Miss Randall and Sam scoured the garden for Mrs. Pierce over the next ten minutes. After passing the refreshment table a third time, Miss Randall stopped, her face scrunched with worry. “Where could she have gone?”
“Perhaps your aunt decided to try her hand at solving the maze,” Sam said. Exploring the labyrinth again, especially with Franklin still loose, seemed extremely risky. Was it worth tempting fate twice in one evening?
“No,” replied Miss Randall, quickly dismissing Sam’s idea. “Aunt Hattie never ventures into the labyrinth.”
“Why?” asked Sam, following Miss Randall as she wove through the throng.
“She is afraid of small, enclosed spaces. More than five minutes in the maze would be torturous,” Miss Randall said in a distracted voice, her eyes searching the grounds.
“Did you notice your uncle?” Sam asked, hurrying to catch up to Miss Randall.
Miss Randall paused mid-step, turning to Sam with a peculiar expression. “No. Actually, I have not seen either of them all evening.”
“Did you not arrive with them?”
A small grin flitted across Miss Randall’s exquisite face. “My current residence is a little cottage on the edge of Uncle Horace’s estate; it has been my living situation for some time now. Unbeknownst to Aunt Hattie, Uncle Horace sent the carriage to my door an hour prior to their departure so I would not need to walk and ruin my beautiful gown.”
“That was extremely kind of him,” said Sam, unsure how to respond to Miss Randall’s admission.
“I rarely have any contact with anyone in the family with the exception of Uncle Horace.” Her mouth pulled into a smile. “He writes me weekly.”
Sam tilted her head. “Do you get lonely?”
“Not at all.” Miss Randall patted Sam’s arm. “I find the solitude refreshing although there are moments when I miss conversing with Uncle Horace. He possessed a fabulous sense of humor.”
“I regret causing you to depart the masque early. It deprives you of societal contact.”
“I find your company much more amusing. Leaving this party early is no great loss for me. The Shirelys are dreadful hosts.” Miss Randall leaned in. “To be honest, I already planned to give my excuses long before our accidental meeting.”
“Miss Randall, your opinion of your family, a family who took you in as a penniless orphan, should not be shared with outsiders.” Mrs. Shirely pulsated behind them, her irate eyes twitching uncontrollably.
“Aunt Lillian.” Miss Randall acknowledged the family matriarch with a tiny curtsy.
“Perhaps your lack of manners and education is truly to blame for this show of ungratefulness.” Mrs. Shirely scowled.
Miss Randall narrowed her eyes. “Thank you for your honest criticism, Aunt Lillian. My faults can only be attributed to the disinterest Aunt Hattie—and the entire family—subjected me to during my childhood. Please accept my apologies for Aunt Hattie’s inability to raise proper children.”
A purple hue exploded on Mrs. Shirely’s face as she ground her teeth, struggling to maintain her composure.
Was she irate due to Miss Randall’s allusion of Mrs. Pierce’s barren condition or her improper instruction of Miss Randall? Perhaps it was a bit of both. How often did Miss Randall jab barbs into this particularly egregious wound?
Mrs. Shirely glared at Miss Randall, a silent argument occurring between them, malice glowing on Mrs. Shirely’s face. “Charlotte, I expect you to conduct yourself properly while in public, including refraining from denouncing the family who financially supported you.”
“I did not choose to be part of this cruel family,” said Miss Randall, her hushed voice strained with rage.
“Your mother made that decision for you.” Mrs. Shirely’s mouth set furiously. “Selfish woman.”
“Della,” Miss Randall enunciated acerbically. “Her name was Della, and she was your sister.”
“She,” replied Mrs. Shirely, hissing, “was careless. She left me to clean up her mess, yet again.”
“Just like Aunt Hattie,” replied Miss Randall.
Mrs. Shirely struggled not to physically attack Miss Randall. “Hattie possessed enough sense not to ruin our family name.”
“Is that how you see me, a constant blemish on your good name?” Miss Randall shot back.
“Your birth cost me a husband,” Mrs. Shirely growled, millimeters from Miss Randall’s face.
“I think you survived the scandal adequately, Aunt Lillian.” Miss Randall smirked and gestured about at the house and expansive grounds.
“Your disrespectful attitude can only be attributed to your mysterious inheritance, no doubt. I wonder how you would act if I confiscated those funds.”
“You have no control over my affairs,” Miss Randall smiled sweetly, “and you never will again.”
“Miss Randall, you are no longer a welcome guest. I must ask you to leave immediately.” Mrs. Shirely jerked her head toward the drive.
“With pleasure.” Miss Randall curtsied. “Please inform Aunt Hattie of my departure.”
“Inform her yourself,” Mrs. Shirely snapped, “she declined my invitation.”
“When did she do that?” Perplexed, Miss Randall stared at her aunt, her mouth dropped in shock.
“I received her refusal late this evening. She claimed Horace’s gout was intolerable, and they would not attend this evening’s soiree. Such terrible manners,” sniffed Mrs. Shirely. “It is a wonder you are not a complete heathen.”
“Not unlike your son,” replied Miss Randall with an arched eyebrow, her voice dangerously soft.
“Good evening, Miss Randall.” Mrs. Shirely’s eyes popped from her head. She turned her burning ire on Sam. “You will not repeat one word of this discussion, or I will personally have you cast out of society.”
“Be careful who you threaten, Aunt Lillian,” Miss Randall said. “Your rough tones may offend Lord Westwood’s future wife.”
“I am well aware to whom you are engaged, Miss Hastings.” Mrs. Shirely glowered at Sam. “However, I very much doubt you will fulfill that marital obligation. Lord Westwood’s continued interest can only be accredited to your scandalous behavior.”
“Mrs. Shirely, when I am your better, I shall remember your unfounded accusations,” Sam replied softly.
“If. The word you want to use is if you are my better,” sneered Mrs. Shirely in an equally quiet tone. “Engagements have been broken off before.”
“You have experience with that, do you not, Aunt Lillian, as does your daughter?” Miss Randall leaned forward, eyes flashing, her head nearly bumped Mrs. Shirely’s.
“Charlotte, I heard you were unable to attend this evening.” All three ladies swiveled in the direction of the booming voice. Mr. Shirely lumbered toward them with a large smile, unaware of the heated exchange he interrupted.
“How could I miss your annual masque, Uncle Alexander?” answered Miss Randall tightly. She raised on her toes to plant a chaste kiss on her uncle’s bearded cheek. “The maze is my favorite attraction.”
“Unfortunately, Charlotte must retire early,” said Mrs. Shirely with feigned disappointment, forcing a smile to cross her tart lips. Sam hoped the action was as painful as it looked.
“That is a shame, Charlotte. We rarely see you.” Mr. Shirely flung a jovial arm around his niece’s shoulders and hugged her roughly. He noticed Sam and licked his lips appreciatively as his beady gaze unhurriedly traveled the length of her gown. Turning to Miss Randall with a broad smile, he indicated Sam with a jerk of his head. “Charlotte before you take your leave, you must introduce me to your lovely companion.”
“Uncle Alexander, I would like to introduce you to Miss Samantha Hastings.” Miss Randall obliged unenthusiastically, still trapped under her uncle’s heavy arm. She finally managed to extricate herself from his indelicately familiar grasp.
“Miss Hastings.” Mr. Shirely lifted Sam’s hand to his mouth and slobbered on her silk glove. “It is an immense pleasure to meet you. I must say, you look ravishing this evening.”
“Mr. Shirely.” Sam curtsied, retracting her hand with a shudder of revulsion, the scent of alcohol overwhelming her senses. Mrs. Shirely’s shrew eyes narrowed maliciously.
“Hastings,” Mr. Shirely muttered to himself. He retrieved a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped the top of his balding head absently. “Why have I heard the name?”
“My brother, Mr. Edward Hastings, just arrived home from a long trip,” said Sam, distracted by the numerous beads of sweat popping out across the top of Mr. Shirely’s crimson brow.
“A long trip?” Mrs. Shirely cut in with a snort. “He returned from the grave.”
“Ah, yes. I remember. Frightened nearly a half dozen ladies into a dead faint.” Mr. Shirely chuckled, amused by his joke.
“She is also the future wife of Lord Westwood,” said Miss Randall, glaring at her aunt.
“Well, you have done well for yourself, Miss Hastings, a fine catch, I hear. Perhaps you can give my daughter some advice as she seems to be lacking husband snaring capabilities.”
Mrs. Shirely’s purple hue blackened, her mouth pressed so tightly, half her face disappeared into a thin line. “My dear,” she ground out, “we cannot keep these ladies from their departure. Charlotte is anxious to return home due to Horace’s ailing condition.”
“Of course,” Mr. Shirely replied. “Miss Hastings, it was wonderful to meet you.” He lifted her hand again for a second kiss. Sam grimaced, grateful for Wilhelmina’s insistence on gloves.
“Charlotte, please convey my sympathies to Horace. Gout is extremely painful.” He smiled winningly at Miss Randall and lifted her arm, drooling on her glove alike. His wife extracted Miss Randall’s hand from his grip, aiming to steer him and his silly grin into the crowd of guests.
“Miss Hastings, may I request one more moment of your evening?” Mr. Shirely, a mountain of stubborn blubber, ignored his wife’s fruitless attempts to propel him forward. “You and your extremely fortunate fiancé must join us for dinner within the next few weeks. I am told he is an astute business man. I would like his insight on a proposition I am mulling over.”
“I doubt someone as successful as you would need my judgment regarding any financial situation; however, we would be honored to accept your invitation, Mr. Shirely.” Lord Westwood’s deep voice rumbled from behind, causing a slew of shivers to dance over Sam’s skin. Without turning, she leaned backward, his strong arms entwining about her waist, a happy sigh escaping from her lips.
“We,” Mr. Reid emphasized the word, “decided your tardiness might be grounds for concern.” His easy grin floated over Lord Westwood’s shoulder. Subtly, he moved between Sam and Miss Randall, creating a small space for himself.
Mr. Shirely gulped quickly, his flabby face paled. “I believe I may have ingested too much drink this evening, Lord Westwood, as now I am seeing two of you.”
“They are twins, my dear. That is Lord Westwood’s brother, Mr. Reid.” Mrs. Shirely patted his arm reassuringly. Sam caught her fleeting eye roll.
“Ah, I see now.” Mr. Shirely extended his hand to shake both Lord Westwood’s and Mr. Reid’s hands. “Gentlemen, I apologize for my blunder. I am rarely current on today’s social connections. I leave all those details to my fine wife.” He simpered at Mrs. Shirely. She swallowed a spiteful remark, her countenance resembling a person who bit into sour fruit.
Sam wondered how the unfortunate couple agreed upon their union. Which splendid quality of Mrs. Shirely ensnared Mr. Shirely—perhaps it was her overwhelming beauty? Mr. Shirely’s loutish social skills would run off any well-bred lady. Sam concluded either he possessed an enormous fortune—which by the size of the estate seemed viable—or Mrs. Shirely had no other options. Possibly both theories worked in conjunction with each other to form this tragic display of matrimony.
“Mr. Reid,” Mr. Shirely said, “it would be a privilege if you would join us as well. We would be honored if you accompanied Charlotte. She spends far too much time alone in her cottage.”
Mrs. Shirely’s restrictive grip tightened on her husband’s arm. “Alexander, we do not discuss Charlotte’s current living arrangements at parties,” she seethed, forcing a syrupy pitch into her hiss.
“Nonsense. Hattie’s dislike of Charlotte is common knowledge,” Mr. Shirely replied blithely as his wife fought to curb her exasperation. He gazed at her with surprise, realizing his error.
“Gentlemen, ladies, please excuse my forthright comment. Lillian finds it a great task to keep me proper.” He flushed with embarrassment, the pink hue a complimentary shade to his wife’s mauve face.
Sam offered him a kind smile. “I suffer from the same affliction Mr. Shirely.”
“You do?” Relief passed through his eyes. “When?”
“Just this very evening,” replied Sam.
“What inappropriate thing did you do today?” Lord Westwood murmured in her ear, sending a second round of tremors cascading down her spine. Unconsciously, she arched her neck toward his wicked mouth. He smiled against her skin.
“I made a wager with Mr. Reid,” Sam said, fighting the telling flush creeping through her skin.
“Did you win?” asked Mr. Shirely curiously, ignoring his wife’s renewed efforts to drag him away.
“She did,” Mr. Reid said, nodding at Sam.
“How delightful.” Mr. Shirely grinned, lifting Sam’s hand for a third kiss. Turning to his wife, he finally noticed her attempts to steer him out of the conversation.
“Of course,” he said. “We are keeping Charlotte from Horace. Lord Westwood, Mr. Reid, it was a pleasure to speak with you this evening.” Mr. Shirely bobbed his head politely as his wife dragged him roughly through the guests.
“Is your uncle ill?” asked Mr. Reid.
“Apparently,” replied Miss Randall. “Aunt Lillian informed us neither Uncle Horace nor Aunt Hattie attended the masque. It is unusual they did not notify me of their absence. I would like to check on them before returning to my cottage. May we stop by the main house first?”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Reid, offering his arm, escorting Miss Randall to the waiting carriage.
“I think Thomas is smitten.” Lord Westwood gloated, offering Sam his arm.
“That is a pity.” Tucking her hand into his arm, Sam shook her head.
“How so?”
“Just last night, Miss Clemens confessed her attraction for your brother.” Sam sighed. “I am doubtful he harbors the same affection.”
“Thomas is an unusual gentleman. His taste may surprise you.” Lord Westwood chuckled to himself, showing no remorse for his brother’s impending troubles. As they walked toward the carriage, his thumb discreetly rubbed tiny circles on the exposed skin of Sam’s upper arm. “I imagine Thomas is due for a long season.”
“I believe you are correct,” replied Sam, enjoying the delightful tingles rippling through her body.
“Have you been sleeping in my bed?” Lord Westwood’s voice rumbled.
Sam bit her lip and shook her head, staring into his blazing green eyes.
“Tonight, you will.”