Miss Treadwell's Talent

Barbara Metzger

Description

Still unwed at twenty-one, an unconventional high-spirited woman finds her affections sought by a handsome, devilishly charming Earl, who is nicknamed "The Ideal" by the ton--for his combination of wealth and looks. Though at first she fights his advances, slowly she forms a heated alliance with him. But sparring with words soon turns into a succumbing passion...

Sujets

• Historical romance

Informations

• Publié par: Untreed Reads
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 0001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611874167
• Langue: English

Extrait

Table of Contents
Copyright
A precious peace…
Miss Treadwell’s Talent
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Miss Treadwell’s Talent
By Barbara Metzger

Copyright 2012 by Barbara Metzger
Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

Previously published in print, 1999.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Barbara Metzger and Untreed Reads Publishing
A Loyal Companion
A Suspicious Affair
An Angel for the Earl
An Enchanted Affair
Cupboard Kisses
Father Christmas
Lady Whilton’s Wedding
Rake’s Ransom
The Duel
The House of Cards Trilogy
Wedded Bliss

http://www.untreedreads.com
A precious peace…
“Then we have a truce, Miss Treadwell?”
“Pax,” she agreed, holding her hand out to seal the bargain. Instead of shaking it, as she expected, he brought her gloved fingers to his lips. “And…and thank you for sending over Monsieur Vincente to do my hair this morning. I shall repay you, of course, but it was very thoughtful.”
“No, I won’t hear of it. I owed you for my boorishness. Besides, it was worth every penny, for the curls are delightful.”
Maylene colored at the compliment, then recalled that he was still holding her. hand. “My lord, we really ought not be stopping here like this, apart from everyone else.”
He sighed, but released her hand after pressing a light kiss to the palm. “That’s right. I am not a rake.”
“And I am not a light-skirt.”
They both sighed. The earl gave the horses the office to start, then cursed. “Dash it, I am no monk, either.” And he reached over, pulled Maylene closer, and kissed her….
Miss Treadwell’s Talent
By Barbara Metzger
To all my new Internet readers
Chapter One
Her mother was a mystic. To Miss Maylene Treadwell’s discomfort, her mama spoke to spirits. Thisbe, Lady Tremont, relict of the late, unlamented Baron Tremont, held discourse with the dearly departed. Or the not so dearly departed. So long as they were dead.
She did not hold dialogues with her deceased husband, since she’d barely spoken to him in life and saw no reason to disturb an otherwise pleasant widowhood with Tremont’s ill temper. He’d been a curmudgeon for his two score and six years; one could only imagine his mood in eternity. Instead, Lady Tremont examined the afterlife with an entity known as Max.
This was not, perhaps, the best recommendation a young woman might have upon entering London’s Marriage Mart. In fact, Mama and Max together were some remarkably heavy baggage for a debutante to carry on her journey through a come-out and subsequent Seasons. Maylene had had too many Seasons, thanks to her father’s gambling away her dowry and her mother’s gamboling through the hereafter. Maylene was of average looks, if one discounted her unmanageable, flyaway blond hair, and perhaps above average intelligence. Her mother rejoiced in Maylene’s loyal, caring nature. Her mother despaired that Maylene was one-and-twenty, and unwed.
Since her mother’s patrons provided the wherewithal for their continued existence on the fringes of Polite Society-nay, for their continued existence, period-Maylene had learned to silence her reservations about Lady Tremont’s pastime. Lud knew Maylene couldn’t silence her mama-or Max.
Maylene was not sure about Max, but she dearly loved her mother. So did the ton, thank goodness. Eccentrics were the spice in a bland diet of balls and dinners and card parties with the same faces, the same interests, the same conversations. Thisbe, Lady Tremont, was an original. She was also of good birth, bore a respectable title, and was without the least hint of scandal. She was also without two shillings to rub together. If she enlivened-endeadened?-the beau monde’s evenings, they were willing to make generous contributions to the Fund for Psychical Research in return.
The Fund for Psychical Research was otherwise known as the household account. On account of an empty coalbin, therefore, the little house on Curzon Street was holding another of Lady Tremont’s ghoulish gatherings.
Maylene shuddered, and not from any spectral force sending shivers down her spine, nor from the chill in the parlor due to the recently lighted meager fire, nor yet the odd trancelike state her mother entered. Maylene trembled because she was forced to hold the flaccid, damp, toadstool-white left hand of Lord Shimpton, without benefit of gloves. Mama had insisted the fabric kept their thoughts from uniting, making the flow less powerful, too thin to reach the otherworld and Max. Maylene wondered if the peer’s perspiration would dilute the aura. It certainly disgusted her. She’d rather hold a dead carp in her hand. Now that she thought of it, that was precisely what Shimpton’s hand felt like.
Lady Tremont’s eyes snapped open. “Someone,” she hissed, “is not concentrating.”
Maylene closed her similar blue eyes and tried her best to think of those who had passed beyond, instead of those who merely smelled that way.
There was a small circle this evening, unfortunately. Two petitioners sat on either side of Lady Tremont, with Campbell, the butler, and Maylene’s great-aunt, Regina Howard, making up the numbers at the round table. Sometimes enough aspirants came to seek their dear defunct that Maylene did not have to take part, but could sit in the corner and take notes for future reference, or research, as Mama preferred to term it. She could also figure how many wax candles Lady Crowley’s donation would purchase, if Mama and Max were able to reassure the recent widow that the late Lord Crowley had indeed reached the Light after being lost at sea. Judging from his past behavior, the loutish lordship was more likely dinner for the devilfish in hell.
Her mother might have one foot in the ether, but she knew as well as Maylene which side their bread was buttered on, and whence came the butter. Max was probably going to tell them that Lord Crowley could not come hear his young wife’s final farewell because he was too busy learning the harp. Yes, there came the faint sound of strings, so soft no one would have heard it, except for the held-breath hush in the small parlor, which just happened to abut the smaller music room, where Lady Tremont’s faithful maid Nora just happened to be dusting the instrument.
“Max says he needs practice,” Mama whispered now, her eyes still closed as she swayed in her chair.
Lady Tremont believed in spiritualism, not starvation.
Last week she’d convinced Lord Applegate that of course his dead father would forgive him for running off with that actress. Certainly the man’s erstwhile fiancée hadn’t forgiven him, nor had her brothers, who were rumored to be out for Applegate’s blood. Fearing his own imminent mortality, Applegate had sought an ally in the afterlife. Maylene had been able to pay the grocer from his gratitude.
Maylene would have liked to think that her mother’s patrons wished to commune with their friends and relations out of a great love for the deceased; perhaps they’d forgotten to express that love before it was too late, or hadn’t time for proper farewells, like Lady Crowley. Instead, she’d come to believe that it was fear and uncertainty and loneliness that sent a great many of them to Lady Tremont’s spirit circles. Miss Treadwell found the séances sad, even if they provided her sustenance. But her mama was providing a service, Maylene almost convinced herself: if the soul-seekers left somewhat poorer in the purse, they were rewarded with peace of mind. That way she did not have to feel guilty about accepting the money. Besides, no matter what Maylene thought, her mother believed in what she was doing. No actress could have attained that sublime smile, the look of beatitude that came over the older woman whenever Max was talking to her, like now. She sat straighter in her chair, as if her mind were that much closer to Paradise.
“Ah,” she said, her eyes still shut as if she could conjure an image behind her lids, “there you are, my dear. Look who else is visiting us this evening. It is Lord Shimpton, come to speak with his beloved mother. Remember, he was here a few days ago, and we asked if you could make contact with the dear woman for us.”
Max usually needed a sennight or so to find the right spirit. The beyond was a large place, Mama told her clients, explaining why reaching their loved ones often took two or three visits-and two or three donations to the Fund for Psychical Research, which was unobtrusively but unmistakably housed in a Chinese urn on the table in the entry hall. If one of the callers should happen to overlook the urn’s label, perhaps in an excess of emotion,