The Passion of the Purple Plumeria by Lauren Willig Read Free Book Online Page B

Fayette stepped prudently out of the way.
    William smiled determinedly at the woman in purple, whose commanding air seemed to imply that she must be the preceptress of this academy. Either that or the ruler of a small but warlike kingdom. William had met rajahs with less of an air of command.
    He sketched a bow. “And is it Miss Climpson I have the honor of addressing?”
    The woman drew back as though struck. “What an appalling notion,” she said. “Most certainly not.
I
am Miss Gwendolyn Meadows.” She said it much as one might say,
I am Cleopatra
.
    Was he meant to know who she was?
    â€œA pleasure,” William said again. He deliberately included both women in his smile. He had one objective: finding his Lizzy. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to enlighten me, it’s my daughter I’m after looking for, Miss Elizabeth—”
    â€œHmph,” said Miss Meadows, smacking the ground with her parasol hard enough to strike sparks. “You won’t find her here.”
    William dodged out of the way, shocked into brevity. “Why not?”
    Miss Meadows looked down her nose at him, a rather impressive trick given that he would have wagered on her being some few inches shorter than he. “Your Elizabeth has run off with our Agnes.”
    â€œShe’s—what?” Who in the blazes was Agnes?
    â€œRun off,” said Miss Meadows succinctly. “Run. Off. Do pay attention, Colonel Reid. Really, it’s quite simple. Your Elizabeth has run off with our Agnes.”
    William was stung into retort. “How do you know your Agnes didn’t run off with my Lizzy?”
    Miss Meadows looked superior. “Really, Colonel Reid. Do be sensible. Agnes isn’t the running kind.”
    Whereas his Lizzy—what did he know of his Lizzy? He’d had a letter a month for ten years, just that. Twelve letters a year times ten, with an extra on his birthday . . .
    William pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Forgive me, ladies. I’ve just come six months by ship, five days by coach, and the rest of the way uphill by foot. My wits are not my own. Are you telling me that my daughter has gone missing?”
    Mlle. de Fayette opened her mouth, but Miss Meadows got in first. “That is precisely what we have been telling you. Elizabeth and Agnes have both gone missing. Presumably with each other. Theoretically of their own volition. Does that answer your question?”
    Hardly. William’s head was reeling with questions. He settled for the most pressing. “What’s been done to find them?”
    Miss Meadow’s lips pursed. “Precious little. Come with me.” She jerked her head down the hall. “You’ll want to speak to Miss Climpson—for what good it will do you.”
    She set off down the hall, her skirts swishing around her legs, heels tapping briskly against the wood floor.
    William hurried after her, his wet boots squelching. “Are you employed at the school, then?” he asked dubiously. Somehow, he’d got the idea that schoolmistresses were meant to be quiet, downtrodden creatures.
    â€œQuiet” and “downtrodden” were not terms one could apply to Miss Meadows.
    â€œMerciful heavens, no! You couldn’t pay me to be a teacher.” The idea was horrifying enough to stop Miss Meadows in her tracks. Drawing herself up, she regarded him with great dignity. “I am Agnes’s older sister’s chaperone.”
    It sounded like a French exercise. “I see,” said William, although he didn’t see at all. “And that makes you . . .”
    â€œThe only one with any common sense in this debacle.” Miss Meadows stopped in front of the open door of a drawing room decorated in shades of blue. It was adorned with an alarming variety of porcelain knickknacks,