11. A Claim of Convenience
A Claim of Convenience
Seven days of fruitless inquiries had done nothing to ease Lord Creswell’s mounting vexation.
None could offer him more than the barest of particulars: that Miles Sinclair was an incorrigible bachelor, and little else.
Turning the matter over in his mind, Lord Creswell could not but regard Miss Harrington’s marked preference for Mr. Sinclair’s company as a singular stroke of providence.
The possibility existed that she might serve as Miles’s confidant.
Yet Miss Harrington was so consumed with the demands of Lady Marlstone’s charitable endeavors that she proved maddeningly elusive.
Each morning, Creswell presented himself at Lady Marlstone’s door, only to be informed that Lady Arabella and her goddaughter were engaged in making calls.
His hopes now rested upon the afternoons, for if his own mother was wont to retire at that hour, surely Lady Marlstone might follow the same genteel habit.
But alas, her ladyship’s moments of repose simply offered Miss Harrington opportunities to visit the council chambers, pore over documents in the library, or pursue some other occupation that placed her firmly beyond the reach of his increasingly eager attentions.
It was now Wednesday of the following week.
Creswell was now perilously close to despair.
Tonight, Almack’s patronesses were hosting their final season ball, and Creswell knew Lady Marlstone had tickets.
It was thus with a determined air that he entered the assembly rooms, his keen gaze sweeping over the glittering throng.
And there she was: Miss Harrington, radiant in a gown of sage silk, her cheeks flushed as she danced a country set with none other than Miles Sinclair.
Creswell’s jaw tightened. The moment the music ceased, he lost not a moment.
He intercepted the pair as they returned to the edge of the room, her hand still resting lightly on Miles’s arm.
“Miss Harrington,” he said, bowing with formality. “Might I claim the honor of the next dance?”
Her gaze darted between the two gentlemen. Miles’s teasing smile lingered, as he relinquished her with a bow.
“Very well, Lord Creswell,” she replied, slipping her hand into his.
The next set began almost immediately, and Creswell returned with her to the dance floor. As they began the movements of the minuet, they danced in silence, his grip a trifle damp. Creswell’s gaze lingered on her but Lucinda kept her eyes fixed upon some point beyond his shoulder.
At length, he spoke. “Miss Harrington, it seems you and Mr. Sinclair have been inseparable recently,” he observed, with a hint of intrigue.
Lucinda blinked innocently. “Have we?”
“It would seem a most decided partiality exists between you,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers.
“It’s of longstanding, sir. We grew up on neighboring estates in Kent, and I was less inclined to mind my governess than a young lady ought. We spent many hours playing together,” she explained calmly.
“A delightful picture you paint, my dear.”
Lucinda fell silent, preferring not to encourage conversation through the dance. But Creswell was not to be deterred from his object.
“A man blessed with such a loyal and understanding friend would undoubtedly confide in her,” he suggested.
“That he might,” said Lucinda blandly.
“His highs and his lows,” he drawled, “might be unburdened to such a one, with all the expectation of being attended to with impunity.”
Lucinda stole a glance up at Creswell’s imposing features, and found the view beneath his nose less than appealing. Since, his discourse was veering toward the fantastical, and lacked a direct question, she saw no profit in humoring him further.
“Mr. Sinclair seems uncommonly happy these days, would you not say? Perhaps he has the partiality of a lady?”
“As one who has known him for many years, sir, I’m inclined to think Mr. Sinclair wears some unusual care about him. That is when he’s not trying to make one laugh.”
“He is perhaps anxious to gain the blessings of some patriarch?”
Lucinda thought she saw an opportunity to end Lord Creswell’s unwanted attentions and plunged headlong into a charade. “You mean Papa, I suppose. Oh, how clever you are, Lord Creswell, how did you ever guess our secret?”
To his credit, Creswell did not so much as falter in his steps at this startling revelation.
With the certainty of securing her as his bride, he concluded he must have mistaken her meaning.
“I beg your pardon, my dear; it seems the music may have muddled our discourse. What have I guessed correctly about your father?”
“That Miles needs to gain his consent before we make a formal announcement. But, Papa won’t have any issue with the match!”
In his conceit, Creswell could not grasp her matter-of-fact words. “Do you speak of our match, Miss Harrington?”
Her first impulse was to give way to laughter. “Of course not, sir, how could I!” She lowered her voice and said, “Miles and I are secretly engaged.”
He grappled silently with the implications, his matrimonial schemes unraveling before him. So there was a secret engagement, after all, a reality he’d begun to doubt. Most calamitous of all, the lady at the heart of this secret was none other than his intended bride.
“Engaged?”
“Please, sir!” she hissed, “I repeat it is a secret . You must promise me not to reveal it to anyone. I rely on your honor as a gentleman not to disappoint me.”
Creswell’s expression teetered between disbelief and indignation. Finally, he said, “I see. Well, I must wish you every happiness.”
“How very kind of you, Lord Creswell,” Lucinda replied, relieved.
As the dance came to a close, Lucinda was escorted to her godmother.
Lady Marlstone smiled as they approached. “Ah, my dear Lucinda, Lord Creswell,” she said warmly. “You looked so perfectly paired on the dance floor. I trust you enjoyed the dance?”
Lucinda summoned a smile, casting a glance at her partner, who bowed with icy civility before taking his leave with a stiff-backed stride.
The gentleman in question did not linger at the ball.
He had no intention of being further humiliated by the insufferable charm of Miles Sinclair.
Instead, he bided his time, waiting until a more opportune moment to confront the man who had, in his estimation, usurped his rightful place in Miss Harrington’s affections.
That moment came the following afternoon when he encountered Miles in St. James’s Park. Miles, leaning against a tree, was idly tossing a ball for his dog.
“Lord Creswell!” Miles pushed off the tree trunk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The affronted suitor approached with a grim expression, his hat tilted at an almost combative angle.
Periwinkle, eager to engage the newcomer, trotted forward with the ball, wagging his tail.
“Sinclair,” he began, kicking aside the slobbery ball that had landed perilously close to his polished boots, “I must speak with you.”
Undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm, Peri mouthed the ball again, thumping his tail against the stiff-legged intruder.
Miles raised an eyebrow. “By all means. Though if this is about that frightful card game at White’s last week, I swear, I had no idea—”
“This is no jesting matter, sir.” He sidestepped the dog, to protect his pantaloons. “What I must say concerns Miss Harrington.”
Entertained by both the other man’s discomfort and Peri’s attempts to win his favor, Miles leaned down to scratch the dog behind his ears. “Lucinda? What about her?”
His rival squared his shoulders. “You’re on very familiar terms, I see. She made you free of her name, did she? Well, sir, I have grave concerns about your…your suitability.”
Miles blinked. “Suitability? My dear fellow, are you interviewing prospective husbands? Has the admiral appointed you as guardian?” He chuckled and sent Peri’s ball flying, watching the hound dash after it with his usual enthusiasm.
The self-appointed protector of Lucinda’s future scowled. “It is incumbent upon me to intervene before matters proceed to their inevitable…misalignment.”
Miles cocked his head, observing as Peri overshot the ball in a flurry of paws, only to wheel about in comical haste. “Inevitable misalignment? Heavens Creswell, you sound like a clockmaker diagnosing a faulty gear.”
“Do not mock me!” came the sharp retort, as Periwinkle returned to drop the ball squarely on his foot.
Creswell jumped back as if affronted. “Cannot you control him!” he snapped, glaring at Miles as though the dog’s antics were somehow his fault.
“I will not see Miss Harrington entangled in a precarious arrangement, however charmingly it may be presented.”
Miles stared at him. “I confess, I’ve no notion of what you’re driving at, but it sounds dashed exciting. Do continue.”
His adversary’s cheeks flushed. “You know very well! You’ve somehow—through means I cannot fathom—secured an understanding with Miss Harrington. And I will not stand idly by while—”
“An understanding?” Miles interrupted, now laughing outright. “I think you must have taken a knock on the head, my lord. Lucinda and I are hardly plotting an elopement.”
“Mark my words, Sinclair—I will not allow you to make her unhappy. If you possess a shred of decency, you will relinquish her to someone better suited to her needs.”
With that grand proclamation, the disgruntled lord turned on his heel and marched off, narrowly avoiding tripping over Periwinkle, who sat tilting his head curiously up at him.
Peri offered a reproachful bark as the retreating figure vanished down the path, quite unimpressed by his refusal to sport properly.
Miles watched him go, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well, Peri,” he said, “it seems I’ve been accused of some rather remarkable offenses. What do you make of that?”