A Madcap Arrangement (Courting the Unconventional #4)

Chapter 1

Richard Kendall, Marquess of Wilton, was beginning to wonder if finding the man who had ruined his sister’s life was a fool’s errand.

He scowled down at the crumpled scrap of paper in his hand—three names already slashed through in furious strokes.

Only one remained: a final “Mr. Smith”, as vague and common a name as the others.

But what if this last lead was no different?

What if this was just another dead end, another false hope?

With a sigh, he tossed the list onto the table and reached for his tankard of watered-down ale.

The stuff was barely drinkable. He grimaced at the bitter swallow and longed for the comforts of home—his study, a crackling fire, and a glass of fine port, not this miserable excuse for ale in a dingy coaching inn on the edge of nowhere.

His body ached from the journey, the jolting coach ride turning his muscles stiff and sore.

When had he become so old? He was not yet thirty, yet the strain of this endless hunt weighed on him like an anvil strapped to his back.

He glanced around the hall, carefully avoiding the hopeful glances of the barmaid weaving between the tables.

Her bodice was indecently low, her smile overly bright.

It was a desperate kind of bravado that made Richard’s stomach twist with pity.

She wasn’t much older than he was, but years of fending off leering patrons had hollowed her gaze.

She deserved better than the lot she was dealt, but he had no kindness to spare today.

The door swung open, and Mr. Crosby, the Bow Street Runner he had hired, entered the hall. Tall, broad, and grim, the man moved with purpose, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards.

Without preamble, the Bow Street Runner pulled out a chair and said, “I come bearing good news.”

Richard was desperate for something—anything—that would move this wretched search forward. “I could use some,” he muttered.

Crosby leaned in, lowering his voice. “I spotted a man fitting your sister’s description leaving a manor on the edge of the village this morning.”

Every part of Richard snapped to attention. “Did you speak to him?”

“I did not,” Crosby replied. “I thought it would be best to approach the manor together.”

Richard shoved back his chair, the legs scraping harshly against the floor. “We should go now,” he said.

Crosby, however, remained seated, his hand tapping the table. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“I am,” Richard asserted. “I’ll challenge him to a duel and we’ll be on the road before sunset.”

“Or you’ll be dead,” Crosby pointed out.

Richard gave him a smug smile. “I am an excellent shot.”

“And you think he isn’t?”

“He’s a coward,” Richard replied. “He eloped with my sister to Gretna Green, only to abandon her the moment he had her dowry in his hands. He deserves a fate far worse than a bullet.”

Crosby’s eyes flicked towards the pistol tucked in Richard’s waistband. “I agree he deserves punishment. But why not sue him for abandonment? You’ve found where he lives.”

Richard’s hand settled on the butt of his pistol, the gesture deliberate. “Because men like him slip through the cracks of the law. I would see him answer to me, not a distant judge.”

“You are angry,” Crosby said bluntly.

“Good gads, yes,” Richard snapped, his voice rising enough to turn a few heads nearby.

Crosby stood and held up a placating hand. “All right. Let’s go visit Mr. Smith, but keep your wits about you. Death’s a poor remedy if you plan to save your sister’s honor.”

Without waiting for a response, Richard strode for the door.

Outside, they retrieved their horses and set off at a gallop.

The wind tore at Richard’s coat, but he relished the bite of the chill air against his skin.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at a modest stone manor nestled behind oak trees, with neat gardens blooming along the front and a slender creek weaving through the property.

Richard scowled. It was far too picturesque for the lair of a scoundrel. He dismounted, tying his reins to a hitching post with sharp, jerking motions. He stalked up the path without hesitation and hammered his fist against the door.

“Subtle,” Crosby muttered under his breath.

The door creaked open, and a fair-haired maid peered out. Her apron was crisp, her expression wary. “May I help you, sir?”

Richard stepped forward, looming over her. “I demand to speak with Mr. Smith. Immediately.”

The maid glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I regret to inform you that Mr. Smith passed away a little over a year ago.”

“That is impossible!” Richard barked. “You are lying.”

The maid shrank back. “I assure you that I am not.”

Crosby stepped in swiftly, flashing the girl a reassuring smile. “Forgive my companion’s rudeness, Miss. He is… overwrought. Did Mr. Smith leave behind a son we might speak to?”

“No, sir. Only two daughters,” came the maid’s soft reply.

Richard’s hands curled into fists. Some trickery was at work—he could feel it. “Then fetch them. At once.”

The maid bobbed a quick curtsy. “I shall see if the mistress is available for callers.”

Richard added sharply, “Inform her that the Marquess of Wilton demands an audience and I will not be turned away.”

The maid’s eyes widened at the title, but she merely nodded and disappeared inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.

Crosby shot him a glare. “That was poorly done.”

“I will not suffer lies,” Richard growled.

“We are here to gather information, not frighten women out of their wits,” Crosby remarked. “If you charge through this investigation half-cocked, you’ll have nothing to show for it but a ruined house and a reputation in tatters.”

Richard said nothing, his gaze locked on the door.

“I understand your anger,” Crosby continued. “But justice requires patience, my lord. If you want to win, you must think.”

Before Richard could retort, the door creaked open again. The maid reappeared, her cheeks flushed. “Miss Theodosia Smith will see you now, my lord.”

Richard squared his shoulders. Of course she would. A country bumpkin with little status would not dare deny a marquess, especially not when he came demanding answers. He stepped forward, ready to confront whoever dared stand between him and the retribution his sister deserved.

He followed the maid down a dim, paneled corridor towards the rear of the manor. The house smelled faintly of lavender and beeswax polish, a humble but pleasant scent. At the end of the hallway, the maid paused before a heavy door, gave a small curtsy, and gestured for him to enter.

Richard strode inside, his mind braced for confrontation.

The room was surprisingly grand for such a modest manor: the walls lined with shelves of leather-bound books, a faded but elegant carpet underfoot, and a massive mahogany desk anchoring the space.

Behind it sat a young woman, dressed in a simple blue gown that contrasted beautifully with her fair complexion.

Her dark hair was gathered into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck, stray wisps framing her striking features—high cheekbones and a pair of disarmingly intelligent eyes.

He faltered for the briefest of moments, unsettled by her unexpected beauty, but steeled himself. He was not here for admiration. He was here for justice.

Straightening, he demanded, “Are you Miss Theodosia Smith?”

The woman lifted her gaze to his without the faintest flicker of fear. “I am. And I must assume you are the bad-mannered lord who so thoroughly frightened my maid.”

Her tone was calm, almost amused, and it caught Richard off guard. Few women dared to speak to him so plainly.

“I am here to ask the questions,” he snapped, recovering quickly.

Miss Theodosia’s lips twitched, though whether from irritation or amusement he couldn’t tell. “And I daresay I must wonder what I have done to earn your ire, my lord,” she said, her words edged with a distinct sharpness.

He ignored the bait and pressed on. “I wish to speak to the master of the house.”

She rose then, slow and deliberate, placing her slender hand firmly on the polished surface of the desk. “There is no master here. I am the mistress of this household.”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You? You can’t possibly be old enough to run an estate.”

Her chin tilted upward with defiance. “I am two and twenty years old. I can read ledgers, manage tenants, and balance accounts quite capably. But then, I suppose your mind cannot fathom a woman doing what a man might bungle.”

Richard stepped forward, closing some of the space between them in a manner that made the maid by the door fidget nervously. “You are lying,” he said.

Miss Theodosia’s green eyes sparked with indignation. “And you, sir, have worn out your welcome.” She resumed her seat, dismissing him with a regal grace. “You may see yourself out.”

He remained rooted to the spot, his hand itching at his side. “I am not leaving until you answer my questions.”

“Then we are at an impasse, for I have no desire to speak with you any further.” Turning her gaze to Mr. Crosby, she asked, “Is your companion always so ill-tempered and tiresome?”

To Richard’s annoyance, Crosby actually chuckled. “He is.”

“How unfortunate,” Miss Theodosia said, her lips curving into a faint, mocking smile. “Still, for your sake, I shall indulge a few inquiries. What would you like to know?”

Richard opened his mouth to demand answers, but she cut in sharply, “Not you, my lord. I’ve heard enough of your blustering. You,” she said, looking at Crosby, “may ask.”

Crosby, still grinning faintly, inclined his head. “My condolences, Miss Theodosia. I understand your father passed away?”

She sobered. “Yes. Over a year ago now.”

“Did he leave behind a son?” Crosby asked.

“No. Only me and my elder sister.”

Crosby nodded thoughtfully. “Earlier this morning, a man was seen leaving your property. Can you tell us who he was?”