Her Wicked Ways (15 page)

He took her hand and floated a kiss above her glove. “Indeed. Though I’ll be traveling again soon, I’m afraid. Which is why I’ve come today so I may spend a bit of time with you while I am in Wootton Bassett.” He looked from side to side and raised a brow, giving the appearance he was about to impart some dire secret. “In truth, I came straightaway from the vicarage after determining the Carmodys would visit for another half hour at least. I knew we would not be interrupted.” He finished with a grin and a tap of his stick on the polished oak floor.

Miranda wondered who had let Mr. Stratham into the manor. Another notion crept up her spine. One that went quite along with his furtive manner. Perhaps he’d snuck in. It reminded her of London, and how she and her friends threw caution over a cliff at nearly every opportunity. Such behavior seemed a bit hazardous now. Perhaps her banishment was altering her behavior after all.
Oh, perish that thought
.

“Come, sit with me.” Mr. Stratham took her hand and led her to a settee facing the fireplace. “I understand it has rained almost incessantly since I left.”

“Indeed.” She sat down and retracted her hand from his to smooth her skirts. “Everyone is quite worried about the harvest. Apparently it is several weeks behind schedule.”

Mr. Stratham set his walking stick against the end of the settee. “I’m sure it will catch up.”

Miranda turned toward him. “You don’t seem concerned.”

“Not really.” He stretched his arm along the back of the settee. “Things have a way of working out.” He winked at her, and she couldn’t decide if he was incredibly optimistic or purposely obtuse.

Her eye caught the door over his shoulder, and she noted it stood half closed. Since she’d left it wide open, she had to conclude Mr. Stratham planned some kind of impropriety. She should put a stop to his scheme. Unlike with the highwayman and, to her astonishment, Fox, her body didn’t quiver with anticipation in Stratham’s presence.

Although perhaps she hadn’t given him the opportunity. Now was the time to prove she was above common thieves and impoverished country bumpkins.

Mr. Stratham moved his fingers from the back of the settee to lightly graze her shoulder. “Lady Miranda, your beauty steals my breath.”

So he wasn’t a poet. She wasn’t interested in poetry. She leaned a bit closer, willing a spark to tingle along her shoulder blade, up her neck,
anything
.

He responded in kind, his head angling toward her, his lips parted. His pupils were dilated. At least someone was affected.

He touched his lips to hers, and Miranda strove to find the thrill that ought to accompany his kiss. The thrill that had accompanied the highwayman’s kiss. Instead, nothing.

A loud crash jolted them apart as surely as if Mr. Carmody had put his skinny arms between them. Miranda looked over Mr. Stratham’s shoulder, saw the door shuddering as it bounced back from the wall where Fox had thrown it.

Fox
.

He looked as if he might tear Mr. Stratham’s head from his shoulders and then mount it on the wall.

Miranda leapt to her feet. She swallowed the large ball of guilt lodged in her throat. “Ahem. Ah, well. Good afternoon, Fox.”

Fox glared at her, his eyes dark and slitted. “The Carmodys are here. I suggest you be on your way.”

“Yes, thank you.” Miranda wanted to say something else, but words would not come. What could she say to mitigate this disaster?

Mr. Stratham rose, walking stick in hand. “I’ll see you to your carriage.”

There were so many reasons he could
not
walk her to the Carmodys’ carriage, not the least of which was that Mr. Carmody would likely become apoplectic at the knowledge Mr. Stratham had paid her a social call. And really, why else would he be at the orphanage he’d steadfastly avoided until she’d begun working there? And what if Mr. Carmody assumed the worst? Given what her parents had told him, he only waited for her ruination. Oh no, she could not be seen with Mr. Stratham…never mind Fox had witnessed their ill-conceived kiss.

Fox continued to glower in their direction. “I will escort her.”

The way in which he delivered his pronouncement brooked no argument. With her head high, Miranda walked from the room, her pulse racing even faster as she passed Fox in the doorway.

He turned and fell into step beside her. Anger resonated in the heat from his body. His hair and clothing were damp as if he’d been working in the rain without a hat. That errant lock had fallen over his forehead making him appear dashing, careless. He looked as if he couldn’t be contained. Primal.

She hated what she’d seen in his eyes when he’d barged into the library. “I’m sorry.” The words sounded pathetic.

“What for? I’m not your guardian.” He slid her an acidic glance. “Or your husband.”

If he’d slapped her, she would have felt better. Instead, her stomach threatened to shrivel up and disappear.

“I would counsel you to beware of your choices. You’ve made it clear Wootton Bassett is not to your liking. With him, you might spend a decent portion of the year in London, but he’ll always come home.”

Another person who sought to know what was best for her! “I’d thank you to keep your counsel to yourself.” They were passing through the main hall. Fox walked ahead to open the door.

“As you wish.” He swept his hand in a grand gesture, ushering her outside.

She plucked her bonnet from a table and shoved it on her head, not bothering to tie the ribbons. With a final glare of her own, she stalked out into the rain.

And flinched as the door slammed behind her.

FOX turned from the trembling door and balled his fists at the sight of Stratham twirling his walking stick and grinning like an imbecile. Fox wanted to shove the stick up his—

“Fox, you look peevish. Something else around here fall apart?”

With supreme effort, Fox flattened his palms against the sides of his thighs and willed himself to relax. There was no point pounding Stratham, much as he’d like to. “We still need to fix the roof. Thanks to generosity like yours, we haven’t been able to afford the proper repairs.” Fox sneered, unable to keep his emotions in check.

Stratham pressed his lips together. “You’re always so disagreeable. I don’t understand why you blame me for Jane. At least I assume that’s the reason for your behavior. She made her choice and risked condemnation by the entire district for it.”

She’d risked nothing. “Who would dare slur the MP’s wife? Especially one who wields such power.” Fox stepped toward the smaller man. “Shouldn’t you be out collecting ‘tributes’ or whatever you call the money you extort from northern Wiltshire?”

Stratham clenched his walking stick in both hands before his chest as if it were a shield. “Watch what you say, Foxcroft.”

“Are you threatening me?” Fox took another step forward. “After everything my father did for you? After everything he gave?”

Stratham looked to the side and threw his shoulders back. “Your father was a good man.”

“My father was as morally deficient as you. I’m sure that’s why you got on so well.” The anger Fox had conquered moments before reared its head once more. “You’ll have to excuse me, I need to get on the roof.” They’d installed the canvas a few weeks ago, but a drip had started again that morning, meaning the covering must’ve come loose.

“In this weather? Even you aren’t that daft.” Stratham paused. “Are you?”

Fox pushed past the little rat. “Get the hell out of my orphanage, and don’t come back unless you’re invited.”

A few moments later, Fox walked out into the gray day and approached Rob stationed at the base of a ladder. “Are you ready?”

“Aye.” Rob inclined his head toward the front of the house. “Was that Stratham’s carriage in the drive?”

Fox nodded. The idiot certainly wasn’t surreptitious about his unauthorized visit. Fox assumed Stratham was still prohibited from calling on Miranda. Else, why would he have come here?

Because he stood a better chance of finding her unchaperoned.

Fox’s mood darkened to the color of the storm moving from the west. “Caught him kissing Miranda in the library.” He started up the ladder.

“Son of a bitch. Suppose he’s proposed yet?” Rob called the last.

Fox couldn’t answer Rob’s question and be heard. He climbed onto the roof so Rob could follow. Carefully, he made his way to the corner. As expected, the canvas had blown back, exposing part of the hole.

When Rob stopped beside him, Fox responded, “If he has, she’s given him the same answer she gave me.” This thought gave him a modicum of relief. And if she’d turned Stratham down as well, what was he doing kissing her? Trying to compromise her? Christ, he basically just had. If anyone other than Fox had walked in… Fury built again. Dammit, if anyone was going to compromise her, it should be
him
, not that slimy Stratham.

Fox looked down at the battered roof tiles. They desperately needed a large influx of money to replace the tiles and the timber frame beneath.

Rob let out a low whistle. “Can you imagine if this was still covered in thatch?”

The medieval hall had been built with a thatched roof, which had been replaced by Fox’s forebears when they’d converted the building to an orphanage. Fox usually took comfort in thinking about his ancestors who had sacrificed so much and worked so hard to give those less fortunate a better life. But then he thought of his father’s transgressions and became angry. Why had his father failed them all and left them in this disastrous mess?

Fox kneeled to pull the canvas back into place. Rot had destroyed most of the wood frame. The tent was keeping things dry for the most part, but he couldn’t tell how long the structure would be secure. Fox only hoped it didn’t buckle and hurt one of the children. He’d tell Mrs. Gates to avoid holding activities in the hall. Perhaps he needed to start thinking about moving them to Bassett Manor. His home wasn’t quite as large as Stipple’s End, and it hadn’t been renovated as an orphanage, but it was at least free of potentially catastrophic leaks.

They went about securing the canvas back into place. As they nailed the canvas to the wood, Fox wracked his brain for a solution to their financial problems.

“What if I steal Stratham’s tribute money?”

Rob, kneeling near the corner, looked up, his hammer poised over a nail. “How do you propose to do that?”

Fox sat back on his heels. The rain fell a bit harder now and he wished he’d grabbed his hat and a coat. “He starts collecting soon. Then he delivers the money to Norris. Why let the money line their pockets when there are people who need it far more?”

Water dripped from the rim of Rob’s hat. “You’d be risking a great deal if they caught you. No telling what kinds of lawlessness those two are tangled up in.”

Fox futilely wiped the rain from his face. “Even so, it’s the only way I can think to obtain a lot of money quickly.”

Rob glanced away, weighed the hammer in his palm. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Lady Miranda.” He turned back. “You sure that way’s closed?”

“Quite.”

She’d been more than clear. Oh, he still wanted her, but he’d be damned if he’d propose to her again. At least not until she realized he wasn’t a second-class match.

Rob swung the hammer. “You don’t mind being the highwayman again? I’ll go along, if you want.”

“No, I’ll do it alone. I’m not risking you or anyone else this time.” The idea of donning his mask again made him think of the first time he’d done so. When he’d kissed Miranda.

He
could
compromise her, couldn’t he? Better him than Stratham, who’d nearly done it today. Actually had done it today if Fox wanted to advertise what he’d seen. Which he most certainly didn’t. Fox closed his eyes against the rain. He’d been reduced to thieving, but God help him, he wasn’t a cad.

Not yet.

TEN days later the rain continued, drumming against the roof of the carriage as Miranda and Beatrice returned home from Stipple’s End. They were nearly to Birch House when Beatrice finally spoke. “What’s happened between you and Fox? He goes out of his way to avoid you.”

Miranda recalled the furious look on Fox’s face when he’d walked in on her kissing Stratham. “Nothing’s happened. He’s incredibly busy, isn’t he? What with Stipple’s End and Bassett Manor.”

Beatrice gave her a gimlet eye, but said nothing. After a moment, she turned back to staring out the window. “Mrs. Gates told me you invented a new fragrance of soap today. You thought you’d be teaching the children. How surprising that you’ve learned from them.” Was Beatrice needling her? “Mrs. Gates believes it will sell well at Mrs. Abernathy’s.” She contemplated Miranda with a pensive look. “I’m impressed.”

Miranda shifted in her seat. She’d been complimented on her hair, her clothing, her laughter, and a hundred other things, but never for something as mundane as creating soap. Why then did pride bubble in her chest?

“It’s fun making soap with the girls.” Shockingly so.

“Then being here isn’t as tedious as you imagined?”