Barbara Metzger (18 page)

Her job was to take dinner with them when he dined at home, to sit with Mrs. Kane when he took them for carriage rides, to sleep in the widow's bedroom so he could not.

Lesley had expected Carissa's aunt to be a pensioned servant, from her description of the old woman's situation. He did not expect Aunt Mattie to be Lady Mathilda Wakeford, the well-connected, genteel widow of an impoverished baronet. He also did not expect her to hate cats, loathe dogs, and possess a canary that chirped its little yellow heart out from dawn to dusk.

"Another woman and another beastie nattering at me all day? Iffen she stays, I'm leaving, Cap'n, and this time I mean it."

"Nonsense, Byrd. Aunt Mattie is a delight. And with any luck the cat will relieve us of Dickie Bird. If we are really lucky, Cleo will choke on the feathers.” The cat was sitting in his lordship's lap at that very moment, purring and kneading his leg, digging the stiletto points of its claws into Lesley's thigh. He did not stop petting the silky black fur, but cursed, “Blasted cat. Aunt Mattie stays."

Aunt Mattie was full of surprises. The fact that she was an astute whist player appeased Byrd somewhat, and her avid appetite pleased Cook. She declared the infant precious, winning Lesley's instant, unbiased approval. Some of her other surprises were about as welcome as the canary. For one, her widespread correspondents kept her au courant with the gossip. For another, she passed on her vast store of information to anyone in the vicinity. So Carissa learned what the rumor mills were saying about herself, and Lord Hartleigh was hearing about his housekeeper's past.

He'd been having licentious thoughts about a lady, by thunder. Lesley was furious that he was right, that Carissa had not been born into service. But into an earldom? He'd tossed a gently bred female to the clattering crows, and all for his own purposes, if not his pleasure. Lud. And thank the Lord for Aunt Mattie.

Carissa thanked Lord Hartleigh in person and in her prayers for rescuing her aunt from impoverishment when she'd been unable to do more than send a few shillings now and again. She would have had none to send soon, after handing her coins to Phillip. And she thanked the viscount for thinking of her reputation, although he was wasting his time, which he couldn't know, of course.

Thanks to Aunt Mattie, Carissa now realized that he'd purposely set out to give the appearance of an affair between them, a long-standing, fruitful affair. The rides in the park, the walks in the neighborhood, were all to show his involvement with this cupboard family, in a way she did not blame him, for Carissa knew what it meant to be pursued for one's assets only.

She did blame him for the string of sleepless nights she was suffering. Oh, she would have found it hard enough getting to sleep, wondering about him across the hall. Knowing from the laundry that he did not wear a nightshirt to bed, Carissa's imagination alone would have kept her tossing and turning. And her anxious worries over Phillip would have kept her from slumber anyway.

But Aunt Mattie did a good job of keeping her awake on her own. The bed was wide enough for two, and for Pippa when she crawled between them in the mornings. But no amount of pillows over Carissa's ears could deaden the sound of her great-aunt's snoring. Like the new steam engine she'd taken Pippa to see. Aunt Mattie gurgled and hissed and wheezed and rumbled. And then, when daylight was only dreaming of making its appearance, the canary took over.

Carissa was exhausted, in addition to being as apprehensive as Dickie Bird when Cleo was in the room. How much longer could she avoid her onetime husband? Aunt Mattie would recognize him, and then the fat would really be in the fire.

Further, Aunt Mattie was no kind of chaperon. She was a welcome presence at the dinners they now shared, for Carissa did not know how she'd make simple conversation with his lordship, not after that kiss, but the old lady was so grateful to the viscount that she would have served her own grandniece to him on a platter.

Further, Lady Mathilda went to bed shortly after dinner, slept late in the mornings, and nodded off in the afternoons. Carissa depended on the children and her work to keep her away from the viscount. She surely could not depend on her own inclinations.

To make certain she was surrounded by servants when Aunt Mattie was napping, Carissa hired more servants. With Aunt Mattie's help she could train young girls from the foundling home to be proper parlor maids or ladies’ dressers, so the girls could later get decent jobs for decent wages. Since Aunt Mattie's wardrobe was as limited as Carissa's, the girls were taught to be nursemaids as well. Mrs. Kane also hired a strong lad to be gardener. His job mainly consisted of filling in Gladiator's holes in the backyard, so that Maisie could sit outside with the baby on nice days, Pippa could play out of sight of the street—and her father—and Aunt Mattie would not fall and break her brittle bones. Carissa found a small measure of peace directing the boy as he planted flowers and shrubs. The dog would likely dig everything up, so at least the lad did not have to worry about
his
future.

The viscount also added to his payroll. In addition to the man following Mason, he took on two additional Bow Street Runners, one to keep a watch out for the brown-haired scum who'd upset Mrs. Kane, the other to discover what he could about Phillip Kane. Lesley was sure the answer to Carissa's problems involved her deceased husband. Perhaps the alley-lurker was a gambling crony of Kane's, come to dun her for past debts. Or a bloodsucker, here to offer details of the dead soldier's demise in exchange for a fee.

Lesley was determined to make things right for Carissa Kane. It was the least he could do after the grievous wrongs he had done to her standing, even among the neighbors in Kensington. The shopkeepers were less respectful to her, he could see, and the wives made their husbands serve her. Soon Cook was doing more of the marketing, and the hordes of other servants were doing her errands. Carissa seldom left the house, for fear of being humiliated, he supposed.

She would not accept his invitation to the opera, although Aunt Mattie drooled at the opportunity worse than Glad drooled at an opened bottle of wine. They did not have proper evening wear, Mrs. Kane informed him, her clenched fists almost daring him to make the admittedly scandalous offer of purchasing her a gown. Mrs. Kane did not have enough gumption to face down the stares, Lesley decided, and he could not really blame her. What a damnable coil, on top of which she looked like ... like an overworked housekeeper.

Where was Hartleigh's high flier? Mrs. Kane's nonappearance caused almost as much talk as her rides with him in the park had done. Had he sent the woman and her children off to the country? Had he tired of her as he had every other woman? Speculation was rampant, but no one dared ask the viscount himself. The last two gentlemen who'd made mention of his mistress had been issued an inescapable invitation to Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Parlor. The last lady who'd simpered at his supposed unspeakable liaison had been treated to Lesley's quizzing-glass stare, then his back.

One female was not deterred. One woman was so offended by the reprehensible relationship that she vowed to get to the truth—and then get rid of the trollop—even if Hartleigh murdered her. Of course, she wasn't foolish enough to actually confront the viscount; she waited until she knew he was busy with his steward, in the estate office at Hammond House.

Agatha, Lady Hartleigh, knew her husband's son was at Grosvenor Square, not because he called on her to pay his respects, but because that wretched dog of his was in Grosvenor Square, destroying the shrubbery. Agatha would have to listen to the complaints from the neighbors again if she stayed home. She didn't. She went to call on her stepson's Kensington convenient.

The crested carriage pulled up at the front door and a be-wigged, liveried footman let down the steps for Agatha to descend. She turned up her less-than-straight nose at the size of the house, the scruffy boy digging in the dirt, and the gold-toothed, baldheaded butler who answered me door. Without a greeting for the man who'd served the viscount for longer than she'd known him, Lady Hartleigh demanded, “I wish to see Lesley's..."

A proper female did not use such words. A true lady did not admit to knowing the words.

"Daughter?” Byrd was being helpful.

Agatha almost had a conniption. So that much of the story was true. She was so mad that Hartleigh had flaunted his by-blow in front of her friends that she forgot her fine manners. “His whore, you hairless cretin. I wish to see the mother of his bastard."

Byrd took his time answering. “I wish I could send you to her, ma'am, ‘deed I do. The babe is out in the back with her nursemaid, taking the fresh air, but fact is, I don't rightly know where the nipper's mum is right now."

"And you'd be too insolent to tell me. I have never understood why my stepson keeps you on, except to aggravate me. The same reason he does every provoking, pestilential prank, I presume. Very well, I'll find her myself."

Agatha hiked up her skirts lest they touch the floor, even though she could see that the house was well kept, with the furniture polished and flowers on the hall table. She went up the stairs and began opening doors. It was her right, she told herself, nay, her duty to her dead husband, to look after Lesley's interests. Especially as he seemed too smitten to show any sense.

The man needed a wellborn wife, preferably one of her own father's second wife's children from her first marriage. The Spillhammer sisters had been foisted on Agatha when she married Hartleigh, and she saw no way to get rid of them except by marrying one of them to the current Lord Hartleigh. Then they'd be his concern. Meantime, the family name was her concern. Why, she could barely hold her sausage-curled head up in company, what with all the gossip Lesley was causing with his barque of frailty and her brood.

Agatha opened the first door and discovered a well-furnished nursery. The woman had the effrontery to steal Hammond House belongings for her baseborn brat! Agatha slammed the door and went across to the next room. Lesley's, obviously, with new dark blue hangings that Agatha estimated must have cost a pretty penny, money that should have stayed in the Hartleigh coffers. She slammed that door, too.

Carissa had been trying to take a nap. The children were in the back garden with Maisie and one of the footmen, where Cook could see them from the kitchen door. Aunt Mattie had gone to flaunt her good fortune at her old boardinghouse, taking her friends an enormous basket of food and a few candles, with Lesley's blessings. With his footman, too. The house was all in order, so Carissa had thrown a shawl over the canary's cage and a lavender-soaked towel over her eyes.

The new girls from the foundling home would never find decent positions if they didn't learn to go about their duties more quietly, Carissa thought. She'd discuss it with them later, when she woke up. Then her door crashed open.

"In bed in the afternoon, are you, you strumpet? I am not surprised."

Carissa was awake now. A tall, thin woman with an aquiline beak of a nose was standing in her doorway. The female had thick ringlets framing her narrow face and wore a magenta gown with a pink spencer. Her hat sported three feathers and a cascade of puce lace. She had rings on every finger, a rope of garnets around her scrawny neck, and ruby and diamond drops in ears that were almost as big as Gladiator's, and stuck out sideways.

"Who the deuce are you?"

"I am the one asking the questions, wench,” Agatha insisted. “I have only one: Why are you trying to ruin my stepson's life?"

Ah, Carissa thought. Lady Hartleigh. Without getting up off the bed, she replied: “Your stepson's well-being is naturally of importance to me. I am making his life as pleasant and as comfortable as I know how, my lady, which is what I was hired to do. I do not consider that damaging."

"Hah! You admit you're being paid to pleasure the rake! And you do not think that is harmful? Who knows what diseases you bring, along with your bastards. But worse, you are destroying every opportunity the fool has of making an advantageous marriage. No one will join their family to such a scandal. No decent woman will accept his arm to cross the street, much less his hand in marriage! There is no way he can assure the succession, which means some corkbrained cousin will inherit. And it is all your doing, you jade. Lesley should be taking his rightful place in Society, not taking his pleasure in some hole-in-corner affair in Kensington. His name,
my
name, is becoming a byword for decadence. I can barely hold up my head in polite company."

That was likely because of the weight of the sugar-water paste keeping her curls in place, Carissa thought. Or her big ears. Carissa stood up and walked around to the other side of the bed. “Madam,” she said, “you are talking moonshine. Your relative was on the path to perdition long before he met me, and likely at your instigation. Furthermore, no matter what you think, I have been hired to keep house for Lord Hartleigh and nothing else."

"Now who is talking fustian? I want you out of here, you and your brats."

"Do you know, I think it is you who should be leaving, Lady Hartleigh. I could not in good conscience throw my employer's kin out of his house, but this is my bedroom, and I do not believe Lord Hartleigh would expect me to be insulted in my private domain. Please leave."

"What, the rake's whore is telling me to get out? How dare you, you with your hair down around your shoulders in the middle of the afternoon, and your misbegotten brats littering the yard? I'll see you in hell, you doxy, whatever your name is."

Carissa had had enough. She folded her arms across her chest and said, “My name is Carissa Kane. I use Mrs. Kane out of respect for my dead husband, and to suit my current position, but you may call me
Lady
Carissa. And I am,
Lady
Hartleigh, more of a lady than you can ever hope to be, with your jewels and expensive clothes and polished airs. I would never think of demeaning myself by haranguing a servant like a Billingsgate fishwife, nor vilifying an innocent child. And you do not care for Lesley in the least. It is your reputation you are worried about, your coveted place in Society. Well, go find another rich husband to wed, Lady Hartleigh, another title to guarantee your access to the hallowed portals of the polite world. But remember this: Whatever you do, your father will still be a coal-heaver, while mine will still be an earl."