The Mischievous Miss Murphy

Electronic Edition Copyright 2011:  Kathryn A. Seidick

Published by Kathryn A. Seidick, 2012

Cover art by
Tammy Seidick Design,
www.tammyseidickdesign.com

EBook design by
A Thirsty Mind

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission of the author.

Originally published 1987

To Anna Elizabeth Seidick—one feisty Irish lady—with love.

Now Available:

The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane

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The Haunted Miss Hampshire

The Belligerent Miss Boynton

The Lurid Lady Lockport

The Rambunctious Lady Royston

The Mischievous Miss Murphy

The Wagered Miss Winslow

Coming Soon:

The Savage Miss Saxon

Moonlight Masquerade

The Somerville Farce

A Difficult Disguise

“Ms. Michaels has struck it rich once again.  Her ability to imbue total freshness into a strict genre is nothing short of remarkable.  It is no wonder that [she] is everyone’s favorite.” 

—
Romantic Times
 on 
The Mischievious Miss Murphy

“Kasey Michaels never fails to entertain!  She has an amazing talent for creating realistic and memorable characters.” 

—
Literary Times

“P
ast one o’clock and almost two; my masters all good day to you.” The feeble voice of the ancient Charlie of the Watch carried no more than a few yards through the dark night and swirling mist that had settled over the city. Looking about himself hesitantly, wondering if he really wanted to see anything besides the yellowish mist hanging about the dim gaslight on the corner, the Charlie wished for the hundredth time that he had been able to resist the bribe that had convinced him to leave his sentry box.

Somewhere close by, a crime was being committed; he knew it as surely as he knew his own name. But he had been paid to call out the time at regular intervals in order to block out any inadvertent noise the burglar (or murderer; he didn’t wish to know which) might make, and gold was gold, no matter whose pocket had held it last. He wasn’t proud of what he was doing, but then a proud man would never have bribed his way into the Watch in the first place.

He cleared his throat to cry out the hour a last time before turning back down Mount Street to return to his sentry box. He had been avoiding his assigned corner diligently for the past quarter hour, long enough for an experienced ken-cracker and his mates to clear a house down to its bare walls, and it was time he remembered that his duty was to protect the inhabitants of Park Street. Besides, if anyone were to raise a hue and cry any time soon, he didn’t want it said that Jack Watkins had not been at his post.

Perhaps it was a sudden, belated attack of conscience, perhaps it was not, but when Watchman Watkins caught sight of a human form sliding down the drainpipe of one of the town houses that lined Mount Street near Park, he summoned up all his small store of courage and sidled up behind the housebreaker just as the man’s stocking-clad feet hit the flagway. Clapping a shaking hand on the thief’s shoulder, the stalwart member of the Watch pronounced in the best tradition of his comrades, “Halt, you thievin’ rascal. Yer under arrest!”

Tony Betancourt, who had just then been bending over to retrieve his Hessians (and offering up a solemn entreaty that they had not suffered any scuffs due to being tossed from dear Bessie’s boudoir window, else his valet Lovell would be inconsolable), remained in his crouched position, merely swiveling his dark head about slightly to get a clear look at his captor.

Eyes as dark as the moonless night raked up and down the small, grey-haired watchman whose stern expression did little to overshadow the fact that his knobby knees were shaking like dry bones in a sack. Giving his handsome head a sharp shake, the captive smothered a grin and sighed mournfully. “You got me, Charlie, right and tight. Is it the guardhouse for me, or d’you think I’ll swing?”

Jack Watkins was already having second thoughts about both his impromptu action and his well-dressed prisoner. He hadn’t put the arm on a ken-breaker, thank the Lord, else it was Lombard Street to a china orange that Mother Watkins would already be a widow.

What he had stumbled on, he was instantly sure, was a nobleman out on a spree, probably cuckolding his best friend, if the truth be told. At least, Jack thought with relief, I didn’t nabble him before his toss in the hay and ruin his lordship’s fun. It wouldn’t do to make such a strapping specimen angry. Besides, it was a young buck he had caught, with the light of the devil peeking from his eyes, and if Watkins was very, very lucky, the gentleman would laugh the whole incident off as a part of the thrill of evening.

Just as Mr. Watkins was about to open his mouth to shoo the gentleman on his way, there came a loud commotion from around the corner on Park Street, and from the hysterical female screams and irate masculine bellows that reached the watchman’s ears, he knew that a burglary had been discovered—and with him not in his sentry box on the corner!

There was nothing else for it; he would have to use the romancing gentleman as his excuse, his reason for deserting his assigned post. So instead of the apology and offer to vacate that he had been about to voice, Jack Watkins opened his mouth to quaver bravely, “Don’t ya go doin’ anythin’ sinister-like, mister. Yer my prisoner, right ‘n’ tight. Now, march ta the corner.”

Tony Betancourt had a lot of choices open to him at that moment. He could lope off easy as you please, with no fear that the ancient Charlie could catch him. He could stay and explain why he was caught in the act of descending Lady Bledsoe’s drainpipe—an embarrassing but plausible explanation. He could...

Suddenly, from the window directly above their heads came the voice of Lord Bledsoe, a man whose biceps were the envy of all London (biceps acquired, so it was said, from the number of whippings he was forced to deliver to gentlemen who had caught his wife’s favor). Clearly, Lord Bledsoe was upset about something, and when Tony Betancourt suddenly remembered the greatcoat he had worn earlier in the evening but was not wearing now, his choices became fairly limited.

“Come on, Charlie,” the Seventh Marquess of Coniston urged as he scooped up his Hessians and made for the corner, “do your duty, man. Haul me off to the guardhouse!”

S
ome four hours later, just as dawn was breaking over the city, Tony Betancourt was about to take his leave of the local guardhouse and its bemused head constable. That man was still a trifle dazed after being half bullied and half cajoled into seeing the error of his subordinate’s actions in mistaking a Marquess for a common housebreaker. And not just any Marquess, oh no, but the beloved scion of one of the most powerful families in the land (not to mention the grandson of two Dukes and the godson of no less than three of the royal Princes).