Lady Fiasco, A Traditional Regency Romance (My Notorious Aunt) Read online

Emeline used her mother’s brief silence to seize the conversation and ply him with questions about his adventures on the continent. Unfortunately, she began to ask too closely about the battles he had fought.

  Lady Hawthorn’s eyebrow shot up. “Emeline, my dear, we do not discuss such indelicate matters.”

  “My apologies, Mama. I didn’t mean to offend.’ She clasped her hands together and directed a pleading look at Tyrell. “Lord Wesmont, you must forgive me. Oh, say you will.”

  It was an overdone performance, he thought. Even the tiny upended portion of her nose turned pink. She really should go on the stage.

  “I assure you, no offense was taken.” He left the subject and expressed his disappointment at not having found Miss Hawthorn at home. “Is she feeling poorly?” he pried.

  Sylvia answered his question while pulling needle and thread up from the frame. It was one of those remarks a young person makes in imitation of the adults she has overheard. “Oh,” —she sighed with adult-like weariness—“you know how it is on a sunny day. Fiona is, no doubt, tearing up the fields on her horse, or drowning herself in her precious lake.”

  This mimicked speech was rewarded with a subtle but swift kick from her sister. Sylvia yelped and looked up from her needlework in surprise. Her sister’s expression gave nothing away, but Tyrell felt certain that Sylvia’s quick glimpse of her mother’s face had apprised her of the fact that she had committed a faux pas.

  He took mercy on the freckle-faced understudy and smiled. “It’s of no consequence. With such a glorious day beckoning, who could blame Miss Hawthorn for venturing outdoors? She will have forgotten all about our dance the other night and thus not expected my duty call.”

  Emeline mewed like a disconcerted kitten. “I would never forget dancing with you.” She cast him a quick adoring look and then fussed with her fluffy skirt, contriving to look properly embarrassed, as if she had revealed too much affection for him.

  Poor Sylvia, who had opened the door for this theatrical scene, stared in amazement at her sister, and then bent over her embroidery with renewed interest in the less complicated intricacies of tying a French knot.

  Tyrell consulted the clock on the mantel, wishing he were the one out tearing up the fields on his horse, rather than Fiona. What the devil did Sylvia mean when she said, “drowning herself in her precious lake”?

  His ten minutes were up. Tyrell stood abruptly, made a quick bow and left Lady Hawthorn’s chaotic drawing room with as much haste as he could apply without running. Downstairs, he seized his hat from the butler and dashed out the door like a fox fleeing a pack of hounds.

  Free of that abominable drawing room, he took a deep breath, exhaled, and assumed a more leisurely pace. He pulled out a three pence and flipped it up into the air. Sunlight glinted off the copper as it spun up and then dropped into his waiting palm. The stable lad holding Tyrell’s horse smiled, probably guessing the flashing coin was meant for him.

  Tyrell patted Perseus’s nose. The groom was about fourteen and had intelligent brown eyes, which he lowered as he pulled on his forelock in obeisance, but the lad couldn’t hold back his praise for Perseus. “A prime ‘un he is, sir. I mean, yer lordship, sir.”

  “Thank-you.” Tyrell flipped the thrupence and caught it again. “Give you any trouble, did he?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “Unusual,” said Tyrell. “Perseus is high-spirited. He won’t let just anybody handle him.”

  The boy’s countenance rose. “He din’na give me no trouble.”

  “Excellent.” Lord Wesmont took the leads from him. “Perhaps, you know which direction Miss Fiona rode to?”

  The boy looked at him obviously puzzled. “Miss Fiona din’na ride out today, yer lordship. Her mare is still in her stall.”

  “My mistake.” Tyrell stared absently into the distance and flipped the coin once more. “I was told she was not at home.”

  “Oh, well tha’s true ‘nuff. She ain’t home.” The boy offered enthusiastically and then caught himself.

  “No?” asked Tyrell. “Then she must have gone for a walk?”

  “I dunno it were a walk ‘xactly.”

  He flipped the coin again. “What then, exactly?”

  The young groom stepped back and eyed him and the thrupence warily. “Miss Fiona is a kind ‘un. An’ I won’t say nuffing to get ‘er in trouble, now will I?”

  Intrigued, Tyrell played his hand carefully. “Come, lad. I’ve known Miss Hawthorn since she was in leading strings. We’re old friends. Do I seem like the sort who would cause her any trouble?”

  “No, m’lord, exceptin’…” he scratched at the back of his head and grimaced as if trying to figure out what he ought to say. Then a flash of anger played across his face and words came flying out. “Well sir, it ain’t fair. Miss Fiona lands in the briars more’n she deserves. Things at the house ain’t exactly right, if anybody were to ask me. Master ‘as been gone too long. It’s shameful, the servants laying all them accidents at her door. If’n the upstairs maid drops a vase, they ain’t got no call pinning it on Miss Fiona, but that’s the way of it. The master’s new wife has taken to payin’ the house staff danger-pay. Fah!” he spit and glanced sideways, as if calculating whether Tyrell was going to scold him for criticizing his employers or not.

  “Danger-pay?”

  “Yes, sir. She gives ‘em a quarter-day bonus, so as they won’t leave her employ and go to houses where it ain’t so dangerous. Ha! Small chance o’ that, when they make more workin’ here than they could anywheres else. An’ if that ain’t enough, they complain to folks roundabout, tellin’ tales about the risks o’ servin’ at Thorncourt, all so’s no one else will come an’ take their places.”

  “Ah.” Tyrell nodded.

  “Aye, but me an’ the steward, we know what’s what. Maybe Miss Fiona has more ginger than a yearling colt. That don’t make it her fault if the footman trips over ‘is own feet. So what if she do run like a boy now and again? Ain’t no crime in that, is there? The master never minded. She’s a spirited lass, says he. O’ course, Lady Hawthorn, she wunna like it none, now would she?”

  Tyrell tried to sort through the boy’s ramblings and wondered if he’d understood him correctly. “Surely, you’re jesting with me? Ladies do not go running about.”

  “Amn’t jestin’ you! No sir. I seen ‘er m’self. ‘Tis a sight, it is. She jus’ hitches up ‘er skirts an goes like the wind. Looks summat like a duck ‘bout to lift from the pond, if’n yer ken me.”

  Tyrell chuckled at the boy’s imagery. “Well, if that don’t beat all hollow.” He tossed him the three pence and the lad clasped it with glee. “Now my good man, exactly where does Miss Fiona run to today?”

  “More’n likely she’s gone up to ‘er lake.”

  “Which lake do you mean?”

  “The high meadow lake, yer lordship.”

  “But that’s two miles or more, surely she doesn’t run all the way?”

  “Oh yes, m’lord, she do. Now, don’t that beat all hollow?” The boy grinned, looking quite pleased with himself for correctly using the same expression Tyrell had.

  “That it does, boy.” Tyrell laughed and swung up into the saddle. “That it does.”

  Chapter 3

  Lady of the Lake

  Tyrell rode up to the lake and found the old boathouse. He tied Perseus to a tree and took a well-worn path around the little house. Planted with garden flowers and a small strawberry patch, clearly, this was no ordinary boathouse. He opened the door and found books stacked on a crude table. Pinned to the thatch were several watercolor studies of the lake, painted in various aspects of light. He walked over to take a closer look. Fiona’s love of the lake came through superbly. He carefully pressed down a curled corner of one particularly lovely painting of the lake swathed in early morning light.

  He noticed her clothing hanging on a hook at the back of the room. What was she wearing, he wondered, for both under and outer garments hung there. The answer se
emed obvious. She’d done what he and countless lads throughout time had done. She must be swimming unclad. An image of her formed in his mind. He shook his head and left the boathouse.

  “Utter folly for a young lady to be up here unchaperoned, unaccompanied,” he muttered. He mounted Perseus and prepared to ride home. Alone and unprotected, his mind whispered. It was his duty to make sure she was safe. Naked, some deeper oracle spoke. Go home, his conscience instructed. He glanced across the lake. There was no sign of her.

  Disappointment pinched his brow. No, not disappointment, concern. That must be the reason his shoulders slumped and he heaved a great sigh.

  Tyrell guided his horse along the edge of the lake debating with the conflicting counsel in his mind. It was his duty to see that the young woman was unharmed. She was, after all, a childhood friend, and he owed at least that much to her father, or so he argued.

  He might have missed finding her at all, given the noisy society in his head, except sparkles of sunlight on splashing water caught his attention. She was twenty yards out, heading toward shore with a slow even stroke. It was as if little white stars shot from her fingertips as water and light mingled. He slowed Perseus and held his breath in anticipation as he watched Fiona’s rhythmic movement through the water.

  It seemed to take an achingly long time before she got to the shore. At last, she rose out of the lake, like a mermaid emerging from the sea, but to his great disappointment, she wore a dark blue bathing dress. She climbed onto a large rock and perched there squeezing the water out of her hair, letting it drip onto the ground. He nudged Perseus and ambled toward her.

  She started at the sound of his approach and turned. He touched the brim of his hat in mock salute. “A pleasure to see you again, Miss Hawthorn.”

  She stared up at him, disbelief plainly written on her elfin face. “Lord Wesmont, what a surprise.”

  He swung down from the saddle and knotted the reins around the trunk of a nearby sapling. “You didn’t expect me?” he teased. “After our waltz last night surely a duty call would be expected?”

  “No.” She bit her bottom lip. “Well, that is to say, I expected you would simply send your regards. How did you find me here?”

  “Chance,” he lied, although it was partly true. “And I must say, I cannot countenance you being alone in such a secluded place. What if some other man happened upon you, someone without scruples.”

  “My lord, I’m long out of the schoolroom. I assure you, I don’t need a chaperone for every activity. Besides, I’ve been coming here alone for years and no ill has ever befallen me. Quite the contrary.” She tossed a small pebble into the water. “This is the one place in all the world where I am free from trouble.”

  He leaned against a nearby tree trunk and considered her for a moment. Droplets of water glittered on her skin and the wet garment clung to her enticing figure. “You underestimate the dangers of this world.”

  “You sir, are forgetting that I am one of the worst of those dangers.” She smiled wryly. “I daresay most men would quake with fear just to stand as close to me as you are now.”

  “What errant nonsense you speak.”

  “Oh? Begging your pardon, my lord.” She made a pretense of haughtiness. “Perhaps you haven’t heard the many titles I bear. Let me see, there is Lady Fiasco, the Duchess of Doom, Countess of Calamity and a dozen more I haven’t had the good fortune to overhear.”

  He frowned, imagining the humiliation it caused her to hear such mean gossip, and shook his head. “Rubbish. You can’t honestly think that absurd prattle will protect you. What if a man, unaware of your dangerous reputation, happened through these woods? What then, Miss Hawthorn, eh?”

  “Unfortunately, my reputation is rather broadly known.” She said softly, and stared out across the placid waters.

  “That is ridiculous. You grossly overrate the extent of your fame.” He picked up a small flat stone and skipped it across the surface of the lake. “You’re taking a grave risk to be here alone.”

  Fiona chuckled. “Grave risk? I think not. Let us suppose, for the sake of argument, an unsuspecting marauder should appear at my quiet lake. I would simply jump in the water and swim away. There isn’t a man alive who can out-swim me.” She beamed up at him like a child who has just presented her tutor with all of her sums correctly tallied.

  In spite of the fact that she didn’t appear to be boasting, Tyrell felt she had thrown down a gauntlet. He stepped forward and straightened his silk waistcoat, which was becoming unbearably hot.

  “Brave words, my girl. But that is all they are–words. You might swim faster than one or two country lads who’ve never learned how properly. Nevertheless, you are still a female. Any man worth his salt would catch up to you in a trice.” He snapped his fingers in her face. “A trice.”

  She stared back at him, as if he were a creature she’d never seen before. Slowly, a mischievous smile inched across her face, mocking him, challenging him.

  “You can’t seriously think—”

  Oh, but she did. She chuckled at him, as if he were a foolish boy.

  Her smug little grin may as well have been a glove slapping him soundly across the cheek. A bold-faced dare. Tyrell had no option, none at all.

  “We shall see then, won’t we?” Without another word, he removed his coat, waistcoat, cravat, and hung them over a tree branch. He began unbuttoning his shirt and for a moment thought better of it. He took one more look at her mocking expression and there was no turning back.

  She convulsed with suppressed amusement. Hot and aggravated, Tyrell huffed and snorted. He realized, too late, that he sounded rather like a bull ready to charge. She tossed back her head and a delightful laugh bubbled out. The quality of her laughter was so infectious he nearly grinned back. Nearly. He restrained himself because the imp was laughing at him, and that was unforgivable.

  Even more irritated, he yanked off his shirt and several buttons flew off into the underbrush. Fiona instantly sobered, her mouth dropped open and her eyes widened. He tossed his shirt over a tree limb and turned squarely towards her. He sensed he’d just gained the upper hand.

  “Not so brave now, eh, Fiona?”

  Her face reddened and she turned away.

  Now, it was his turn to taunt her. “Oh, now I see. I’ll wager you’ve never seen a half-naked man before.”

  She turned back to him with her jaw set. He noted she kept her eyes fixed on his face. “You are ridiculing me, sir, shamefully. I’ll have you know, I’m not as naive as you think. I–I’ve seen paintings and—” she stammered, “—I’ve seen the statues of the Greek gods in the London museum.” She folded her arms across her breasts. “You do not look any different than they do.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Thank you for the compliment.” He bowed his head.

  She jumped down from the rock. “That was not a compliment! Nothing of the kind. I meant… I simply meant that you look like… or rather, that I have seen other— Ohhh, you are a wicked fellow!”

  He chuckled and bent to remove his boots, a task that proved to be difficult without a chair. While he struggled, she quietly slid into the lake. He cursed under his breath, still tussling with his boots while she stood waist deep a few yards out flicking playfully at the water.

  At last, he threw down his boot and charged into the lake after her. The cold water caused him to inhale sharply. This foolishness would cost him the ruin of a good pair of breeches. He’d be lucky if they didn’t shrink so tight he’d have to be sliced out of them. He sloshed out toward her. He intended to put an end to this contest in short order.

  She giggled, turned, and like a dolphin, dove in and swam away. The race was on. He plowed through the water in pursuit. Thrashing his hardest, he tried to gain on her, but the distance between them remained constant. The lake increased in depth, the water grew colder and the bottom was no longer within Tyrell’s reach. He paused, bobbing in the deep water, and saw they were considerable distance from the shoreli
ne. He kicked forward and pursued her with more determination.

  By George! He’d been tossed into the canals at Eaton. He learned to swim with the best of them. No twit of a girl was going to beat him.

  No, sir.

  After another quarter hour, his faltering breath told him there was actually a chance he might lose. He resolved to paddle and pull at the water even harder.

  Just as defeat seemed eminent and his breath threatened to give out, the gap between them closed. Swimming just ahead of him, Fiona rolled onto her back and seemed to lie effortlessly in the water. Her foot flicked up in front of his face and splashed water into his eyes. He fought to catch his breath. Over the throbbing in his ears, he heard her giggle. The vixen was laughing. Laughing! While he neared collapse. He watched her in amazement as she rolled over in the water and cast him a backward teasing smile.

  Like a viper striking, his hand shot out and caught her ankle. He had her. She cried out. Although, it did not sound like a cry of alarm, more like an excited scream of delight. Tyrell held fast to her foot but, to his surprise, she dragged him under water.

  In the misty view under the lake, she glided in front of him like a mermaid, pulling him effortlessly along behind her. His lungs began to ache. A flurry of bubbles escaped from his mouth. Desperate for air, he let go of her ankle and fought his way up to the surface.

  He burst up through the water, gasping and coughing in fits. Fiona’s head bobbed up a few feet away from him.

  She grinned, looking exhilarated, and not breathless in the least. “Do you cry craven?” she taunted.

  Wicked teasing female. Worse yet, he could see the little baggage had defeated him. Tyrell would rather die than cry craven. He gulped air.

  She still beamed triumphantly, as he sank under her lake.

  Fiona did not comprehend at first what was happening, but soon she realized he had been under too long. “Lord Wesmont!’ She screamed for him. “Tyrell!”

  He didn’t come up.

  Fiona dove under the water and saw him sinking into the underwater weeds, eyes closed, bubbles trickling out of his mouth. She swam down and grabbed his hair. Turning, she kicked violently up to the surface dragging him behind her. She held his head up out of the water and tried to swim using only her legs. His weight pulled them both down. Soon, she was fighting just to catch her own breath.