Page 1 of Misfit Maid

Chapter One

The sensation came of stark disbelief. But Laurence, Viscount Delagarde was only aware of blankness invading his mind. To steady himself, he carefully gripped the mantel with neatly manicured fingers. Resting his other hand on his hip, he examined the offending apparition seated on the gilded chair at the other side of the fireplace, so boldly confronting him in his own front parlour.

She did not look like the daughter of an Earl. The green pelisse and a glimpse of some dark stuff gown beneath were frankly dowdy, and no female of distinction would be seen dead in such a bonnet. Poke-fronted and unadorned, its bilious mustard hue framed an unremarkable face, out of which a pair of grey eyes regarded him with an unblinking gaze that was, in his present delicate state, singularly unnerving.

What she had said seemed so incomprehensible he wondered if perhaps his ears had deceived him. “I don’t think I quite understood you. Once again, if you please.”

“Certainly.” Her voice was clear and light, and free from any trace of consciousness. “I require you to arrange my debut.”

“You require me…to arrange your debut.” He was aware the words must make sense, if only he could shake off this feeling of unreality. “Yes, I thought that was it.”

“It was.” She added in a matter-of-fact way, “So that I may be settled in life.”

“Settled…” He put a hand to his head, conscious of a slight ache. Was there a faint hope the entire scene was a figment of his imagination? Perhaps he had not really been roused from his bed at some hideously early hour, been obliged to scramble into his clothes and come downstairs, unfortified by anything more substantial than a few sips of hot chocolate, to be faced with an unorthodox visit from a female of unknown origin, who threw at him this preposterous demand. She required—required!—him to arrange her debut.

Yes, he must be dreaming. Or else last night’s imbibing had unhinged his brain, subjecting him to this extraordinary hallucination. It spoke again, rousing Delagarde from his abstraction.

“You are not dreaming.”

Delagarde had not been aware of speaking aloud. “I must be. Or else I have run mad.”

The hallucination looked him over with an innocence belied by its next words. “It is more likely you are suffering from a morning head. Be assured my appearance here has nothing to do with the liquor in which you overindulged last night.”

Delagarde regarded her with rising indignation. “Are you insinuating I was inebriated?”

“Weren’t you?”

“No, I was n—” He broke off, resolutely shutting his mouth. Why was he responding to such a question? He glared at the girl. “Even if I was, it is no possible concern of yours.”

“No,” she agreed, taking the wind out of his sails.

“Then what possessed you to mention it?”

“To help you.”

“Help me?” Blank again.

“To show you that you are neither mad, nor dreaming.”

This time Delagarde put both hands to his swimming head. “We seem to be going round in circles.”

“There is nothing complicated about the matter, as you will realise when you are more yourself.”

Which, Delagarde reflected, might not be for some little time. He began to wish he had not allowed his valet’s disapproving comments to pique his interest. The young female, Liss had reported in fastidious tones, had announced herself to be one Lady Mary Hope, and had declared she would not leave the premises until she had seen Lord Delagarde.

“Why the devil did Lowick let this female enter the house in the first place?” Delagarde had demanded, bleary-eyed.

It appeared that it was the porter, new to the Viscount’s service, who had taken this fatal step. To his lordship’s irritable inquiry as to why the butler had not then shown her the door, the valet became haughty. “The young female having been allowed in, my lord, and taking up a peculiarly intransigent attitude, expressing herself in such terms as no real lady—? He had caught himself up, and coughed delicately. “Suffice it, my lord, that even Mr Lowick did not feel he could force her to leave without laying violent hands upon her. Which, my lord, he was loath to do, in the remote contingency her claim of identity might be proven.”

Which it was not, Delagarde remembered. He frowned at the girl. “How can I be certain you are indeed Lady Mary Hope?”

“Who else should I be?”

“How the devil should I know? You might be anyone. An adventuress…a schemer, imposter—I have no idea.”

His visitor snorted in a most unladylike way. “As a member of the peerage, you know well enough who is who. I am obviously related to the Earl of Shurland, if I am a Hope.”

“Ifyou are—” Heavily stressed. “And if you are Lady Mary, I suppose you to have been fathered by Shurland—or his predecessor. But I have yet to see proof of your identity.”

---