The Sinister Spinster Read online

  The Sinister

  Spinster

  Joan Overfield

  The Sinister Spinster

  Joan Overfield

  Copyright 2001, 2014 by Joan Overfield

  This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Barbara Elizabeth Smith Overfield.

  February 21, 1925–December 20, 2000

  With love always.

  To his horror her eyes began filling with tears. "Don't ask that," she implored, raising her hand to cover his. "Please don't."

  Panic filled Adam, panic and an overwhelming sense of aching desire. As a gentleman he knew he should release her, let her walk away and never importune her again. He should, but he could not.

  "Why?" he demanded, slipping his hands down to gently cup her face. "I think of you as Elizabeth. My Elizabeth. My beautiful Elizabeth," and he covered her mouth with his own.

  Her lips were soft and warm beneath his, and he was helpless to resist their sweetness. Fighting the desire exploding inside of him, he drew her closer, savoring the feel of her pressed to his hungry body. It took every ounce of will he possessed to keep from taking more, but he cared for her too much to risk frightening her. Reining in his passion, he slowly raised his head, his heart pounding as he gazed down into her flushed face.

  "Adam." His name slipped breathlessly from her parted lips, and her eyes were slumberous as she lifted her heavy lashes.

  "Ah, my sweet, the things you do to a man's resolve," he murmured, tracing a finger along the bow of her mouth.

  Her cheeks grew rosy, but to his delight she made no move to end their embrace. "You also have a deleterious effect upon my good sense," she said, smiling sadly. "But this changes nothing."

  "You are wrong," he disagreed. "It changes everything."

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  One

  Derring Hall,

  Kent, England

  1814

  "Gad, but I am bored!" The young dandy gave a theatrical sigh, glaring out the library window at the curtain of steadily falling rain. "Does nothing ever occur in the country?"

  Adam Darrach, Marquess of Falconer, glanced up from the book he'd been reading, his tawny eyes flashing in annoyance. He'd been enjoying the quiet, tucked away amongst the books and fine paintings, and he couldn't like having his peace disrupted by a pack of indolent care-for-nothings.

  "Many things, Derwent," he said, his voice edged with cold disdain. "Birth, death, struggle, and triumph; it is all there if one but takes the time to look." And possesses the wits to see, he added in silent derision. Geoffrey Derwent and the rest of his useless set were proving a sore trial for him, but unfortunately he had no choice but to suffer their company. This visit to Derring's country estate was his last chance to secure the cagey earl's support before the arrival of the Czar and his court.

  "I meant anything interesting," Derwent qualified, tossing back his exquisite mop of gold curls. "We've been here for three days, and not one scandalous things has occurred. It is not to be borne!" He turned to the young man sprawled in a high-backed chair.

  "Wills, you are our host's son," he said, gesturing dramatically. "It is your duty to see we are properly entertained. Do something!"

  The pimply-faced youth's thick lips protruded in a sullen pout. "What do you suggest?" he demanded, in an equally petulant manner. "Can't hunt; the blasted rain's seen to that. And if it's bedroom sport you mean, you can jolly well forget it. The only maids m'mother hires are plain as mud and twice as thick. They shriek like the very devil if you so much as pinch 'em."

  "Aye, that's true," the third dandy, Charles Colburt, said, rubbing his hand. "And they bite as well."

  Adam remained silent, his lean countenance showing no trace of the cold fury he was feeling. Half the country was in desperate want of the most common necessities, he brooded, and all these worthless sots could do was whine about the maids rejecting their vile advances. He wished he had the raising of them for a few weeks. Or better still, he wished he might turn them over to his friend, Viscount St. Jerome. His lips lifted in a rare smile at the thought of the terrified dandies being put through their paces by the hard-faced former sergeant in the Rifles. If they managed to survive the experience, there might even be some hope for them.

  "When are the rest of the guests to arrive?" Derwent paused in front of the mirror to admire the impossibly high points of his starched collar. "Perhaps there will be some sport to be found there?"

  "The first group is set to arrive tomorrow after luncheon," William said in a glum tone. "Mama is already in high alt, running that new companion of hers ragged and planning every manner of entertainment. But I shouldn't bother looking there. Tiresome virgins for the most part; dandle with one of them and it's the parson's mousetrap for you."

  "Only if you're caught," Colburt smirked. "And there's always the mamas. Some of them ain't so bad, and more willing than you might think."

  The crude observation put paid to the last of Adam's patience. He was about to administer a blistering scold on the proper conduct of gentlemen when the door to the library opened, and a slender young woman with her light brown hair drawn back in a tight bun started into the room. At the sight of the four men lounging about, she came to an uncertain halt.

  "I beg your pardon, sirs, my lord," she said, her thin face pinking with embarrassment. "I thought the library was deserted. My apologies for disturbing you." And she made to withdraw.

  "Pray do not leave on our account," Derwent drawled, turning to study the woman with a look Adam couldn't trust gleaming in his pale eyes. "Come in, by all means."

  A panicked expression crossed the young woman's face. "No, that's all right," she said, backing toward the safety of the hall. "I'll come back another time. Good day."

  "Oh, but we insist!" Charles Colburt rose to his feet and began advancing on her with predatory intent.

  Genuine alarm had the woman's misty blue eyes going wide. "No, really, sirs, I—"

  "Get in here, Mattingale," William barked, his face reddening in temper. "Do as you are told, or I shall have Mama turn you off without a character. We'll see how soon you manage to find another position given your reputation!"

  The young woman jerked at the threat but remained where she was, her eyes downcast and her hands clenched at her sides.

  More furious than he could remember being in years, Adam surged to his feet, his powerful body rippling in a subtle show of strength. He sent each of the other men a deadly glance and then turned to the woman standing in the doorway.

  "It is quite all right, Miss Mattingale," he said, his deep voice gentle as he offered her a smile. "These gentlemen and I were just leaving. Our apologies for keeping you from your duties." And he stepped around her, opening the door wider before turning back to the three dandies. It took but a single lift of his jet black eyebrow to bring them dragging after him.

  He closed the door behind them and then led the way to the small study he remembered from an earlier visit When he had secured that door he turned to face the other men, all trace of the gentleness he'd shown Miss Mattingale quite gone.

  "I am going to say this but once," he said, pronouncing each word with icy menace. "Gentlemen never impose themselves on those who are weaker or lack the means to defend themselves. You appear to have forgotten that. Forget it again, and it will be my pleasure to p
ut a bullet through you."

  William sulked, Derwent pouted, and Colburt gave an incredulous laugh. "Oh, come, Lord Falconer, do you expect us to believe you'd call us out for trifling with a companion?"

  Adam studied him with cold contempt. "Yes."

  "But that's ridiculous!" Charles blustered, clearly stunned. "She's a companion, for heaven's sake, and one whose reputation is not all it should be, if what Wills says is true."

  Adam turned to the first dandy. "Derwent, what am I called in the shooting clubs?"

  " 'Six-shot Falconer,' " the younger man provided, looking decidedly ill at ease.

  "And why am I called that?"

  "Because you can hit six out of six targets in under two minutes, including reloading time."

  Adam gave that a second to sink in, and then eyed each man in turn. "Six shots," he said coldly. "Six shots, and there's only three of you. Remember that." And feeling there was nothing left to be said, he turned and quietly left the room.

  As soon as they knew themselves to be alone, the three remaining men collapsed onto the chairs.

  "Gad, I need a drink," Derwent said, fanning himself with his hand. "Wills, ring for some brandy, won't you? The marquess has quite overset my poor nerves."

  "You don't think he means it, do you?" William asked, after doing as he'd been bid. "He can't mean it. I am his host's son. Can't kill me. It would be bad form."

  "Oh, he meant it, right enough," Colburt muttered, looking murderous. "Stiff-rumped prig. It's not as if we meant the wench any harm; just having fun was all. She looks as if she could use a bit of sport. And what was that crack about her reputation?" he asked, turning back toward William. "Never say that fiercely grim mama of yours hired a fashionable impure to keep her company?"

  "If only," Wills mourned, shaking his head. "No such thing, though. I merely meant Miss Mattingale's family's a bit odd. Travel everywhere, and her father writes those dull and dusty tomes no one can make any sense of. Only reason Mama hired her was because she was bosom bows with her grandmother, and the old gel begged Mama to give the chit a position. Papa didn't like it above half, I can tell you," he added darkly.

  "Indeed, and why is that?" Charles asked, intrigued. His pride was still stinging from Lord Falconer's reprimand, and he was eager to make someone pay for the blow he'd taken.

  William gave a derisive snort. "Thinks she's a French spy," he said, his lips twisting in a sneer. "Can you imagine anything so foolish? Female don't say but two words half the time, and goes skittering about like a demmed mouse the rest of it."

  "Why should he think she's a spy, and a French one at that?" A footman had delivered the decanter of brandy and several glasses, and Derwent was wasting little time in helping himself.

  "Because she's lived in France for any number of years, and she's only just come from America," William answered, cocking his head to one side as he considered the matter. "Her papa's still there, and Father has forbidden her to write him so long as our soldiers are busy killing one another. Shouldn't be surprised if she ain't defying him, though. Saw her sneaking into town the other day, and I'll wager it wasn't just to take the air, as she said."

  "That's it!" Colburt exclaimed, slapping his hand on the arm of his chair. "It's the perfect answer!"

  "Eh?" William blinked at him owlishly. "What is?"

  "The answer to poor Derwent's ennui, of course," Charles said, cleverly keeping his plans for revenge private. "We shall start a rumor Miss Mattingale is in reality a notorious French spy!"

  "What?" This from William.

  "Charles, that is inspired!" Derwent beamed his approval.

  "Don't be daft," William said, for once the voice of reason. "No one would believe it! Not of that milk-and-water miss!"

  "Ah, but only think, dear Wills," Charles purred, all but rubbing his hands in glee. "Who else would make the perfect spy but the last person anyone would suspect?"

  It took a few moments for William to chew over that. "But if we tell people she's a spy, then that means we suspect her," he said, showing a heretofore unrevealed facility for logic. "And if we suspect her, then how can she be a spy? Besides, wouldn't want people thinking my father would keep a Frenchie spy tucked under his roof. Think of the scandal."

  Charles thought for a moment. "Then what we will do," he said at last, "is to tell people we suspect there to be a spy in our midst. We'll . . . oh, I don't know, say some of your father's papers are gone missing. He's still a member of the Privy Council, isn't he?" He glanced at William.

  "I suppose so." William lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "Carries a box of papers with him he keeps locked up in his study. And even if he ain't a member, Falconer is, I'll warrant. Papa said he's close to the prince, and he's helping him plan the fête for the Czar and his sister."

  "Even better," Charles decided. "We'll hint some papers relating to the Russian court's visit have vanished, and that is why Falconer has come. We can get the other guests to try to guess the spy's true identity, tossing out just enough hints to make them believe what we want them to believe."

  "Charles, I am in awe," Derwent said, leaping to his feet and sweeping low in an exaggerated bow. "You are brilliant; truly brilliant. I had no idea."

  "I don't know," William said, annoyed to find he had a conscience after all. "May not care for Miss Mattingale, but that don't mean I want her taken up as a spy. They hang spies, you know."

  But having come so close to savoring victory, Charles wasn't ready to quit the field. "Dunce, we won't let it get that far!" he said cuttingly. "If it gets too out of hand, we can always say it was all a hum, and the matter will be forgotten."

  "I'm not certain . . ."

  "Oh, don't be so tiresomely dull, Wills!" Derwent pouted at him. "This is going to be wonderful! Think of all the fun we shall have; planting notions in people's minds, raising a hue and cry, and then settling back to watch the others scurrying about chasing after mare's nests. How can you be so cruel as to deny me the one bit of enjoyment I have had since coming to this dreary place?"

  Put like that, William did think it would be rather churlish of him to act the spoiler. Still . . .

  "Tell you what," Charles interposed, taking William's measure. "We'll make it a wager, shall we? That way none of us can cry off."

  "A wager?" William stirred with interest. "What sort of wager?"

  "I'll wager a thousand pounds we can carry it off," Charles said, thinking quickly. "And you, Wills, shall wager a thousand we cannot How's that?"

  "We would bet against each other?" William wanted to be certain he understood correctly. "That don't sound quite aboveboard."

  "Of course it is," Charles assured him. "It's perfectly acceptable. So long as we don't cheat, of course."

  "Cheat?"

  All of this plotting and scheming was proving harder than Charles anticipated. He was trying to think of some way to explain when help arrived from an unexpected quarter.

  "Slowtop," Derwent said, with exaggerated patience, "if we tell anyone this is all a game, and that there are no missing papers and, therefore, no French spy, that would be cheating. To carry off our wager in an honorable fashion we have to take a vow here and now that under penalty of forfeiture we can never, ever reveal the truth." He looked at Charles. "Is that not right?"

  "Aye," Charles said, nodding. "Exactly so."

  "Then," Derwent said smugly, "are we agreed?"

  "Aye," Charles repeated, and glanced expectantly at William.

  William nodded. "Aye," he said reluctantly. "We are agreed."

  "Filthy, useless, parasitic fops!" Miss Elizabeth Mattingale's aquamarine eyes flashed with temper as she paced up and down the narrow confines of her small room. "Stupid, small-minded little nothings! How dare they treat me so!"

  It wasn't often Elizabeth allowed herself to lose her temper; but then, it was seldom she was offered such deliberate provocation. She'd heard several of the maids complaining of the grabbing and pinching they'd encountered from Mr.
Derwent's London friends, and had done her best to keep out of their way. Thank heaven Lord Falconer had been there, she thought, breathing a mental sigh of relief. She shuddered to think what might have happened had she been forced to deal with the wretches on her own.

  The memory of the decisive way the handsome marquess had routed the younger men filled her with reluctant admiration. She'd met him the first night he'd arrived from London, and at the time had thought him quite the coldest man she had ever encountered. Having had the opportunity to observe him in action, she now considered him one of the most dangerous men as well. She knew she would not wish to make an enemy of his lordship; something told her he would be a merciless opponent.

  After taking a few more minutes to compose herself, Elizabeth splashed some cool water on her face and went back downstairs to the drawing room. Her new employer was just as she'd left her, pouring over another of her endless lists. She glanced up when Elizabeth opened the door, her thick brows meeting in a disapproving scowl.

  "There you are, Miss Mattingale," she said, sounding as if Elizabeth had been gone for days instead of a mere quarter hour. "Did you find the book I wanted?"

  Since her hands were plainly empty, Elizabeth thought the answer to that rather obvious, but she kept such thoughts to herself.

  "No, my lady, I did not," she said, returning to her chair. "Are you quite certain you left it in the library? I looked everywhere."

  The countess pursed her lips. "I am almost certain I did," she said, tapping her finger against her chin. "Although I suppose I may have left it in my sitting room just as well. Ah, well, it is of no moment. I didn't need it after all."

  Elizabeth choked back a cry of fury. She'd risked a pawing, if not worse, for some foolish book about the peerage, and now her employer decided it was of "no moment"? She eyed the pot of tea setting on the table in front of Lady Derring before giving a wistful sigh. However tempting it might be to upend the contents over the older woman's head, it was best she resisted the impulse. She'd only just secured this position, and Grandmother would be quite put out if she lost it in less than a sennight.