My Lady Mischief
Authors: Kathy Carmichael
Tags: #England, #Regency Historical Romance, #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General
Other Titles by Kathy Carmichael
My Lady Mischief
*
Kathy Carmichael
Copyright
MY LADY MISCHIEF
Kathy Lynch Carmichael
© Copyright 2002, 2012 by Kathy Lynch Carmichael
Published by MacGowan Press
Originally published by Thomas Bouregy & Co., Inc.
160 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016
All rights reserved.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold, uploaded to torrent sites, or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
In loving memory of the original Althea, Altha Turney Lynch.
And always and forever, my love and gratitude to Andrew, Ian, and John—who love and encourage me despite the dust bunnies.
Chapter One
Uncle Egbert had become a serious embarrassment. Lady Althea Candler knelt down on the parlor carpet to search beneath the settee. No luck. Uncle Egbert wasn't hiding there.
Thea arose, placed her hands on her hips and scanned the room. Where could he be hiding? He was here in the parlor; she'd chased him into the room moments earlier.
She blew a wisp of hair from her forehead, then brushed at a cobweb on her gown, only slightly aware of how tight it was around her elbows and certain other areas. It had been a very good thing that she'd had the forethought to change into old clothes before going through the attics. Although she hadn't anticipated a search for Uncle Egbert, it would have put a better gown at risk.
Exploring the attics often led to finding hidden treasures. Today she'd discovered one of her deceased mother's old trunks and had retrieved several items that could be put to use. But she hadn't spent as much time going through the trunk as she would have liked. Uncle Egbert was on the loose.
Her gaze fixed upon the tea tray cluttering the room and she shook her head in fond exasperation. Papa had taken tea in the parlor earlier and had ordered the maid to leave it. And, as he was wont to do, once he'd returned to work had forgotten to inform the maid she could clear it away.
Thea abandoned her search for the time and lifted the oval parquetry tray. The delicately flowered Spode china rattled slightly as she adjusted her hold; it was unexpectedly quite heavy. However did the servants manage to carry it so easily?
As she left the room, always on the lookout for a way to save time, she curled her right foot around the door and tugged. The door snapped closed with a reverberating boom, throwing her off balance and causing her to loosen her hold on the tea tray. As it began to slide from her hands, she uttered a phrase she'd often heard her papa use but according to her aunt was not proper for a young woman of class. "Blast it all!"
She winced slightly as the marble-pillared hall echoed her oath, then jumped when a male voice spoke up.
"Allow me."
The tray slid in earnest.
A masculine hand, one she couldn't place in her memory, shot out to provide assistance.
She glanced up to express her gratitude but for once words deserted her.
Clutching the righted tray tightly to her bosom, she stared at the gentleman, from the tips of his glowing Hessian boots to the precise fall of his fashionable cravat. He had deep brown eyes, with laugh crinkles at the lids, a wide mouth, and the breadth of his shoulders was set off perfectly by an impeccably cut coat. His golden blond hair had been arranged around his roughly chiseled face, contrasting with, in a final bit of heavenly perfection, a bold, aristocratic nose.
He was most definitely manly elegance personified. When he bent to retrieve a fallen teacup, Thea stared demurely at the crop of curls covering the back of his head.
"Here you are." He stood, placing the teacup upon her tray.
Had he seen her ogling him? She blushed.
Then he smiled at her and it was all she could do to remember to breathe. Yet, more to the point, what was a veritable pink of the
ton
doing wandering about her household without even a servant accompanying him?
Before she could form the question, a sudden movement caught her attention as she glanced past the gentleman's shoulder. "Uncle Egbert! Fie, I must be after him!"
She dropped the tray upon a table, then sprinted down the corridor. When she realized she was abandoning the gentleman, she turned back. "Won't you care to assist me in my search?"
The gentleman grinned, and she briefly thought that perhaps she should take care to avoid such manly smiles in the future. He dashed to her side. "I thought you'd never ask. Whom are we chasing?"
"Hurry," she said, rounding a corner. "Uncle Egbert. He's been running throughout the house since this morning. Cook says he has to go. I simply must catch him."
She redoubled her efforts, since the pesky fellow had apparently again covered his tracks. "He's getting away!"
Then she spotted him and in a wild grab, she stretched out her arms and dove forward. Unfortunately she connected with empty air and landed headlong upon the floor. The impact knocked the air from her lungs and she watched with dismay as Uncle Egbert darted from sight.
Equally unfortunate, the gentleman hadn't kept up with her sprint and when he rounded the corner, attempted to careen to a halt. This would have normally provided a satisfactory conclusion to a most undignified position, but such was not to be the case. The gentleman tripped over her outstretched feet.
She watched helplessly as he fell directly atop her.
Embarrassed, she shoved at him and he rolled to his feet.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, offering a hand to help her stand. "You won't wish to have your master find you like this."
Although disappointed in her failure to apprehend Uncle Egbert, Thea could barely contain her amusement at the gentleman's misconception. This paragon of manly attributes had mistaken her for a servant!
Thea's sense of humor, often decried by both her papa and Miss Mimms, tended to emerge at the most inappropriate moments. Thea devoutly hoped this wasn't one of those times she'd eventually regret.
The gentleman, however, seemed to expect a response to his statement. She stood, then using as close an approximation as possible to the accents of below stairs, replied, "No, sir."
Amused brown eyes stared into hers. "Surely I deserve a reward? I did my best to aid you in the capture of your uncle."
"Much help you were," she retorted. Then recalling belatedly the role she wished to keep up, she shot him a saucy smile quite like the ones she'd seen exchanged between one of the maids and a handsome footman.
"I'll try to be more helpful next time." The gentleman stepped nearer and Thea fought back an instinctive move to duck as his arms encircled her.
"I suspect my stay here won't be as tedious as I'd feared."
"Hmph." She swatted his arms. As the daughter of an earl, she'd always been protected from gentlemen's advances but, while quite curious about them, wasn't quite ready to totally abandon propriety in the interests of education. Although the most appropriate response for a woman of her class to such behavior was most likely a dainty swoon, Thea was made of sterner material. Besides, her curiosity wasn't quite appeased. "La, sir. What makes you think there will be a next time?"
"I suspect your uncle is a slippery sort of character." The gentleman lowered his head, to steal a kiss Thea suspected. She twisted from his embrace, reeling from the warmth of his touch, which had sent her senses tumbling in a most peculiar manner.
Curious or no, it was best to remove herself, and she retreated toward her Papa's study. Yet, she felt an unexpected regret that she wasn't a servant. She batted her lashes at the gentleman, then asked, "Does my fa—er—master know you're here, sir?"
"No, but I am expected. Come now," he added, matching her step for step, "how about that reward?"
His smile almost, but not quite, scattered her few remaining wits. His gaze mesmerized her and she now understood the fascination of a bird with a cat's stare. Shaking her head to clear the image, she whispered, "I'll announce you. Your name, please?"
"William Cavendar, Marquess of Hartingfield." He watched closely for the housemaid's reaction. Rather than the usual reaction to his name, with the recipient elated by the chance to serve someone of his eminence, the young maid merely cocked a bold brow at him. He rather liked it, but then wondered if some portion of his dress was in disarray, especially after their escapades. His hands shot to check his cravat and coat, but found nothing awkwardly out of order. Even the folds of his cravat remained crisp and unspotted.
What a peculiar servant the girl was. Then he noted the gleam in her eyes and advanced a step toward her. "Most of my acquaintance call me Hart. I would be pleased if you would, too."
A look of shocked awareness crossed her features before she darted into the study, slamming the door in his astonished face.
Heaven's teeth! He'd been stranded in this monstrosity of a house again. Ever since arriving an hour earlier, nothing had happened the way things were supposed to. He'd begun to suspect this was far from a normal household.
Since he'd left his friend Mack to his own devices, the inhabitants of Steyne Hall had gone out of their way to reveal themselves at their most peculiar. First a hysterical housemaid had brought him to this hallway, shrieking something about an uncle running through the kitchens before she'd gone tearing off, stranding him. Next a bareheaded footman had torn past, clutching a powdered wig in his hands. And now this. A bewitching young housemaid, who after attempting to serve tea on his person, had convinced him to chase after her and that demented gentleman named Egbert, only to slam a door in his face.
When had it become his duty to assist young maids in distress? Mack's decision to wait in their rooms for a summons began to seem like the safer choice, if not the wiser.
Hart brushed a nearly invisible dust mote from his sleeve, wondering what the denizens of Steyne Hall would yet arrange to entertain him. An odd feeling, one he hadn't experienced in quite some time, crept over him. At first he had difficulty identifying it. Then it came to him: he was amused.
He wasn't quite sure when it had occurred. Perhaps it had slowly overtaken him when faced with season after season of young hopefuls and pinks of the
ton.
Most assuredly he'd begun to dread another day quite like the day before: a late breakfast, putting in an hour at Jackson's, a stroll through the parks before a night spent partying and gaming. Life seemed lackluster at best. To find amusement, whatever the source, was a rare experience.
At least boredom would no longer be a problem, considering the new experiences he'd encountered since entering this berserk household. Further adventures with the charming housemaid promised delightful entertainment.
How amusing he'd left town in order to avoid the relentless pursuit of matchmaking mamas and their myopic daughters. Little had he suspected that he'd be doing some pursuing of his own, for a decidedly different but far more pleasurable purpose.
*
Within the study, Thea turned and pressed her back against the door, no longer able to suppress her amusement at the expense of the Marquess. "Your worst nightmare has just been realized, Papa."
"Your aunt has arrived and announced her plans to stay for a fortnight?" asked her father, Bremington Candler, the Earl of Steyne, without looking up from the ledgers on the table in front of him.
"No, Papa." Thea smiled. "You've always warned me about dressing like a servant and now I've been mistaken for one."
"Yes?" This time he looked up and met her gaze.
She nodded. "By none other than Lord Hartingfield. You never told me you'd be having such a rake as a guest."
"Nonsense. He's no more a rake than I was at his age.
"Exactly my point, Papa. Miss Mimms has said—" Thea broke off as he leveled a stare in her direction. "What I mean to say is, I've always suspected you of having a latent propensity toward—"
Her father stood and Thea snapped her lips closed. According to Miss Mimms, this wasn't the sort of thing a young lady discussed with a man, not even her father.
"What did you think of Hartingfield?"
Should she tell him the whole truth? That he'd attempted to steal a kiss? That having him near had stolen her breath? She didn't quite think that would be what her papa would like to hear. There had to be some kernel of truth she could share with him. "He's quite—large."