The Primrose Path (2 page)

Thankfully Angelina’s grandparents were called to become missionaries. At least Angelina was thankful, for she was placed in a school for girls. Although it was a rigid, moralistic type of institution, she was with other young people. The heathen savages must not have been quite so grateful, for they promptly dispatched the Armsteads to their Maker.

The tiny pittance from the missionary fund went to pay Angelina’s tuition, and she was able to exchange chores for her room and board. Of course then she was no more than the servant girl Lena, beneath the notice of the other students, neglected by the instructors, abused by the rest of the staff.

There Angelina stayed until she was ten and six, when Lady Sophie Knowlton’s housekeeper came, looking to hire a companion for her mistress. Lady Sophie wanted someone young, the woman said, to help exercise her dogs. Angelina would have exercised tigers in Timbuktu for the chance to leave the prison of school.

After a long carriage ride, Lena was left waiting in a vast marble-floored foyer, where she was joined by three dogs that came to inspect the intruder. Already nervous about the coming interview, Lena was quaking in her shabby boots at the sight of the unknown animals. She tried to hide behind an umbrella stand. She’d never had a pet of her own, never even been near enough a dog to touch it that she could remember. All she could think of now, seeing three open mouths and three sets of sharp teeth, was her grandparents and the cannibals. No one had ever said, of course, but she’d always wondered. Well, at least her grandparents had died for their beliefs.

Angelina believed she’d like very much to live in a house such as this, where even the animals looked well fed. She came out from behind the umbrella stand and let the dogs sniff her, lick her hands, and lean against her. Soon enough she was sitting on the floor, laughing and playing and getting her face washed. By the time Lady Sophie was wheeled into the foyer in her Bath chair, Angelina was covered in dog hairs and smiles. She got the position.

It was like having a home and a family—romping with the dogs, reading to Lady Sophie, pushing her chair through the gardens or the halls of Primrose Cottage. Lady Sophie’s friends accepted Lena once she learned to play whist, and the servants spoiled her because she made their mistress so happy. And the dogs, well, everyone knew there was no more loyal, undemanding affection to be found. Angelina thrived.

Then Lady Sophie was gone, and with her the life that Angelina had come to love as much as she loved her sweet mistress. Tears wouldn’t bring Lady Sophie back, nor the security and warmth that Angelina had found for the first time since her parents’ deaths. She’d be alone again, cast off from everything she cherished. She grieved for her friend and grieved for herself. Tears didn’t help, but she cried anyway.

Now Angelina wept tears of relief and gratitude that she wouldn’t have to leave Primrose Cottage and the dogs, that she’d have enough funds to purchase a small house of her own someday, that dear Lady Sophie had cared enough to remember her in her will. Angelina had known, of course, that Lady Sophie would make provisions for her pets, but she never expected such generosity for herself, such kindness, such care for her future. Tears fell on Lucky, who squirmed in her lap. Lucy and Lacy were barking, so Angelina looked up—to find her ladyship’s nephew staring at her.

“You have her eyes, you know.”

His brow lowered. “Pardon me?”

“Lady Sophie’s eyes, my lord. They were the same blue-gray as yours.” They weren’t quite, though, Angelina could see now. The viscount’s eyes didn’t have his aunt’s twinkle, nor the tiny laugh lines at the corner. In fact, Lord Knowle’s eyes were narrowed and harsh. “You’re angry,” she said.

Angry? The frumpy female with her eyes all red and puffy and her nose swollen and dripping thought that he might be angry? His aunt wasn’t the one dicked in the nob; this shabby spinster was. “Yes, Miss, ah, Armstead, I am angry that my aunt chose to leave part of my family’s property to her pets.”

“But they were
her
family, my lord. What would you have had her do with them?” She stroked the one in her lap with work-roughened hands, he noted.

“I don’t give a da—That is, some provision could have been made if Aunt Sophie had only consulted me.”

“But you never came to call, my lord. Last summer, was it, when you visited last? You didn’t even spend the Christmas holidays at the Knoll this year.”

“I’m a busy man, Miss Armstead, with many obligations and calls on my time, such as Parliament, my investments—” Deuce take it, why was he making excuses to a paid companion? “Furthermore, Aunt Sophie did not precisely welcome my visits. To be precise, when I called last summer, she told me in no uncertain terms to get out and never bother her again.”

“You shouted at Caesar,” she said, as though that explained his aunt’s unwarranted behavior.

“The blasted mutt lifted his leg on my new boots,” he shouted again, sending the three little mop dogs into a frenzy of high-pitched yipping.

“Caesar doesn’t like men.”

From the looks of Miss Armstead—straggly hair, shapeless clothes, mottled complexion—Corin decided his aunt’s companion didn’t care much for men, either, but she wouldn’t—

“We think he’d been beaten by his former owner. A man, of course.”

“Of course,” he repeated dryly, as though all men brutalized innocent animals. Miss Armstead’s opinion of the male gender—human species—was becoming more clear by the moment.

Angelina didn’t know any men. That is, she knew Lady Sophie’s elderly gentlemen friends and the male servants, naturally, but young men, handsome, muscular, virile aristocrats, simply hadn’t come her way. She’d retired when Viscount Knowle visited with his aunt, respecting their privacy, and never left Lady Sophie’s side when they were at social functions. Females without looks or dowry or connections were not exactly sought after at the local assemblies. Now Angelina was glad, if they were all as arrogant as his lordship. Haughty, he was, and greedy, to be resentful of the poor dogs with nowhere else to go. Still, she owed it to her benefactress to be courteous to her nephew, so she told him, “She went peacefully, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your aunt, she died peacefully.”

Corin was embarrassed. He should have asked, or at least mentioned some words of condolence, in light of the female’s obvious grief. He did not like being put in the wrong, so his voice was gruff when he said, “I’m surprised. I thought the old bat—ah, the old lady—would have gone kicking and screaming, giving the Grim Reaper a part of her mind.”

A smile played about Angelina’s mouth. “And she would have, if she wasn’t ready. But she was content, knowing her pets would be cared for and her foundation would be established. Her only regret was not seeing the primroses one last time, though.”

The flowers that gave Primrose Cottage its name were magnificent, row upon row of red and yellow blooms bordering every path. They’d be out soon, but not in time. Angelina wiped another tear from her eye. “I am sorry for your loss, my lord.”

Corin didn’t know why, but he patted the female’s bony shoulder, then found his handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. “And I for yours, ma’am.” Either she was the world’s finest actress or her sorrow at his aunt’s passing was genuine. No matter which, he still intended to see Miss Armstead and the mutts out of his house.

The viscount didn’t actually need the cottage. Lud knew, he had enough space at the Knoll to house Hannibal’s army, elephants and all. It was a castle, by Jupiter. Then there were his three other homes, plus the hunting box in Scotland and the seaside cottage outside Brighton, without counting the plantation in Jamaica.

Corin did not need Aunt Sophie’s small fortune, either, not when he was already one of the wealthiest men in England. He wouldn’t have turned the money down, naturally, but he wasn’t greedy. He wouldn’t have minded if his aunt had left all her blunt to charity or to her faithful old retainers—anything but her dogs. Why, he’d be a laughingstock in Town when the terms of Aunt Sophie’s will were made public. Corin, Lord Knowle, did not like being laughed at. It did not suit his sense of dignity, any more than having a dog hotel at his doorstep. Besides, he had plans for Primrose Cottage, plans that did not involve spinsters, setters, or superannuated servants.

To that end Corin detained the white-wigged butler after the old man handed over his hat and gloves. He’d known Penn his entire life, so felt entitled to ask, “Shall you be staying on here, Penn, do you think? Lady Sophie’s bequest to you was a generous one, I believe. Enough for you to retire in comfort, I should think, especially if you invest it wisely. I’d be happy to give you some advice on the funds or the shipping trades.”

“Thank you, my lord, I’m sure any advice would be welcome. But I could not repay my lady’s generosity by abandoning her dear ones at their hour of need.”

Corin bit the inside of his lip. “I see. And what of Miss Armstead, Penn? Do you think she’ll take the cash and head for greener pastures, now that she is a woman of substance?”

“I could not presume to guess, my lord, but Miss Armstead has never expressed a desire to be anywhere else.”

“Her family?” he asked hopefully, but Penn merely shook his head.

“None, my lord.”

“Surely she has friends somewhere, school chums or old neighbors she’d like to settle near?”

Penn shook his head again. “Nothing, my lord. Nobody. In the years she’s been here, there has not been one letter of a private nature delivered for her. Or received by her. I do not believe she has ever taken so much as a weekend holiday away from my lady. Perhaps that is why she seems most despondent. Why, if it weren’t for the dogs, I believe Miss Armstead would go into a decline, so devoted was she to my lady—not that the rest of us weren’t, of course.”

Blast! Corin thought. The female would be even harder to dislodge than he had believed, but get her out he would—her and her ribbon-decorated dust mops. He had plans for the cottage, the vacant cottage. Corin snapped his beaver hat on his head and started to draw on his gloves. His fingers all poked through the ends of his right-hand glove. The wrist of the left one gaped open, except for one long shred of expensive, dyed-to-order, specially fitted leather. Corin just stared at the remains in his hand. His gloves, the personal effects of the seventh Viscount Knowle, a hero of the Peninsular Campaign, a rising star in politics, and a nonpareil in tonnish circles, had been put through a meat grinder.

The butler followed his astounded gaze, then hurriedly opened the door. “Sadie likes leather, my lord. She’s not usually loose in the house, but Miss Armstead thought she was pining for the mistress. What with everything at sixes and sevens with the reading of the will, she must have been upset again.”

So the bitch butchered an innocent pair of gloves? Two weeks, that’s what Corin would give them. Two weeks and they’d all be chasing balls in Bath or Belfast or Boston. He didn’t care which, as long as they were gone. Miss Armstead included.

* * * *

Miss Armstead was upstairs, lying down. She had a cold compress on her eyes and an Irish setter on her legs. Thank goodness that was over, she thought. And thank goodness she’d never have to see Lady Sophie’s toplofty nephew again.

Chapter Three

Viscount Knowle traveled to London the next morning, armed with copies of the will and the deed, a fresh pair of gloves, and a deep determination to resolve this awkward situation before another day went by. Or another misanthropic mongrel took up residence at Primrose Cottage. There was more at stake here than Corin’s pride and dignity, more even than his near feudal bond of ownership with his titled estate. National security was at risk.

“Sorry, my boy,” the Duke of Fellstone told him, “you’ll have to do better than that. We’re counting on you.”

As soon as Corin had delivered his documents to his own solicitor, with instructions to find a way to overturn that blasted will by nightfall, he’d headed for His Grace’s office. It was in a private chamber in a secluded wing of a nondescript government-owned building near Whitehall. Few even in the War Office knew of the department’s existence; fewer were admitted through its doors. A stepchild to the espionage division, the Duke of Fellstone’s operation controlled sabotage, propaganda, and the dissemination of information Bonaparte wouldn’t want his people to know—such as how many Frenchmen were dying in Spain, how many francs the emperor’s ambition was costing France while the peasants went hungry. Unfortunately most of the peasants couldn’t read, nor could the majority of Boney’s troops, or Fellstone would have dropped enough broadsheets and leaflets on their heads to wallpaper every room in Paris. He had four hot-air balloons just waiting on his orders.

Lord Knowle had been drafted by His Grace after a musket ball ended Corin’s army career. Viscounts weren’t supposed to risk their lives, Fellstone informed Corin. They were supposed to be decorative dilettantes, hey-go-mad hedonists—and loyal patriots. With his noble contacts, the viscount could travel to courts all over Europe, amusing himself and amassing information, meanwhile passing messages among the department’s network of provocateurs, sympathizers, and outright paid mercenary rabble-rousers. If some of their pay came from Corin’s own purse, well, noblesse oblige and all that.

Now he had a new and unusual duty: to provide secret housing for the fleeing French author of the anti-Bonapartist newspaper
Le Commentaire.

“No,” Lord Fellstone was saying through the pall of cigar smoke surrounding him, “we owe L’Ecrivain safe harbor for all the work he’s done for us in the past, gathering news, spreading erroneous information about our troop movements, encouraging the Royalists. Besides, although no one knows L’Ecrivain’s identity, he knows some of our codes and contacts. Can’t let him fall into the wrong hands, what?”

“Of course not, Your Grace. I know that the Scribe has been invaluable to the war effort, but surely there’s a place other than the Knoll—”

“No, no, too late, my boy. The hidden print shop was discovered in a raid and the pressman arrested. It’s only a matter of time before that poor bastard gives up the Scribe, unless he’s lucky enough to die first. L’Ecrivain’s been warned, so he’s most likely already making his way to the coast. As soon as your aunt died and you offered that vacant cottage, word was sent. Communication got to France before you got to Kent for the funeral, I’d wager.”