The Incomparable Miss Compton by Regina Scott

my lord, outside of the fact that she is nearly thirty years of age and unmarried. I have failed.”
    “Not in the slightest,” Malcolm assured him with a grin. “You’ve told me exactly what I wished to know. There will be something extra in your pocket this month. Keep up the good work.”
    Malcolm would have thought it was the first time he’d praised the fellow by the sly grin Appleby effected. As Malcolm went down to breakfast, however, he had to own that it probably was the first time he’d ever praised the fellow.
    So, Sarah Compton’s servants adored her. He did not know whether that was good or bad. It might mean that she was too generous or too lax in her demands on them. On the other hand, it might mean that she ran an orderly household in which they were proud to work. He caught himself wondering how his servants liked him. He glanced at the footman who was pouring his coffee, but his face must not have been sufficiently composed, for the poor fellow’s hand began shaking and he was forced to set the pot down and back trembling from the room.
    God, how he needed a capable wife.
    As the morning progressed, he began to think more and more that Sarah Compton could be that wife. Reports from his other sources trickled in throughout the day as he worked with his fellow Parliamentarians. From the snippets of information, he learned that Sarah was an orphan and a graduate of the Barnsley School for Young Ladies in Somerset. Her family was an old and reputable one. Her only known relatives were the aunt and uncle who would be Miss Persephone’s parents. She had apparently made a brief appearance on the social scene some eleven years ago, only to mysteriously disappear. It was not until he spoke late in the afternoon with burly Micky McGaffin, a Bow Street runner who was not above an extra quid in his pocket, that anyone was willing to hazard a guess why.
    “Any number of reasons a lady runs off quiet like,” the red-headed runner offered as he ambled beside Malcolm in a quiet corner of Hyde Park where they were unlikely to be observed. “Money troubles, family troubles, suitor troubles.”
    “From what I can learn,” Malcolm replied, “her aunt and uncle are rather wealthy, her parents were long dead by the time of her Season, and her list of suitors is remarkably short.”
    “That only leaves one thing, then, in my mind,” McGaffin said. He paused to spit as if to lengthen the silence. “She went and got herself in the family way.”
    Malcolm jerked to a stop. He seized the surprised fellow by the front of his coat and lifted him off the ground. “If you ever sully Miss Compton’s name in my presence again, I won’t be accountable for my actions. Do I make myself clear?”
    McGaffin’s blue eyes bulged from their reddened sockets. “Perfectly clear, yer lordship. No disrespect intended. Lots of very fine ladies find theirselves in trouble that way.”
    “Not Miss Compton, I assure you,” Malcolm replied, releasing him so quickly the fellow stumbled. “There must be another reason. I suggest you find it.”
    McGaffin bowed. “Right away, me lord.”
    Watching him hurry away, Malcolm shook his head. He had never before felt a murderous rage rush over him like that. It was as if something deep inside him refused to believe anything bad about the woman. More, something was quite furious that anyone would even think anything bad about her. He shook his head again. No doubt he had been working too hard lately. But with the people free from last year’s Gagging Acts that had banned public meetings, and the rising talk of Parliamentary reform, he feared the Tories would move to enact stricter laws against free speech. The fools in the Commons only made things worse with their cries for radical change. If he could only get both sides to see reason. The more that comments were suppressed, the more dangerous they became. Yet the harder he focused on his work, the less time he could devote to other