The Mischievous Miss Murphy by Kasey Michaels

around for another subject. Max had assigned her this exercise when she was barely old enough to walk erect, and over the course of the years she had perfected many different characterizations, both male and female, that she and Max often employed to their benefit from Genoa to Edinburgh.
    A natural-born mimic, as were many Irish, Candie could readily portray anyone from a drooling imbecile to a royal princess without fear of discovery, and now, as she stood up and practiced the measured shuffling of a weary pie seller bent over after years of carrying his heavy tray through the streets of London, it did not occur to her that hers was an accomplishment not common to other young females.
    Just as she considered herself satisfied with her impersonation, her eye was caught by the confident stride and neat figure of a lone male just then crossing the street in front of number sixty-three. What a laudable example of the “Compleat English Nobleman,” she mused appreciatively, knowing that her own shorter stature and thin build made it impossible for her to ever carry such an impersonation off with the dash and flair this man possessed naturally. She made a tolerable African prince, she owned placatingly, but when it came to English lords, she limited herself to the roles of effeminate fops or out at the elbows second sons.
    Her attention caught by the well-dressed gentleman, Candie abandoned her lessons for the day and, as had been the case of late, the moment her mind was unoccupied it became peopled with visions of the Marquess of Coniston, crowding her brain with images of the man as he had looked each of the three times she had been in his company. So real was her imagining that even the gentleman in the street now took on the guise of the unsettling Mark Antony.
    Pushing back the curtains, she placed her hands on the windowsill and took a closer look at the man who had just reached the flagway beneath her window.
    “Oh dear Blessed Virgin, it is him!” she exclaimed, suddenly very nervous as she whirled away from the window in the hope he hadn’t seen her staring down at him like some love-struck infant.
    She made a mad dash to the mirror to straighten her hair, once again confined simply by means of a rose satin band holding it back from her forehead, with loose curls falling halfway down her back. She then smoothed down her demure rose and white sprigged muslin gown—an ensemble Max had dubbed her “innocent maiden deserted by her governess and in need of a small loan for coach fare rigout.”
    Her inspection of her appearance complete, she only had time to press a calming hand to her heaving bosom before the Marquess’s loud, imperious knock came on the door. Candie counted slowly to ten before walking with deliberate slowness to the door, calling through it inquiringly, “Who is it, please?”
    “Betancourt,” was the clipped reply.
    “What do you want?” Candie asked, happy to hear how calmly neutral her voice sounded.
    “I’m not peddling oranges house to house, if that’s what you’re worrying about,” Betancourt shot back rather testily. “I’ve come to see you, Miss Murphy, if you’ll condescend to opening the door.”
    “What do you wish to see me about?” she persisted with childlike ingenuity coloring her voice while she held on to her sides to keep from laughing aloud at the thought of keeping the so-sure-of-himself Marquess cooling his elegantly shod heels in the hallway.
    “Let me in, Candie, love,” he hissed menacingly, “else I’ll let the whole building know precisely why and how I wish to see you.”
    He would, too, Candie had no doubt, painfully envisioning the Marquess eloquently or inelegantly—she was not positive on this one point—describing some torrid scene of debauchery his fertile mind was more than capable of producing for her neighbors’ benefit.
    “Just a moment,” she called as brightly as she could, beginning another slow count to ten, then hastily pulling open