Barbara Metzger (5 page)

His horses? This wasn’t good for her tenuous hold on her sanity! In two minutes her remaining wits were going to shatter in a million pieces, a million frozen pieces. She handed up her suitcase, then eyed with uncertainty the high wheels, high steps, and high seat of the sporting vehicle.

“Your hand, miss.”

So she put her hand in his gloved one, trying not to wince at the pressure on the blister there, then she was flying through the air, damp skirts and fluttering petticoats and all, onto the seat next to her benefactor, who was even more handsome close up. He had blond curls under his beaver hat, and blue eyes, she thought. A scar on his cheek, following the line of his jaw, gave him a raffish air, magnified when his white teeth flashed her a sudden grin. Oh dear. “We are going to Lady Rotterdean’s, aren’t we?”

Chapter Five

High morals might be cold comfort, but this was worse, having an unprepossessing chit shrink from his helping hand. This dratted woman distrusted him for something he hadn’t even thought of doing, hadn’t done in the past, wouldn’t do in the future, and surely not with some frostbitten, frumpish female. What, did she think he was slavering after her red, wind-roughened cheeks and chapped lips, or her shapeless, bundled body that had about as much weight to it as a weed? He couldn’t even see what color eyes she had in the shadow of the hood, nor if she had any hair at all. The only recommendation Courtney found, in fact, was that her nose wasn’t dripping. “Yes, miss,” he said through clenched teeth, “we are going to Rotterdean House. That’s it, straight ahead.”

The place he indicated was immense. Immense and very, very dark.

“Surely they cannot all be sleeping?” Kathlyn worried out loud.

Courtney worried louder. “Blast, it’s worse. The knocker’s off the door.” He drove around to the service entry, praying that no one could see Courtney Choate, Viscount Chase, delivering a serving girl like a parcel.

The watchman who peered out at the carriage recognized Quality instantly, of course, even if he couldn’t make out the crest in the swirling snow. Otherwise he wouldn’t have opened the door at all, not for some trollop come knocking on honest folks’ doors. “What’s that you’re wanting then?” he called to the gentleman, but it was Kathlyn who answered, out of breath from trying not to tangle her skirts or bare her stockings as she climbed down from the curricle, without assistance.

“I’m Kathlyn Partland, the new governess. I was delayed.”

The watchman spit into the snow, not far from Kathlyn’s feet. “I can see you was.”

Kathlyn could feel her cheeks growing warm with a blush, amazing actually, since she hadn’t been able to feel an inch of skin anywhere in the last hour. “I did send a message to Lady Rotterdean explaining my plight.”

“Well, you’re too late. The fambly has packed up and gone to the country.”

“But... but what about my position?”

“Her nibs said if you wasn’t responsible enough to get here on time, you wasn’t to be trusted with her babies. In a rare snit, she was, having to look after the hell-spawn herself for an hour, till the agency could send someone over.”

Kathlyn’s knees were turning to macaroni. Overcooked macaroni. “Perhaps if I follow them, she’ll reconsider.” And perhaps Kathlyn’s few coins would see her there. Another coach ride? She couldn’t quite decide which circle of purgatory this situation resembled, possibly the one reserved for ax murderers and assassins. “I can see about it in the morning,” she added hopefully.

The man spit again. “Can’t stay here, I’m sure. ‘Twould be my job, giving houseroom to the likes of you.” He jerked his head toward the carriage, where Lord Chase was sorely tempted to use the whip yet again.

Courtney pulled the unfortunate female and her baggage up into the curricle once more, feeling dreadful at her obvious exhaustion and her quivering lip. Just to make conversation till he could get her away from the rum go at Lady Rotterdean’s, he said, “I’m sorry I cannot be of more assistance.” He gestured toward his cane, on the seat between them. “Bum leg, don’t you know.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, but whether for his war wound or for thinking him an unmannered oaf for not handing her up and down, he couldn’t tell. Her head was bent, covered with that enormous hood, so he couldn’t see if she was crying. He prayed not.

“Don’t be sorry. It’s a good excuse not to dance with the wallflowers.”

Kathlyn was so embarrassed, she couldn’t look at him, no matter his efforts. “That awful man will tell Lady Rotterdean—”

“You didn’t want to work there anyway.”

“Of course I did. It was an excellent position.”

“No, I hear the children are such monsters. Lady R can’t keep a governess for a week.”

She sniffed. “I couldn’t keep my job for a day.”

Lud, he swore, now the drab was going to turn into a watering pot. The sooner he got her out of his vehicle, the better. “Have you relatives in Town? A friend to stay with while you look for another post?”

“I... I have an address that a nice lady at the coaching inn gave me. She said it was a respectable boarding-house, if I ever needed one, with reasonable rates.” Kathlyn fumbled with the strings of her reticule, but her fingers were too stiff. They might thaw enough by April to untie the ribbons, she thought. For now she tried to recall the direction. “I believe it was Mrs. McCrory’s, on Half Moon Street.”

The tired horses still almost managed to rear in their traces, Courtney jerked so hard on the reins.

“You cannot go there.”

His authoritarian tone made Kathlyn sit up straighter. “Excuse me?”

“It’s out of the question. No place for you at all. I’d sooner take you home with me to—”

Kathlyn gasped. “Stop the carriage this instant. I am getting out.”

He looked over to see her starting to descend,
with
the rig still moving. One hand firmly on the reins, he grabbed the handle of her suitcase with the other so she couldn’t leave. “What, are you daft besides?”

“Besides what?” she snapped back.

“Besides as green as a new-hatched tadpole. I am not letting you go to Mother McCrory’s.”

“You
are not giving me orders, sir.”

Courtney shook his head. “I am sorry, Miss, ah, Partland. I suppose I am too used to doing just that. Let me start over. Mrs. McCrory’s is not quite as respectable as you seem to believe.”

Yes, but it was the only place Kathlyn knew, and who was he to speak of respectability? “My lord, you have been very kind, and I do appreciate your concern. However, I am one and twenty, and have to make my own way in the world. If you will not take me to Half Moon Street, I can walk, I’m sure.”

The viscount took a deep breath, wishing for perhaps the thousandth time that he weren’t quite so committed to his own notions of honor. If he weren’t a gentleman, by his own definition, he’d dump this plaguish female in the nearest snowbank and get himself and his horses out of the weather. Instead he nodded. “Half Moon Street it is. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Well, there were lights. And carriages, and music, and top-hatted gentlemen conversing on the sidewalk. “You warned me.”

“What was that, Miss Partland? You wish to be taken closer to the front door? I didn’t quite catch your comment.”

“You warned me, you odious man. But you could have mentioned that it was a ... a ...”

He saved her blushes. “Would you have believed me?”

“The woman at the Swan seemed so pleasant, so helpful.”

“She was most likely posted there entirely for that purpose, to lure country girls into a life of— But that’s irrelevant, miss. It’s been a long day.”

A long day? If he only knew! Kathlyn’s choked-off groan served to confirm his assessment, for her companion continued: “If my mother were in Town, I’d consign you to her care on the instant. Since that is not possible, however, may I offer you temporary lodging at a small place in Kensington with my—”

“No.” Kathlyn knew all about gentlemen of the first stare and their small houses on London’s outskirts. She might be born yesterday, but it wasn’t under a cabbage leaf. The vicar’s wife had given her plenty of warnings. And she read books. “That is, no, thank you. But if your mother were in London, where would she stay?”

“Why, at Choate House, naturally.”

“No, I mean a hotel. A proper hotel.” Kathlyn thought her finances could withstand one night at a tonnish establishment. She didn’t think her nerves could withstand another setback.

His mother would stay with any of a hundred relations and friends, never in a rented room. “If Mother did find herself at point non plus, I suppose she’d select the Clarendon. But really, miss, you’ll do better in Kensington with Mrs. Dawson.”

Share a house with him and his mistress? This was worse than anything the vicar’s wife had mentioned. “The Clarendon, please.”

He sighed. “I don’t suppose it would help if I said I was one of the most trustworthy gentlemen in Town? That I have no designs on your virtue? You can ask practically anyone, blast it—begging your pardon. And Mrs. Dawson will certainly vouch for me.”

Her narrowed eyes and stiffened chin told him she was recalling tales about the spider and the fly, the fox and the hen, the big, bad wolf. Him? He sighed again. “The Clarendon.”

He pulled up at the canopied walkway. A footman in scarlet livery and wig came to assist Miss Partland down, while the majordomo held the carved front door. A groom ran up to lead the horses away. “No, only the lady will be staying.”

Not at the Clarendon, she wouldn’t. A single female, one bag, no maid, with a regular Goer for escort, could take her business elsewhere.

“I know, you warned me.” Kathlyn held her hand out for a lift up, not feeling the blister anymore, not feeling her hand anymore. The footman had disappeared; Kathlyn didn’t know what she would have done if her handsome gentleman had disappeared, too. He was a rake, but he was the only solid ground in this sea of catastrophes. Of course, she didn’t know what she was to do now anyway. “Perhaps another hotel? If you were to leave me at the corner where no one could think I was with you?”

“No, no more. I am tired and cold and hungry. You look done in, too, and my horses should be stabled.”

Kathlyn did note, through her frantic mental search for a solution, that he’d put her welfare ahead of his horses’ this time. At this point she was regretting not letting Mr. Dimm and Ripken cart her off to Bow Street. Could she ask his lordship to take her back to the Swan Inn?

“No. It’s Kensington or nothing, and no, I shan’t stop for you to get down. I refuse to have your death on my hands. Or worse.”

It was the worse that worried Kathlyn. She contemplated jumping out of the curricle, but a manacle-like grasp on her wrist convinced her otherwise.

“No, by Zeus, you’ll stay put, you troublesome wench. I’ve never seen such a one for stubborn, irrational behavior. If you’ve naught but feathers in your cockloft, it’s no wonder you couldn’t do better than a position at Rottenbottom’s.”

That didn’t sound like the seduction scene from any novel she’d ever read, so Kathlyn relaxed.

Courtney didn’t notice. He was aggravated beyond belief, having been reminded of his own dilemma. “Dash it, miss, I am trying to help you. Why can’t you trust me?”

Kathlyn mustered what energy she could to answer such a nonsensical query. “Perhaps because I trusted Lady Rotterdean and that friendly woman at me inn. Perhaps because I trusted my father not to die and leave me, my aunt to save me, or the Royal Mail to get to London on time. I even trusted Mr. Miner not to be a jewel thief, so you can see where my judgment is at best somewhat lacking.”

Courtney chose to ignore the bit about a jewel thief. The female was disaster enough without more complications. “Surely you cannot blame your father for dying?”

“He could have made some provision for me first. He could have reconciled with his in-laws. But he didn’t. His pride wouldn’t let him, so here I am, stranded in London at the mercy of strangers. Everyone I know, yes, everyone, has deceived or disappointed me, and now you are asking me to trust a London beau.”

“I’m no Bond Street strutter.”

“Excuse me, a fine gentleman, with his pampered horses and his elegant carriage. Why, for my entire life I’ve been taught that a girl cannot trust your kind!”

His kind? That was almost amusing. Courtney could have been Diogenes’s last honest man, but Diogenes— Miss Partland this evening—was wearing blinkers. And his cattle were not pampered. Sympathy for the calamity-prone Miss Partland evaporated. She was still a millstone around his neck, however, so he stiffly replied, “I do see your point, but I can only assure you once more that I mean you no harm. My word as a gentleman.”

What else but harm could a handsome young man mean for a defenseless female? Then again, what choice did she have? “You have been very kind,” she conceded.

“And Nanny will be kinder yet. That’s Mrs. Dawson, my old nursemaid.”

“Your nursemaid?” Kathlyn could feel tears welling in her eyes, she was so relieved. She sniffled a few times.

Courtney handed over his handkerchief. Deuce take it, the plaguey chit wasn’t going to start bawling now, when they were almost to Nanny’s place, was she? “Yes, my retired nurse. She wanted to be near her married daughter and grandchildren, so I purchased a house in Kensington. I visit her frequently, but I rarely spend the night.”

“You don’t?” The heavenly host might have been singing the Hallelujah Chorus, his words were that sweet to Kathlyn’s ears. “And you really have no evil intentions?”

Hell and damnation, what would it take to convince this female that he didn’t prey on innocents? Deuce take it, he didn’t prey on anyone! And her tears were falling in earnest now, blast it. He patted her back awkwardly. “One leer and Nanny’d comb my hair with a footstool.”

She gave him a tremulous smile that made her almost pretty, from what he could see in the shadows of her hood. “Then I’ll go to Kensington.”

Go? They were almost there, the peagoose. Still, she wasn’t crying anymore, so Courtney decided to let her believe the decision was hers. “Better the devil you know, eh?”