The Mischievous Miss Murphy (4 page)

Maximilien P. Murphy sat in a corner of the front room, sipping from his third cup of tea as he scowled at his niece. Lord above us, he groaned inwardly, it’s a case of April and May with the girl, and I haven’t a notion in hell of how to warn her away from the man without breaking her poor, little heart. Ah, Brigette, my dearest sister, how cruel that you died, leaving this ramshackle uncle as the only protector to stand between your Candice and a bad, terrible world!

Unable to sit still as she waited for Lord Coniston’s arrival, Candie, oblivious to her uncle’s concern, wandered about the room, flicking an imaginary bit of dust from a table and straightening an already-centered lace doily. She had been up with the dawn, poring over her extensive wardrobe—which boasted of costumes that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous—in search of just the proper ensemble in which to entertain a Marquess.

Crossing to peer at her reflection in the glass over the sideboard, she tilted her head this way and that, wondering if piling her hair atop her head would be more becoming than the style she had adopted—the long, white-gold tresses pulled back simply from her face and tumbling down her back in loose curls. Shaking her head, she decided it was best not to overdo things; besides, her pink muslin morning gown seemed to call for this more casual style. She pressed a hand to her midsection as the butterflies that had taken up residence there fluttered once more, reminding her of her nervousness.

Unbelievable, Max told himself, simply unbelievable. Could this near-hysterical female possibly be the same Candice Murphy who coolly stared down Bow Street Runners and traded quips with her fellow card players while calmly stripping them of their blunt? Where were the nerves of iron that had served to rescue them from endless scrapes when his derring-do had somehow outstripped his usual good luck? A bleeding pity it was to see such a good gamester lose her nerve over a mere man—a real bleeding pity.

“Candie, m’love,” Max spoke up at last when he could no longer endure her case of the fidgets, “come sit down here by me a moment. I’ve got a story I’d like you to hear.”

Candie liked her uncle’s stories, which was a good thing, considering how very fond he was of telling them, and she grabbed at his offer thankfully. Perhaps, she hoped, Max’s fairy tale would be diverting enough to take her mind from the Marquess’s visit. Flopping down on the floor beside his chair, she looked up and encouraged sweetly, “Ah,
Uncail
, is it a fantasy you’re to weave for me this morning, or yet another legend about the great Maximilien?”

Max didn’t return her bantering but merely reached out a hand to pat her fondly on the top of her fair head. How he loved this child of his heart, and if he had done badly by her, it was not that he hadn’t given his best. Times were hard, especially for homeless Irishmen, but what God had not given him in material things, He had supplied in an abundance of ingenuity. A quick mind, adept footwork, and a never-ending supply of greedy souls begging to be relieved of their gold had served to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.

Candice had grown into a warm, generous, intelligent person, because or in spite of her uncle’s tutelage, but nothing in her life had prepared the girl for Mark Antony Betancourt.

“Once upon a time,” Max now began in the age-old way, “there lived a fine, brawny Irishwoman named Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”

“And why would I be thinking you’d tell a story about a fine, brawny
English
woman?” Candie quipped, giving her uncle’s knee a small push.

“Don’t be interrupting, lass,” Max scolded without heat. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”

He sat back in his chair, warming to the tale he was about to tell. “Well, it seems this Mrs. Fitzgerald lived in a fine castle, in County Cork perhaps, and she was mighty proud of her possession. Then one fine day her husband, who had been out and about somewhere doing the Lord only knows what, ups and gets himself captured by some horse-stealing neighbors, who then surround Elizabeth’s castle to tell her she must surrender her fine pile o’stones or else they’ll slit her husband’s scrawny throat.”

“Oh, my,” Candie interrupted, “so it’s to be a bloody tale then, is it?”

“Ah, colleen, how sadly you mistake the matter,” her uncle corrected. “Elizabeth Fitzgerald was as shrewd as she could hold together, so she was, and did not allow her romantic heart to rule her practical head. ‘Mark these words,’ she called down to the rabble from high atop her splendid castle, ‘they may serve your own wives on some occasion. I’ll keep my castle. For Elizabeth Fitzgerald may get another husband, but Elizabeth Fitzgerald may never get another castle!’”

His story done, Max peered down to see Candie’s reaction.

Candice Murphy was not slow in taking her uncle’s meaning. “I should send him packing? Is that what you’re saying,
Uncail
? But I have no castle to lose.”

Max stared into her eyes, his own full of unspoken warning. “Don’t you, lass?”

London was becoming a bit thin of company, what with gentlemen going off hunting in the wilds whilst their ladies retired to country estates to make a great show of affection over the children they had birthed through duty and then promptly deserted to the care of strangers.

The Marquess of Coniston, his liaison with Lady Bledsoe having prompted him to turn down several invitations to transfer his drinking and wenching to the north of England for a space, found himself to be rather pleased by the lack of hustle and bustle along the usually crowded streets of Mayfair as he tooled his curricle down Half Moon Street.

Not having to dodge cow-handed drivers and wave to endless acquaintances left him more latitude for daydreaming for one thing, and for another, it made that many fewer dandies try to cut him out in his pursuit of Candice Murphy, who was bound to cause a stir in his circle of beauty-hungry bucks.

The weather had proved to be unseasonably warm this morning, and he felt certain he could convince Miss Murphy to accompany him on a drive through the Park, away from the watchful eyes of her protector. Once Max Murphy clapped his greedy Irish eyes on the hamper full of fine wine and assorted delicacies from the Coniston kitchens, he would be more prone to see his “niece’s” suitor in a favorable light.

After all, Mark Antony Betancourt, Seventh Marquess of Coniston, was flagrantly handsome, obscenely wealthy, and wickedly intelligent. He was also young, healthy, and popular. Friendship with him would render Max an entree into society he could not dare to cast aside lightly.

What would not please Max was the fact that the Marquess was, like his circle of cronies, dedicated to the belief that it was his solemn duty as an English peer to bed as many women as he could during his sojourn upon this Earth.

And to wed none of them.

Lord Coniston—or Tony, as he was affectionately called by his friends—had, since attaining his majority eight years earlier, shown such diligence and dedication to what he saw as quite the most pleasant of the obligations attached to his rank that he had gained himself a second, slightly less endearing nickname.

Within two years of his advent into London society, he was known throughout the ton as Mister Overnite, an appellation that was as descriptive of his nocturnal pursuits as it was self-explanatory. Tony Betancourt not only held the distinction of bedding more lightskirts than many other young bucks had eaten hot dinners, but he was also said to hold the modern-day British record for dallying the whole night long in more society matrons’ beds than half the husbands in the Upper Ten Thousand.

But today, in this pleasant fall season, Tony had a different sort of game in his sights. I wonder what their true relationship to be, Tony mused as he eased his horses toward the curb, knowing he disliked the idea that the Murphys could be “kissing cousins.” In point of fact, he’d rather Max was no relation at all to the blonde beauty—that would make it easier for him to sever the connection between them.

After all, there was something inherently distasteful in having the famous Mister Overnite brought to doing business with a common pimp.

Not that Max Murphy could honestly be called “common.” After hopping from his curricle, tossing the reins to a waiting urchin who doffed his cap, promising to guard his lordship’s bloods with his life, the Marquess gathered up his basket of bribes and loped up the steps two at a time, surprising himself with his own eagerness to see Candie Murphy again.

The chit makes Bessie Bledsoe take a backseat, and that’s a fact, thought Mister Overnite, thereby consigning yet another mistress to the refuse heap without a flicker of regret. Ah well, he acknowledged silently, the thrill lay mostly in the chase anyhow, and with titled ladies nearly falling over themselves to be bedded, dealing with an honest whore was almost refreshing.

The door to the Murphys’ rooms opened before he could knock, and Tony was left standing, one fist raised in the air, to stare into the solemn little face of Candice Murphy. Uh-oh, he winced inwardly. From the look on the girl’s face, I’d say Max’s mood hasn’t improved to the point where I’ll be welcomed like a long-lost son.

But this was only a passing thought, driven from his mind as he took in the sight of his quarry—looking good enough to eat in a pretty pink confection that would bring tears of envy to any debutante’s eyes. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the girl to be as innocent as his sister had been before her first Season.

“Lord Coniston,” Candie was saying in her low, pleasantly husky voice. “I thought I heard your Hessians on the stair. Here, let me take this from you, if it is indeed for me.” Reaching out her hands, she divested him of his basket and walked over to show it to her uncle. “Look, Uncle Max, gifts—and to think he doesn’t look the least bit Greek.”

Max flashed his niece a quick wink, acknowledging her admission that she agreed with his reading of the man and would thus be on her guard. Reassured, he turned his attention to the contents of the hamper, finding himself to be well pleased by what he saw. No slowtop, the Marquess, Max concluded, eyeing the label of his favorite Irish whiskey, but it would take more than a few drops of Ireland’s best to pull the wool over Maximilien P. Murphy’s green eyes.

“Elizabeth Fitzgerald would be proud of you, lass, that she would,” Max said under his breath. The Marquess might be a handsome devil—cute as a pet fox, if a body remembered such creatures were not to be trusted—but now that Candie had been alerted to the danger, Max felt less uneasy about allowing the girl to indulge in a bit of a flirt with the man, broaden her education, so to speak.

Tony relaxed a bit, letting out the breath he just then realized he had been holding. The sight of Maximilien’s broad grin restored both his faith in his fellow human beings and his firm belief that he was not to be denied a rewarding romantic interlude with Candie. “The hamper contains just a few trifles I asked my butler to gather from the kitchens—and the cellar, of course. My humble way of wishing you welcome to our fair metropolis.”

Max permitted a bit of his quick intelligence to show in the look he directed at the ingratiating Marquess before lowering his eyelids to mask his true feelings. “Your ducks must surely be laying, my lord, if you can call this bounty a trifle,” he supplied with the promptness of the greedy, allowing his lordship to believe the worst of him. Always give the customer what he wants, Maximilien P. Murphy believed, and then feel free to take what you want in return.

If Tony Betancourt wanted to see Max as an opportunist who would look the other way while his lordship took liberties with his only niece, then who was Max to disappoint such a self-assured fellow? The fact that the man had about as much chance of bedding Candie as England had of seeing another Catholic monarch—especially now that Max had put his niece on her guard—would remain a private joke that Max would savor later over a glass or two of the Marquess’s fine Irish whiskey.

So thinking, Max was quick to agree to Tony’s suggestion that Candie accompany him on an outing through the Park, shooing them with a cheery “away with you now” as Tony helped Candie into her stylish, Wedgwood blue pelisse, careful not to let his hands linger on her delectable shoulders.

After tying the ribbons of her matching bonnet so that the bow nestled fetchingly beneath her left ear, Candie dropped a kiss on her uncle’s thatch of thick reddish-brown hair and turned to the Marquess. “Let us be off, my lord,” she said, smiling cheekily, “before my uncle succumbs to temptation and dumps the hamper on the floor at your feet to begin his inventory of its contents. And a sad sight it is, don’t you know, to see avarice the likes of his.”