Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer. Christine Merrill

      He let the title slip by without responding. ‘How do you know I have no business with them?’

      ‘The likes of you rarely has business with the likes of us. And when you do, it’s never good news.’

      Us? So he knew them. Marcus kept his face impassive. ‘I mean them no harm. I have already met Miranda. I just wanted to satisfy my curiosity about certain events in her past before …’ Before what? What could he say that would not reveal too much? ‘Finalising her position.’

      ‘If it’s references you want—’ the man shrugged ‘—I can give them as well as anybody. She’s a hard worker and honest.’

      A barmaid?

      ‘Ask at any of the houses in the area and the housekeepers will assure you. She’s a good girl.’ The man glared at him. ‘And you’d better not be offering any position that’s less honourable than scullery work. Because if you are, the lads will take you out back and cure you of that notion.’

      ‘Nothing dishonourable, I assure you, sir. And Lady Dawson? Where can I find her?’

      ‘I thought your business was with Miranda.’

      ‘But I want to thank Lady Dawson for sending her to me,’ he lied. ‘She was once a friend of my mother’s.’

      The man stared at him, long and hard, as if searching for a crack in his composure.

      ‘And if I mean her any harm, she can always send for the lads,’ Marcus added. ‘I am, as you pointed out, alone here, trusting in your good reputation to see me safely to my goal.’

      The man sighed. ‘If you’re lying, it’s a damn fool errand you’re on after all this time. There is no money there. You’ll come away empty handed. But if you’ve come about little Miranda, they’ll be glad of news.’ He pointed down the street and gave direction to a place on the west side of the village.

      ‘Thank you.’ Marcus slipped another coin on to the table and the man looked at it a long time before sliding it off the table and into his own pocket.

       Chapter Eleven

      Miranda looked up at the workman on the ladder and resisted an urge to supervise him. The removal of the old hangings was not her job. Or the cleaning of the chandeliers, for that matter. But it had been so long since some of the household chores had been attended to that the process had been difficult and after the ruination of the dining-room silk she’d felt the need to take an active part in most of the major jobs. It was only eleven o’clock and she was already exhausted. And itchy, as though a thin layer of grime covered her body. The staff had been cleaning for a week and she noted with satisfaction, the improvement was beginning to show. When and if her errant husband chose to return home, he would be well pleased.

      ‘Not still working in here, are you?’ St John had come up from behind her, spinning her around to face him.

      ‘It needs to be done,’ she said and stepped out of his grasp. ‘The house was sorely neglected.’

      ‘It needs doing, certainly, but not by you. I seriously doubt that my high-and-mighty brother would be pleased to see his new wife acting like a scullery maid.’

      She let this pass in silence, since there was no indication that her husband would be pleased to see her in any capacity. What if she had done this, only to anger him further? She pushed the thought from her mind. She was doing the best she could for him. He would be pleased. He must be.

      ‘And,’ St John added, touching her face, tipping her chin up until she was looking into his eyes, ‘you have a smudge on your nose. Charming, but most unusual for a duchess.’ He offered her his linen handkerchief and she wiped at the offending soot.

      ‘Miranda, darling, you should not be spending so much time indoors, working. It can’t be good for you. I have a remedy.’

      ‘And what would that be?’

      ‘A ride with your new brother. I can show you the lands. I’ll wager you have no idea of the size of the property.’

      She had a pretty good idea, she thought wanly, after walking through so much of it to get to the house that first day. But a ride? Perhaps he meant carriage.

      ‘What you need is a few hours on one of my brother’s fine mares, galloping across the countryside. That will put colour back into your cheeks.’

      The colour in her cheeks would be grey. A horse? And galloping, no less? It had been at least twelve years since she’d last ridden, and that had been a tethered pony.

      But St John warmed to the idea. ‘I’ve been meaning to try out my brother’s new hunter, and this is just the excuse. You can have your pick of the horseflesh, there’s sure to be something to suit you.’

      ‘St John,’ she began, ‘I don’t know that a ride would be possible. I did not bring a habit with me when I came from town.’

      He frowned, but only for a moment. ‘Certainly your maid can find something of my mother’s that will do until your own clothes arrive. Call her immediately and we will see.’

      ‘But, St John, I …’ and inspiration struck her ‘… I am afraid of horses.’ It was close enough to the truth.

      ‘Afraid?’ He stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘And you married my brother. Oh, dear. This will not do, Miranda. You must overcome this unfortunate problem before my brother reappears if the two of you are to manage at all. Marcus is quite the man for the sporting life. The thrill of the hunt is in his blood. He is never truly happy unless he’s haring around after one poor animal while on the back of another.’ St John frowned. ‘When he finds that he has married someone who does not share his interests …’ He shook his head. ‘He will be most put out.’ He smiled down at her. ‘But, fear not, little sister. I am here. And I can teach you. A few quiet rides through the country on the back of a gentle beast will be just the thing. When it is time to jump fences—’ He saw the alarm on her face. ‘Well, that may never be needed, so there is no point in worrying about it.’

      Polly was able to cobble together bits of the late dowager’s riding apparel to leave her suitably, although not fashionably covered. Miranda limped down the stairs in too-tight boots, cursing the need to force her unnaturally tall frame into the clothing of yet another petite woman. The dowager had been several inches shorter than she, with delicate feet and a trim figure. Once again, she was showing too much wrist and ankle, immobilised in a jacket that lacked room for her shoulders, but had plenty of space for the bosom that she did not possess.

      She met St John in the entry hall; if he found anything unusual in her appearance, he was too polite to say so. He led her to the stables, where he chose a docile mare and helped her up, before mounting the magnificent black stallion beside it.

      Horses were taller than she remembered. Certainly taller than they looked from the ground, where she wished she still was. She felt the horse twitch under her and forced the thought from her mind. If it realised that she wanted to be back on solid earth, it might decide to throw her and grant the wish without warning. She did not wish for the ground, she reminded herself. She wished to remain in the saddle.

      St John set off at a walk and her own horse followed his with a minimum of direction on her part. She relaxed a little. He was right; this was not so bad. She called on what little she could remember of her childhood rides and manoeuvred her horse to walk beside St John’s so they could converse.

      ‘See?’ he encouraged. ‘It is not so bad as all that, is it?’

      ‘No. Not so bad,’ she lied.

      ‘We will ride down the main road and into the farm land, towards that little copse of trees yonder—’ he pointed towards the horizon ‘—then back to the house. And you will find the fresh air and exercise will do you good.’