The Mischievous Miss Murphy by Kasey Michaels Page B

averred, giving a small, rueful smile. “You and your Uncle Max. What began as a casual acquaintance has, thanks to my sister’s matchmaking proclivities and a certain, er, wager I entered into with your uncle, mushroomed, I fear, into a ticklish situation for us all.”
    “Have you been drinking?” Candie asked, peering intently into his dark eyes.
    Tony laughed deprecatingly. “Sounds that way, doesn’t it? But, no, I’m perfectly sober—not thinking too clearly perhaps, but sober. It’s simple, really, if you’ll but consider the thing a moment.
    “Patsy, that adorable air-head, has taken quite a shine to you and Max and wishes to introduce you about in the winter-thin ranks of society. Before you become too flattered, however, I might point out that Patsy has been bringing home stray dogs, lame pigeons, and a steady stream of wretched, downtrodden souls for as long as I can remember. Lord, you should have seen her late husband! But that’s another story. Is it any wonder then that she took one look at you and your ramshackle uncle and immediately decided to take you in hand while you’re still young and pretty enough to snag a suitable husband?”
    “But I don’t want a husband,” Candie broke in protestingly.
    Tony dismissed this argument with a wave of his hand before gathering Candie’s fingers once again in his firm grip. “I doubt your wishes are paramount in Patsy’s plans. Not only does your beauty challenge her—she sees herself as pulling off a minor coup when you succeed in breaking a half dozen or so hearts—but I fear she is harboring a notion or two concerning a possible match between us. My sister is an incurable romantic, you know.”
    Again Candie tugged at her bonds and again she failed to gain her freedom. “But that’s absurd. A Marquess can’t marry a bas—a nobody like me. I have no background, no dowry. Besides,” she added brightly, as if her information proved her point beyond any glimmering of doubt, “I’m a criminal, a petty conniver. Why, I could be clapped up in Newgate tomorrow. I’m the least suitable bride this side of the moon.”
    Tony raised one expressive eyebrow. “You want to run that one past Patsy?” he asked facetiously. “Somehow, I don’t see her crying off just because of your rather checkered past. Oh no,” he said, shaking his head, “you would simply be handing her another cause. First she’d turn your toes back onto the straight and narrow, and then she’d throw you at my head.”
    “Well, she can’t launch me into society if I refuse to hoist anchor and set sail,” Candie declared after a short pause during which she roundly cursed do-gooders in general and matchmaking sisters in particular, even though she did like Patsy prodigiously. “Max and I will simply decline any invitations. She’ll take the hint eventually. After all, even if she is a Betancourt, she’s bound to have some sense.”
    At last Candie was given back her hands as Tony rose to pace the room a half dozen times before deciding to make a clean breast of his wager with Max. He described the incident with the workmen and his subsequent obligation to lend his countenance to Patsy’s scheme for at least the next fortnight.
    He did not dwell on Max’s reasons for wishing to see his niece out in society, nor did he see any point in divulging the side stakes for the wager—two weeks of unhampered pursuit of Candie’s virtue—especially since he was temporarily, at least, on the losing side.
    Since Max had never questioned Candie’s decision to remain a spinster, she did not suspect her uncle of anything more than using Lady Montague’s establishment as a birthing chamber for yet another of his money-making schemes. That he would be using the unsuspecting Patsy in his pursuit of wealthy, gullible gentlemen eager to be relieved of a portion of their cumbersome fortunes by way of some bogus get-rich-quick scheme designed around, to recall one of Max’s earlier