to toast, waiting for Gladys to make some reference to their midnight meeting on the stairs, but as the minutes ticked past in blessed silence it seemed Gladys’s correspondents had succeed in diverting her mind. Grateful for the reprieve, Miranda did nothing to draw her aunt’s attention.
As usual, Roderick had already broken his fast and gone out riding. She crunched, sipped, and pondered the revelations of the evening, in particular Roscoe’s assertion that her brother had grown to be a steady young man, and the implication that Roderick therefore no longer needed her protection.
“Well, miss!”
She glanced at Gladys. Pince-nez perched on the end of her long nose, her aunt was holding a letter almost at arm’s length as she perused it.
“It seems that Mr. Wraxby still has you in his sights. He writes that he’ll be visiting town next week and will look to call on us.” Lowering the letter, Gladys focused sharp brown eyes on Miranda. “So you still have a chance there. Mr. Wraxby is everything and more Corrine and I might have hoped for you.”
Corrine had been Gladys’s elder sister; spinsters both, and bitterly resentful of what they’d termed their younger sister Georgiana’s irresponsible love-match, the pair had nevertheless assumed responsibility for Georgiana’s three children when Georgiana and her regrettable husband, Frederick Clifford, a well-educated mill owner’s son, had perished in a boating accident twenty-three years ago.
If anything, Corrine had been even more adamant than Gladys that Georgiana’s children had to consistently and devoutly worship at the altar of respectability in order to minimize the taint of that most deplorable of stigmas, Trade. The daughters of Sir Augustus Cuthbert, Baronet, as minor gentry, and determined to cling to every vestige of social advantage that station might confer, Corrine and Gladys had never allowed their wards to forget that they forever remained just one small step away from social ostracism.
When they’d all resided in the country, at Oakgrove Manor in Cheshire—the house and estate Roderick had inherited from Frederick, purchased with the despised fortune Frederick had inherited from his mill owner father—Miranda hadn’t found the social restrictions imposed by their aunts either remarkable or onerous. Having lived under her aunts’ thumbs from the age of six, their view of the world had been all she’d known.
But the years had passed, and on Corrine’s death two years ago, with Miranda still unwed and with suitors thin on the ground, Gladys had agreed that they—Roderick and Miranda with Gladys as chaperon—should spend a few years in London, assessing the marital opportunities there, for Roderick as well as Miranda.
Roderick had bought the Claverton Street house, and a year ago they’d moved to Pimlico, only on the fringes of the expanding metropolis, but the quieter area had found favor with Gladys.
Miranda wondered if anyone had ever mentioned to her aunt that the neighborhood was also the home of London’s most notorious gambling lord. . . .
“Miranda! Pay attention!”
She blinked, dispelling the image of a chiseled face with dark eyes and a sardonic expression. “I’m sorry, Aunt. Wraxby, you said?”
“Indeed.” Gladys’s eyes were hard chips of cloudy onyx. “You’d do well to reflect on the fact that after so foolishly rejecting the Honorable Mr. Jeffers, you’ve never had another offer. If you ever want a household of your own, you’d do well to keep your mind on the task of landing Mr. Wraxby. Put yourself out to be everything he’s looking for in a wife, and the signs are that he might well offer for you.”
“Indeed, Aunt.” Miranda looked down at her plate. “I daresay you’re right.”
Jeffers . Despite the passage of time, the name still shook her. Depressed her. The memory opened a deep well of bruised emotions, of lasting, lingering, deadening self-doubt.
Lionel Jeffers had been a
As usual, Roderick had already broken his fast and gone out riding. She crunched, sipped, and pondered the revelations of the evening, in particular Roscoe’s assertion that her brother had grown to be a steady young man, and the implication that Roderick therefore no longer needed her protection.
“Well, miss!”
She glanced at Gladys. Pince-nez perched on the end of her long nose, her aunt was holding a letter almost at arm’s length as she perused it.
“It seems that Mr. Wraxby still has you in his sights. He writes that he’ll be visiting town next week and will look to call on us.” Lowering the letter, Gladys focused sharp brown eyes on Miranda. “So you still have a chance there. Mr. Wraxby is everything and more Corrine and I might have hoped for you.”
Corrine had been Gladys’s elder sister; spinsters both, and bitterly resentful of what they’d termed their younger sister Georgiana’s irresponsible love-match, the pair had nevertheless assumed responsibility for Georgiana’s three children when Georgiana and her regrettable husband, Frederick Clifford, a well-educated mill owner’s son, had perished in a boating accident twenty-three years ago.
If anything, Corrine had been even more adamant than Gladys that Georgiana’s children had to consistently and devoutly worship at the altar of respectability in order to minimize the taint of that most deplorable of stigmas, Trade. The daughters of Sir Augustus Cuthbert, Baronet, as minor gentry, and determined to cling to every vestige of social advantage that station might confer, Corrine and Gladys had never allowed their wards to forget that they forever remained just one small step away from social ostracism.
When they’d all resided in the country, at Oakgrove Manor in Cheshire—the house and estate Roderick had inherited from Frederick, purchased with the despised fortune Frederick had inherited from his mill owner father—Miranda hadn’t found the social restrictions imposed by their aunts either remarkable or onerous. Having lived under her aunts’ thumbs from the age of six, their view of the world had been all she’d known.
But the years had passed, and on Corrine’s death two years ago, with Miranda still unwed and with suitors thin on the ground, Gladys had agreed that they—Roderick and Miranda with Gladys as chaperon—should spend a few years in London, assessing the marital opportunities there, for Roderick as well as Miranda.
Roderick had bought the Claverton Street house, and a year ago they’d moved to Pimlico, only on the fringes of the expanding metropolis, but the quieter area had found favor with Gladys.
Miranda wondered if anyone had ever mentioned to her aunt that the neighborhood was also the home of London’s most notorious gambling lord. . . .
“Miranda! Pay attention!”
She blinked, dispelling the image of a chiseled face with dark eyes and a sardonic expression. “I’m sorry, Aunt. Wraxby, you said?”
“Indeed.” Gladys’s eyes were hard chips of cloudy onyx. “You’d do well to reflect on the fact that after so foolishly rejecting the Honorable Mr. Jeffers, you’ve never had another offer. If you ever want a household of your own, you’d do well to keep your mind on the task of landing Mr. Wraxby. Put yourself out to be everything he’s looking for in a wife, and the signs are that he might well offer for you.”
“Indeed, Aunt.” Miranda looked down at her plate. “I daresay you’re right.”
Jeffers . Despite the passage of time, the name still shook her. Depressed her. The memory opened a deep well of bruised emotions, of lasting, lingering, deadening self-doubt.
Lionel Jeffers had been a
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