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“Haven’t you ever seen him?” Miranda asked.
“Lord, no, child! He never came to London. When the de Malheurs lost all their money they retreated to one of those islands in the new world, full of slaves and such like, and the current earl was raised there after his father died. He hasn’t been back in this country for long, and alas, my poor health has kept me a prisoner…. He rarely goes out, even now. It’s the most strange luck, that you should have happened to meet up with him today. ”
/> Miranda felt a faint trickling of uneasiness, but she shoved it away. “Wouldn’t you like to see him yourself? We needn’t stay very long if you mislike it. ”
“Alas, my poor health!” Cousin Louisa wheezed. “But I see no reason why you shouldn’t go. ”
Miranda looked at her doubtfully. While neither of them were privy to the latest gossip, the Scorpion had a reputation that reached even to their isolated circumstances, one that hinted of darkness. But then, as he’d pointed out, society was full of lies and innuendo, of harsh judgments and rigid strictures.
Besides, she received most of her information from members of her family and no one had ever said a word about the man. He could scarcely be that bad if her family hadn’t passed along any entertaining on-dits or warnings.
She would go. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed a musical evening in someone’s home? It could scarcely damage her reputation any more than it already was.
She would stay where she was. A friendship with Lucien de Malheur was probably not a good idea. She had no idea why he was known as the Scorpion, but clearly that was a warning sign. It wasn’t as if he was known as Lucien de Malheur, the Wooly Lamb.
But at half past nine on Wednesday evening when the front knocker was heard, Miranda was dressed and ready. Her very proper sister-in-law Annis had once helpfully suggested that she go into demimourning after the debacle. Pale mauves and lavenders, dove-grays and taupes would be more fitting to her changed circumstances than the innocent pastels she’d been forced to wear, Annis had said.
“She’s not in mourning for anything,” her strong-minded mother had snapped, and from then onward Miranda had indulged her taste in rich, deep colors. She was wearing a forest-green accompanied by emeralds that evening when Lord and Lady Calvert were announced.
“My dear Lady Miranda, what a pleasure it is to meet you!” Lady Calvert, adrift on a cloud of the finest French perfume, greeted her. “Dear Lucien thought you might be more comfortable attending his little soiree if we fetched you. Of course he couldn’t come himself—his duties as host preclude that. And I’m sorry we were late. I absolutely couldn’t find a thing to wear! But truly, we shall have a lovely time. He has Signor Tebaldi from the opera house, quite the best tenor London has known in an age, and Mr. Kean will be on hand to regale us with some readings from Shakespeare. Indeed, you cannot miss it!” Her breathy voice was wildly aflutter. “But I see you have no intention of reneging. You look lovely, my dear. You quite cast my aging charms in the shade. ”
Author: Anne Stuart
Since Lady Calvert was breathtakingly beautiful Miranda took leave to doubt it, and she made the proper demurral. It had taken her but a moment to recognize Eugenia Calvert, a woman who’d done the unthinkable and left her first husband to run away with Sir Anthony Calvert. They were on the outskirts of society just as she was, and yet apart from that blot on Lady Calvert’s reputation she was as well-born and gracious as any member of the ton.
She was also commanding. In no time at all Miranda found herself ensconced in a comfortable carriage, warm bricks at her feet, a fur throw across her lap, being regaled by Lady Calvert’s clever on-dits, mostly at the expense of the people who’d shunned her. Sir Anthony said very little, content to gaze adoringly at his wife and murmur any required pleasantries, not a bad sort of husband, Miranda thought mischievously, also remembering that Sir Anthony was quite plump in the pocket.
Rochdale House was on the very edge of the fashionable district, on a street she failed to recognize. While it wasn’t quite the blaze of light Miranda remembered from soirees of old, it was well-enough lit that she could see the dark, prepossessing outlines of the large house, and her initial misgivings returned. Had she been foolish once more?
She was still trying to come up with a graceful excuse when she was swept up the broad front steps into a blaze of light, and she readied herself for her first view of the so-called monster who’d unaccountably befriended her.
He wasn’t there. As she handed her cloak to one of the waiting servants she looked about her in surprise. In a gathering this small the host usually greeted his guests, but the foyer was empty, and the music drifted down the broad marble stairs from the first floor.
“We’re a bit late,” Lady Calvert said apologetically. “He probably thought we weren’t coming. ”
An unaccustomed nervousness swept over her. Miranda was someone who took jumps headlong, who, to her detriment, never showed fear or even reasoned hesitation. And yet something swept over her, a sense that there would be no coming back from this step across his threshold.
“I wouldn’t want to disturb them,” she said, looking behind her for her relinquished cloak. But the maid had already disappeared. Lady Calvert threaded her arm through Miranda’s and began herding her up the staircase, chattering gaily so that Miranda couldn’t manage another faint protest, so she instead straightened her shoulders in preparation. She’d never shied away from a challenge in all her life. She could hardly run away at this point.
Signor Tebaldi was singing quite loudly, and no one heard them arrive at the entrance of the large salon. It was redolent of candle wax and perfume and hothouse flowers, and the heat was stifling. There were about two dozen guests, as he’d promised, all watching the tenor with rapt attention, except for one man.
One man, sitting in the shadows at the back of the room, and she felt his eyes on her. Lucien de Malheur.
Lady Calvert had melted away, her duty done, and Signor Tebaldi launched into another lengthy aria with scarcely a pause for breath or applause. And Miranda’s choices were clear.
Her host, and she knew it was he, hadn’t moved. He watched her from the shadows, and she wondered for a moment if he was unable to walk. She could move ahead, slip into one of the empty seats, as far away from him as possible. She could turn and leave. She would scarcely be blamed—his failure to rise and greet her was a social solecism of the first order.
Instead she started toward him, unable to see him clearly in the shadows. He was sitting alone, which struck her as odd, but she kept moving, when suddenly her view was blocked by a broad male chest, and it took her good balance to keep from barreling into him.
She looked up into a handsome face, dark eyes and a winning smile. He looked vaguely familiar, and for a moment she wondered if she’d been mistaken, if Lucien de Malheur, the Earl of Rochdale, was this magnificent male specimen.
“Lady Miranda!” he breathed, and she knew immediately that this wasn’t her host. The Scorpion’s voice had been soft, sinuous, unforgettable, a far cry from this man’s hearty tones. “It’s been an age since we’ve met, but I’d been told you might be joining us tonight and I must confess I’ve been watching the door. I flatter myself to think you haven’t forgotten me. ”
“Of course I haven’t,” she lied promptly.
He laughed heartily. “Not that I should ever dare to question a young lady’s veracity, but I suspect you can’t possibly remember who I am. I’m Gregory Panelle, a friend of your brother Benedick’s. You and I met several years ago, even stood up together. ”
She could feel her smile warm slightly. “Of course I remember you, Mr. Panelle,” she said, still not placing him. However, her brother would never have introduced her to any kind of loose fish, so she could assume there was nothing untoward if she was in his company.
