At Love's Bidding (27 page)

William threaded his fingers together. “Well, we'll do the
best we can. Are you willing to return to Boston with me? It might not be easy, but I suspect it'll be ultimately rewarding.”

This was real. He was going to meet the people he'd dreamed of for years. “But what will they think of me? This family wanted nothing to do with me. And if this solicitor went through all the trouble of sending McSwain out to stop me, they aren't going to welcome me with open arms.”

“Like all families, they have their successes and their less-than-exemplary members. Your uncle Frederic gets by, but he has no head for business. He's allowed the trust to be mismanaged by Monty King and doesn't even know what he's squandered. On the other hand, Miss Corinne is a lady of rare intelligence and grace.” His eyes softened. “She's entirely undervalued. They don't know her worth.”

Wyatt raised an eyebrow. “But you do?”

William cleared his throat. “Miss LeBlanc is a lady of very high social standing. She is unattainable for a man like me.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Are you referring to Miss Wimplegate?” William laughed. “I don't think you understand. When the oldest brother, Armand, died, the fortune passed to Frederic only because your father, the second son, was presumed dead. That's why Monty King had to keep your claim a secret. You see, as your father's son, you outrank your uncle Frederic. A lady such as Miss Wimplegate is completely below your notice, because you, Mr. Yves LeBlanc, are the heir to the entire LeBlanc family fortune.”

All the way from the train station, Miranda had rested her forehead against the glass window of the hired hack and tried to filter out Grandfather's railing. Father hadn't released her from his welcome embrace before Grandfather began his list of grievances that he'd perfected on the eternal train ride home. By the time they reached her family's three-story townhouse, Miranda didn't wait to be handed down, but bolted out and raced up the walk. Bursting through the doors, she didn't stop running until she fell into her mother's arms. Laying her head on her shoulder, Miranda clung while her mother swayed and cooed, just as she had when Miranda was a child and had suffered some boo-boo.

“Here you are, my girl. Home safe. What a journey you've taken. What tales you must have for us.” She smoothed Miranda's hair and shooed the maid out of the study.

Safely tucked away, inhaling the comforting lavender scent of her mother, Miranda didn't want to raise her head. All she wanted was to be pampered and protected after her horrible ordeal.

“It's good to be home. You have no idea—”

“Well, when we saw the odd assortment of items Grandfather shipped back, it confirmed what you'd said in the telegrams. And then when your trunks arrived without you . . .”

“Thank you for shipping my clothes to Cincinnati. I never want to wear that gown again.”

“I'd think not.” With a last squeeze, Mother took her by the shoulders and straightened. “But I mustn't monopolize your time. Others are expecting you.” Her narrow face crunched into an amusing grimace as she tilted her head toward the high-backed chair in front of the fireplace.

Cornelius, patiently waiting his turn.

Standing in her home, Miranda could almost imagine that the place called Pine Gap was a figment of her imagination. That it only existed in some oil painting or between the pages of a book. She was Miranda Wimplegate, citizen of Boston. The portrait had been recovered, and although she couldn't take credit for the discovery, at least the name of the Wimplegate Auction House had been cleared. On Monday she'd be at the warehouse working on the catalog for the next sale. Nothing had changed.

But it had. She had changed.

“You've returned, after all.” Despite his light summer suit and straw hat, Miranda couldn't stop marveling at how he'd aged. Then again, she wouldn't be surprised to find a few gray strands of her own after all she'd been through. Cornelius stood with a newspaper in one hand and his portfolio at his feet. “I was on my way to a patient and thought I'd stop by to see how my favorite cousin is doing.”

Funny how spotless he looked. Untried, untouched. Had any emotion ever ruffled him?

Mother politely withdrew, much to Miranda's dismay. Miranda
held her reticule in her palm and felt the gavel through the brocade fabric.

“How was your trip?”

“Miserable . . .”

“I can only imagine.”

“But exhilarating at the same time. But mostly miserable.” Or at least that's how she felt now. Whatever euphoria she'd experienced had vanished now that Wyatt believed her a thief.

Gently she spun the world globe that stood by the bookshelf. “You'll want to see Grandfather, won't you?”

Cornelius tucked his chin into his chest. “Of course, but first I'd like to have a word with you, if you don't mind. You've been gone for two months, and it just reminded me that we have waited long enough. We are of age, of means, and it's time to set the date for the wedding, Miranda. There's no reason to wait any longer.”

“I can think of several.” Her fingers skimmed over country after country as they spun on the axis. “The most obvious reason is that I'm not in love with you. As it stands now, I don't see how I benefit from this arrangement. If love isn't what you're offering me, then you must present your case more clearly.”

“I must?” He smirked as he tossed the newspaper onto the table. “Listen to you. I never thought to hear my Miranda tell me what I must do. It's charming, truly.”

Charming like a child who stomps her foot to get her way? “Father was right. This journey taught me much. It taught me that occasionally I have to act on my own behalf. I have to decide what I want and be willing to accept the consequences.”

“You figured this out on your own, or did someone help you?” Cornelius walked to the world globe and halted it in its orbit. Startled, Miranda lifted her eyes. His mouth twisted
and he shook his head. “Don't forget, Miranda, I know you. I know what you're capable of and what's beyond you. It's my professional opinion that this determination is not your own idea. You didn't independently make this decision. Instead, you were influenced. That is a failing of yours, you know. You are easily influenced by more choleric personalities.”

Was he right, or was he the choleric personality influencing her now? She rubbed her forehead, worried about the tension building there. Either way, Miranda was certain that she did not want to spend the rest of her life with this man. But footsteps in the hallway alerted her to another man making his appearance.

“Where's my girl?” Father bellowed. “You left me in the carriage with Grandfather without as much as a by-your-leave.”

Pressing her palms together in thanks, Miranda skipped across the study to meet Father halfway. Another hug, just as heartfelt as her mother's, although accompanied by more cracking joints.

“I am so proud of you,” he said. “Handling Grandfather and keeping up with King's man out there all by yourself. I don't know how you managed.”

“I don't know that I managed well, but now Grandfather can get the care he needs. I'm just glad it's all behind me now.”

“But is it?” Cornelius crossed his arms over his chest. “Uncle Charles, I'm afraid that trouble may have followed our dear Miranda home.”

Father rolled his eyes. “First my father, and now you. Go on and tell us your news, Nelly,” he said as he fell into a deep chair. “Let's see if your sneer is warranted.”

Cornelius rattled open his newspaper and searched for his spot, reminding Miranda of her newsies and shoeshine boys. She'd see them tomorrow. Surely she could get some treats together by then. Ralphie had probably grown while she was gone.

Cornelius cleared his throat,

“All society is agog at the news that the shipping titans in the LeBlanc family have potentially rediscovered a long-lost heir. As to be expected, the possibility has thrown the house into disarray, setting family members at odds over whether the uneducated backwoodsman is indeed the son of Stephan LeBlanc, and if so, what exactly his role in the family should be. Will the debutantes of Boston have another worthy bachelor to practice their charms upon this season?”

Miranda's throat tightened. “That's enough.” She snatched the paper out of Cornelius's hand and crumpled it up. Wyatt, the catch of the season? If he was truly a LeBlanc, every cash-conscious papa would shove his daughter in his direction. And with one look at his broad shoulders and piercing eyes, the ladies would jump in his path even without Papa's insistence.

But what if he wasn't? Would they want him then? Did they know how he always bid on Widow Sanders' rhubarb pie to save her pride? Had they seen how kind he was to little Betsy? Had they watched him as he humbly took the unreasonable abuse of an old man who—if he knew better—would have begged Wyatt to marry his only granddaughter and join the family?

The newspaper sailed into the trash bin.

“My, my,” Father said. “What does Cousin Cornelius think of your newfound opinions?”

Cornelius adjusted his spectacles. “I think Miranda needs a doctor as much as Uncle Elmer does. Her association with a verifiable fraud has affected her sense.”

Miranda's jaw tightened as she glared at the smug man.

“So you think the LeBlanc heir is a fraud?” Father asked.

The courage lump on her skull seemed to shrivel up, but she spoke her mind before Cornelius could answer. “He is not. Whether or not his family's claims prove true, I know Mr. Ballentine, and he wouldn't be here if he didn't believe them. Cornelius is just out of sorts because I've made it clear that I want no wedding plans with him.”

Now Father sat up. His eyes twinkled. “Truly? Well, Cornelius, I don't know what to say.”

“Save your condolences. Once this Ballentine fellow is exposed, Miranda will see things more clearly.”

Why was it she only now found his translucent skin so repulsive? “Perhaps I'm seeing clearly for the first time.”

Father roared with laughter. “Well, well. All those phrenological exams, and it took a trip to the backwoods for you to finally know your mind. Now don't sulk at me, Cornelius. If Miranda wants to marry you, I'll give my consent, but I can't say I'm sorry to see her show some spunk.”

But Miranda saw nothing to be happy about. She turned her charm bracelet around her wrist and listened to the sounds of the traffic on the street below their window. She had what she didn't want, and what she wanted, she'd let get away.

At the end of his endurance, Cornelius rose, made a curt bow, and left her and Father alone.

Her father leaned back in his chair and, having no charm bracelet to fiddle with, twisted the end of his mustache instead. “Grandfather doesn't have a good opinion of the dashing Mr. Ballentine-LeBlanc, but from what I've read in that paper you're trying to hide, he's quite the catch.”

“Don't be absurd. The whole situation is ridiculous. He's nothing more than a mountain man.” She erupted with a short
harsh laugh. “He drives a homemade wagon with a team of mules. That's the sort of person we're talking about.”

“And Cornelius rubs on people's heads, but it never bothered you before.”

She turned to the window and watched the maple branches sway in the wind. “I tried to imagine myself living there. Tried to think how I'd fit in, what my life would be like, but I couldn't see it. Then to hear that he's going to live here, why, he'll be as lost as I was there. The whole idea of it is . . . ludicrous.”

The chair groaned as Father kicked back. “Your candor is refreshing, daughter. And the way you handled Cornelius—this trip seems to have accomplished exactly what your mother and I had hoped it would. We're proud of you.”

She smiled, grateful for the encouragement but certain his praise was unmerited. She'd let fear master her and rejected Wyatt when he was poor. Although her love for him had only grown since their separation, how could she express it now when he could be a very wealthy man? The very idea reeked of hypocrisy.

Making a decision meant living with the consequences—for better or worse. And because she'd denied him during the worst, she had no right to any of his better.