Chapter Twelve

Miranda Sinclair, Diamond of her first Season and toast of London since her come-out years ago, woke up feeling exceptionally pleased with herself.

Rolling over in bed, stretched her arms out, letting her joints crack.

Last night had been, if she said so herself, an unmitigated success. She hadn't spoken much to Arthur herself, but that was fine. Small steps were needed here. She'd have to employ all her charm and tread carefully, but she was up to the challenge, no doubt.

Today was the maid's day off, meaning that the Sinclairs would have to get their own breakfasts and dress themselves. It was infuriating that the wretched woman had started demanding a full day off a week, but it wasn't as if they were in position to argue. She was doing all the work at the moment – acting as cook, maid, housekeeper, and ladies' maid all in one – and they couldn't afford to pay her anything more.

As soon as I am Lady Lanwood and rich as I please, Miranda thought spitefully, I shall sack her without notice or reference. See how she likes all her time off then.

Rolling out of bed, Miranda cast a complacent look at her reflection and dressed quickly. There was no social event today, which was probably just as well, without the maid to style her hair. Tomorrow, though, there was a picnic by the lake. An excellent opportunity to speak to Arthur. Mrs. Langley already approved of the match. That sour-faced spinster, the daughter of the late earl, clearly did not like her, but that didn't matter at all.

The Sinclairs – consisting of the three daughters and Mrs. Sinclair herself – lived in an embarrassingly modest set of apartments well out of the fashionable area of town. It was the largest they could afford, now that Mr. Sinclair was dead and his estate all entailed away to some distant cousin. Every now and then, Miranda thought bitterly of her father, who'd always encouraged his daughters to marry as highly as they could and throw away any gentlemen who did not fit the bill, and not let anything as foolish as sentiment cloud their clear thinking.

Well, now none of them were married, and they were obliged to live poorly in rented accommodations.

Stop thinking about it, Miranda advised herself. Once dressed, she hurried downstairs. The rest of them were already in the dining room, eating. She eyed the meal of rubbery eggs and burnt toast with distaste.

The wretched maid wouldn't even cook them breakfast before she left.

"Morning, darling," Mrs. Sinclair chirped. "I hope you got enough sleep last night. Beauty sleep is important, at your age."

Ignoring the back-handed insult, Miranda slipped into her seat.

"Thank you, Mama. Yes, I did sleep well. Have we money for a new dress, by the way?"

"No, but you can repurpose one of your sisters' old dresses. Carrie's pink satin, perhaps."

Carrie, who was two years younger than Miranda and a little on the plumply plain side, set up a hue and cry, which was sharply cut off.

"Don't complain, Carrie. Miranda is closer than any of you to making a good match. She needs to secure Lord Lanwood if we're to improve our style of living."

"Lord Lanwood? Who is he?" asked Matilda, who was the youngest and at sixteen was set to be a beauty who would rival her eldest sister.

She was Miranda's least favourite family member.

"Arthur Langley, as was," Miranda responded shortly.

Matilda sucked in a breath. "You were engaged to him. I thought you broke it off because he was so ugly. You said you couldn't bear to look at him after what happened."

"I couldn't, but his scars have faded a little with time," Miranda said brusquely, scraping butter onto a piece of only slightly blackened toast. She was sparing with the butter – it was a luxury they couldn't afford to waste.

"Yes, and now we're hardly in a position to be too choosy," Mrs. Sinclair pointed out. "Arthur was head-over-heels for Miranda. It'll take no time at all to win him back."

"Don't be so sure," Carrie snorted. "Men have their pride, and you hurt his. I'd wager he won't take you back."

"Don't say such a thing," Mrs. Sinclair snapped. "We are all counting on Miranda to make this match, so you keep your opinions to yourself, my girl. You ought to be praying day and night for Arthur to make her another offer. And you Miranda do not engage in flirtations with him, leading him on. We haven't time for that. Snap him up quick and let's be done with it. The bills are piling up."

Miranda flinched a little at that, her eyes going automatically to the bureau in the corner, where scraps of paper overflowed. They were Notes Acknowledging Debts, bills, demands from milliners, butchers, grocers, etc. They simply kept coming, and the paltry sum of money they had did not come close to covering it.

Mr. Sinclair had died suddenly about a year ago, shortly after Miranda's engagement with Captain Hawdon had fallen through. That had been infuriating. He was a second son whose older brother had unexpectedly died, leaving him the heir of a remarkable fortune. She had barely had time to congratulate herself on her good luck when he broke it off, revealing that he simply could not marry her now that he would be his Grace the Duke of so-and-so.

It had stung, of course, but it wasn't as if Miranda had loved him, and there would always be another man, a better match. She was older than was comfortable for an unmarried woman, but she was more beautiful and charming than most of the debutantes, so Miranda was not feeling threatened.

Then their father died and plunged them smartly back into poverty. Such was the fate of women, it seemed. Reliant on a man to the end, be it their father, brother, husband, or son.

Or, in Mrs. Sinclair's case, it would be her son-in-law.

That son-in-law would be Arthur Langley, Miranda was determined.

"I heard that Felicity Thornhill and her family are staying at Lanwood Manor," Carrie said, with a light, calculated air, meant to throw the cat among the pigeons. Miranda shot her sister an annoyed look which was ignored.

"Who is she, then?" Mrs. Sinclair asked, lip curling. "No great beauty, I'm sure."

"No, but she'll have money on her marriage, and she's an only child. The estate is all entailed to her cousin, but he's like a son to the family, by all accounts," Carrie picked up another slice of toast and took a thoughtful bite. "Oh, and Miss Thornhill's a very good friend of Lucy Langley. You know, the late earl's daughter. I'd say she's already got a foot in the door."

Miranda shot her sister another poisonous look. "I've met Felicity Thornhill. She is no rival. I'm not afraid of her. I doubt he'll look at her twice, even if she does have designs on him."

Did Felicity Thornhill have designs on Arthur? Miranda wasn't entirely sure. She wasn't a very artful girl, entirely untutored in the way to grab a man's attention. If she didn't know better, she'd say that sweet, stupid Felicity just talked about the things she wanted to talk about, instead of figuring out what the gentleman wanted to hear and saying that. Madness, really. That would get a woman nowhere.

Mrs. Sinclair seemed unsettled now, though. She tapped her white, delicate fingers on the table and eyed her daughters.

"You can't be too careful, Miranda," she said at last. "You are starting with a disadvantage when it comes to Arthur. He won't forget that you rejected him. Even once you get the proposal, be sure to get the wedding done quickly. The fact is…" she swallowed hard, averting her gaze, "… the fact is, the bills are beginning to worry me. We may have to leave this house. I'm sure none of us want to ask our darling cousin for money."

That, of course, meant the Reverend Sinclair and his pious wife, a frugal, joyless couple who'd inherited almost all of Mr. Sinclair's estate, and made no secret of their contempt for the rest of the Sinclair family. In Miranda's opinion, asking them for money would be an exercise in humiliation and nothing more, as there was no way the good Reverend and his wife would share a single penny.

"You won't have to worry about that," Miranda said, with more confidence than she felt. "I'll secure him soon enough."

Mrs. Sinclair nodded, seeming to be reassured, and they went back to their disappointing breakfast.

Miranda glanced down at her toast. Her appetite was mostly gone, but it would fairly be a sin to waste that butter.

Truth be told, she wasn't quite as confident in her own abilities as she once had been. She was getting older, it couldn't be denied, and two broken engagements – plus all the other relationships which were discreetly kept out of the public eye as best she could manage – were not going to work well in her favour. She would have to be careful. Felicity Thornhill was simply not a threat – Miranda would absolutely not lower herself to worry about a bluestocking as a rival – but she ought to be watched and watched carefully.

Eating the toast in a few mechanical bites, Miranda dusted the crumbs from her hands and sat back in her chair, thinking.

She intended to corner Arthur at the picnic. Mrs. Langley was clearly happy for them to make a match of it again, but others would be watching, knowing their history. Arthur himself would be wary. She couldn't risk showing her hand too soon. If things fell through with Arthur, she might not get another opportunity to snag an earl.

With a feeling much like incredulity, Miranda finally realised that at this point in her life, Arthur was the best match she was likely going to get. Arthur. She shook her head, almost disbelieving.

If only Father had lived a few more years, I might have snagged Mr. Carver. Not a titled man, of course, but those things can be managed. He was rich as Croesus, and that's all that mattered.

"One word of warning, Miranda," Mrs. Sinclair said suddenly, once the silence had spread itself over the room like a heavy blanket. When she was sure everybody was listening to her, she put down her forkful of eggs with a sigh. "Nobody likes a poor girl, Miranda. A gentleman can forgive many things, but a poor, grasping girl is a thing of disgust."

Miranda's cheeks reddened. "I am not a poor, grasping girl."

"Of course you are," Mrs. Sinclair said, matter-of-factly. "The world has no idea how far we have fallen, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as I can. Do you know how many doors would be closed to us, if it were known that we cannot pay our grocer's bill? If you fail with Arthur, Miranda, we'll have to look to Matilda to make our fortunes."

All eyes turned to the pretty youngest Sinclair girl, who looked rather like a rabbit cornered by a cat.

"I… I don't much think of marriage, Mama," the poor girl stuttered.

Mrs. Sinclair waved a hand. "Don't be silly, Matilda. You understand my point, don't you, Miranda? A great deal rests on this. Leave nothing to chance. And betray nothing about our situation, even if you think it will help your cause. Do you understand me?"

The table was very quiet. Miranda felt as though a spotlight was shining on her. She could almost feel the imagined heat of the light on her skin. Beads of sweat started up on her forehead, and she swiped frantically at her face with the back of her hand. A sweating lady was disgusting indeed, she'd been told again and again.

"Of course I understand," Miranda said, as lightly and casually as she could manage. No use letting the others see when she was rattled. Carrie would never leave her alone about it. "You needn't worry, Mama. It's all in hand. I have devised a scheme, and I am confident that all shall unfold in a most satisfactory manner."

Mrs. Sinclair eyed her for a long moment. "I hope it does, Miranda. For all our sakes."

Miranda poured herself another cup of tea with a shaking hand. Her good mood was entirely gone. After breakfast she would go for a walk, to give her a healthful glow, and then spend some time deciding just how, exactly, she would conquer Arthur at the picnic.

The first step would be to get his attention.