Barbara Metzger (11 page)

Anyone who knew Lesley would have been warned by his narrowed eyes and the muscle twitching in his jaw. “Cosgrove, you would not recognize decent if it came up and bit you on your sottish snout."

"What, are you impugning my honor?"

"I couldn't, sirrah, for you have none. And I would not waste my breath on you; I'll simply take my whip to your worthless hide if you offend me further.” With that warning, Lesley nodded to the gentlemen at his table, most of whose glances did not meet his eyes, and turned to leave.

Cosgrove reached out and latched on to the viscount's sleeve. “Hold, varlet. I am of a mind to call you out. You cannot insult a gentleman and then walk away."

"I didn't,” Lesley said briefly, staring at the other's hand until it fell away. Then he flicked his fingers at his coat sleeve. “Insult a gentleman, that is."

Cosgrove was turning purple in his fury. “Why, why, I will have to issue a challenge for that slur."

"An invitation to the field of honor? I told you, such honors are not open to scum like you. Your abuse of women, your card playing—"

"What, are you calling me a cheat now?” Cosgrove was screaming. Waiters and footmen were scurrying around, gentlemen were pouring out of the reading room and the dining parlor.

"Zounds, do you do that, too?” Lesley held up one hand. “Not that I am accusing you, Cosgrove. I'd never play with you to find out, but I'm sure all these other members appreciate the warning."

Since Cosgrove seemed to be reduced to sputters, Lesley went on: “If you are still thinking of slapping my cheek or tossing your wine at my face, think again. As challenged, I would get to choose weapons. Do you know, I believe I would have a hard time trying to decide whether to blow your ballocks off with my pistol or slice them off with my sword. Be assured, Cosgrove, that you'd never get to rape another half-grown girl."

Cosgrove sank onto his seat; the color fled from his face as sobriety—and self-preservation—settled in. Hartleigh was a master swordsman and a crack shot. Cosgrove's country estate was looking more and more welcoming, even if he'd have to tell his shrewish wife that he'd lost everything else. Of course, if he left now, he might as well admit he'd been marking the cards. And that he was lily-livered to boot.

Hartleigh wasn't finished. ‘If you still wish satisfaction, or still think you can bandy my name around in public, or that of my companions, my offer to meet you at Gentleman Jackson's still stands. Shall we say Monday morning? Harry, will you make the arrangements?” At Falcroft's nod, Lord Hartleigh bowed to the room and made his exit.

Carissa had not seen Lord Hartleigh in a few days, on purpose. She was not precisely avoiding him so much as staying close to the house, for she kept feeling that prickling sense of being watched. And she had a perfectly good excuse for not being available when he called, at the front door or the back: Sir Gilliam's cough had worsened, and Carissa convinced him not to go to the bank for a few days, to recover his strength. She was helping him with correspondence, as a result, or keeping him entertained with backgammon and piquet. She and Pippa did look in on Maisie and the baby a few minutes here and there, slipping into the viscount's house via the back door and leaving as quickly and quietly.

A few times she accepted Maisie's offer to watch Pippa for an hour or so, since the child was not getting out as much as usual, or getting as much attention. The two of them could practice their letters together, thank goodness. Other times Mrs. Kane silently thanked the viscount for Blackie and the books and the games from Hammond House, which kept Pippa happy for hours in their tiny sitting room.

Byrd and Maisie seemed to be coping with the kitchen, Carissa discovered, between cooks. The last one drank too much, the one before that stole the silverware. His lordship would not permit one of the new footmen in the house with Sue because the man caught a congestion. Another caught Gladiator in his bed and almost killed the mutt. But none of that was her problem, Carissa told herself. The house was still reasonably clean, so she did not have to worry over Pippa or the baby playing in dirt—in the kitchen. And they all seemed to be eating well enough. According to Maisie, anything was better than the swill Lord Cosgrove saw fit to feed his servants.

No, Lord Hartleigh's domestic worries were none of Carissa's concern. Why, if she took a hand in his household, people might think she was tossing her ugly mobcap at the viscount. Worse,
he
might think she was just another flibbertigibbet female ready to fall at his feet. Carissa would not throw herself at him, nor give the appearance that she wished to. There was too good a chance that he would catch her, and that was entirely too dangerous for her peace of mind. She'd noted his gleam of appreciation when she dressed for the park; she'd noticed that he held her hand longer than necessary when helping her into and out of the carriage. And she'd known that she was falling under the spell of Lord Hartleigh's fatal charm. Much too dangerous indeed. There were precisely two offers a viscount made to a housekeeper, and Lord Hartleigh had already offered her one of them, repeatedly. Carissa wouldn't be his chatelaine, and she wouldn't be his
chère amie.
If the world were a different place ... there still would have been Phillip Kane.

Carissa knew what people were saying, of course. Mason made sure of it. Sir Gilliam's good opinion of her was the only one that mattered, however, and he merely patted her hand when she put another blanket across his knees.

"You've a good head on your shoulders, my dear,” he said. “I won't worry about you."

Mason also made sure that Carissa knew that the viscount had made a public spectacle of himself, defending her name. He announced it at the servants’ luncheon in the kitchen, savoring the news as much as Cook's steak and kidney pie. In disbelief, Carissa looked to Cook.

"'Twere in all the columns this morning, dearie, as how he and that snake Cosgrove had words. Your name weren't mentioned.” She waved her paring knife in Mason's direction.

Mason was not intimidated. “But Sir Gilliam's was,” he gloated. “Leastways ‘Sir G P, eminent financier,’ was. Set the master back, it did. Told me to call for his solicitor, he was feeling so poorly."

They were all silent at that. Then Cook said, “Go on with you, no one thinks any the less of the master because two swells butt heads."

"Like stags in rut,” Mason slyly added, “over a doe in season."

Cook slammed a mug of ale down in front of Mason, letting a few drops spatter on his pristine uniform. “You watch your tongue in my kitchen, Mr. Mason, else I'll cut it off and serve it to Mrs. Kane's cat."

"Cleo's too fussy an eater.” Carissa was touched by Cook's defense, but she could not help feeling guilty for any distress Sir Gilliam might have suffered. Whilst she was enjoying Lord Hartleigh's company, she'd thought her peace of mind would be the only casualty. She should have realized that anything the viscount did was bound to become grist for the gossip mills. If a rake smiled at a milkmaid, her morals would be suspect. But to be throwing down gauntlets in White's? How dare that reprobate involve her—involve a totally innocent gentleman like Sir Gilliam—in an adolescent, asinine act of arrogance? She did not think much of Lord Cosgrove either. Luckily for him, he was already packing for the country.

Unluckily for Lord Hartleigh, he was at home, already packing ice around his bruised knuckles when Mrs. Kane marched across the street. “How dare you?” she said by way of greeting, ignoring the basin of ice and the bloodied towels. “How dare you let Sir Gilliam's name be bandied about that way? You knew Cosgrove was a serpent. Bullies like him love an audience, and you had to provide it, didn't you? You could have left at the first word out of his forked tongue. With no one to aggravate, he would have subsided."

This was not what Lesley had in mind for his next meeting with the widow. No thank-you for defending her name, no congratulations for routing the rum touch. He shouldn't have been surprised, because nothing about the woman was what he expected. He also shouldn't have tried to excuse his actions. “I did try to muzzle him."

"The way you muzzle the mongrel?” she shot back. “You practically challenged Cosgrove to a duel, by all reports! A duel! Let's ignore the fact that dueling is illegal, for now. What about Sue?"

"Sue? Did Cosgrove call her out, too?"

"You know very well what I mean. What happens to Sue if you get slain in a nonsensical set-to with that swine, or have to flee the country for killing him? You haven't made the least push to see your daughter placed in a real home with a real mother and reliable father. Will the cousin who inherits your title also inherit Sue? Will he look after her the way you would, or will he turn his back on your by-blow? If she is lucky, the new viscount will take her in to become an unpaid servant, a poor relation not fit to take out into company. Lucky? She'll never marry, never have a family, never be treated with respect. How dare you take chances with your life before hers is settled? And what about Pippa? She thinks you the nearest thing to heaven in her life, and you could disappear at dawn. A child does not understand about manly honor or gentlemen's pride. She understands that you promised her another ride on your horse! The gabble-grinders are right: You are a care-for-naught, my lord Heartless, and I never want to see you again!"

She likes me, Lesley thought as the door slammed behind Carissa. She likes me a lot.

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Sir Gilliam was dying. When his physician said so, Carissa made Mason call in another. That doctor shook his head and handed her some more laudanum, for her nerves, he said. The solicitor came, not Mr. Alistair Gordon, who had conducted Sir Gilliam's legal affairs for the last forty years, but his son, Mr. Nigel Gordon. The senior Gordon having passed away last winter, the younger was taking over the business.

"It's a dying generation,” Cook lamented, wiping her eyes on her apron.

Carissa could not help recalling the evenings when she and Sir Gilliam and his solicitor had played three-handed whist for hours, or when she had sat to table, at Sir Gilliam's insistence, with Mr. Gordon and his wife. Mr. Nigel did not so much as acknowledge her presence when she brought him tea in the sickroom. No “Thank you,” no “How do you do?” The world was going to be a sadder place without all the courtly old gentlemen, Carissa thought, dabbing at her own damp cheeks.

Nigel did find time for a coze with Mason, most likely going over details concerning pensions for the staff and addresses of those to notify, Cook guessed. “Sure and Sir Gilliam will do what's right, iffen Mason and the young vulture don't talk him out of it whilst he's so poorly."

Having instantly taken control of the household, Mason was doing his best to keep Carissa away from Sir Gilliam. “It would not be proper for you to sit up with the master at night, in his bedroom,” he took pleasure in telling her. “You do remember the rules of propriety, don't you, Mrs. Kane? Or are you too busy chasing after your nob to recall the demands of proper conduct in a
gentleman's
house? Go off where you'd rather be, across the street, and leave Sir Gilliam to those as care for his welfare."

She hardly left the house, waiting for Mason to eat or sleep or go off on business of his own, though heaven knew what or where. Most of those times, when she tiptoed into the sickroom past a drowsing footman, Sir Gilliam was in a drugged stupor, oblivious to her visit. She sat by his side anyway, saying prayers and listening to his labored breathing.

A few days later Mason summoned her to the master's bedroom. “He's calling for you, won't take his medicine till he's had his say. It'll be on your head if he takes a turn for the worse."

How much worse could the poor man get? Carissa wondered as she stood next to the bed, fighting back tears at the sight of the shrunken, shaking body, struggling for every breath, it seemed.

"Don't be sad, my dear,” the old man said with a gasp, reaching out one wizened hand for hers. “I have led a long life, made my fortune, made the knighthood, made my peace with God. It's time to make my farewells."

"No, dear sir, don't talk like that. You cannot leave us! Save your breath, I beg you, so you may recover."

He tried to smile, but the effort was too much. “Very well, I shall lie here quietly and listen to you for a spell. How is Lord Hartleigh going on?"

So she told him about the duel that wasn't, and the harsh things she'd said, and the servants who would not stay.

Sir Gilliam coughed, as laughter was beyond him. After Carissa held the glass of tonic to his lips and he'd taken a sip or two, the aged knight managed to say, “You are just what that young man needs."

"What, a competent housekeeper?"

"Aye, you're that and more, my dear. A pearl beyond price."

She shook her head. “I wouldn't put up with that dog, either!"

"And you won't have to, Carissa. I have made other provisions."

"Sir?” His voice was so soft Carissa had trouble understanding.

"You won't have to keep house for anyone but yourself and your daughter. Tell Philippa good-bye for me, my dear. I shouldn't want her to see me this way."

"She sends her prayers,” Carissa said, no longer able to contain her tears.

"And thank you for sharing her with me, for the little while. I never wanted children of my own, you know."

"Please, Sir Gilliam, please don't strain yourself to speak."

"Have to, my dear. There won't be another chance. Did you ever want more children, Carissa?"

"Once, sir, but I stopped thinking about it until I held Lord Hartleigh's infant. I am content with my daughter."

"It's still not too late for you. Handsome woman, I always thought so. In your prime. I often wondered if that was why you would not accept my proposal. You should have, my dear. I could not offer you mad, passionate romance—my spirit might have been willing, but this old body would not have cooperated. But your future would have been secure now, yours and Philippa's both.” A tear rolled down his sunken cheek.