Miss Wonderful (The Dressmakers 1)

“My father is quite well,” Alistair said. “I should make clear, however, that he is in no way involved in Lord Gordmor’s project.”

“I well remember the canal mania of the last century,” Oldridge said. “They built the Cromford Canal then, and commenced the Peak Forest. Mr. Carsington, may I press you to try a morsel of curry?”

Alistair was prepared to extol the benefits of Gordmor’s canal at length. Still, he was at dinner where, normally, one did not discuss business. He’d introduced the topic only because Miss Oldridge had suggested this would be his best opportunity to make his case.

It was not so hard to set aside business temporarily, however. Alistair was glad of the reminder to savor the food, which was far superior, in both variety and quality of preparation, to what one might reasonably expect so far from civilization.

The cook, clearly, was a treasure. Even the butler and footmen would have passed muster in any great London household, including Hargate House.

What a pity that a woman who otherwise staffed her house so well could not find a lady’s maid capable of preventing fashion atrocities.

“How did you come to be interested in canals?” Mr. Oldridge asked him. “Admittedly the engineering feats are fascinating. Yet you do not strike me as a Cambridge man.”

“Oxford,” Alistair said.

Of the two ancient universities, Cambridge was deemed to offer somewhat greater scope to those of a mathematical or scientific bent.

“Smith was self-taught, I believe,” his host said ruminatively. “What do you know of fossils?”

“Apart from the Oxford dons?” Alistair said.

He heard a strangled giggle and looked across the table, but not quickly enough.

Miss Oldridge wore a sober expression in keeping with her sober attire.

Her gaze shifted from her father to Alistair.

“Papa refers to Mr. William Smith’s Strata Identified by Organized Fossils,” she said. “Are you familiar with the work?”

“It sounds far too deep for me,” Alistair said, and watched her bite back a smile. She was not immune to feeble puns, then. “I’m no scholar.”

“But it concerns mineral deposits,” she said. “I should have thought…” Her brow wrinkled, much more prettily than her father’s did. “It must have been Mr. Smith’s geological map you used, then.”

“For the canal route?” Alistair said.

“To determine whether it was worthwhile to drill for coal in an area that is all but inaccessible.” She tipped her head to one side and studied Alistair as though he were a fossil in dire need of organizing. “England has coal nearly everywhere, but in some places it is difficult and prohibitively expensive either to get to or to transport,” she said. “You must have had good reason to believe the coal measures on Lord Gordmor’s property were worth so much effort. Or did you simply begin drilling, without considering the practicalities?”

“The Peak is known to be rich in mineral wealth,” Alistair said. “Lord Gordmor was bound to find something worth the trouble—lead, limestone, marble, coal.”

“Lord Gordmor? But did you not say you were a partner—‘acquainted with every detail,’ were your words, I think.”

“We’ve been partners since November,” he said. “He started the mining operation earlier, not long after returning from the Continent.”

The fact was, Gordmor had returned from war to find his finances in alarming disarray. He could not even afford the upkeep of his Northumberland estate. His bailiff had advised him to explore the Derbyshire property, and desperate, Gordy had drilled for coal.

Alistair, however, had no intention of disclosing his friend’s personal affairs to an inquisitive young lady—or anyone else for that matter.

“I see.” Miss Oldridge lowered her gaze to her plate. “Then you were both with the Duke of Wellington. But you’re the one who’s famous. Even here, in the wilds of Derbyshire, everyone has heard of you.”

Alistair’s face grew hot. He didn’t know whether she referred to Waterloo or the Episodes of Stupidity. Both matters were for the most part public knowledge, unfortunately. He ought to be indifferent by now to the spectacle of his past rearing its head, it happened so often. But he wasn’t indifferent, and he did wish the tales had not traveled quite so far.

“You bear a strong resemblance to Lord Hargate,” Mr. Oldridge said. “He has a great many sons, has he not?”

Relieved at the turn of subject, Alistair admitted to having four brothers.

“Some will say that is not a great many,” Mr. Oldridge said. “Our unfortunate King has sired fifteen children.”

King George III had been for some years completely insane, and thus unfit to handle affairs of state. As a consequence, his eldest son—who, while not insane, would not win any prizes for rational behavior—currently reigned as Prince Regent.

“One might wish our unfortunate monarch had sired fewer children, of better quality,” Miss Oldridge said. “Lord and Lady Hargate produced only five boys—yet two are paragons, and one is a famous Waterloo hero. I daresay your younger brothers will prove themselves equally remarkable as they mature.”

“You seem to know a great deal about my family, Miss Oldridge,” Alistair said.

“As does everyone in Derbyshire,” she said. “Yours is one of the county’s oldest families. Your father is reputed to be the real power in the House of Lords. Your older brothers have involved themselves in several admirable causes. All the London papers provided extensive accounts of your battlefield exploits, and the local ones devoted oceans of ink to the subject. Even had I somehow contrived to miss your name in print, I could not remain in ignorance. For a time, you were mentioned in every letter I received from friends and family members in London.”

Alistair winced inwardly. He’d been involved in barely two days’ fighting. He’d been so raw it was a wonder he hadn’t shot his own nose off. Why the papers chose to lionize him was a mystery, and an infuriating one at that.

His leg commenced a set of spasms. “That is old news,” he said in the chilling drawl that always ended discussion of the subject.

“Not hereabouts,” Miss Oldridge said. “I recommend you prepare to endure the admiration of the population.”

His frigid tone affected her not a whit. Her cheerful one put him on the alert.

He knew—better than many men, in fact—that a woman’s speech could be fraught with hidden meanings bearing no discernible resemblance to the spoken words. He did not always know what a woman meant, but he was usually aware that she meant more than she said, and that the “more” was, more often than not, trouble.

He sensed trouble at present, was aware it might at any moment spring out at him from the darkness of her mind, but couldn’t perceive what it was.

What he could perceive was her sad excuse for a coiffure coming apart. A cluster of coppery curls had fallen out of the roll and dangled at her neck. Atop her head, curls sprang out singly and in clumps. He watched her push one long tendril out of her face and behind her ear.

It was a gesture a woman might make after she’d undressed and taken down her hair…or upon rising from her pillows in the morning…or after lovemaking.

She wasn’t supposed to do it at the dinner table. She was supposed to arrive there properly coifed and dressed and in perfect order. She wasn’t supposed to be tumbling all to pieces, as though she’d been recently ravished.

Alistair told himself to ignore it and brace for trouble. He tried to attend to his meal, but his appetite was gone. He was too aware of her—the fetching gesture, the disorderly curls—and a tension in the air. Even when he looked or turned his mind elsewhere, he couldn’t shed his consciousness of her.

Clearly, his host discerned nothing amiss but went on steadily eating, a contented if distant look on his face. It was fortunate he did so much walking and climbing, for the botanist ate enough for any two large men.

Mr. Oldridge talked about experiments with tulips durin

g the remainder of the meal. Finally, Miss Oldridge departed, leaving the men to their port and allowing Alistair to put what was out of sight out of mind.

He fixed his mind on business and commenced making his case for the canal.

While he talked, his host contemplated the chandelier. Still, he must have heard something, because at the end of Alistair’s presentation, the botanist said, “Yes, well, I do see your point, but it’s complicated, you see.”

“Canals are rarely simple matters,” Alistair said. “When one is obliged to use other people’s land, one must be prepared to accommodate and compensate them, and each party’s requirements are bound to be different.”

“Yes, yes, but it is very like the tulip experiment,” said his host. “Without you apply the Farina Fecundens, they will not bear seed. It is explained in Bradley’s account, but Miller made similar experiments. You will not find the account in every edition of the Gardener’s Dictionary. I will lend you one of my copies, and you may read it for yourself.”

Following this incomprehensible response, Mr. Oldridge proposed they rejoin Mirabel, who would be awaiting them in the library.

Alistair begged to be excused. It was growing late and he must return to his hotel.

“But you must stay the night,” Mr. Oldridge said. “You cannot travel all that way in the dark. The road, I am sorry to say, can be difficult, even in broad day.”

Yes, and that is why you need a canal! Alistair wanted to shout.

Since he wanted to, a retreat, clearly, was in order.

At any rate, he needed to think rationally, which meant he must get away. Rational thinking was next to impossible in Miss Oldridge’s vicinity.

Matters here were not at all as he and Gordy had supposed. What, precisely, the trouble was, Alistair couldn’t say. At present he knew only that both Mr. and Miss Oldridge had an uncanny ability to rattle him, which, as Gordy had remarked, was exceedingly difficult.

Alistair was not high-strung. He might become emotional about women, but his nerves were steady, perhaps to a fault. A jumpier man, he was sure, could not possibly have landed in so many scrapes, because such a man would have hesitated and thought, at least once if not twice.

At present, Alistair’s nerves showed alarming signs of fraying.