Miss Wonderful (35 page)

In
time, she'd learn to dwell on the memory with pleasure, she told
herself. She would remember that a man—She smiled ruefully. No,
not merely a man. A handsome knight had ridden into her life, and for
a time, he'd made her feel like the fair damsel in a romantic tale.
For part of an afternoon, she'd had a happy ending.

That's
more than you had yesterday, she told herself.

And
so, resolved to be cheerful, she went home. Not feeling quite ready
to face Mrs. Entwhistle, Mirabel went to her study.

This
was a mistake, because she no sooner sat at the desk than she
remembered the first, feverish embrace… the strong hands
lifting her onto the desk—

She
pushed away the recollection.

"Later,"
she muttered. "Later you can mope."

She
forced her mind to the event that had precipitated today's fatal
error: the women of Longledge and their husbands—the tradesmen
and farmers who wouldn't speak up.

She
got up from the desk and walked to the window and looked out on the
fading afternoon. This window didn't offer much of a view, but even
this slice—a glimpse of the trees that had so narrowly escaped
Caleb Finch's saws—was balm to her wounded spirit.

As
regrets softened and faded a degree, she turned over in her mind her
original plan.

It
had not been well thought out, true. While Mr. Cars-ington would not
want to take unfair advantage, he also couldn't shirk his
responsibility to the man who'd saved his life. How could he face
Lord Gordmor and say, "I'm sorry, but I had to come back because
no one would fight with me. Except for one love-starved spinster,
they will all do anything I say. You'd better go instead, because
they'll give you a proper fight."

Now
that she played the scene out in her mind, she saw how ridiculous it
sounded. Lord Gordmor wouldn't think his friend was disloyal; he'd
think Mr. Carsington was insane.

He
would think…

"Insane,"
she said softly. "Ailing. Getting worse. Insomnia. A fatigue of
the nerves. The doctor said so."

And
quickly, before her conscience could gather strength enough to stop
her, she sat down and started writing the letters.

It
did not take long, and when she was done, she went in search of her
father, to get his signature.

According
to Benton, Mr. Oldridge was unlikely to have gone far this day. A new
specimen from foreign parts had been delivered this morning, and he
was exceedingly worried about it.

She
found her parent in a hothouse, frowning over a droopy piece of
unidentifiable plant life. Captain Hughes was with him, apparently
attempting the impossible: an intelligible conversation.

She
greeted the captain, and after apologizing for the interruption said,
"Papa, I need you to sign these two letters."

"Yes,
my dear. In a moment."

Where
her parent was concerned, "in a moment" could easily mean
"not in this lifetime" and, possibly, "not for all
eternity."

"I'm
afraid it cannot wait, Papa," Mirabel said. "We have not a
minute to lose. These messages must go out express."

Her
father turned away from the plant to her and blinked. "Good
heavens. What has happened?"

"You
need not make yourself anxious," she said. "I have the
matter in hand. Only sign them, please. It is improper for me to do
so."

Since
he was constantly making notes about his collection of vegetable
matter, pen and ink were nearby. He did not, however, merely run an
absent eye over the letters as usual and scribble his name. This time
he read.

When
he had done reading, he did not immediately take up his pen. Instead,
he looked at her, much in the way he'd been scrutinizing his
enfeebled new plant.

Mirabel
assured herself that no one, and most especially not Sylvester
Oldridge, could possibly deduce from looking at her face that, a few
hours ago, she had lain naked in the arms of the Earl of Hargate's
third son. Nor could Papa ascertain from her features the
disgracefully wanton means by which she'd managed the feat.

"I
do not think—" he began.

He
did not complete the thought, because at that moment, Captain
Hughes's footman Dobbs hurried into the hothouse, red-faced and
panting.

"Beggin'
pardon, sir—sirs—miss—but Mr. Nancarrow tole me to
cut along smartly to the captain, as it won't wait and—"

"Then
get on with it," the captain cut in. "What's amiss?"

"It's
Mr. Carsington, sir. He's run away."

"Ah,
well," said Papa. He moved away and signed the letters.

Mirabel
could only stare at the servant.

"Have
your wits gone begging?" the captain said to Dobbs. "The
man's too sick to run away. More likely he walked too far and got
lost, or collapsed from fatigue."

"Don't
look like it, sir. He went with Mr. Crewe, and they took their
horses."

"And
no one made a move to stop them? Is Nancarrow incapacitated? Why
didn't he send for me the instant he knew of it?"

"He
did, sir. He only just found out hisself. Had the news from the
stables. At first we thought it was one of the stablemen's jokes. But
when I went up to Mr. Carsington's room, all his things was packed
up, and the window was open."

"The
window? Don't tell me the man climbed down on knotted sheets."

"No,
sir. Mr. Vince took out the ladder this morning to check the
rainwater heads, and he must've forgot it, because there it was, sir,
right alongside Mr. Carsington's window."

THE
second express letter from Oldridge Hall was delivered before
cockcrow on Saturday, and awakened Lord Gordmor from a dead sleep.

With
trembling hands, he tore the letter open. When he finished reading
it, he swore violently.

He
got up. Returning to sleep was out of the question. He paced his
bedroom for a time, then summoned his manservant and told him to
start packing.

It
was well before the valet's normal time of rising. He blinked several
times to assure himself this was his master, wide awake at this
unspeakable hour, and proposing to travel.

But
he only said, "Yes, my lord. Where to, my lord?" "The
ends of the earth, God help me," said his lordship.

"Derbyshire."

SINCE
Lord Gordmor expected to make a longish stay in the wilds of the East
Midlands, his servants would need several hours to complete the
packing.

Shortly
before noon on Saturday, therefore, the viscount called on his
sister.

She
was still abed when he arrived, and listlessly sipping her chocolate.
She grew more animated, however, when he told her about the letter.

She
had a great deal to say, most of it to the tune of "I told you
so."

"You
did not tell me Car would become so ill," Gordmor snapped, after
the tragic chorus had gone on, in his opinion, more than long enough.

"I
knew he was not the man for the task," she said. "You won't
admit it, and no one will speak of it openly, but all the world
whispers that he hasn't been right since Waterloo. He spends more
time with his tailor than anyone else—not to mention that he's
scarcely looked at a woman since he came back. I always said it was a
pernicious melancholia at the very least, but who listens to me?"

"A
per-what? I don't recall your ever—"

"Now
he is many miles away from all his friends," she went on,
"surrounded by people who bear you—and by association,
him—a great deal of ill will." She adjusted her frilly
nightcap. "Very well, if you will look at me in mat disagreeable
way, I shall say not another word on the subject. But I am glad you
are going at last, and only hope it is not too late."

LORD
Gordmor called next upon Lord and Lady Har-gate. He found only her
ladyship at home. Having risen and breakfasted long since, she met
him in the drawing room.

"Oh,
you've come about Alistair," she said after they'd exchanged the
usual courtesies. "We had an express this morning. Poor Mr.
Oldridge is greatly concerned. But he has only a daughter and no
experience of sons. I am sure his fears are exaggerated."

If
the Hargates were unconcerned, the letter to the parents must have
been far less candid than the one to the friend and partner.

"I
trust that is the case, your ladyship," Gordmor said.
"Nonetheless, I cannot be easy until I see for myself. I mean to
set out for Derbyshire this day."

Her
sleek eyebrows went up. "Are you sure you are well enough?"

Lord
Gordmor assured her he was fully recovered from the influenza.

She
studied him for what seemed a very long time before she said, "You
are pale, but that may be the consequence of spending so many weeks
indoors. I daresay you know your own constitution best. You are
concerned, naturally, about the canal business."

"I
had planned to deal with the Derbyshire side of matters myself,"
he said. "Then I fell ill and had no way of knowing how long I
should be incapacitated."

"Time
is of the essence, I understand," she said. "If Parliament
does not pass your canal act before they rise for the summer, you
might have to wait as long as another year to begin your work. We
cannot be certain whether Parliament will sit again in the autumn."

"At
any rate, we should prefer to begin digging in the good weather,"
he said.

The
truth was, the work must begin this summer, sooner if possible.

Every
delay would make the project more expensive. At some point, it would
become prohibitively so. More than one canal had languished, partly
built, for lack of funds.

Meanwhile,
Gordmor's mines would languish as well. While Peak coal was not
renowned for its quality or quantity, it was adequate to fuel the
steam engines used in local industries, devices which could only
increase in number in the coming years.

His
coal need not travel far, certainly not all the way to London. He
only needed to transport it quickly and cheaply to customers ten or
twenty miles away.

Once
he could sell easily to larger markets, his bailiff had told him, it
would be economically feasible to invest more in the mines and get
more out of them. Moreover, once he had cheap transport, other
minerals would justify the costs of getting them out of the ground.
His Derbyshire property would eventually bring in a handsome income,
rather than the meager funds it now provided.

He
did not express his anxieties or his ambitions to the countess. He
preferred not to dwell on them in his thoughts, either. This day,
however, while he preserved his usual unflappable demeanor, they
raced through his mind.

"Alistair
did explain the scheme to me in great detail before he left,"
the countess said. "I was pleased to see him so enthusiastic. I
had begun to fear he would never recover his spirits."

"He
only wanted a challenge," Gordmor said. "Something to rouse
his fighting spirit again."

She
regarded him consideringly. "All the same, you are uneasy
letting him fight alone."

"I
confess I am, your ladyship. But then, as you are aware, a great deal
is at stake, for both of us."

MORE
than Alistair Carsington's fighting spirit was roused at present.

His
conscience had become a Fury as fierce as any in Greek myth, and that
was only a fraction of the turmoil in his heart.

He
spent the rest of Friday poring over all the maps Wilkerson had, and
making notes.

On
Saturday, he rode out to Gordy's mines to see the lay of the land for
himself.

On
Sunday, he walked the short distance from his hotel to the village of
Matlock. There he attended services at its ancient church and prayed
for divine guidance, as his brain wasn't offering any.

He
left the church feeling no more enlightened than he had after
studying the maps or the mines and their environs.