Chapter Six
MURIEL GRIPPED THE LEATHER STRAP of the carriage as she was jostled on the country road leading from the lovely village of Draybridge to Draycott Castle. Despite the discomfort that came with such journeys, she was thankful to relax on the twenty-mile trip. She was still quite unused to London’s frenetic pace. In Chilham there was hardly a social season, rather a smattering of parties as the occasion arose—the only constants being the holidays. But in the City, there were at least two events and a party to choose from every day and evening, and the selection was not only political, but required vigilant planning of how one dressed so as not to wear one’s nicest of gowns twice in a row, but also not offend the hostess by dressing down. Thankfully, with her new wardrobe she possessed dresses enough for every outing.
With all the events, Muriel had scarcely had time to escape to the kitchen in the days leading up to this party, though she had to admit she was thankful for the constant flow of outings, as it allowed the week to pass quickly. The anticipation of Lord Draycott’s garden party was driving her to distraction. She gripped the wicker basket with her free arm, inhaling the scents of the baked goods inspired by Gunter’s, which she had stayed up until midnight preparing to bring Erik today. Lady Ingram had attempted to gently dissuade her, yet Muriel knew he would enjoy them as he had on their first secret introduction that she would keep close to her heart.
“We are nearing the castle now, if you’d care to look,” Sir Alexander called from atop his steed through their carriage window.
Muriel all but flung herself through the open window, gasping at the sight of the expansive castle hedged by a lake. A calming meadow of what had to be bluebells rose from the left curve of the shining waters. The most brilliant terraced gardens she had ever beheld rose from the right of the lake, with lush tree-covered hills beyond. She didn’t know castles could have such gardens. It was little wonder he wished to host a garden party with grounds such as these at his disposal. As the carriage neared, she spied a series of brilliant white tents set up for the day’s events in the expansive gardens. Her heart raced at what wonders they might contain.
Instead of directing them over the drawbridge into the castle, a footman pointed the coachman to the path on the right. The wheels crunched on the gravel as they rolled to a stop, merely paces away from the gardens. Muriel fairly danced in her seat as she waited for Sir Alexander to dismount and open the door, holding his hand to Lady Ingram. Muriel almost forgot her basket in her haste. She snatched it at the last moment, though she now understood why Lady Ingram hadn’t wished her to bring it. This was no intimate Chilham garden party—the grounds were already swarming with well over a hundred nobility, all dressed in their finest attire befitting the occasion. Footmen circulated with silver trays filled with delightful treats that appeared to be from the hand of a master pastry chef. Her trifling basket of goods paled in comparison. When will I ever learn to follow advice?
At the front of the gardens, under an arch woven in thick vines and deep purple wisteria clusters, stood Erik in well-tailored pantaloons and polished Hessian boots, with a dashing black frock coat over a burgundy vest and a matching neckcloth. She liked that his collar was not as stiff as some of the dandies’ nearby, which were so high they hindered the men’s ability to turn their heads without shifting their shoulders.
Upon seeing her, Erik’s grin flashed.
Lady Ingram whispered over her shoulder. “I see you have already made quite the favorable impression on our dear earl, but keep in mind that he is determined to return to sea.”
“Of course, my lady.” Muriel couldn’t keep the heat from rising at her neck. She regarded her white muslin gown trimmed in gold lace. She didn’t often wear white anymore, as it was more of a debutante’s color, but for the garden party, she thought it suited her and secretly hoped the earl thought so too.
Erik clasped his old captain’s arm. “Good to see you again, Sir Alexander. Lady Ingram, welcome.” He motioned the Ingrams farther into the castle gardens, his gaze resting on Muriel.
Sir Alexander and Lady Ingram continued inside without her, and Muriel curtsied at his bow. When Muriel lingered with the earl, her chaperones cast her curious glances over their shoulders, but they were soon greeted by another guest and drawn away, leaving Muriel and Erik with a modicum of privacy.
Erik folded his hands behind his back, rolling to his heels and back. “Miss Beau, I spy a basket. Dare I hope there are baked goods within? Perhaps another pie?”
She shifted it in her arms, allowing him to take it from her, his grin setting her at ease. She had guessed correctly that he would appreciate her efforts and not think her an odd country maid for bringing a basket to a party. “Pastries abound, along with the scones you liked and a pear tart as well as another pie. You did enjoy the pie, yes? With the excitement at the Hughlots’ ball, it slipped my mind to ask your opinion on it.”
He sighed. “I am afraid I was not able to taste it. I met some children who were far more in need of it than I.” He lifted the lid of the basket and exclaimed over the bounty, slapping a hand to his waistcoat. “If I am not careful, I will lose whatever muscle I possess before I return aboard ship. You shall ruin me, for if I lose my reflexes, I will be no good to anyone.”
“Oh, I doubt you could lose all that hard-earned brawn with a single basket. I think it would take a bakery full of goods to so much as leave a mark.” She admired his broad shoulders and his strong, clean-shaven jawline before finding said jawline dropping in … shock? She straightened, realizing her mistake in an instant. “What I meant to say was, um, enjoy.”
He snapped his lips shut with a laugh, his shoulders shaking as he squelched it. “I shall trust your judgment that my physique is safe.” He drew out the pear tart and took a bite, closing his eyes in delight. “I do not know how you held off from eating this on the journey.”
She gritted her teeth, clasping her hands behind her. “Would it be horribly unladylike of me to admit that there may have been six tarts more prior to our carriage ride? Though I did share them.”
He handed the basket to a nearby footman as a chaise approached. “It seems you will have to bring me another basket in reparation for the theft of my gift then.” He touched her elbow, and she felt such a spark she almost jerked her arm out of his reach. “Please, enjoy yourself at the party, Miss Beau, and I will find you later to discuss the punishment for the theft of baked goods.”
Warmed by the promise of later, she almost didn’t see the lady stepping down from the open traveling carriage—almost. Elena Whelan. She turned on her heel and melted behind the topiaries as Miss Whelan commented on the unfinished pastry in Erik’s hand.
“It is from the delicate hand of the delightful Miss Beau.” His deep voice filtered through the crowd to where she stood behind the evergreens, nonchalantly plucking a flower from the bed and inhaling the blossom’s scent.
“There is nothing delicate about her hands, Lord Draycott.” Miss Whelan released a trilling laugh that Muriel recognized well from her years in the same ballroom.
She grimaced and refrained from ripping the yellow tulip to shreds. Yes, her hands were scarred and tough. She took great pains to keep her nails neat and tidy and make use of all the hand cream the shop in the village ordered for her. Naught disguised their years of labor.
“How kind it is of you to humor her when you have such a feast in store for your guests in the gardens that I can spy from here.” Elena examined the tart with a smirk.
Muriel’s cheeks heated as she located the tables Elena mentioned. She was right—again. Disgusted with herself for eavesdropping and allowing Elena to have any sort of influence over her temper, Muriel spun on her heel and forced herself to maintain a graceful pace. She would distract herself by riddling out the recipes of the tent’s selection of baked goodies. Standing before the display of pink and white confections, spun-sugar delights, biscuits, and cakes, she appreciated the bounty with a professional’s eye. At a cheer from the guests, she turned to find footmen carrying in a masterfully molded vanilla ice in the shape of a swan. Her mouth watered even as she hesitated, remembering Elena’s comment on her waistline. Nonsense. Elena shall not spoil my day with her vindictive taunts. Muriel stepped in line to await her goblet of ice and had selected a petite iced almond sponge and a tart when a throat cleared at her side.
She nearly choked on a bite of tart at the sight of Viscount Traneford in a rifle green coat and striped waistcoat lifting the brim of his hat in greeting, his dark hair glistening with sweat. She shielded her mouth as she returned his bow with a shallow curtsy. No matter how he had treated her, she was determined to be the lady everyone doubted her to be.
“Miss Beau, I wish to apologize most profusely over my gross misconduct the other night. My mother warned me of the strength of the host’s flip. I paid little heed.” His neck reddened to his ears as he ran his fingers over the carved head of his stylish walking stick. “I am afraid my time abroad has greatly lowered my tolerance, and I made rather a cake of myself—no, a complete fool. I beg of you to forgive me.”
Muriel set aside her plate, dusted her fingers free from crumbs, and tugged her glove on once more, studying the man before her, who bore little resemblance to the inebriated rake of a few days ago. “I must admit, my lord, that I was greatly offended and thought very ill of you.”
His eyes widened at her honesty. “My actions warranted that opinion. But if you allow me a second chance, I shall spend the rest of the day attempting to make amends. I promise you, Miss Beau, I am not typically so cavalier in my treatment of ladies such as yourself.”
Cavalier? You attempted to humiliate me in front of all of London by reminding me of my worst moment. Well, worst caught moment.There was still that once when she tore her gown, exposing her crimson buntlings. “And why should I believe you?” she snapped, knowing her cheeks were already becoming the color of her former underthings. Lord Traneford should be the one who was discomfited. “You were determined to make light of my pain.”
He removed his tall beaver hat, running his fingers about the perimeter, true remorse shining in his eyes. “I reunited with some old friends of mine that night, and, while it is no excuse, I allowed them to sway me into drinking more than I should have. They goaded me into acting as I did before Cairo.” He shook his head. “Believe me, I never would have acted so if they had not plied me with such strong drink, and I intend on making it up to you.”
Erik’s warning against the man’s character flitted through her mind. “What happened in Cairo?”
“While I was there, my father died and left the family with precious little to carry us through. I left behind my boyish gambling and became the man my family needed.” He sighed. “My moment of weakness upon my return resulted in my abhorrent behavior toward you.” He slapped his hat against his knee.
It wouldn’t do to reject his apology, even if she would most certainly guard herself against this man’s promises in the future. “You are forgiven.”
“Miss Beau, you are a saint. If you will give me a second chance, I would dearly love to call upon you next week.”
She frowned. “You wish to see me?”
He gritted his teeth. “My family’s circumstances have not changed, and any woman who is willing to forgive a drunken outburst is one with whom I wish to become better acquainted.”
“I’m not certain that is such a good idea.”
“If you still find me wanting after I have sworn off all strong drink, I will owe you a forfeit. Mayhap introduce you to a nobleman or two who might be more to your liking?”
While she doubted she would find any sort of true connection with Lord Traneford, the broader opportunity for introduction to other eligible noblemen was too good to neglect. “You would do that for me?”
“If such a promise is what it takes for you to accredit my sincerity, yes.” He grasped her hand and gave a small bow over it. “Do you agree to these terms?”
She would rather not. But wasn’t the whole point of coming to London to find an eligible suitor? And a viscount was certainly not one she should spurn. Forgive, but verify his change of heart. She nodded even as the handsome face of Erik Draycott swept through her heart. A viscount in hand is worth more than a handsome earl in the bush, I suppose. “If you wish to call, which I admit to doubting that you actually will, I will not refuse you.”
Erik surveyed the party with pride. Perhaps a garden party wasn’t the best means of keeping his wealth a secret and keeping potential brides at bay, but if he were to out the smuggling ring before his contract with the Crown was complete, he had to have all the merchants in one place. The first part of his strategy had been a smashing success. Now he needed to discern which merchant was responsible for the products he had seized and discovered hidden messages in over the past year—hollowed out sugar cane, bricks of tea, and molded chocolate. Then he’d piece together any sort of pattern between his interaction with Requin and shipments that the Crown had intercepted.
Unfortunately, in the week leading up to the party, he had done precious little toward that goal, besides inviting nearly all the wealthiest members of the grocers’ guild. He’d been beset with his duty to set the castle and London house in order, but until the issue of Requin was resolved, his duty to the London house would have to wait. His first concern was for the safety of the staff. Trumbull had been reluctant to abandon his post in London, but at Erik’s insistence that he was needed for the garden party, the elderly butler at last acquiesced.
Erik wove about the grounds, greeting lords and ladies and merchants alike, when he spied Miss Beau and Lord Traneford together. His pulse pounded in his ears as she gave the viscount an aloof smile. Erik tilted his neck, cracking it as he pasted on a smile and strode toward them. “Lord Traneford, I thought I told you to leave the lady be,” Erik said, keeping his voice low and tone threatening.
Muriel stepped forward. “It is well, my lord. He was begging my pardon.”
“And securing her approval to call upon her,” Lord Traneford added, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes.
Erik narrowed his gaze at the man. While it spoke well of her character to forgive Traneford, he did not believe the viscount for a second, no matter this act he was putting on for Muriel. Did she actually believe him? Perhaps ladies were more trusting in the country. He would not stand for her good nature to be humiliated a second time.
“Why, Miss Beau.” Miss Whelan joined them, twirling her parasol. “It has been some time since we had a decent talk.”
“We had quite the tête-à-tête at Gunter’s Tea Shop only this week.” Muriel’s gaze returned to her goblet of ice and plate of barely touched sweets.
“Yes, but our time was cut short before we discussed your dance with Baron Deverell. I did so wish to speak with you about it.” Miss Whelan’s eyes sparkled.
Erik did not understand what ball the lady was referring to, but then, he’d been at sea until lately. Whatever it was caused Muriel’s confidence to vanish, along with her color. He wished to take Muriel’s hand to offer her support, even though such a thing was never done.
“Perhaps another time, when we are alone. Pray, excuse me. I quite overlooked that I was supposed to speak with Lady Ingram about a matter.” She nodded to the group and departed in Lady Ingram’s direction, only to bypass her at the last moment, exiting the terraced gardens at the back, taking the path leading to the woods.
Miss Whelan hid her smug smile behind her fan and turned her bright eyes to Erik. He was supposed to mingle and gather information from all present. The point of this affair, after all, was to sift through anything and everything the guests presented regarding their shipping interests. But at the sight of his confident Muriel’s retreat, his gut twisted. The mission could wait for a moment.
“Excuse me, Miss Whelan, Lord Traneford.” He gave them a stiff bow and stalked after Muriel, down the gravel path, past the stone walls that melted into rolling hills, and toward the tree line. She was surprisingly fleet of foot for such a petite maiden, and he was forced to trot to reach her before she disappeared into the woods. “Miss Beau!” he called, refraining from clutching his wounded arm, which had taken to throbbing in his attempt to keep up with her.
She halted and swiped her fingertips under her long lashes, sniffing in rapid succession as she averted her blotchy face. He retrieved his handkerchief from his coat pocket and held it out to her. Keeping her back to him, she released a blow that resembled the call of the swans swimming in his lake. He nearly laughed aloud. However, the thought of such a kind soul in distress wiped any mirth from the situation.
He was at a loss as to what exactly Miss Whelan had said to cause such a reaction from such a sensible woman. But there was no doubt more than just the dance was on Miss Whelan’s mind. He nearly rolled his eyes at his puerile deduction. No, truly? A child could have surmised as much from the context. He really needed to get to the sea again, where his mind was clearer, sharper. The blowing of her nose brought him to the present once more.
“My apologies, my lord.” She dabbed her red nose, his initials the only adornment at the corner draped over her hand. “I must look a sight. Honestly, that woman causes such a rise in me—always has since the day we debuted together. She has made it her undertaking in life to put me in my place. She punishes me for my mother’s marriage to Mr. Fletcher.”
His brow furrowed. He had not been expecting that. A feud over a suitor while at a ball, yes, but a feud over their mothers? “And why is that?”
“The Widow Whelan wished for my stepfather’s hand. He preferred my mother.”
If Muriel’s mother was anything like her daughter, he understood why Mr. Fletcher preferred her. “I see.” What he saw was that she avoided mentioning the ball and whatever had happened there to shake her confidence. If she wasn’t ready to divulge the details, he would not press. He glanced back at the party, knowing where his duty lay, yet everything in him ached to comfort her.
“You must think me a weak woman to cry so many tears over bruised feelings. It’s rather pitiful, and I do not wish to be pitied.” She straightened her shoulders and stuffed the fine handkerchief in her reticule with a grimace. “I am certain you do not wish for this to be returned until I have had it laundered.”
“I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” He offered her his good arm and decided that all else could wait until he had made her laugh. “Perhaps a change of scenery might be beneficial. Just beyond the tree line, there are ruins of an ancient abbey built nearly eight hundred years ago.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly? I’ve read ever so many stories about ruins of centuries past and the lost loves that roam amongst the fallen stones. I’d dearly love to see it if you do not think your guests will miss you.”
“Love to see what?” Miss Whelan approached from behind, parasol still twirling as she joined them.
He kept a pleasant enough smile in place, even though she was the reason they needed to take a turn away from the party. “The ruins of Draybridge Abbey.”
“How fascinating.” She placed her hand on his injured arm. “Shall we?”
Pain radiated through his shoulder, and he gritted his teeth. “Of course.” He had meant the ruins as a means of distracting Miss Beau, but as he could not politely refuse, he motioned the pair down the path.
Muriel’s brow lifted at Miss Whelan’s arm atop his injury, recognizing the insensitivity. “Elena—”
Miss Whelan tripped over a root and stumbled forward with a little cry. Erik at once released Muriel and wrapped his good arm around the other woman’s waist to spare her a fall.
Miss Whelan gasped and rested her head against his shoulder. “Thank you, Lord Draycott. You do not mind escorting me the rest of excursion to the abbey, do you? Muriel is much more sure-footed than I.”
Muriel smiled her consent, but from the annoyance edging her eyes, he recognized she was as dissatisfied with the arrangement as he. She strode before them and plucked a handful of yellow wildflowers as Miss Whelan secured his good arm. The lady did not cease her chattering of the day’s events ahead of them nor her incessant twirling of her parasol as they strode beneath the canopy of beech leaves. “And did I hear correctly you hired an opera singer for the end of the day?”
He nodded. “My uncle was a great patron, and I had a mind to continue the tradition.”
His comment was at once swept up in Miss Whelan’s line of questioning, which left precious little time for thinking of one response before she required another of him.
The stroll to the woods would have been more pleasant with only Miss Beau, yet as the gravel path turned to dirt, the impropriety of being alone with Muriel occurred to him for the first time. Despite Miss Whelan’s trying nature, he was thankful to have another present to save Miss Beau from further scrutiny. Following the path the groundskeeper kept clear, he stole a glance toward Muriel as they rounded the bend to the sounds of the spring flowing behind the moss-covered stones of the once-glorious abbey.