Her Wicked Ways (21 page)

“Nonsense. If I do marry—and that is debatable—I doubt I’ll need to do any of those things.” Beatrice started up the stone steps leading to the house.

Miranda squeezed Beatrice’s arm, not liking the way she disparaged herself. “Don’t speak that way.”

Beatrice slid her a skeptical glance. “Do you really believe people will come to the benefit?”

Miranda couldn’t see why not. It wasn’t as if Wootton Bassett and its surrounding area boasted a plentiful social calendar. Still, she needed to ensure an appropriately attractive event so that people not only wanted to attend, but felt as if they simply
had to
. All the best parties in London were
have to
events.

“Trust me, Beatrice. Everyone will be clamoring to be at the social event of the Season.” She dropped Beatrice’s arm and curved her mouth into a smile. “And, you’ll marry.”

The front door opened. Pristine marble gleamed beneath a large Aubusson carpet whose oranges, reds, and browns warmed the entry. A gorgeous Rococo painting adorned one wall. The comfort of being in such a grand home drove away the discomfort of her discussion with Beatrice in the drive.

Beatrice collapsed her umbrella and handed it to the footman. She turned to address the butler in the center of the oval room. “We’re here to see Mr. Stratham.”

The butler nodded. “Allow me to show you to the Gold Room.”

After delivering their umbrellas and pelisses to the footman, they followed the butler through a sitting room into a large drawing room where the upholstery, carpet, window hangings, even a tapestry over the fireplace were all predominantly gold.

Miranda found the display garish. The butler departed and she took a wingbacked chair near the crackling fire.

Beatrice positioned herself on the settee facing the hearth. Her gaze traveled over every wall and piece of furniture as if she were memorizing each detail. “I’ve never been here before. It’s very, er, gold.”

Mr. Stratham entered through another door. He was smiling, as usual. “Good afternoon, Lady Miranda, Miss Carmody. It’s been too long since I visited the orphanage, but I’ve been away on business. I’m glad you’ve missed me as much as I’ve missed you.” He went first to Miranda and took her hand, giving it a perfunctory kiss.

Given his behavior, Miranda had to assume her parents had not found him in residence when they’d called at Stratham Manor. Thank goodness she didn’t have to explain that nuisance. “Your presence has been missed by all.”

Mr. Stratham bowed over Beatrice’s hand. Then, with a flick of his coattail, he sat in a chair adjacent to the settee. “Brooks is bringing some tea. He said you walked here. Very industrious of you.”

Miranda clasped her hands in her lap, intertwining her fingers. “We have an urgent matter to discuss, Mr. Stratham. We are in dire need of your assistance.”

Mr. Stratham looked from Miranda to Beatrice and back again. “Your visit sounds critical indeed. How may I help?” He leaned back in his chair and draped one hand over the arm.

Miranda glanced at Beatrice. She gazed at Mr. Stratham and didn’t turn her attention. Miranda plunged onward. “I know you are aware of the leaky roof at Stipple’s End. There are other needs as well, and we are planning a benefit for the orphanage.”

Mr. Stratham’s brows drew together. He seemed very concerned. In fact, she’d never seen his face so pinched before. “I’m sure I don’t know how I can be of assistance.”

Smiling brightly, Miranda put her attributes to best use. She blinked, knowing her lashes fluttered in a becoming manner and drew attention to her blue-green eyes. Mr. Stratham’s attention was riveted, as it ought to be.

“Mr. Stratham, I need a place in which to host this benefit. Stratham Hall is the perfect location. You have ample space and, judging from your excellent appointments, you are no stranger to entertaining. Tell me, do you have a ballroom?” She leaned forward and settled her lips into what she knew to be an arresting moue. Predictably, Mr. Stratham stared at her mouth. Miranda didn’t dare look at Beatrice, lest she see the other woman’s certain jealous anger.

“Yes, there is a ballroom. It’s not overly large—”

Miranda jumped to her feet. The thick cake of mud and gravel pasted to the soles of her boots made her stance uneven. Embarrassing, but what did one do about it in the country? “Please, will you show us? I’m sure it’s more than adequate. I should like to see how many musicians might be accommodated.”

Beatrice also stood, her features schooled into impassivity, but Miranda knew better. Oh, she’d make it up to her!

Mr. Stratham had no choice but to join them. He wore a befuddled expression, his mouth partly open and his brow furrowed. If he wanted to decline the use of his property, he didn’t say so.

Miranda stepped toward him to deliver the coup de grace. She took his arm, linking hers through it and then rested her other hand on top. She cocked her head so she displayed the column of her neck to its best advantage and gave him a flirtatious smile. His eyes crinkled at the edges as they narrowed almost imperceptibly.

“I will be eternally grateful for your pledge of assistance, Mr. Stratham.” She peered up at him using the same hooded gaze she’d employed with Charles Darleigh when she’d convinced him to take her to a fight in Covent Garden.

Stratham’s mouth relaxed into the familiar grin, and she knew victory was hers. He patted her hand. “I should be delighted to share my home.”

The trio exited the Gold Room and entered another sitting room decorated in mostly yellow, and yes, some gold. From there, they stepped into a large room, which was clearly the dedicated ballroom. A semi-circular dais sat at the far left end, while on the opposite wall four sets of glass paned double doors led to a patio. Wide windows filled the spaces between the doors and gave an expansive view of a well organized garden and the park land beyond.

Miranda noted the very new parquet floor. Lady Hess had had a similar floor installed in her London townhouse several months ago. “What an elegant space, Mr. Stratham. When did you last entertain?”

Mr. Stratham didn’t look at her as he answered. “Over two years ago, before my wife passed.”

“Oh yes, I had heard of your tragedy. That must have been very difficult.” Miranda gave his arm a gentle squeeze.

“Indeed, but life moves ever onward and so must we.” He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual effusive grin and a shadow haunted his eyes.

Miranda wondered if his marriage had been a love match. If so, then Fox had merely been the recipient of poor luck. Miranda didn’t like this scenario, and not because she felt particularly sad that Mr. Stratham had lost his wife. No, it meant Fox had known a series of misfortunes from his father’s financial betrayal to the loss of the woman he hoped to marry to his current state of ceaseless worry over the orphanage. Why did she want to fix things for him? She didn’t want to answer that question and promptly pushed it to the back of her mind.

Miranda stepped away from Mr. Stratham and looked down at the gleaming wood, ignoring her inner thoughts. “This floor looks brand new. Parquet is quite the rage.”

Mr. Stratham clasped his hands behind his back and surveyed the room as if he, too, were assessing the floor. “I just had it put in over the summer.”

Miranda gestured for Beatrice to come further into the room. “Beatrice, have you ever seen such a beautiful pattern of wood?”

Beatrice came to stand by Miranda. Dirt flaked from her boots and Miranda noted they’d both left a bit of a trail. She would have apologized if she hadn’t been so annoyed. He’d been redecorating his already splendid estate while the orphanage leaked? And to what end if he didn’t even entertain?

She’d only thought to have him cover the cost of the decorations for the fundraiser, but now she’d include the food and musicians as well. “It’s lovely. And it will provide the perfect backdrop for our party. This will be
the
event of the season, Mr. Stratham. Everyone who is anyone in northern Wiltshire will come.” Miranda turned as she said the last, putting her back to the windows.

Mr. Stratham paused in the middle of the room. “Lord Norris hosts a party in September. I’m not certain he’ll attend.” A muscle in his neck twitched, giving Miranda the impression he was somehow disquieted. She couldn’t imagine why, but neither did she particularly care.

“I recall you telling me about Lord Norris’s annual party.” Miranda turned in a circle, contemplating how to attract the district’s most esteemed resident to attend their benefit. She stopped upon seeing Beatrice. “Beatrice, have you any thoughts as to how we might encourage Lord Norris’s attendance?”

Beatrice’s tone was ice cold. “He is particular to antiquities.”

Miranda recalled their conversation in early summer in Fox’s cart. It seemed forever ago. “Ah yes, he’s a member of the London Natural Society of Antiquities and Oddities along with my godfather.” Miranda clapped her hands. “I will write to Lord Septon at once! He will know precisely what will draw Lord Norris’s attention. Perhaps we could display antiquities, like in a museum?” As soon as she said this, she realized they’d likely never find enough to rival an actual museum. “Or maybe we could
sell
something he’d like to buy. Of course, we’ll have to procure the item at little or no cost.” Her voice trailed off as her mind churned.

“You seem to think of everything.” It was impossible to overlook the sarcasm lacing Beatrice’s statement.

Turning to Mr. Stratham, Miranda ignored Beatrice’s discomfort. “Now, let us discuss the date of our event, as well as the refreshments. Mrs. Gates assures me we will be able to procure the musicians who play for the assemblies.” If Mr. Stratham had an opinion regarding their using the same people who provided music for the local assemblies, he didn’t show it. “Should we return to the Gold Room? I find I’m in desperate need of tea.”

Instead of taking Mr. Stratham’s arm, Miranda took Beatrice’s and preceded their host from the room without waiting for his response. After all, Miranda didn’t really need it.

FOX shifted in his chair and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d ended up in a meeting with four women discussing decorations and music and food. Miranda stood at the head of the dining room table at Stipple’s End. Mrs. Gates and Beatrice sat on one side, while Felicity Knott, Rob’s wife, sat on the other. At least Fox was safely ensconced at the opposite end.

“What do you think, Fox?” Mrs. Gates sat forward and peered down the length of the table. Not safe enough, apparently.

“Er, about what?”

Miranda answered. “About selling antiquities to garner Lord Norris’s attention. My godfather, Lord Septon, will be coming from London with a few of his antiquity society friends. I’m counting on their presence to attract Lord Norris, but we’ll need things to sell. Mrs. Gates thought you might have something at Bassett Manor.”

Fox drummed his fingertips on the tabletop. Bassett Manor was filled with ancient things, most of them utterly worthless. Anything of import had been sold over the past eighteen months to pay the accumulating debts and to keep the children fed and clothed. Even so, there were a few tapestries some female relative had woven back in the fourteenth century that still had a measure of color to them. “I have some tapestries. You’re welcome to them.”

“Tapestries, you say?” Mrs. Gates sat straight in her chair. “We have some tapestries on the third floor in the dormitory wing. I’d forgotten all about them. They used to hang in the great hall. Perhaps they are worth something?”

Miranda clapped her hands together. “Excellent!”

Fox ignored whatever she said next. He preferred to focus on the alluring way her eyes flashed when she spoke in the animated fashion she currently employed. She was so engaging, he’d no doubt they’d all donate their firstborn to aid her cause. He was only glad her cause was his cause.

For now.

Then she said “Stratham,” and he snapped to attention. “What does Stratham have to do with any of this?”

A pale flush of pink tinted Miranda’s cheeks. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. We’re holding the event at Stratham Hall.”

Fox leapt out of his chair before checking his temper. “No. Absolutely not. We’ll have it here.”

“Now, Fox, we can’t have it here. With respect to you and Mrs. Gates, Stipple’s End is not the appropriate place to have an elegant party, even if it were in the best of condition.” She used a sweet, soft tone likely meant to placate, but it grated against his nerves.

“Bassett Manor, then.”

Mrs. Gates stood. “Fox, Stratham Hall will encourage people to attend. Mr. Stratham hasn’t opened his house since”—her gaze flicked down—“well, he hasn’t opened it in years.”

Fox knew very well the last time Stratham had entertained, not that he’d attended. It was before Jane died. Fox had been invited to the occasion, their first ball, but he’d preferred grooming his horse or perhaps counting the blades of grass in Bassett Manor’s park—whatever he’d done—to spending an evening at Stratham’s garish house.

“I don’t care if he wants to host the bloody Prince Regent, I’m not having the event there.” He strode from the room without giving them a chance to respond. Before he made it halfway down the back hall, Miranda stopped him by grabbing his arm.