The Decadent Countess Read online

  ‘Do you normally drink so much?’ Leo demanded. ‘I don’t recall my Aunt Ellen describing you as a sot.’

  ‘No, I do not,’ she snapped. ‘If I were a—a sot, do you think I would have had any compunction about telling you so? Even in Italy, where one normally drinks wine in preference to water, I never drank much. Perhaps if I had I would not now be in this predicament. Besides, Mr Harmon kept refilling my glass and—’

  Leo closed the distance, hands clenched at his sides. ‘Are you telling me that this man forced strong drink upon you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean that!’ Miranda cried. ‘Will you stop trying to start a fight?’

  Harmon, who had been listening with interest, smoothed his cuffs. ‘I don’t mind if he starts one, Mrs Fitzgibbon, for I will certainly finish it.’

  ‘No!’ Miranda said, and then put a hand to her eyes. It was a nightmare and she had had enough. ‘Please, both of you, go away. I have the headache and I have a long journey to undertake tomorrow. I am removing to The Grange.’

  Leo frowned, a shadow moving in his blue eyes. ‘Alone?’ he asked her sharply.

  Miranda lifted her head, her eyes blazing back at him. ‘Of course alone!’

  Leo almost smiled. Instead, he bowed. ‘Then I will leave you to your preparations, Countess. Be assured, however, this matter between us is far from finished. Do not think this is the last you will see of me. Goodnight.’ His glance skimmed Harmon, rather as one would glance at a small and not very interesting beetle.

  Once more the door closed behind him.

  Harmon, full of questions, turned to Miranda. She was staring towards the window so that only her profile was visible to him. She looked pale and young, and desperately in need of a shoulder to cry on. A perfect opening for him. He decided on the outraged tone.

  ‘His behaviour was quite incredible! Who does the man think he is? Such ill manners! And yet I had always thought Belford the epitome of the English gentleman. Or, at least, he puts it about that he is.’

  ‘Does he?’ Miranda murmured wearily. ‘I hardly know him.’

  ‘And what did he mean by calling you “Countess”? Does he not know that Adela is the Countess Ridgeway?’

  Miranda lifted a dismissive hand, her face still averted, her shoulders slumped. ‘A mistake on his part.’

  ‘A mistake? I would not have thought Belford lacking in wits. Are you—?’

  ‘Please.’ Miranda stopped, swallowed, then went on. ‘I know you mean well, sir, but I would prefer it if you went now. I—I am very tired and I must pack for tomorrow. Thank you for your company this evening, Mr Harmon. I am grateful for your time and trouble. If we do not meet again then…goodbye. I don’t expect to be travelling up to London very often.’

  He stared at her in astonishment. Could she mean to dismiss him so easily? And yet it seemed that she did, and, playing the part of the gentleman, he had no option but to accept her dismissal.

  ‘My dear lady,’ he murmured gently, ‘I will leave you now, but you must not think I am deserting you. If you need me, you have only to write and I will hasten to your side.’

  His words were melodramatic, but Miranda did not notice that. Rather she found his concern for her gratifying and her lips wobbled pitifully as she tried to smile.

  With a sigh, Harmon bowed and left her. Outside Armstrong’s Hotel, he stood staring into the darkness, puzzling over what he had just witnessed. There was something between Belford and Miranda, any fool could see that, but what exactly was it? Maybe he could use the ‘it’ to his advantage? Belford wanted The Grange, and soon Frederick Harmon, as Miranda’s close and dear friend, would be in a position to bargain with him.

  For a price.

  With a smile, Harmon strolled off into the night.

  Leo shifted out of the shadows, turning to watch Harmon walk away. If it was true that Freddie Harmon was the Countess’s cousin, his presence was explained. If not… Leo could not help but wonder if the two of them were in league. Harmon had an unsavoury reputation and was not above trying to elope with young, impressionable girls, while the Countess was, well, the gossip on that subject was not pleasant listening.

  Perhaps Jack was right, perhaps the Fitzgibbon curse or legend, or whatever it was, was working on him. He’d be another such as his grandfather, chasing after totally unsuitable women to the consternation and embarrassment of his nearest and dearest relatives.

  Leo glanced up at the square, solid façade of Armstrong’s Hotel, softened by the glow of many candles. It looked rather fortresslike in the darkness. He found himself thinking: She will be safe there. And then wondered why he should be concerned for such a woman’s safety. It defied explanation. Besides, she would be leaving in the morning for Somerset and The Grange.

  Leo allowed himself a smile. She thought she had escaped him, but Ormiston was mere miles from Julian’s old home. So simple to pay her a visit.

  The decision lifted him from the wave of gloom which had washed over him at the thought of her leaving. It was about time he made one of his infrequent trips to Ormiston. London had grown inexplicably stale. Yes, he would begin making arrangements in the morning.

  Leo set off towards Berkeley Square with a decided spring in his step.

  Inside the hotel, Miranda had reached her bedchamber and now sat curled in the chair before her fire. An odd combination of regret and depression assailed her. Leo Fitzgibbon had seen her this evening exactly as he expected to see her. And he had drawn the worst possible conclusions. Now, she could never make him as truly and deeply contrite as she wished. He would never grovel for forgiveness at her feet, for even when he discovered she was not the Decadent Countess, he would still think just as badly of her. Miranda could hear him now, his cool voice cruelly dismissive. ‘Like stepmama, like stepdaughter.’ No, he would never now beg her pardon or look at her with surprised and delighted wonder in his magnificent eyes…

  Miranda shook herself angrily. What was she thinking! Leo Fitzgibbon was an arrogant bully and he meant nothing to her. She would travel to Somerset and make her home at The Grange and, despite his empty threats, never see the Duke of Belford again.

  It was what she wanted, after all.

  Wasn’t it?

  Chapter Four

  Miranda lay under the counterpane, face turned towards the windows. Or, the bedcurtains being closed, where the windows should have been. It was an old bed, dark and ornate, with heavy, faded draperies and a lumpy mattress. Miranda would have preferred not to be hemmed in, but she knew from experience that outside her warm cocoon the room would be icy. She had been at The Grange for a week now, and felt that she already knew the best, and the worst, it could offer her.

  Tugging the embroidered bedcurtains to one side, she peered out. Sunlight was shining through old mullion windows, making rainbows on the uneven wooden floor of the bedchamber. The Grange, Miranda had learned, was extremely old, parts of it dating back to the days of Henry the Eighth.

  Old or new, the house was far too large for Miranda, as well as being dilapidated, leaky and impossible to keep warm. And Miranda loved it. She had loved it from the moment she saw it.

  Arriving exhausted from her journey from London, the final three-mile leg having been made by very rickety cart from the village, her first sight of The Grange had lifted her weary heart. The golden bricks had glowed in the afternoon sunshine and the tall chimney stacks had risen solid against a pale blue sky. Miranda had been filled with joy.

  She had known at once this was her home and that she would never sell it, whatever Mr Ealing advised.

  Neither the ancient manservant who had answered her repeated pulls on the bell, nor the damp sheets and unaired rooms had dulled her bright enthusiasm. That first night she had ordered a fire lit in the great hall, and sat in a carved wooden chair eating stale bread and cheese, surrounded by shadows and the shades of Julian’s ancestors.

  Remembering it now, Miranda sighed and snuggled further under the covers.

  Alth
ough her love for the house had remained constant, her enthusiasm had dimmed over past days. The waning of the latter had begun after a long ramble along The Grange’s dusty corridors had given her a better grasp of the manor’s state of health. Rain dripped through holes in the roof, floorboards were rotten, and dust and damp collected everywhere.

  If The Grange had been a person it would have died from neglect years ago.

  When she allowed herself to consider the amount of money which would be needed to repair and restore the building to its former glory she felt quite dizzy. It was certainly more than she had or was ever likely to have. Indeed, sometimes she wondered if she had merely exchanged the penury of Villa Ridgeway for a similar, possibly worse, situation.

  Of course, you could accept Leo Fitzgibbon’s offer, wheedled a voice in her head.

  Miranda gave it a stern talking-to. If she accepted the Duke of Belford’s bribe, she would be bound to return to Italy, taking the money with her. She would never see The Grange, or England, again.

  And never see Leo Fitzgibbon again.

  This time Miranda ignored the voice. She had no intention of accepting the Duke’s offer. It would be against her principles to do any such thing. What an arrogant and rude man! How amiable, generous Julian could have had such a cousin was beyond her. And that he should actually have admired and liked him! Well, Miranda could only think that Julian had been a very poor judge of character.

  A light tap on the door heralded the arrival of Nancy, a raw-boned woman of indeterminate years. She was carrying a jug of lukewarm water in her arms. Miranda knew that it was lukewarm, it had been lukewarm on her first morning, and had remained so no matter how many times she had pointed out this unfortunate fact to Nancy. Nancy blamed the myriad staircases and corridors she had to traverse from the kitchens. It was true that The Grange resembled a series of mazes, all upon different levels, so that one was forever climbing up or down to get somewhere.

  Miranda was still finding her way around.

  ‘The house is old and so are my legs,’ Nancy was fond of saying. It was her stock answer to any of the tactful suggestions for improvement Miranda might make.

  This morning Nancy had a skinny young girl trailing behind her. She was wearing a cap which would have been too big on Nancy and was therefore enormous on the girl. She peered shyly out at Miranda.

  ‘This here is Esme from the village,’ Nancy announced. ‘She’s to help in the kitchen.’

  Miranda raised her eyebrows. ‘How many servants have I now, Nancy?’

  Nancy shrugged. ‘They come and go, mistress. This is an awful big house and my legs aren’t what they used to be.’ She turned to mutter to Esme. ‘Make your curtsy, girl.’

  Esme wobbled a quick curtsy, her expression anxious.

  Despite her doubts, and the knowledge that she and Nancy would have to have a serious talk before long, Miranda’s heart went out to Esme, and she smiled kindly.

  ‘Welcome to The Grange, Esme. I hope you are very happy here.’

  ‘You’ve a visitor, mistress.’ Nancy did not hold with sentimentality.

  Surprised, Miranda sat up. ‘A visitor? What time is it, Nancy?’

  ‘Going on for nine, mistress. Some folk have no notion of what’s proper.’

  Miranda ignored this. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Miss Sophie Lethbridge, mistress, from Oak House.’

  As this meant nothing to Miranda, and Nancy did not appear to be willing to elaborate, she decided she had best hold her questions until she met Miss Sophie Lethbridge face to face.

  Miss Lethbridge would be her first visitor to The Grange. Despite the early hour and her other concerns, Miranda experienced a sense of excitement and anticipation. From the moment she had stepped back on to English soil, she had been determined to build a proper life for herself, the sort of settled existence which she had never before been lucky enough to own.

  Nancy’s dry tones intruded. ‘You’ll want your tea and toast then, mistress?’

  ‘Not this morning, thank you, Nancy. That will be all.’

  Nancy bobbed a grudging curtsy, dipping her chin to hide her smirk, and with Esme on her heels, left the room.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Miranda jumped quickly out of bed, pulling on her warmest cloak, and tipped the water from the jug into the basin. She had been wrong. The water was not tepid this morning—it was cold.

  Quickly, shivering, she dressed, slipping on a pair of thick and ugly woollen stockings beneath her skirts. They were hardly high fashion but no one would know, and The Grange was very cold.

  When she was dressed, Miranda sank down in front of her dressing table. Her auburn hair hung in tangles about her shoulders and her eyes were shadowed. Despite the old mirror’s golden glow, Miranda could see that this morning she was not looking her best. Worry and a good night’s sleep did not seem to be mutually compatible.

  With a sigh she picked up her brush. It would never do to keep her first visitor waiting.

  Nancy’s father, Bennett, was standing in the hall as Miranda descended the stairs. He was looking particularly villainous this morning.

  ‘Miss Sophie Lethbridge in the parlour, mistress,’ he informed her with his thick Somerset burr.

  ‘Thank you, Bennett.’

  ‘Nancy even lit the fire in there, mistress. Looks right cheery.’

  ‘Well, that will be a change, won’t it?’

  The old man appeared to find great amusement in this, for he chuckled to himself as he tottered away.

  Miranda wondered if that meant Bennett had accepted her at last, or whether he was simply amused by her attempts to play the part of mistress of The Grange. Since she had arrived the servants, led on by Nancy and her father, had treated her as an interloper. She supposed she should be grateful they had not asked for their wages, something she had been dreading and yet expecting daily. They must not have been paid for some time.

  Miranda was not even entirely sure just how many servants were employed at The Grange.

  Of course, there was Nancy, and Bennett, her old father, and there was Nancy’s son and daughter, and a scruffy-looking old woman who pretended to dust but, in Miranda’s opinion, was either too blind to do a proper job or simply didn’t want to. And now, as well, there was young Esme from the village!

  They were all related and the sort of servants who had been attached to the one house for a very long time—they had probably come with the Fitzgibbons. That was why, no matter how unfair it was, they considered her the intruder in their home. Miranda was not used to having her orders questioned or smirked at, and she was not used to evasion and downright lies.

  They did lie to her, she was certain of it. There was the question of an almost complete ham going missing from the larder, and the reason for so many empty spaces on the walls in rooms where pictures had once hung. According to Nancy, Julian had sold them before he left for Italy. Miranda had no reason to disbelieve her, except that she did.

  How could Julian have borne such a ramshackle arrangement?

  But she knew the answer to that. Julian had been so amiable, the only time he had ever stirred himself was to save her. He would not have cared a jot what his servants did as long as they served him his dinner and didn’t trouble him with tedious matters.

  Like dusting.

  Miranda took a deep, sustaining breath. There would be time for all of that later. Right now she must greet Miss Sophie Lethbridge.

  Nancy had indeed lit a fire in the parlour. It was small and a little smoky, but it did brighten the drab room considerably.

  A slight, fair creature rose from a sagging, needle-point-inflicted chair, her blue riding costume and jaunty hat making her seem very much out of place. But her gloved hand was outstretched, and her smile was friendly.

  ‘Mrs Fitzgibbon?’ Her voice was high and sweet. ‘How do you do? I am Sophie Lethbridge.’

  Miranda smiled in return. ‘How do you do, Miss Lethbridge?’

  ‘I am sorry for
calling so early. I was out riding and I had a sudden thought that I should call upon you… My thoughts are always sudden! If I am interfering with your other plans, I shall leave immediately.’

  ‘Oh no, I have no other plans. You are my first caller since I arrived at The Grange, Miss Lethbridge, and you are very welcome.’

  This seemed to satisfy Sophie, and when Miranda sat down she also resumed her seat. She appeared to be a fidgety little creature, although Miranda sensed it was due to an excess of energy rather than nervousness. She was young, probably still some years under twenty.

  ‘I live at Oak House,’ she spoke very quickly, ‘on the other side of St Mary Mere. With my father, Sir Hugh. I imagine you have been very busy settling in? It is a very long time since I have been in this room. When Julian’s mama was first married, she and Julian’s father lived here, but then it was very different. I am afraid the house has been rather…neglected.’

  Miranda laughed. “‘Neglected” is positively generous! It is in a disgraceful state and I don’t know how I shall ever bring it about.’

  Sophie laughed back. ‘Julian did not notice, and if he did he did not care! He loved The Grange just as it is.’

  ‘You knew my husband well?’ Miranda asked curiously.

  Sophie’s green eyes sparkled with easy tears. ‘Dear Julian. I knew him all my life. My brother, Jack, too, although he is more Leo’s friend than he ever was Julian’s. They were at school together, you see.’

  Miranda blinked. The room seem to swim a little at the edges of her vision. ‘Your brother and Julian were at school together?’

  Sophie gave another gurgle of laughter. ‘Oh, no, I meant that Leo and Jack were at school together. They are great friends, you know.’

  In Miranda’s mind there was only one Leo. It couldn’t be him. She shifted uneasily in her chair. A little hard knot of dread was twisting in her stomach. ‘I don’t quite understand you, Miss Lethbridge. You cannot…is it possible…are you speaking of the Duke of Belford?’