Barbara Metzger (13 page)

"And that husband of your'n didn't leave you his army pension or nothing?"

"Phillip Kane left me, period, as soon as he realized my father wouldn't release my dowry since I'd married without his permission. He rejoined the army before Pippa was born.” Or so he'd said at the time. “Oh, he did manage to go through the small inheritance I had from my mother first. I was able to sell my gowns and jewelry to live on, hoping he'd come back. He never did.” He never so much as sent a letter, never inquired about the child or her welfare. “I know now that he never loved me, that he was just after my father's money, but I was too gullible to see it at the time. It galls me that Papa was right. But I was young and would not listen to anything but my schoolgirl romantic notions."

"And then that Kane bastard up and died. Good riddance to him, I say. The Frogs did you a favor, dearie.” Phillip had died, at least in Carissa's heart. Cook poured out another glass. “It ain't right."

Carissa knew it wasn't right, she just didn't know what she could do about the damnable situation. First she went to fetch Pippa, avoiding the viscount, his manservant, and his mongrel. She hugged the child so hard that Pippa protested. Then she bathed and fed the girl, brushed Pippa's light brown hair until it crackled, and listened to her prayers.

"Say a special one for Sir Gilliam in heaven, sweetheart,” she advised, hoping the dear man wasn't spinning in his grave after this day's work. Then she put Pippa into bed early, telling her they had to get up sooner than usual to say good-bye to Cook in the morning. After one story from the viscount's nursery books, Carissa waited for her precious baby to fall asleep, the cat tucked under her chin.

Then, and only when she was absolutely positive that Pippa would not stir, Mrs. Kane returned to her tiny sitting room, threw herself onto the sofa there, and cried her eyes out. She cried for the man who was almost like a father to her, for hadn't she run her father's household too? And she cried for Pippa, who would never know a front-parlor life, unless she had the dusting of one. And she cried for herself.

An inheritance that would make her independent, that's what Sir Gilliam had said. She wouldn't have to keep house for anyone else, he'd told her. With a house and a bit of money in the bank, and letting her father's name be known, and the devil take him, she could be almost anyone's equal. The highest sticklers would never forgive her for going into service, of course, even if it had been the only way she could eat.

No matter, she did not care to reenter Society, anyway, for she could never marry again, as the old knight had thought she would, and that was the only reason for taking her rightful place in the ton. But she would have people's respect. She would have the viscount's respect. He would not look at her as if she were a plum ripe for the picking, not if she were Lady Carissa, the Earl of Macclesfield's daughter, with a tidy competence.

Instead she had nothing. Worse, she'd had her hopes dashed. What was she going to do?

Carissa must have fallen asleep eventually, there on the sofa, for she woke up cold and stiff, with her black gown twisted around her. The fire had gone out, and only the tiny glow of the oil lamp she left burning for Pippa in the bedroom they shared let her read the mantel clock. Two o'clock. Broderick must have come home, she thought, with his boisterous friends, disturbing her exhausted slumber. She just hoped they wouldn't decide to make a foray on the nearby kitchen.

While she was washing her face, still in the same wrinkled gown she'd worn all day and half the night now, she heard a scratching on her door. Carissa was
not
going to wake a footman to carry wash water for the cawker. Hers was frigid; let Broderick make do with cold water, too. And if the gudgeon wanted tea at two of the clock, he could jolly well go to China to find it.

The scratching continued. Standing perfectly still, Carissa pretended she hadn't heard it, even though Cleo wouldn't have made as much of a racket. Then came a hoarse whisper: “Mrs. Kane, I need to talk to you. I heard noises, don't you know, so you must be awake. I'll wait."

"I am sorry, Mr. Parkhurst, but you will have a very long wait. My duties begin at six of the a.m., not until. I shall be pleased to speak to you first thing in the morning."

"But I need you now. I really do,” he whined.

Oh, Lord, had the clunch come a cropper already? What if he was bleeding or ill? What if his conscience was bothering him so much he wished to offer her the deed to this house? Pigs would fly first, but she opened the door a crack. She didn't see any blood or bruises, though the coxcomb did seem the worse for wear. His neckcloth, which had been tied so high he had to look past his chin to see, was now limp and hanging to one side. His Cossack trousers, the latest thing, he had assured her that morning, had also come unstarched and unpressed, making him look like a failed balloon ascension. The hot air must have gone to his face, for it was flushed and damp with perspiration. Either he had the influenza or he'd imbibed too much. Carissa bet on the bottle.

When she tried to shut the door, he put his foot inside. “Dash it, just want to talk, don't you know."

She knew there'd be no getting rid of the rattlepate till she heard him out. “Very well, Mr. Parkhurst. What is it?"

"Didn't want to say it in front of Gordon, but you're welcome to stay on in the same city—no, the same capacity, is what I mean—as with m'uncle."

Carissa nodded, tapping her foot impatiently. “Yes, sir, you did say that this afternoon. And I am considering your kind offer. I shall inform you of my decision on the morrow."

"But there's more. Didn't want to say it in front of the fellows, either. Or the bra—your daughter. Or Cook.” He shuddered. “Reminds me of the knacker, back home."

"Yes? What more did you wish to tell me in confidence?” Carissa thought it had to be something about the will. Perhaps he was feeling so guilty, he couldn't sleep until he'd made amends.

"Mean to say, I won't share you with Heartless."

"Lord Hartleigh? Of course not. He'll be getting a permanent housekeeper of his own any day now."

"Tol-lol, ma'am, we're alone now. You know I'm not referring to keeping the accounts and counting the sheets. It's sheet-play, though, and I don't mean to share. Uncle mightn't have minded his dolly-mop spending time with the viscount—hell, the old man couldn't have kept a prime article like yourself satisfied.” Broderick puffed out his pigeon-breasted chest. “Daresay you won't have anything to complain about on that score, m'dear."

Carissa was dumbfounded. “You dare come here, in Sir Gilliam's own house, and slander him this way? You dare come to my own private rooms, where my daughter lies sleeping, to spew your filth?"

"And that's another thing. The chit's always staring, never says much. Puts me off m'feed, it does. There must be a school for the little nipper, eh? Teach her some manners and conversation. Be better for the chit in the long run, don't you know. And you'd have more time for your, ah, duties, ha ha.” He reached out to pinch her cheek.

At least now Carissa knew what she was going to do. Right after she shoved the dastard's writhing body out of her sitting room and locked the door behind him. It would be a long time before Broderick would be performing any of those particular duties. Ha ha.

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If she was going to work for a rake, Carissa decided, let her master be a master of the art, not a pretentious, pawing puppy.

Pippa would love it, moving into Lord Hartleigh's house.

And oh, how the Applegate sisters would love it, too. Even though Mrs. Kane had no reputation to speak of, there would be tongues wagging aplenty. She was young for a housekeeper, shielded from scandal, if not speculation, only by Sir Gilliam's great age and dignity. To move into Lord Hartleigh's house? She might as well paint her face and dampen her petticoats.

The gossipmongers would all be wrong, of course. Viscount Hartleigh was not interested in getting up a dalliance with Phillip Kane's relict. He wished his household run properly, was all, and his daughter's welfare seen to. Carissa would be his employee, and the viscount was too much the gentleman to importune one of his dependants. She was safer than ever, despite the loss of her good name. Lord Hartleigh had principles. Even if he did make improper advances—which he wouldn't, of course, since she was not one of his high fliers—Carissa was too much of a lady to accept, despite Phillip Kane, the Earl of Macclesfield, and Sir Gilliam's botched bequest.

No matter that the viscount had seen her with her hair down, and spoiled her daughter, and cradled Sue like a butterfly in his hands, Carissa had principles, too. Didn't she?

She was all packed by dawn, staying up the rest of the night to wrestle with her belongings and her emotions. Her trunks could be fetched later; her wits, she needed with her. At quarter past eight, Pippa in hand, the cat in a basket, Carissa knocked on the door of opportunity. No one answered.

The back door was unlocked, so she went in. The stove was unlighted, the sink was full of dishes, the pantry shelves were empty. He needed her. Carissa looked around for the useless dog that hadn't barked, but Gladiator was most likely out marauding in the neighborhood, so she let Cleopatra out of the basket. While Pippa skipped up the back stairs to see if Maisie and the baby were up, Carissa hung up her cloak and took a deep breath. Then she got to work.

When Byrd stumbled into the kitchen an hour later, scratching his armpit, his jaw dropped open. Coffee was on the stove, muffins were in the oven, hot water was raising steam, and a bouquet of flowers sat in the middle of a tray on the scarred kitchen table. The flowers were in a pitcher with a chipped lip and glued-on handle, and the tray was dented and scratched, but Carissa was determined that the viscount would see she could make him comfortable, by George.

Byrd was jolted back to his senses when he saw Carissa adding wood to the stove. “Here now, missus, let me do that. And you hadn't ought to be lifting that heavy kettle, no, nor pumping the water. Why, the Cap'n will be so tickled to see you here, he's like to burst his britches."

Just what she feared. But what she told Byrd was: “Such enthusiasm is unwarranted but appreciated, I am sure. Would you be so kind, when you take his lordship his breakfast tray and hot water, to inform him that I would like a few moments of his time?"

Byrd scratched some more. “I don't know how soon that'll be, Mrs. Kane. He were up late and—"

He wasn't up as late as Carissa was, she'd warrant, and she wanted everything settled before she lost her nerve. Carissa slapped a cup and saucer down on the tray, the only matching pair she'd found. “Now, Mr. Byrd."

"Aye, I mean right away, Mrs. Kane. I'll just be fetching the Cap'n then. He can have his coffee later.” For a big man, Byrd flew.

Not too many minutes later, although every agonizing one of them seemed like ten to Carissa, Viscount Hartleigh stumbled into the kitchen. His flowing white shirt was open, with no cravat and no coat, only chest. At least his trousers were buttoned, thank goodness. Carissa hurriedly raised her eyes. He needed a shave, and his blond hair was mussed. He looked like a Greek god waking on Mount Olympus. After an orgy.

Carissa tried to recall her prepared speech. Heavens, she'd be lucky if she recalled her own, no, ah, name. “If I come, the dog goes,” she finally blurted out.

Lesley combed his fingers through his hair, not affecting his tousled appearance one whit. “I take it you are applying for the post of housekeeper?"

She nodded. “If you still need one."

Lesley waved his hands around the room. “More than ever. The place needs a woman's touch.” He bent his head to sniff at the flowers, smiling. “Maisie is too young and inexperienced. Besides, I don't wish her taking time from Sue to look after the linens and things. Do you know, the last housekeeper—"

Carissa did not want to know, else she might turn craven altogether. Rudely interrupting the viscount, she said, “I have three conditions. One, the dog goes."

He looked around. “He's gone. What are the other two?"

Carissa realized he hadn't agreed to anything at all. She also realized that she was staring at his golden-haired chest. She licked her dry lips. “Number two, you help me break into a solicitor's office."

Lesley choked.

"I went with you to Hammond House,” she reminded him.

"Of all the featherheaded notions...” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the table. “Strolling into my own home cannot be compared to breaking into a man's locked office, Mrs. Kane. That is a criminal offense. You—and I—could go to jail."

"Very well then, I shall have to go myself. I am sorry I took you away from your rest so early, my lord.” If he was not going to help her, then she was wasting her time, and her reputation. Her hopes thoroughly dashed, Carissa vowed not to show the viscount her distress. She took her apron off and started to look under the table for Cleo.

"Hold, Mrs. Kane. Don't go yet. I take it this has something to do with Sir Gilliam's will?"

"A missing will, not the one Nigel Gordon read. The one Mr. Gordon had was dated five years ago, and I was not mentioned, naturally, as I was not even in London yet. But I just know there is another, later one. Sir Gilliam practically told me he'd changed it in my favor."

"But you have no proof?"

"Without the will? Of course not. But I have thought about it all night, and I do not believe that Sir Gilliam waited until his deathbed to dictate the new terms. He was so sure he'd done the right thing for me, and so pleased with his actions. Besides, he was too downy a businessman not to know whether he'd signed something or not. No matter what they said, he was not in his dotage; his mind was as clear as when he handled all the details of the bank. The will must be at the new solicitor's. Perhaps it got mislaid when old Mr. Gordon passed on and his son took over. That's why I have to go look."

"Are you certain that Sir Gilliam did not mislead you? I know you thought highly of the gentleman, but is it possible he was telling you what you wished to hear, for his own satisfaction? Such things happen, you know."