Smitten by the Spinster Page 2

  The previously nearly empty room was now completely and lushly furnished. Her heels sank into a thick Persian rug, her hand rested on a shiny walnut dresser, not the dresser that had been there before. A dim lamp burned on a spindly side table near an elaborate mirror that hung over a washstand. A four poster bed with green curtains was about two feet away from where she was about to fall over.

  She looked down at her hand that still clutched the glass marble pendant. The vase she’d been holding was gone. Not on the floor, not anywhere.

  “What in the hell?” she asked out loud in growing terror.

  Spots winked in her vision and she staggered to the bed, knocking a heavy silver candle holder to the ground on her way. The door slid open and a stately older man poked his head around it. She stood there gaping at him as he took her in from top to toe. Groaning, he quickly came into the room and shut the door behind him.

  “Dear me,” he said with a shake of his head. “Not again.”

  Chapter 2

  On the final day of their arduous journey, Quinn Ferguson decided it was time to hire a post chaise. He didn’t want his sister riding into her mother’s home town and meeting that side of her family for the first time bedraggled and smelling of horse. She was going to pitch the worst fit imaginable, and the wicked child could throw one hell of a fit, but he would stay the course and toss a sack over her head and stuff her in with the luggage if he had to.

  Sure enough, when she came down from her room at the dusty, unfriendly inn— God, he was already sick of the English— she saw the bags being loaded into the coach and dug in her heels. He glanced around quickly to make sure there weren’t too many people around if she made a scene, and took a few forceful steps toward her, keeping his face as fearsome as he knew how to make it. The couple of maids who were up and about in the front hall of the place saw him and scarpered. At least someone was properly afraid of him.

  Catriona Ferguson, his seventeen year old half-sister, was most definitely not. He sighed and dropped his fierce facade.

  “Sorry, Catie, lass. We canna ride into London. Ye must be fresh and respectable looking.”

  He didn’t want to add that her English relatives probably already had some preconceived notions about her and how she’d been raised. He’d be damned if he let any of them have the satisfaction of supposing themselves right.

  Shockingly, she pressed her lips together in a face he dearly hoped she wouldn’t make too often when they were in London, as they were looking for a husband for her after all, and merely nodded.

  “Let’s be off then,” she said, and he groaned to himself to hear the tears in her voice.

  Bugger it all. Perhaps she was remembering their tense dinner when they’d arrived at the inn, weary and on edge. For the hundredth time she’d tried to finagle him back to Scotland and for the hundredth time he’d told her she needed to do her duty (whatever that meant, he’d heard it from his older brother Lachlan enough times and still wasn’t sure even in regards to himself) and meet her kinfolk.

  Of course she was terrified to meet a bunch of grand titled English, and was trying to get out of it any way she could. The argument had degraded to her reminding him he’d missed her birthday, and not for the first time. He’d felt guilty and she’d gone to bed knowing she had the upper hand. It was going to bite him in the arse somehow, sometime soon.

  God, but he didn’t want to get in the chaise. With a lingering look in the direction of his faraway homeland, he took a deep breath and climbed up after her.

  He decided to take the wee bull by the horns. “Catie, we are going to London to meet your kin, and that is final.”

  She sat in silence, staring out the window for several long miles and he closed his eyes to get some rest. He’d sat up in the inn’s pub for far too long the night before, drinking and letting one of the barmaids try to put him in a better mood. It hadn’t worked, but he’d appreciated her efforts until the owner of the place had chased her off with a tongue lashing and given him filthy glares until Quinn made his way to his room alone, just hours before dawn.

  “I’m terribly excited for my season, brother,” she said after a while, in bizarre, stilted tones.

  “What is that ye’re doing?” he asked, opening his eyes and staring at her. “Ye sound as if someone crammed something where they shouldn’t have.”

  “I’m practicing my proper English”, she said.

  “Well, dinna do it anymore or I shall turn this carriage around.”

  “That’s fine with me,” she pouted. “I dinna know why I must go in the first place.”

  “We’re going,” he sighed in exasperation.

  “Who died and made ye the boss of me?” she asked, her face crumpling when she realized what she’d said.

  It didn’t get any easier, missing Lachlan, even knowing the truth. Quinn reached over and smoothed her hair, knowing she felt bad about the outburst and not wanting to make it worse for her. He didn’t like lying to her. But how could he explain the truth? He couldn’t, so he had to let her believe Lachlan was dead.

  Which made him the boss of her.

  She crammed herself into the farthest corner of the carriage and pressed her face against the window. He patted her arm awkwardly.

  His baby sister was the one person he held most dear. They’d been all each other had after her mother died and their sot of a father shuffled off the mortal coil shortly after. Their older brother Lachlan ignored them most of the time and bossed them around the rest of it.

  At five years older than Catie, Quinn spent his whole life feeling half like he was responsible for her and half like they were partners in crime. Even after Aunt Gwen took Catie to live with her when the lass was thirteen, citing she was running wild and going barefoot and learning language a young lady needn’t know, Quinn had visited every chance he could. He missed her terribly those years, but only wanted the best for her. It was difficult transitioning to being the one in charge. It was a heavy burden, but one he was left to bear now that Lachlan was gone.

  “I’m sorry I missed your birthday, lass,” Quinn said to change the subject. He’d rather her be mad at him than sad about Lachlan.

  “Ye’ve missed a lot of them,” she said with a shrug, which didn’t make him feel any better. “I guess now I’m of an age where ye can be rid of me,” she continued, looking out the window with a poorly concealed sniffle.

  “Och, it isna that at all,” he said. He took a deep breath. “It was your mother’s dying wish that ye meet your English relations and make a good match so ye can inherit.”

  Catie sat in silence. She was an infant when her mother died and he didn’t think she remembered a thing about her. She had a miniature portrait and a locket and those were her only keepsakes. At least Quinn remembered a bit about his mother. He made to pat her comfortingly when she came back at him with the full force of her attitude.

  “Inherit what?” she snorted. “My share of the farm? I’m better off staying with Auntie Gwen than be underfoot there. Though I’m much better at caring for goats than I was. I should just marry one of the goatherds, we get on well enough.”

  “Catie, ye canna marry a goatherd, not even if ye managed to convince me ye were in love with one of them.” He held up his hand to stop any cheek. “Dinna start with me. I know one is bald as an egg with a great hooked nose, and the other is seventy if he’s a day.”

  “Well, perhaps I’m not nearly as shallow as ye are, Quinn,” she said. “Love is supposed to be blind.”

  He ignored her and with another deep breath tried to explain. “Ye wee terror, ye are a verra rich lass. Your mother left ye an inheritance that ye can only collect when ye’re properly wed.”

  She gawped at him. “We’re rich?” she asked, then frowned. “We dinna act rich. I’ve mended far more stockings than a rich person should have to.”

  “We are not rich,” he clarified. “Ye are. And only when ye’re married. Properly,” he added with an eyeroll.

  “Wha
t does that mean?” she asked, turning to him and shaking his arm.

  “Hell if I even know,” he admitted. “It’s why I’ve arranged for ye to have a chaperone. A proper English woman who has experience with brats like yourself. She shall know how to get around the gentry and all their rules.”

  Catie grimaced at that pronouncement, and in truth, he’d been keeping it from her. Her mother’s sister had suggested it during their correspondence since she mostly lived at her country residence and admitted to being quite terrified to take Catie about the city on her own. She’d sent him a reference and offered to meet the young lady before he hired her, and now it was all set up.

  “Ye’ll stay with me at my Aunt Amberly’s house?” she asked hopefully, clearly not liking the idea of staying alone with strangers.

  He rolled his shoulders and looked out the window, unable to look her in the eye in case she started to tear up. He could not handle even the hint of a tear and she knew it. “No, I shall stay at an inn so I dinna embarrass ye,” he said, trying to keep his reasons light. He hadn’t in fact been invited to stay at the Amberly’s house.

  “Ye could never embarrass me,” Catie said indignantly.

  “That sounds like a challenge,” Quinn said. “It will be better if ye learn to be on your own. And ye’ll have the chaperone. Miss Burnet I think her name is.”

  “Ugh, the chaperone. I’ll bet she’s a dried up spinster who hits me.”

  Quinn didn’t know much about the lady he’d hired, only that she was well educated and had a solid reputation for her charges making good matches. He very much hoped she could hold her own against Catie’s strong willed ways. “Ye’ll be respectful to her or I shall be the one hitting ye. Poor lass, having to put up with the likes of ye to earn her bread.”

  “How verra rich am I?” She bounced in her seat with fresh excitement about her new circumstance. “Can I buy a new bonnet straight away?”

  He laughed at her innocence and decided not to tell her the amount. They didn’t often speak of money and she wouldn’t understand the large amount or what it meant to her future. And while she hadn’t been raised in a sumptuous lifestyle, they had all they needed, and she’d never gone without. Well, perhaps she’d gone without as many bonnets as she wanted, but Auntie Gwen would never have allowed her to be spoiled, and there wasn’t much use for finery on the farm.

  “We shall see if ye behave,” he said, which earned him a smack on the arm.

  “I should remind ye of the same,” she said, turning serious. “If I’m to attract someone proper, ye mustna be swearing the way ye so often do, and ye must be careful of your whiskey consumption. Ye shouldna gamble either. And no flirting, even if the lasses start with ye. And try to look smaller. Ye frighten everyone, ye’re so big.”

  He blanched at her words. Of course he couldn’t have expected his reputation not to reach her. He just never thought his own behavior would ever affect her. “I shall be the finest gentleman in all of London,” he promised, meaning it. He didn’t want to lose his beloved sister to her English relations, but he wanted the best for her. “My great size notwithstanding,” he added with a smirk.

  That very moment the carriage came to a jolting stop and listed sharply to the side. He hissed a string of curses as he looked out the window to see they’d thrown a wheel.

  “Bugger, this is going to set us back another day,” he said, climbing over her to get out and help the driver.

  “Ye didna even notice all the words that just came out of your mouth, did ye?” she asked. He paused, realized she was right, and frowned. “I think ye should promise to buy me something new every time ye swear. Ye’re so cheap that might get ye to think before ye open your mouth. And I shall have all the scarves and ribbons and bonnets I’ve ever wanted.” The greedy wee thing rubbed her hands together.

  He raised an eyebrow dismissively. “We shall see about that.”

  Chapter 3

  Lizzie stared at the man and staggered over to grab onto a bed post. Her mind struggled to fit together the puzzle pieces of what might have happened to her. Rubbing her aching head, she decided she must have fainted and someone moved her to another room. Before she could open her mouth to ask the man who he was, Lewellyn Hallifax introduced himself and continued to stand there shaking his head at her.

  She peered at his costume, it was different from the other waiter/actor. He wasn’t much taller than her and he had a solemn air about him. Combined with his head full of silver hair and old fashioned clothes, he looked like a headmaster or a snooty butler. She held out her hand and told him her name.

  “Did you try to follow Julian?” Lewellyn asked, ignoring her hand.

  She blinked at him. “Is that the man dressed like Mr. Darcy?”

  “I’m not acquainted with Mr. Darcy,” he said, completely seriously. “Are you saying you don’t know Lord Ashford? You’re not here on his orders?”

  “Is he the waiter?” she asked. “I never gave him my order.”

  His bizarre costume and his speaking in riddles, the room being different, her headache— all were conspiring to make her want to throw up. Trying to take a few steps toward the door, she swayed on her feet. She sat down on the edge of the bed, which was hard and lumpy.

  “Please, Miss Burnet, tell me if you’ve come by accident or design. There may still be time.”

  Lizzie groaned. “You’re speaking English, but I swear I don’t understand a word you’re saying. Listen, my boyfriend is one of the investors here tonight. Could you please tell him what happened?” She tried to stand up again and felt steadier this time. The name Lewellyn had said a moment before suddenly pinged in her memory. “Did you say Lord Ashford? That Julian? 2nd Earl of Ashford and …somethingham?” she asked.

  “Happenham,” Lewellyn informed gravely.

  “He used to own this place?” Her befuddlement took on a slight edge of anger. Was this some nutjob historical re-enactor trying to role play with her? After she’d had a head injury?

  Lewellyn swallowed hard and grabbed her elbow, pulling her back to the corner of the room where she’d found herself on the floor.

  “He will be, yes. In about sixty years,” he said, as he pushed her between the dresser and the wall. “Please try to get in the corner,” he said. “There may still be time.”

  Her hip knocked into the edge of the dresser and she yelped in pain. She turned to push past him and find Trent on her own, get this crazy old man fired, but stopped at the look of pity on his face, which had completely leached of color.

  “Oh, my dear,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry, but I believe you may be here for a while.”

  ***

  Lizzie sighed and looked into her dusty mirror. The room she’d be occupying for the next couple of months was actually nicer than the last one, but still little more than an attic, a servant’s room hidden away on the upper floor of her most recent wealthy employer.

  She snapped open her tiny pocket watch, the numbers and hands practically needing a magnifying glass to be seen. She had to get going if she was going to be able to meet Lewellyn at the appointed time. And the man was nothing if not a stickler for time. It turned out one of her initial assessments of him had been correct, and he was a snooty butler at the estate where she’d been tossed back in time.

  It had taken poor Lew a good hour to convince her what had happened. Now more than a year had gone by and she still didn’t quite believe it. All the energy she didn’t use to survive was spent on trying to find that damn Lord Ashford so he could help her get back.

  And though he tried, Lew didn’t understand half of what he explained to her. There was a portal or a window or somesuch nonsense (she still called it nonsense even though the corsets digging into her ribs the past year told her it was plainly true) in that house. The earl himself rarely showed up as the portal didn’t open very often, and when it did, you better hurry and you better pray, because if you managed to step precisely in the spot you needed to travel, you might end up in
a time you didn’t expect.

  Lew had assured her that was what must have happened to her, as Lord Ashford rarely came to this time. As for why she’d ended up here, he didn’t have any answers. He suspected it might have had something to do with the necklace she’d been holding onto. He’d given it a cursory look. It might have been from that time, but wasn’t special as far as he could tell, and certainly wasn’t valuable. All he could do for her was monitor the portal and try to get a message through so she could get back to her own time. It was all she wanted, all she thought about.

  When she’d finally accepted what had happened to her, she’d wanted to curl up and die, just go to the neighborhood poorhouse and contract a deadly airborne disease and wither away, to be tossed into an unmarked communal grave. Thinking about what she’d left behind, all that she’d worked for, what everyone she knew must have gone through, tormented her.

  Lew had hidden her away in a whorehouse, paid for a private room and made her swear to never leave it. He came twice a day and brought her food and an appropriate, homely outfit to wear and eventually secured her a position as a companion to a very spoiled young lady.

  Deciding that she was being an ungrateful wretch, Lizzie threw herself into her new job. Having to believe she’d get back one day, she kept honing her acting skills by turning herself into the character of the proper Miss Burnet, who helped young ladies through their terrifying first social encounters and making sure they made good matches with other insipid, wealthy youths. After the first few weeks, when she came to the realization that none of the snobby, judgemental people around her were really real, it had been fun. They were just characters in the bizarre play she’d been thrust into, on which the curtain never came down.