Miracle (17 page)

Alas, he had often been rendered by his peers as too sensible; he took life too seriously, immersing himself in the drudgery of overachievement, which was an intolerable bore to his friends, considering the duchess would have rewarded him with the moon, if he so desired, strictly because he had managed to keep his name clean of scandal. But here he stood, slowly but surely becoming more inebriated by the minute as he recalled his last days spent at Cavisbrooke Castle with a crazy lady who communicated with pigs. And pigeons. And sea gulls. A woman whose ultimate requirement for a husband was that he could fly.

She did not want a husband who was infamous for his zealous, amorous pursuit of the opposite sex, which described the duke of Salterdon nicely.

She did not want to live in a world that would expect and demand that she conform to the strict rigors of habitual social behavior evaluated according to a conventional
standard
of propriety. The first time she was seen conversing with hogs, the black plague of society would come crashing down on her beautiful . . .

Oh, yes, she was definitely beautiful, in a perverse way: obstinately self-willed in refusing to concur, conform, or submit to the norm.

The duke of Salterdon would simply marry Miracle, bed her, breed her, then ensconce her in some country house to waste out the rest of her life immersed in dissatisfaction and tedium. There would be no teas, no soirees, no long lines of society peers trooping in and out her door. To the ton, Lady Salterdon would not exist . . . not even to her wayward husband.

No doubt about it, Clayton mused as he quaffed the last of his ale, he should march back to Cavisbrooke, pack his bags and valet, bid Lady Miracle Cavendish and her stale, mossy, haunted abode a farewell, and go home to Basingstoke. Get on with his own life and let Trey sink like a stone in his own mire of debt. Yes. That's definitely what he would do .. . just as soon as he imbibed one more ale.

He drank until the sun crept over the Medina River and reflected off the Kingston Downs, then he tossed a handful of coins onto the bar and quit the tavern. He stood in the bracing wind, drinking in the air and hoping to blazes it cleared his head.

Clayton walked into the village. He wasn't ready to return to Cavisbrooke yet. There was too much on his mind, too much ale. He had a tendency to get a little crazy when he drank too much, which is why he rarely did it; which is why, when he did, his head felt as if a horse had kicked him . . . or in this case, a unicorn.

He stared into the window of a shop for a long while, not really seeing, his thoughts still bothered by this unanticipated war of conscience. He was torn between helping his brother and watching out for the welfare of a virtual stranger . . . a stranger with a pretty face, a naive young girl who believed in miracles.

"You," came the voice from inside, dragging Clayton back to the present. He focused on the man in the store, who tapped his knuckles on the window and bestowed upon Clayton a yellow-toothed smile as he declared in a voice that was muted by the window, "I've the best ready-
mades
y'll
find
owtsi
' London, sir. Come in, if
ya
please, and I'll wager
y'll
return home as strutting' proud and fine as a cock."

Clayton stared at him through the mud-spattered glass, his hands and face growing numb with cold.

The shopkeeper moved toward the door, flinging it open to a chorus of tinkling bells, as Clayton stepped in. "Welcome!" Turner declared and swept his beefy hand out toward his cluttered collection of ready-made
wearables
. A film of sweaty anticipation shimmered on his ruddy complexion as he fancied the size of Clayton's purse. "I can tell by the fine cut of
yer
coat
yer
a gentlemen of
em'nence
and wisdom."

Clayton looked around the tiny, cramped shop, noted the collection of women's silk bonnets, two stuffed mannequins sporting men's cutaways, and shelves stacked with an array of men's shirts, waistcoats, and bicorn and tall- crowned beaver hats. His eyes, however, returned to the shirts.

Turner grinned. "
Y'll
be
noticin
' me blouses, I see. Smart man. An eye
fer
quality." He caught Clayton's arm and tugged him to the shelf. Peering up at Clayton with rummy eyes and a grin, he said as he swept up the shirt and presented it with a flourish, "
Y'll
not argue that few are as well made as this. Feel that material.
India
cotton, sir. Fine and strong as it comes. And the seams." He yanked hard on the shirt. "
These'll
last years, sir."

"Where do you get them?"

The shopkeeper glanced around for effect, then smirked. "
Ya
buy these shirts, sir, and
ya
can tell
yer
friends at home that
yer
wearin
' the
weavin's
of the deranged. Sits up in her tower, she does,
spinnin
' the cotton into thread, and the thread into material, and—"

"It must take her hours," Clayton said.

"Days!"

"What will you charge me?"

"One pound."

"Good God, I don't pay that much on Fleet Street. That's highway robbery."

"
Yer
Fleet Street finery
ain't
this well made, and the cotton
ain't
India. Besides, folk buy '
em
just
so's
they can tell their friends that the lunatic made it."

"The lunatic?"

"I see you
ain't
been here long, not if you
ain't
heard about
her
—the lass who walks the End
searchin
' for her mother. Daft, she is. Crazy as they come. Lives alone up there at the castle, except for her companion, that cripple of a groom who's as daft as she is. Well? Do
ya
want the shirt or what?"

"How many are there?"

"Three. But
more's
comin
'. She's due here today. At any time."

"I'll buy them all."

"All?" The man's eyes lit up, first with shock and then with pleasure.

"The ones here and those coming. All," Clayton stressed. "But on one condition."

"Condition?" He licked his lips.

"That you pay the lass what they're worth."

"They're worth?"

"One pound each, of course."

"Bloody hell if—"

Clayton moved so swiftly the shopkeeper had no time to react. Twisting his hands into the man's collar, Clayton flung him back against the wall so hard the building shook. His flabby jaw slack and his eyes bulging, Ned Turner gaped into Clayton's eyes and swallowed.

"Listen to me carefully," Clayton said in a low, threatening tone. "I'm drunk and spoiling for a fight, so don't test my patience. You've grown fat and comfortable off the lady's talent, not to mention her reputation. Therefore, you will reward her for her troubles. If you feel the merchandise is worth a bloody pound, then you will pay her that. If you don't, I shall report you to the proper officials who will be most interested in the taxes you are paying—or not paying—on your trade. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sure." He nodded. "Right. Here she comes now."

Clayton looked around, out the window, noted the cart, pulled by a long-eared, shaggy gray donkey, lumbering down the road, Miracle driving.

"
Yer
as crazy as she is," Turner declared, his protuberant eyes still locked on Clayton.

"Agreed. Therefore, if you know what's good for you, old boy, you had better do as I've asked you. And just to make certain, I'll be standing back there, watching from behind that curtain."

Turner nodded and managed to close his mouth at last as Clayton released him, smoothed the wrinkles from his coat, and rewarded him with a flat smile. Clayton slid behind the curtained door in the back of the room just as Miracle entered and greeted the still shaken and shocked shopkeeper.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Turner," came her lyrical voice, and Clayton sensed the anger slide from him. He closed his eyes and felt a smile lift one corner of his mouth. Odd that she would have such an effect on him. "Why, sir, you look positively ashen," she remarked, her tone one of sincere concern for the greedy parasite who no doubt had been robbing her blind of profit. "Is something wrong?"

"Aught that a stiff ale wouldn't cure," Turner grumbled. "Don't know what this
bleedin
' world is
comin
' to these days . . . what with all the nefarious and unscrupulous villains
wanderin
' about who would do an honest man out of his proper wages."

"I see." A pause. "Have you a need for shirts today?" she finally asked.

Another pause. "I . . . right. Sure, I'll take all
y've
brought. Just give '
em
to me and be gone. Quickly! I've some place to be."

"I've brought you twelve—"

"Right! Good. Give '
em
over. There. Put '
em
there. Here's
yer
damned money."

"Oh!" she cried. "But, Mr. Turner, this is—"

"One pound per shirt."

"Oh! But—"

"Don't ask no questions, just leave. Get the hell away from here before I come to my bloody senses and reconsider."

"God bless you, sir," she cried. The door opened and closed and silence filled the shop.

Clayton stepped out from behind the curtain. Turner stood at the shelf, his arms clutching the stack of beautifully made garments, his fat lower lip protruded in a pout that might have brought Clayton pleasure, had he not remembered Miracle, bone-weary and sleeping in the cold, dim turret.

"That'll be fifteen pounds," the shopkeeper asserted with a sniff.

Clayton withdrew his money and placed the small fortune on the table. "I'll have my man pick them up tomorrow." He moved to the window and watched as Miracle twirled around in the middle of the street, her face radiant even in the failing daylight. Then she planted a kiss on the braying donkey's nose. Bystanders paused, watched, their countenances speaking their disapproval louder than words. Miracle danced her way toward the butcher's (Hoyt would have his mutton tonight), her simple skirts whirling and her hair floating, oblivious of the villagers regarding her with open speculation.

"I don't know who you are," the man said behind him, "or what the girl means to you, but
ever'one
in Niton knows she's witless, just like her mother was. The former Lady Cavendish disappeared over ten year ago. The girl should be locked up in Saint Luke's, if
ya
ask me."

"I didn't," Clayton replied.

*
    
*
   
 
*

Clayton took a room at the hostel because he was drunk and tired and the road back to Cavisbrooke was too damn long for a man on foot at night. He hadn't intended to stay over. No doubt Benjamin would worry himself into a froth. But his head hurt. So did his body. In truth, there wasn't a square inch of him that wasn't bothered by something. What a shame that the Countess
Delarue
-Madras wasn't here. She was very good at allowing him to work out his energy and frustration on her . . . or in her . . . or around her. She simply held on for the ride and encouraged him with her experienced body, her sultry voice, her warm, wet mouth.

Except tonight, the memory of her didn't make him smile, didn't even make him hard with desire. In truth, the only emotion the recollections evoked was irritation and disgust because she had done the same thing with more of his friends than he could count on two hands.