Page 3 of The Trouble with Tweed

“Apologies,” Claire said to her as Michael choked on his indignation. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Miss Thompson.” The young lady nodded. “Miss Isabella Thompson.”

“A lovely name,” Claire said. “It will look charming engraved upon the wedding invitations.”

Michael very nearly staggered; he held one hand to his forehead and took a deep breath to gather the shreds of his composure. Dear heavens, were Claire and this Miss Thompson in on this con together?

“Of course,” Claire said, tilting her head, “that name would look just as well under the deportee notices in the paper. I’ve heard New South Wales is very fine this time of year.”

The young lady blinked; her formerly soft features hardened in an instant. “Excuse me?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Claire said coolly.

“If anyone should go to the papers, it’s me,” Miss Thompson insisted.

“Madam,” he hissed, “we’ve never met. I don’t know who you are.”

“Of course you don’t,” Claire said.

The maid brought a tea tray, took one look at the assembled mess, blinked with wide eyes, and was gone again.

Claire made herself at home on the sofa as if there weren’t a young woman sniffling in her vicinity and poured herself a cup of tea. “Michael, it seems your rakish tendencies have grown so well-known that even the charlatans of Cheapside have heard of them.”

Claire sipped from her teacup and observed Miss Thompson with a cool detachment that Michael envied very much at the moment.

“Pardon?” he said.

“She’s come to shake you down, of course. She knows you by reputation only. She certainly doesn’t know about your family’s inherited birthmark.”

The young lady on the sofa stopped her sniffling long enough to say, “Of course I do.”

Now that Claire had pointed it out, Michael could hear the edge of a cockney burr riding the young woman’s words.

Claire raised her eyebrows. “You do?”

“I know all about the mark. Our baby Michael’s got one too.”

“Then it’s easily proven. Your infant, I assume, has the same birthmark on his buttocks.”

Michael shot Claire an incredulous look; she ignored him.

“Yes,” the young woman said stoutly.

“And it’s in the shape of a…” Claire led.

The young woman looked back and forth between Claire and Michael as if one of them might offer the answer.

“A strawberry,” she finally guessed.

Claire shook her head. “Not even close.” She turned to Michael. “Your footmen should see this person out.”

“Ah, well, it was worth a try,” the young woman said, dropping the affectation of tears altogether. “Spare a coin for a hackney?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Michael blustered. “I should have you arrested.”

This morning had been one ridiculous mishap after the next. First his Aunt Dora and her absurd group of friends persistently offering to arrange a marriage for him, and now this.

“I’ll pay for your hackney cab on one condition.” Claire rummaged in her small beaded reticule.