The Mischievous Miss Murphy (9 page)

“You know damn full well why I came back,” Tony hissed under his breath.

“Indeed, I do,” Candice acknowledged. “You have planned to make me your mistress. Do I flatter myself? Perhaps it was just one quick toss in the hay you had in mind. I must admit the six bottles of Irish whiskey are what put me off—as it seems a trifle overdone if you were angling for merely one night of pleasure. Or am I completely wrong, my lord, and I am not the target of your attentions? Perhaps it is Uncle Max whom you wish to cultivate, just in case you ever gamble away your inheritance and needs must scramble to make your way in the world. I can see how Max’s little money-making schemes would appeal much more than, say, hiring yourself out as a crossing sweep.”

Tony’s neck was turning a dull shade of red, so greatly did he wish to grab hold of the infuriating female before him and shake her—or kiss her—until he put a stop to her agile tongue. “I told you there were no strings attached to my gifts except for my request—I said request, madam— that your uncle tell me a little more about his exploits. You flatter yourself, Candie, if you think I would jeopardize my sister’s reputation just for the dubious pleasure of being the latest man to share your bed. Even my interest in Max has paled, as he is, after all, no more than a glorified thief.”

Candie’s eyebrows rose as she acknowledged his insults. “In that case, my lord, I can see no problems left to plague you. Max won’t pine away if you disappear from our lives, and your sister, charming widgeon that she is, will soon forget us once something else comes along to occupy her mind.”

She held out her hand, and he took it automatically. “I doubt that we will be meeting again, my lord, as we don’t travel in the same circles. At least not as Maximilien and Candice Murphy we don’t. Thank you again for the gifts, the ride in the park, and this delightful dinner.”

Before Tony could think of anything to say, Candie had rejoined her uncle, explaining that she had a slight headache and would like to retire. Max shot the Marquess a sharp look before acting the solicitous uncle and ushering his niece into Lady Montague’s carriage for the ride back to Half Moon Street, Patsy’s promise to send round an invitation to her card party speeding them on their way.

As Tony sat sprawled in one of his sister’s most uncomfortable armchairs, his nose sunk deep in his brandy glass, Hugh and Will also took their leave, Will announcing that he was off to White’s as it was too shockingly early to go home, and Hugh lingering interminably over Patsy’s hand, giving his hostess cause to think he had put his back out and was stuck in that bent over position.

When brother and sister were finally alone, Patsy, who needed little encouragement to play matchmaker, extolled Candie’s virtues in such glowing terms and at such length that Candice’s fictional headache became a very real, throbbing pain in his lordship’s weary brain.

“Miss Murphy is not my sort,” Tony protested at last, seeing no end to Patsy’s litany of praises to Candie’s virtues.

“Horsefeathers,” his sister sniffed, giving her dark head a toss. “Anything in skirts is your sort. I grant you I don’t know how she’s situated financially, but you’re rich as Croesus, so that’s no obstacle. And don’t say she don’t appeal to your eyes, for a prettier child I’ve yet to see, what with that glorious hair and that sweet, innocent face.”

“Sweet? Innocent?” Tony barked, rising to his feet and slapping his glass down on a nearby table with considerable force before common sense (and a healthy concern for his self-preservation) intervened to stop his tirade short of giving the game away to his sister. “You know I cut a wide berth around the sweet and innocent, puss,” he substituted smoothly.

Well, thought his older and sometimes wiser sibling, I can’t see why he’s taking
my
head off. After all, it wasn’t me who found the girl, but him. If the chit hadn’t caught his fancy, what was he doing driving her around the Park, he who hadn’t been seen with an eligible female up beside him in more than a half dozen years?

“Then why did you take her out for a drive?” she asked penetratingly.

“I did it as a favor to Max,” Tony improvised hurriedly. “He felt she needed some air. In point of fact, my acquaintance is with Mr. Murphy. We, er, we have many mutual interests.”

“Oh? Is he also a writer?”

As Tony’s writing—or scribbling, as he chose to dismiss his satirical compositions—was one of his main interests, it seemed a good idea to agree with Patsy. “After a fashion, puss. Max and I are both students of human nature, and I value his opinions and insights. Indeed, I’ve already learned one lesson from him.” A rather expensive lesson, he mused ruefully, remembering the thick envelope he had passed over to Max earlier in the evening. “It is my hope I can return the favor.” And retrieve my blunt, he added silently.

Patsy visibly relaxed. “Then you’ll be seeing Candice —I mean Mr. Murphy—again?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed as he recalled Candie’s icy dismissal. He had not changed his mind, no matter how vehemently he denied the fact to Candie—he planned to have her in his bed. Max may have gained his niece some time by winning the wager that afternoon, but tomorrow was another day. The gamester’s luck couldn’t hold forever.

Let the Murphys have their fun parading about in society for a space. In the end he, Mark Antony Betancourt, would triumph, of that he was as certain as he was that the sun rose in the east.

“Yes, pet, I’ll be seeing the Murphys again,” he assured his sister before dropping a kiss on her cheek and heading off to his own town house.

“Dismiss me like some lowly lackey, will she?” he muttered to himself as his coach rolled through the darkened streets. “Hussy! And to think I had actually begun to doubt my reading of her character. I may be temporarily shackled by my wager with Max, but two weeks from today the gloves come off. I’ll have my way with her before the month is out, and that conniving Irishman won’t be richer for it by so much as a single flea-bitten nanny goat!”

I
t was a beautiful cradle, ornately carved and decorated with gilt and burnished gold, and sporting an ornamented canopy and chased carrying handles. Max had bought it for her, paying down the ridiculously high sum of fifty-two pounds, and Candie would no more think of parting with it than she would consider ridding herself of her right hand, even though carting it about the world in its specially constructed case was not always simple, considering their occasional hurried departures.

Candie had never slept in the cradle—a handy dresser drawer or carpet of leaves being her usual resting place as a babe—but Max had sworn his little princess deserved a cradle and, when she reached the age of ten and was long past the need for rocking, he had kept his promise.

Now, as she used a soft cloth to lovingly wipe away the dust from the intricate lion head designs that edged each rocker, Candie felt the familiar warm swell of emotion that filled her breast whenever she thought back to the day her uncle had burst through the door of the humble Irish cottage they had leased after a run of luck with the ponies, an unabashed look of pride on his face as he knelt at her feet, the cradle nestled gently in his arms.

Candie may not have known a mother’s love, but she’d never felt the least bit cheated. For Candie had Max, and Max, with his great heart, constant humor, and unflagging zest for living, was all the home and family she could ever need.

Her task completed, Candie rose to her feet, wandering around the small sitting room, occasionally flicking her cloth over a table or one of the cheap knickknacks the landlord had employed to lend credence to his description of the rooms as “elegantly decorated in the first stare of fashion.”

It had been three days since Lady Montague’s dinner party, three long days that could not be adequately filled by shopping for foodstuffs at Covent Garden, or preparing meals, or mending clothing, or flicking nonexistent dust from inferior china vases.

Yet it was not simple boredom that had Candie spending long hours staring out the window overlooking Half Moon Street and nagging her uncle about his smelly cigars and the frequency of his medicinal doses of Irish whiskey until he clapped his hat on his head and stomped off in search of some company less liable to find fault with every breath he took.

And it was not worry over their lack of funds that made her attempts at sleep a mockery, causing her to toss and turn far into the night, punishing her pillow as she strove to find a comfortable resting place for her weary head. Again, not that she was ever the sort to worry overmuch about finances—that was Max’s province. He “found” the money; she merely managed it.

When her uncle had tossed a thick packet of bank notes in her lap two mornings earlier, it did not occur to her to ask questions as to its origin; she merely commenced to dividing it up in her usual fashion, allotting certain amounts for food, clothing, a few luxuries, and, because she had learned early in life that her main function was to scamper dutifully along at Max’s heels, sweeping up for him as he acted out his grandiose schemes, setting aside a reassuring amount in case she had either to post bail or finance a hasty disappearance.

No, there was nothing in Candie’s present existence that differed in the slightest from the norm. They were resting, she and Max, taking time off from their travels and scheming to, as her uncle termed it, give their brains a holiday. But it wasn’t that she was missing the rush of excitement Max’s antics engendered.

What she missed was the rush of excitement Tony’s antics—for how else could she term his behavior?—engendered. He had exploded into her life unexpectedly and uninvited, and in less than a week had shown her sides of herself she had never known existed.

She hadn’t needed Max’s warnings to recognize how dangerous Tony was, how potentially destructive this sophisticated man of the world could be to her emotional well-being. Mark Antony Betancourt was a wealthy, titled, highly intelligent, wildly egotistical, sexually promiscuous, mainly unprincipled, selfish, pleasure-seeking rotter of the first order.

He was also, she reminded herself on a sigh, wealthy, titled, highly intelligent, devilishly handsome, sexually devastating, oddly vulnerable, endearingly obtuse, gratifyingly loyal, and the most unbelievably exciting male she had ever met.

Candie had long ago made up her mind never to marry, and had followed this decision with a second determination, to go to her grave a maiden, as befitted a good Irish girl, no matter how infamous the circumstances of her birth.

Until her acquaintance with Tony Betancourt, she’d had no reason to doubt her ability to live up to her solemn vow of chastity. Yet not only did she now find herself suddenly questioning her ability to stick to her promises, but she had actually begun having dreams—most disturbing dreams—that might, she thought, shivering a bit, condemn her to eternal hellfire anyway, without ever having experienced the joy of Tony’s embrace.

It was highly unfair, that’s what it was, she protested to her guardian angel (just then pacing back and forth atop Candie’s shoulder, sighing and tsk-tsking a lot). If I’m going to burn in Hades for mere thoughts, I may as well do the deed. After all, a sinner is entitled to some pleasure, isn’t she?

Planting her restless self in the chair nearest to the street, her chin cupped in her palm, she raised her left hand to push back the lace curtains in order to look down at the passersby, automatically singling out the most interesting or unique ones and studying the way they walked, the inclination of their heads, their facial expressions that revealed self-confidence, greed, anxiety, and, reflected on the countenance of one fashionably dressed maiden, barely concealed contempt for the scene around her.

Mimicking the haughty debutante’s high-nosed posture, Candie folded her full pink mouth into a thin line, lowered her eyelids to half-mast, and pronounced in her best young ladies’ boarding school accents, “It fatigues me beyond permission that we cannot progress more than two feet in any direction without some encroaching person accosting us just so they can later say Miss Isabel Snobface spoke with them in passing. Does not anyone know their place anymore, Reginald?”

As the young lady passed out of sight, Candie dropped her pose and looked around for another subject. Max had assigned her this exercise when she was barely old enough to walk erect, and over the course of the years she had perfected many different characterizations, both male and female, that she and Max often employed to their benefit from Genoa to Edinburgh.