The Mischievous Miss Murphy Read Online Free Page A

a platter lending a certain spring to his lordship’s steps as he genially tipped his hat to passersby.

     
    Maximilien P. Murphy sat in a corner of the front room, sipping from his third cup of tea as he scowled at his niece. Lord above us, he groaned inwardly, it’s a case of April and May with the girl, and I haven’t a notion in hell of how to warn her away from the man without breaking her poor, little heart. Ah, Brigette, my dearest sister, how cruel that you died, leaving this ramshackle uncle as the only protector to stand between your Candice and a bad, terrible world!
    Unable to sit still as she waited for Lord Coniston’s arrival, Candie, oblivious to her uncle’s concern, wandered about the room, flicking an imaginary bit of dust from a table and straightening an already-centered lace doily. She had been up with the dawn, poring over her extensive wardrobe—which boasted of costumes that ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous—in search of just the proper ensemble in which to entertain a Marquess.
    Crossing to peer at her reflection in the glass over the sideboard, she tilted her head this way and that, wondering if piling her hair atop her head would be more becoming than the style she had adopted—the long, white-gold tresses pulled back simply from her face and tumbling down her back in loose curls. Shaking her head, she decided it was best not to overdo things; besides, her pink muslin morning gown seemed to call for this more casual style. She pressed a hand to her midsection as the butterflies that had taken up residence there fluttered once more, reminding her of her nervousness.
    Unbelievable, Max told himself, simply unbelievable. Could this near-hysterical female possibly be the same Candice Murphy who coolly stared down Bow Street Runners and traded quips with her fellow card players while calmly stripping them of their blunt? Where were the nerves of iron that had served to rescue them from endless scrapes when his derring-do had somehow outstripped his usual good luck? A bleeding pity it was to see such a good gamester lose her nerve over a mere man—a real bleeding pity.
    “Candie, m’love,” Max spoke up at last when he could no longer endure her case of the fidgets, “come sit down here by me a moment. I’ve got a story I’d like you to hear.”
    Candie liked her uncle’s stories, which was a good thing, considering how very fond he was of telling them, and she grabbed at his offer thankfully. Perhaps, she hoped, Max’s fairy tale would be diverting enough to take her mind from the Marquess’s visit. Flopping down on the floor beside his chair, she looked up and encouraged sweetly, “Ah, Uncail , is it a fantasy you’re to weave for me this morning, or yet another legend about the great Maximilien?”
    Max didn’t return her bantering but merely reached out a hand to pat her fondly on the top of her fair head. How he loved this child of his heart, and if he had done badly by her, it was not that he hadn’t given his best. Times were hard, especially for homeless Irishmen, but what God had not given him in material things, He had supplied in an abundance of ingenuity. A quick mind, adept footwork, and a never-ending supply of greedy souls begging to be relieved of their gold had served to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.
    Candice had grown into a warm, generous, intelligent person, because or in spite of her uncle’s tutelage, but nothing in her life had prepared the girl for Mark Antony Betancourt.
    “Once upon a time,” Max now began in the age-old way, “there lived a fine, brawny Irishwoman named Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”
    “And why would I be thinking you’d tell a story about a fine, brawny English woman?” Candie quipped, giving her uncle’s knee a small push.
    “Don’t be interrupting, lass,” Max scolded without heat. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”
    He sat back in his chair, warming to the tale he was about to