When You Wish Page 6

  Alone with Miss Cresswell in the carriage, Chance allowed himself to study the slender maiden seated across from him. This morning she had chosen a lovely walking dress and pelisse in dove gray with a band of ermine at the hem and cuffs. Upon her chestnut curls, she had perched a bonnet crowned with pink roses that framed her handsome countenance to advantage.

  She might have been just another of the pretty maidens who currently filled the London drawing rooms, but Chance was swiftly realizing Miss Cresswell was far from being just another maiden.

  Who else of his acquaintance would have proven to possess such skill or courage? Certainly none would have exhibited the audacity to help him recover the Chance diamonds.

  She had proven herself a decided puzzle. And for a gentleman who prided himself on being a shrewd judge of his fellow man, such a puzzle was bound to capture his interest.

  That was, of course, why she had been so frequently upon his thoughts, he assured himself, and why he had awakened this morning with a distinct sense of anticipation.

  When he was in Miss Cresswell’s company, he never knew what might occur next. It was an oddly exhilarating feeling.

  As he allowed his gaze to rise to her pale countenance, a small smile curved his lips. Yes, a puzzle indeed.

  The carriage slowed to a halt, and Chance watched as Miss Cresswell abruptly leaned to glance out the window at his mother’s home. “Oh ... it is very grand,” she breathed.

  It was grand. Of Palladian design, Primrose was built on stately lines with a stucco finish and brass railings. Two arched windows were framed by towering columns, while a sweeping staircase that boasted two large urns completed the image of sophistication. The interior was even grander, with a curved oak staircase and furnishings of satinwood. Few did not discover themselves somewhat overawed by the grandeur.

  “Do not fear,” he said in soft tones. “My mother is a very comfortable woman who is anxious to like everyone she encounters.”

  As he had hoped, the brief unease he had detected in Miss Cresswell was swiftly banished as she turned to regard him with that sparkling gaze. “Not at all like her son.”

  Chance’s smile widened. “No, I fear I have taken after my late father, while Ben was fortunate to inherit my mother’s sunny nature—which is no doubt why she dotes upon him.”

  Unlike most who found Chance’s mocking sense of humor disarming, Miss Cresswell merely lifted a chestnut brow. “Does that bother you?”

  “Not at all,” he retorted with all honesty. “I am very fond of both my mother and brother, although at the moment I would happily wring Ben’s neck. Do you have siblings?”

  She gave a surprisingly rueful grimace. “Yes. A sister Emma who is currently a governess with the Farwells and Rachel, who is staying with friends in town. And, like you, there are moments when I wish to place my hands about their lovely necks.”

  Intrigued by the sudden glimpse of the woman beneath the cool exterior, Chance stroked a finger down the length of his jaw. “You are the eldest?”

  “Yes.”

  “It appears that we have much in common.”

  Their gazes entangled for a long moment of silent understanding. Then, as if realizing she was revealing more than she intended, she briskly straightened her shoulders.

  “Lucky should have reached the back of the house. We should go.”

  Chance’s lips twitched, but he readily conceded to her command. With seamless grace, he flowed from the carriage. Then, with equal ease, he promptly turned toward the woman about to step onto the street and swept her into his arms.

  “My lord . . .” Miss Cresswell gasped in shock, attempting to pull away from the strength of his chest.

  Chance firmly bundled her even closer, rather startled to discover just how delicious she felt in his arms. He had always chosen delicate, utterly feminine mistresses who deferred to him in all matters. Yet none had felt quite as right as this towering, pertly commanding wench. He inhaled the warm, enticing scent of her as he began to walk toward the wide steps.

  “Recall that you have sorely twisted your ankle,” he drawled close to her ear.

  “I am too large to be carried about,” she protested in satisfyingly breathless tones.

  His dark gaze studied her heated cheeks. “You are tall, but as slender as a reed.”

  “My lord, you shall strain your back and put an end to our deception.”

  “Rest assured, Miss Cresswell, that my back is in no danger.” Which was true enough, Chance acknowledged, although he very much feared holding her in such an intimate manner was creating dangers of another sort altogether. “Perhaps you should be concentrating on your role as a damsel in distress.”

  Her lips thinned at his deliberate words. “I wish you to know it is a role I detest above all others.”

  He gave a low chuckle. “So I suspected.”

  Whatever response she might have made was halted as the front door opened to reveal a gaunt butler with a stony countenance that had not betrayed an expression in thirty years. Today was no exception. He merely stepped backward to allow Chance room to carry his unusual burden inside the foyer.

  “Franklin, I fear that there has been an accident.”

  “This way, sir.”

  No more ruffled than if Chance had arrived with a box of chocolates, Franklin led the way from the foyer up to Lady Chance’s private salon.

  Entering the long room decorated in ebony with gold leaf, marble walls, and a fine collection of porcelain, Chance swept past his startled mother to gently place Miss Cresswell on an ivory settee.

  “Goodness, what has occurred?” Lady Chance demanded.

  Allowing his arms to linger longer than strictly necessary, Chance at last straightened to confront the small, silver-haired matron attired in a morning gown of French black bombazine trimmed with white satin.

  “I was coming to visit you when I viewed Miss Cresswell trip and twist her ankle.”

  “So foolish of me,” Miss Cresswell properly apologized, a hint of color still staining her cheeks. “I beg your pardon for the intrusion.”

  As Chance had expected, his mother’s kind heart was instantly roused to compassion.

  “Nonsense. It is the simplest thing in the world to twist an ankle. Why, I did so last year and was forced to my bed for a week. Franklin, please have Mrs. Bross bring a bowl of hot water. We shall also need the brandy.”

  The servant offered a creaking bow. “Very good, my lady.”

  “We shall give that ankle a nice soak,” Lady Chance said with a sympathetic smile. “That always makes me feel better.”

  “You are very kind,” Miss Cresswell murmured.

  “And I volunteer to rub away any lingering pain,” Chance promised with a roguish smile.

  “You will do no such thing.” His mother emphatically took command of the situation. “Indeed, you will leave us now, Oliver.”

  “But . . .”

  “Now.”

  Ignoring the sudden widening of Miss Cresswell’s lovely eyes, Chance gave a ready bow. “As you insist, Mother. If you would be so good as to have another brandy sent to the library.”

  “Tea,” his mother corrected.

  “That seems monstrously unfair if you and Miss Cresswell are allowed to partake of Father’s fine cellar.”

  “It is for medicinal purposes only,” his mother informed him primly.

  Chance ignored the discreet motion Miss Cresswell was making for him to remain. As delightful as he found the prospect of catching a glimpse of her ankle, he had schemes of his own.

  “Of course.” With a rather wicked smile toward his partner in crime, he strolled languidly from the room. In the hall, he waited until a flustered Mrs. Bross, with two maids in tow, passed carrying the bowl of hot water and a decanter of brandy. Behind them, the butler maintained an air of dignified composure.

  “Franklin.” Chance halted the servant as he was about to pass. “May I have a word?”

  Stepping into the library, Chance
waited for Franklin to enter behind him and shut the door. The room was Chance’s favorite at Primrose. Decidedly masculine, with glass cases that housed hundreds of leather-bound books, it had escaped his mother’s rather ostentatious style and remained gracefully stark.

  Turning to regard the butler, he chose his words with great care. “I wish to speak with you of the servants.”

  There was a startled silence. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have you noted anything unusual among the staff?”

  “I fear I do not quite comprehend,” the servant said in wooden tones.

  Hoping to appear as casual as possible, Chance moved to pour himself a glass of his father’s favorite sherry.

  “Has anyone suddenly quit their position or seemed to acquire a sudden windfall?”

  “Certainly not, sir. The staff have all been with Lady Chance for several years,” the buder stated without hesitation. “Has something occurred?”

  Chance was prepared for the obvious question. “There has been a rumor of several robberies throughout the neighborhood.”

  There was the faintest thinning of Franklin’s lips. “I can assure you that the staff is above suspicion, my lord.”

  Chance took a lazy sip of his sherry. “No doubt you are right. I, however, would appreciate your keeping your eyes open. Report to me anything unusual. We cannot be too careful in guarding Lady Chance.”

  “Certainly, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  Chance grimaced as he set aside his glass. “Brandy.”

  “At once.”

  Bowing, the servant disappeared, and Chance moved to gaze at the coals burning brightly in the grate. He had not expected to learn much from Franklin. He had indeed been more intent on keeping the wily man occupied while Lucky was searching the servants’ quarters. Still, he did feel somewhat reassured by the knowledge that there were no overtly suspicious characters lodged beneath his mother’s roof.

  Forcing himself to wait for the brandy, Chance slowly sipped the aged spirit before giving in to his impatience and returning to the salon.

  His entrance could not have been more timely. Although the bowl of water had been set aside, the maids were still in the process of pulling the stocking onto Miss Cresswell’s shapely leg. Very shapely leg, he acknowledged, as his mother gave a squeak and the heavy skirts were abruptly dropped to hide the enticing view.

  “Really, Oliver, you shall put Miss Cresswell to the blush.”

  Chance raised his gaze to meet Sarah’s sparkling blue eyes. “That I should very much like to witness.”

  Clearly determined to appear indifferent to his lingering gaze, Miss Cresswell primly folded her hands in her lap. “Your mother has been telling me of her Christmas party.”

  Chance was not at all deceived. However calm she might pretend to be, there was no hiding the pink in her cheeks. His mother, thankfully, was more easily distracted.

  “Yes, it is ever so vexing, Oliver,” she cried. “Lady Doland has arranged her own Christmas Ball the very night before mine. She has always been quite envious of my success, and I have no doubt she is spiteful enough to spend her entire fortune just to outshine me.”

  With perfect composure, Chance withdrew his silver snuff box and helped himself to a small measure. “I am quite certain her efforts will pale in comparison to your superior skill as a hostess.”

  His mother regarded him with a knowing expression. “Meaning you haven’t the slightest interest in my gathering.”

  “Would I be so shameless?”

  “Yes,” she promptly retorted. “Thankfully, Miss Cresswell is far more considerate. She has suggested several charming notions that will certainly make Lady Doland’s affair seem unbearably insipid.”

  The faintest hint of alarm pricked at Chance. Although he had uncharacteristically thrust aside his concern at bringing the daughter of the Devilish Dandy into his mother’s home, he was not without a few qualms. After all, Miss Cresswell herself admitted her upbringing was far from traditional.

  “Indeed?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lady Chance happily chattered. “I shall allow Lady Doland to have her tedious ball while I shall entertain our guests with charades and snapdragons and carols . . . What else was there, my dear?”

  “A wassail bowl,” Miss Cresswell offered in dry tones, her expression revealing she had not missed his momentary suspicion.

  “Yes, of course.” Lady Chance smiled with anticipation as she inwardly envisioned her elegant guests’ surprise at such festive entertainments. “And games, of course. It shall be delightful.”

  “How very fortunate Miss Cresswell happened to turn her ankle just outside your door,” he said in low tones, his gaze never leaving Miss Cresswell’s stiff countenance.

  “A most amazing stroke of fortune,” his mother readily agreed, turning to her savior. “I do wish you would agree to attend, my dear.”

  Miss Cresswell gave a firm shake of her head. “That is very kind, but I could not possibly.”

  “You must convince her, Oliver,” Lady Chance demanded in tones that revealed her conviction no one could resist his charm.

  Chance was not nearly so confident. Thus far Miss Cresswell had proven to be remarkably indifferent to his supposed charms.

  “I shall do my best,” he murmured, unable to deny a faint disappointment that Miss Cresswell would not be attending. Her presence would certainly provide a welcome diversion from the other insipid maidens. “For now, however, I believe I should return her home.”

  Moving forward, Chance prepared to once again scoop her into his arms, only to be outmaneuvered as she hastily scrambled to her feet.

  “My ankle is much improved.”

  “Are you quite certain, Miss Cresswell? I should not like you to do yourself injury.”

  “Quite, quite certain.”

  “A pity,” he murmured lowly.

  Taking her arm, he began to escort her across the room when suddenly his rather scatterbrained mother hit upon something odd. “Oliver, why did you come to see me?”

  “A trifling business matter,” Chance smoothly lied. “I shall call later in the week.”

  “And you will speak with Miss Cresswell about the party?”

  “I shall devote my fullest attention to Miss Cresswell,” he readily promised.

  Leaving the room, they made their way down the staircase and into the gray weather. The carriage was promptly awaiting them and, first settling Miss Cresswell with a warm blanket, Chance took his own seat before calling out for the groom to set the horses in motion.

  Alone again, Chance regarded his companion with a faint smile. “What did you think of my mother?”

  “I found her to be surprisingly kind as well as charming.”

  Effectively implying he was neither kind nor charming, he acknowledged. The shrew.

  “Surprising, indeed.” An impish glint entered his dark eyes. “Almost as surprising as the decidedly shapely curve of your leg. You know, Miss Cresswell, I did you a disservice to presume that, like most slender females, you would be all bones and skin. Now that I have been allowed such a tantalizing glimpse, I will never gaze upon you quite the same.”

  Predictably she resorted to no maidenly shrieks or swoons at his devilish teasing. Instead, she favored him with a level gaze. “Tell me, my lord, are you always this annoying, or do you make a special effort for my sake?”

  Chance gave a sudden laugh. “Oh, definitely a special effort. I rarely encounter anyone worthy of being annoying to.”

  “I am flattered,” she mocked. Then, as the carriage abruptly halted, she glanced out of the window. “There is Lucky.”

  The carriage door was pulled open and Lucky bounced in even as the horses were once again urged into motion. Flopping on the seat next to Miss Cresswell, the lad heaved a tragic sigh. “Another bust. Not so much as a hidden quid. That housekeeper must be a real dragon.”

  Chance couldn’t help but be amused at Lucky’s patent disgust at such a well-regulated househo
ld. “Mrs. Bross is quite efficient,” he commiserated.

  “No doubt the sort that pokes her nose into every crook and cranny.”

  “Yes, quite detestable.”

  “I’d say,” Lucky retorted with genuine horror.

  Giving a slight shake of her head at their antics, Miss Cresswell turned the conversation to more important matters. “So we have seemingly ruled out the servants at both your brother’s and your mother’s homes.”

  “Ah, yes, I almost forgot.” Chance reached into his greatcoat to remove a folded slip of paper. He handed it to the curious maiden opposite him. “My brother had this delivered yesterday.”

  Miss Cresswell skimmed the list of names with a professional eye. “Good.”

  Chance was again reaching into his pocket to produce a prettily wrapped package. “The maid who brought the note also requested that this trifling gift be given to Samuel.”

  “Oh.” Her firm features promptly flushed with color. “I suppose you think this vastly amusing.”

  “Not at all.” Chance heaved a mocking sigh. “It is rather lowering to consider that your brief charade as a male managed to slay the heart of a modest maiden while the remainder of us gentlemen must struggle for days, perhaps weeks to win the briefest of smiles.”

  Miss Cresswell’s blue eyes sparked with danger. “Sir . . .”

  “However, I do hope you write to the poor dear and inform her that her hopes are for naught.”

  “I shall do no such thing.”

  “I beg you to reconsider.” He regarded her from beneath lowered lids. “Imagine my discomfort at having a lovelorn maiden hovering about my home in the hopes of glimpsing the elusive Samuel. Why, she might go into a decline and expire upon my doorstep. Then where should I be?”

  Her lips thinned in annoyance, but before she could speak, the scent of apple tarts drifting from the package overpowered the young urchin.

  “Are you going to eat that?” he demanded in hopeful tones.

  Miss Cresswell promptly shoved the gift into his ready hands. “Here.”