the stairs, you know.”

  Randall nodded, understanding. As he recalled there were three flights of stairs in the townhouse. In the butler’s present tottering condition he would have a time of it legging it up and down a single set.

  “Once we arrive our first stop will be the tailor.”

  “Weston is said to be the best.”

  Rushton held his hand up. “Weston’s it is, then. We will need boots, hats, gloves—” The earl stopped and gazed beyond Randall.

  Unsure if his uncle was actually looking at something, or someone, Randall took a quick glance over his shoulder. There was nothing there.

  “A new walking stick or two might be in order, also. And of course a betrothal ring.”

  “Betrothal ring?” Randall sat forward. “Isn’t that a bit premature?”

  “Might meet her that first night. Must be ready.”

  “But, Uncle, really!” All this elaborate planning for a lady—a lady whose identity he did not even know. But Randall knew, with his uncle’s uncompromising nature, it was only a matter of time before they discovered who the lucky lady would be.

  Chapter Five

  The motion and bumps of the transport did not distract Larissa from disquieting thoughts of her aunt. Her father had never spoken of his elder sister at any length. His was not a bitter silence but a sad one, as if he did not want to bring up any unpleasant memories. Then, nearly a year after his death, Larissa had received a letter from her remaining long-lost relative, offering her a home.

  Larissa did not have much say in the matter; Miss Simmons was only too glad to respond favorably and wished her ex-pupil good luck. Larissa felt a bit apprehensive of the opportunity at first—she knew nothing of the outside world, not to mention the entire situation regarding her aunt. Was she in a bad state? Confined to her room? An invalid perhaps? Larissa imagined her aunt’s home as a small, dimly-lit, dingy country hovel, making the seminary years feel luxurious in comparison.

  Even now her Aunt Ivy must have help of some type considering her frail condition. Larissa hoped the kind woman who helped her aunt would continue to help, admitting that two pairs of hands would ease the burden for her.

  The rented hack drew to a halt in front of her aunt’s house. Holding the strings of her reticule with both hands, Larissa drew a deep breath, fortifying herself before facing what daunting tasks lay ahead.

  She disembarked then froze, staring at the house before her. This wasn’t what she expected at all. The residence appeared not large in size but grand. Brick walls and venetian windows faced her on this side of the modest stately country home.

  She approached the front door and used the brass dolphin-shaped knocker. An impeccably dressed, statuesque butler answered the door. Larissa would have never guessed her aunt would be able to employ several servants.

  “I am Miss Quinn. I believe my aunt is expecting me.”

  The butler stepped back, without uttering a word, and opened the door wide. Larissa stepped through the portal. Wood paneling surrounded her in the foyer, and a wide staircase spiraled up to the right. Larissa was amazed at the richly appointed interior. This was far beyond what she had expected.

  Two recessed alcoves flanked the set of double doors at the far end of the entry hall. In each alcove, a columned pedestal held a statue. On the right was Artemis bathing and on the left Actaeon in mid-transformation, half man, half stag.

  Her visual tour stopped at the sight of three large trunks stacked in the foyer.

  Did she have the wrong house? It appeared the occupants were readying themselves to leave, and she had only just arrived.

  The rustle of taffeta skirts and staccato steps announced the lady of the house. “Oh, it’s you, Larissa, my dear girl!” the woman squealed. “My dear, dear, dear girl.” She took Larissa into her arms and gave a squeeze, making it difficult for Larissa’s lungs to hold air.

  Was this her aged aunt?

  “I’m your Aunt Ivy. Now, let me have a look at you, my dear.” She held Larissa out at arm’s length, a great, welcoming smile on her kind face. “You look so much like him. Your father, that is. He was such a wonderful man.” Tears came to Ivy’s eyes. “I am sorry to keep you standing about like this after your long trip. Do come in.” She drew Larissa into the foyer. “Hayes, take care of my niece’s luggage.”

  “At once, my lady.”

  “Let us go into the drawing room and have some tea,” she murmured to Larissa. “Hayes, tea and biscuits, please. Or would you care to have something more to eat?” Larissa opened her mouth to speak but hadn’t a chance to answer. “How thoughtless of me, of course you would. Hayes, have cook send a plate to keep Larissa until dinner.”

  “At once, my lady.”

  This was not what Larissa had expected. Not only was her aunt not aged, she seemed teeming with more enthusiasm than Larissa had ever seen contained in a single human being. Her aunt, it was now quite obvious to Larissa, was a lady of leisure.

  “I am so very pleased you’ve arrived.” She led Larissa by the hand through the double doors. “Come along, now. Come now, don’t dawdle.”

  The drawing room was decorated in blue and white. The blue flower-patterned drapes were tied back on the sides of a bow window. Tall windows on the adjacent wall ga
ve an unobstructed view of the lush garden that lay beyond.

  Ivy pulled Larissa onto the blue sofa next to her. “We have so much to talk about. So much to learn about one another.”

  “My lady—” Larissa began, addressing her new found relative as the butler had.

  “No, no, not my lady to you. Aunt. No, Aunt Ivy.” The aunt pressed one of Larissa’s gloved hands to her cheek. “I think that sounds wonderful don’t you, dear?”

  Aunt Ivy was perhaps a bit odd, but Larissa found her more and more to her liking.

  “All right, Aunt Ivy it is.” She smiled, feeling a bit shy. “Aunt Ivy, I wish to thank you for your generosity.”

  “Generosity? My dear girl, I would not—could not have it any other way. The only daughter of my brother. Alfred.” Her voice cracked with emotion. She blotted the corner of her eyes with a fine handkerchief which appeared from nowhere. “Poor dear, such a brave soldier. I cannot abandon you. You are my only flesh and blood relative.” The handkerchief disappeared, and her mood lightened. “And now, I have simply the best news for you, dear. We are about to embark on a most exciting adventure. I’m nearly all packed and ready to go.”

  “Go? Go where?” Could any new adventure prove more exciting than her trip here? Larissa found the notion hard to imagine.

  “Now that you’re out of the schoolroom and all grown up, I have planned to give you a Season.”

  “A Season? You don’t mean we’re going to London?”

  “Exactly!”

  “How? I mean, I thought … what about the money?”

  “Dear, don’t worry about finances. Although I am not rich, I’ve managed to tuck away a bit, and with some of what your father has left you we’ve a most comfortable sum. Do remove your bonnet and gloves, my dear. Our tea will arrive momentarily.”

  Larissa untied the ribbons under her chin and took her time removing her bonnet. She hadn’t thought her family had any money to speak of, let alone money for her. Then again, she knew so little about her father. He was a military man. After her mother died, he had her placed in the Miss Simmons’ Seminary for Young Ladies. It had been years since she had seen him last. Moreover, she could count all the times she had seen him in her whole life on her fingers.