The Decadent Countess Read online

  ‘I am sorry if my actions caused you pain, Countess,’ he said, and gave a formal bow.

  She said nothing in return, when he had been sure she would be unable to resist the urge to gloat. Instead Leo found himself captured by a wonderfully warm and smiling gaze. It filled him with a powerful longing to sweep her into his arms, a longing he had rarely been overcome with before. She must have read the thought in his own eyes, for her smile wavered and she stepped back to put a safe distance between them.

  ‘Pendle can arrange these matters for you.’ Leo gestured impatiently at the linen cupboard. ‘That is what he does best.’

  The warmth had begun to fade in Miranda’s dark eyes, and now it vanished altogether.

  ‘I do not want Pendle to “arrange these matters” for me, your Grace. I call such behaviour high-handed and arrogant. The Grange belongs to me and it is mine to arrange as I wish.’

  ‘And I call that very ungrateful of you, Countess,’ Leo retorted, stung.

  Of course, he was right, but that did not make the situation any less awkward and frustrating. Now it was Miranda’s turn to be stiff.

  ‘I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful. Of course I am grateful for your help, your Grace, but sometimes I cannot help but wish Pendle elsewhere. I cannot believe that you, yourself, don’t sometimes wish him elsewhere!’

  Leo sighed. ‘He means well.’

  ‘Does he? You are more charitable than I then, your Grace—’

  ‘Stop calling me “your Grace”!’

  Miranda widened her eyes. ‘What am I to call you then?’

  ‘Anything but that.’

  Several sobriquets instantly occurred to her.

  He read that in her eyes, too. ‘No, Miranda. Call me Leo,’ he said quietly.

  That look was back. She knew it was that look because it frightened her, a little, while at the same time filling her with an almost irresistible longing to swoon into his arms and forget all that had gone before.

  ‘Leo,’ she whispered.

  He drew her into his arms and she suddenly understood what the authors of Adela’s favourite penny novels meant, when they wrote of how the hero took the heroine in a masterful embrace. But, practical creature that she was, Miranda found she could not sustain this romantic fog for long.

  ‘You will make your clothing all dusty, Leo!’

  Leo laughed. ‘I don’t care, Miranda. I’m going to kiss you now.’

  Satisfied with this answer, she returned his embrace, and his kiss, with enthusiasm.

  ‘Miranda, sweet, sweet Miranda,’ he whispered, and kissed her again.

  Oh, this was right. So right. How could she ever have thought it wrong?

  And yet it was wrong! Leo was under a serious misapprehension as to her true identity, and she must clear the matter up. Now!

  Trembling and breathless, Miranda pulled a little away from him, though still clasping her arms about his neck. He looked surprised and a little wary, and opened his mouth to speak.

  Miranda placed her fingertips across his lips. ‘Hush, Leo. I have something to tell you. I am not as you think me. I have done something very bad and very foolish, and—’

  A loud and persistent coughing coming from directly behind them prevented Miranda from saying any more. Leo released her, slowly and reluctantly, and turned with resignation to face his faithful butler. Pendle, seeing the expression in his master’s eyes, bowed rather lower than usual.

  ‘Your Grace, I beg your pardon. I was not aware you were here.’

  ‘No, indeed, Pendle, how thoughtless of me not to have informed you.’

  Pendle appeared to think this answer quite in order. ‘Do you require refreshments, sir? I have had some of your favourite claret brought down from Ormiston.’

  ‘A little early for me, Pendle,’ Leo replied coldly. He turned back to Miranda, regret warring with his annoyance. ‘I’m sorry, Countess. This tête-à-tète will have to wait until tomorrow. Will you do me the honour of taking dinner with my sister and myself at Ormiston tomorrow night? I am sure Tina will be very disappointed if you have a previous engagement.’

  Miranda, swallowing her disappointment—and her secret relief—at not having been able to complete her confession, smiled. ‘The only previous engagement I have, sir, is with this linen cupboard and that I can quite happily forgo!’

  He smiled back at her, a smile so warm she felt as if her insides were melting with joy. ‘Until then,’ he said softly, and turned to follow Pendle.

  Miranda leaned back against the cupboard door, afraid her legs would give way. He loved her…he must, to apologise and to kiss her so and then to ask her to Ormiston. A pity Pendle had interrupted them just then, but Miranda was more determined than ever to explain to Leo what she had done and why. To throw herself upon his mercy.

  It was very clear to her now, and, if she was honest, had been for some time, that he was not the arrogant and heartless man she had thought him on first acquaintance. That being so, she was sure he must forgive her when he knew the whole. And with Tina there to back her up, the matter should be speedily resolved.

  Miranda sighed deeply.

  Her eyes turned dreamy.

  She had never been in love. She had been very fond of Julian, but she had not loved him with the kind of love she had always dreamed she might one day experience. Now she found herself thinking of the Duke of Belford in a manner that could only mean she was inordinately fond of him. Did she love him? She wanted him to think well of her, she wanted him to look at her with that look in his eyes, and hold her close, and kiss her. Yes, that too.

  Of course, before any of her dreams could come true, she must tell him the truth…

  No, everything would be all right. Leo would be understanding and reasonable, he would forgive her.

  A little shiver ran through Miranda. A premonition, perhaps.

  She ignored it.

  Leo galloped his horse home, more pleased with himself than he had been for ages. She hadn’t believed him capable of influencing Ealing, not for a moment, despite what Tina thought. Indeed, Tina had thought better of Miranda than she had of him, her own brother! Tina had waxed lyrical about Miranda for some ten minutes, and Tina was normally a good judge of character.

  Leo could hardly believe it. Should he begin to trust what his own heart was telling him? Was it possible that that unreliable organ had been right all along?

  Miranda was a sweet woman, a lovely woman. Miranda had forgiven him at once and denied she had ever believed him capable of dealing with Ealing behind her back. She was nothing like the woman portrayed by the rumours. She was…

  His thoughts drew to an abrupt halt, like a coach and four which has been travelling a clear, straight road and has come unexpectedly upon a fallen tree.

  What had she said, just before Pendle interrupted them? Something puzzling.

  I am not as you think me. I have done something very bad and very foolish.

  She had certainly sounded very contrite. Maybe even a little afraid? As if he was bound to disapprove of whatever it was she had done. Well, she had had no reason so far to think him capable of level-headed and fair-minded consideration, had she? He had been anything but either in his dealings with her.

  Whatever the ‘something’ she had done was, Leo determined to forgive her. Probably it was nothing. Yes, he would forgive her at once, without hesitation. He would show her that he could be as magnanimous as she, when it came to accepting apologies.

  But still the doubt remained, like a small, dark shadow on the bright sun of his new-found happiness.

  Chapter Nine

  Miranda had slept well and deeply, and arose with a smile on her face. Her conscience might not be completely clear but it soon would be. It was as if, in her heart, she had already confessed and Leo had forgiven her.

  Everything would be all right, she was certain of it!

  Perhaps it was Lady Clementina’s arrival upon the scene which had given her this sense of certainty. The knowledge th
at she had a friend in the enemy camp. She imagined she had Tina to thank for Leo’s unceremonious arrival yesterday. It was only fair she repay Tina’s confidence in her by making a clean breast of her deceit.

  Lay the Decadent Countess to rest.

  Sun poured in through the old mullion windows, shining like melted butter upon the uneven floorboards. A warm fire was burning in the hearth, while hot washing water steamed in a jug, a fresh towel folded neatly beside it. Everything was so very different from her first weeks at The Grange. Despite Pendle’s, and his master’s, high-handed behaviour, she had to be grateful for the changes they had wrought. Miranda knew she was not secure yet, but this morning she felt almost content.

  Esme tapped on the door, peeped in when told to enter, and with growing confidence carried Miranda’s tea and toast to the table by the bed.

  ‘Thank you, Esme. It is a marvellous day, is it not?’

  ‘Aye, ma’am.’

  ‘How is your brother, who works in the stables at Ormiston?’

  ‘Very happy, ma’am. The Duke is a good master. My brother says as he’s always got a kind word for his servants, even the lowest of ’em. When old Dishart, the groom, were poorly, he even paid for a doctor!’

  Esme’s eyes were quite round with wonder.

  Miranda felt the warmth inside her grow. It was pleasant to hear such things about the man one loved.

  And she did love him. Miranda was sure of it now. It was as if, during the hours of sleep, her uncertainties had been resolved. Her hopes and dreams of a settled and happy life were beginning to take on the hard, crystal shell of reality.

  When Esme had gone, Miranda quickly completed her toilette, donned a white muslin gown and went downstairs. She felt eager to get on with things, and to occupy herself during the hours until evening. Her invitation to Ormiston—she felt a tingle of apprehension and excitement—loomed over her. But, in the meantime, she must write another letter to Mr Ealing, demanding an explanation of his tardiness, that he right matters as soon as possible. Once she had the monies due to her, she could employ her own servants. She could be rid of Pendle.

  As if conjured by her thoughts, Pendle appeared in the hall, his face as pinched and sour as it always was.

  ‘Madam—’

  ‘Not now, Pendle, I am busy.’

  He seemed somewhat taken aback by her abruptness. Miranda was herself surprised by the aura of confidence which enveloped her this morning.

  ‘Madam, there is—’

  ‘I am going to spend the morning at my desk, Pendle. See that I am not disturbed.’

  ‘Normally I wouldn’t disturb you, madam, but you have a visitor.’

  Miranda turned and frowned. Pendle pursed his lips apologetically, but Miranda saw the triumphant flare in his eyes.

  ‘A visitor?’

  ‘A Mr Harmon, madam. Mr Frederick Harmon from London. He says you are acquainted with him.’

  Pendle spoke the name as if he were swallowing pips, but Miranda was too surprised to notice.

  ‘Oh! I did not expect—’ She caught herself, assuming a calmer demeanour. It would not do for Pendle to think her rattled—Pendle did not respect the meek or the muddled. ‘Bring him to the parlour, Pendle, and I suppose we had better have some tea and cake.’

  ‘This early in the morning, madam?’

  ‘What do you suggest then, Pendle?’

  Pendle drew himself up. ‘As it is the height of bad manners to visit anyone before ten o’clock, I suggest he receive no tea and certainly no cake, madam!’

  Miranda smiled, and then she giggled. Remembering herself, she bit her lip, but it was too late. Pendle looked as if he had received a severe shock.

  ‘Send Mr Harmon into the parlour,’ Miranda said, composed once more. ‘We will have tea, but definitely no cake.’

  ‘Very good, madam.’

  Miranda closed the door on Pendle’s bowing figure, and then closed her eyes. She had dared to laugh at the pompous Pendle. What terrible revenge would he exact of her? No pudding for a week? No bedtime stories? Miranda giggled again, holding her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Really, sometimes she thought Pendle was more like a duke than Leo!

  Her head cleared abruptly.

  What was Frederick Harmon doing so far from London? The last time she had seen him, at Armstrong’s Hotel, had been the evening Leo burst in upon them and accused her of entertaining men in a private parlour. Miranda remembered, with mortification, how she had stumbled over her words. But she had nothing with which to reproach Mr Harmon. He had been kindness itself and she had felt very comfortable in his company. Indeed, she had found herself treating him much as she would Adela.

  Perhaps, she thought suddenly, he had had another letter from Adela and wished to share it with her? Was it bad news? Miranda admitted that she had been a little surprised that she had so far received no letters from her stepmama. She had been about to write a letter of her own, following the one to Mr Ealing.

  A discreet tap on the door heralded Mr Harmon, and Miranda hurriedly composed her features into a polite mask of greeting.

  Despite her fears, Miranda could not help but notice that Mr Harmon was dressed rather splendidly for a sojourn in the country. His double-breasted jacket was padded at the shoulders, and severely nipped in at the waist, his waistcoat was a bright concoction of greens and yellows, while his shirt points were very stiff and very high.

  Miranda, who could not remember him being so elaborately dressed when she last met him, thought he must lately have come into money. Being used by now to Leo’s quiet elegance, she wished he had spent his funds in some other manner. She could not know this splendid display was entirely for her benefit.

  Mr Harmon, obviously believing himself the epitome of high fashion, strutted into the room with a beaming smile upon his face. The smile was enough to convince Miranda he brought no ill tidings, and she allowed him to take her outstretched hand.

  ‘Mrs Fitzgibbon…Miranda,’ he said and, stooping, pressed his lips fervently to her flesh. ‘I am so sorry for imposing upon you. As your manservant has already conveyed to me, I am very early.’

  Miranda forgot her damp hand. ‘Did Pendle tell you that? He is usually more subtle.’

  ‘No, no, he merely grimaced. I read everything from that.’

  Miranda laughed. ‘You must not take it personally, Mr Harmon. He grimaces at everybody. He is the Duke’s butler and has been loaned to me until I find servants of my own.’

  It was said in a light-hearted manner meant to put him at his ease, but Mr Harmon did not take it so. His smile vanished and he frowned in a worried fashion.

  ‘Mrs Fitzgibbon, I hope you are not in some sort of difficulty? I have had another letter from Adela, and she feared you might require my assistance, so I—’

  ‘No, no, it is nothing serious, I do assure you! Have you had a letter from Adela? I wish she would write to me. I miss her. Is she well? Tell me what she says.’

  Mr Harmon took the seat she offered, smoothing his tight sleeves and carefully crossing his legs. His hair had been arranged into a Brutus, which was meant to disguise the encroaching bald patch on the top. Miranda bit her lip and told herself firmly she must be tolerant. It would not do to laugh at a gentleman’s pretensions. Mr Harmon had been kind enough to come all this way to give her Adela’s news, and therefore she must treat him as Adela did—as a friend.

  ‘I am surprised she has not written.’ Mr Harmon was speaking. ‘Unless she thinks…’ He hesitated, as if doubtful whether or not he should complete the thought.

  Miranda waited politely, while Mr Harmon deliberated.

  He was only pretending. Frederick Harmon knew very well the lines he meant to say, and how he meant to deliver them!

  Since their meeting in London, he had been carefully formulating a plan which would enable him to gain some power over Miranda. Enough so that she would allow him to speak for her, as her friend and adviser. He had also made numerous enquiries. One of the discove
ries subsequent to those enquiries was of an old Fitzgibbon legend concerning The Grange. Superstition said that if The Grange were ever to leave the Fitzgibbon family’s hands then they would go into a decline.

  Slide into obscurity.

  Being a rather superstitious man himself—he had been known to throw salt over his shoulder at the least provocation—Frederick Harmon had no difficulty in believing that Leo would subscribe to this legend. The Duke, he thought, must be quite desperate to recover The Grange.

  And Frederick would relish being in a position to deny it to him.

  It was all consistent with revenge. Mr Harmon was not an overly intelligent man, but he was cunning and he was an opportunist. More than anything he wanted to do Belford an ill turn in repayment for the one Belford had done him, or so he thought of it. He told himself that he could have made Sophie Lethbridge happy and she would certainly have made him happy. Belford had therefore prevented two lonely people from finding marital bliss.

  That Sophie was an heiress had very little to do with it—and so he had told himself so many times that he almost believed it.

  Now the time had come for him, through Miranda, to repay Belford. If Belford wanted The Grange, then he would have to deal with Harmon. He would have to humble himself to Harmon. The picture that conjured was extremely pleasing.

  ‘Forgive me.’ He spoke at last. ‘I had meant only to visit you, see that all was well, and then leave. But now…under the circumstances, I feel I should explain a little more of why I am here. My cousin Adela fears you are in some danger from Belford.’

  The effect of his words was not quite as he had hoped. He had meant to give a brief account of a probable dastardly plot by Belford to evict her from her home, so that he, Belford, could reclaim it. Freddie had then imagined her gasp of horror, her demands to know all, and then, her pleas for assistance. Which he would gladly give.

  Miranda did blink in startled amazement, and when she spoke her voice did hold a note of outrage. But it was outrage directed at Frederick Harmon rather than Belford.

  ‘Danger? I do not understand you, Mr Harmon. The Duke of Belford has offered me nothing but kindness.’