The Primrose Path (23 page)

Chapter Twenty-five

“Pennyroyal and eucalyptus leaves, my lord, that’s what Lady Sophie used.” Angelina had taken Corin back to the stillroom at Primrose Cottage, and she was lifting jars down from the shelves. “You will have to sprinkle it on the dog’s bedding until she is strong enough for a bath. Oh, and try some powdered garlic in her food. That might help.”

Moving Sunshine back to the stables might help him get a good night’s sleep as well, after a night spent half awake, listening for her whimpers from the dressing room. Deuce take it, an infant couldn’t be more troublesome. Then again, Corin would trust a nanny to look after an infant. No, Ben in the stables would have to take charge of the recovering dog and let his underlings see to the guests’ horses. The viscount drew the line at having his clothes smell of witches’ brew and garlic. As it was, he had all he could do not to itch in front of Angel. Knowing that she was an early riser, he’d ridden over first thing in the morning, before any of his company would be stirring. Considering that he hadn’t yet welcomed his future fiancée, Corin could only hope that Angel didn’t recommend garlic for him, too.

She was searching through the shelves for other remedies. “It would be best if you cut all that matted hair off the dog. Cleaner, too. Perhaps you could have your valet do it.”

Nigel’s valet would sooner cut his own throat, and Ben’s fingers were too stiff. “I suppose I could try,” Corin said, but the very idea made him itch worse. What if he cut the dog, after all the sewing he’d done?

“Would you rather Mavis and I come up to the castle to see what we can do? We’ve had a deal more experience.”

“Would you? I’d be relieved.” He’d also be in deep trouble with Lord Wyte and his daughter if he permitted Angel anywhere near his bedroom, dog or no dog, maid or no maid. Sunshine was going back to the stables the minute Corin got home.

Angelina nodded. “I must admit I am eager to see this miracle dog you say is up and walking already.”

“And eating like she hasn’t seen food in a month,” which was another reason to send her back to the stables. Corin was busy admiring how the thin fabric of Angel’s muslin gown pulled across her chest when she reached for a bottle on a high shelf. Now
there
was a miracle of creation. Those shapeless black gowns of hers ought to be burned, he thought, starting to feel an altogether different sort of itch.

“I’m happy to admit that I was wrong about that dog from the beginning. I didn’t think she was worth saving. I didn’t think she
could
be saved. So you were right; my intuition isn’t always to be trusted. Oh, did you hear that another woman claiming to be my sister arrived last night?”

Corin dragged his mind back from noticing how the sunlight through the stillroom’s bottle-filled window made rainbows in her hair. “What was this one, a traveling actress?”

“A thief, can you believe that? Why, she was at least five years too old, had no background that was similar, and spoke with a cockney accent. Do you think my sister could have lost her aitches since she was four?”

How should he know when children developed dialects? He was more concerned that there had been a criminal in Angel’s house. “What did she steal? Between Lady Hathaway and Mercedes Lavalier there must be a fortune in jewels here. I can only hope it was Mercedes Lavalier’s overbred poodle that got snabbled and nothing you valued.”

“Just the silver salver on the hall table where Penn puts the mail. I don’t mind, except that I gave the jade ten pounds for her trouble. So you see, my intuition is failing me.”

“Not your intuition, only human nature not meeting your high expectations.”

“Well, thank goodness that woman wasn’t Mena or one of Lady Hathaway’s daughters, either.” 

       Corin’s mind must have been wandering again to those curls and curves. “Did you say that a petty cutpurse might have been related to the dowager countess?”

So Angelina told him about Lady Hathaway’s missing children. The older woman had told Elizabeth, Charlotte, and Mercedes Lavalier, saying that she had nothing to be ashamed of. The more people who learned of the situation, she’d decided, the better were the chances of someone knowing the solution. “And she’s giving Mr. Truesdale a retainer to search the magistrate’s records and wherever else he can think to look.”

“The bastard.”

“Mr. Truesdale?”

“No, that cad Hathaway. I’m already turning my life upside down for a sweet little dog I found yesterday. How could that dirty dish not have moved heaven and earth to get his own daughters back? Unless, of course, they were like Florrie’s children.”

“I am sure your sister’s children are lovely, Corin.”

“You see? Your gentle nature wants to find good in everyone.” Corin reached out to touch the glimmers of color in her hair, but Angelina turned away.

Embarrassed at the unexpected compliment, suddenly realizing she was alone in this smallish room with a largish rake, Angelina busied herself packing the various powders, potions, and salves into a basket. “That reminds me, Corin. It was very kind of you to invite Charlotte and Preston Franklin to your entertainment tonight, but they’ve decided to stay home instead. Charlotte doesn’t like to leave her children, and Preston’s health is too fragile still for late nights. They’ll keep Robinet company so Elizabeth can enjoy herself, though.”

“And thus Averill Browne. I’m glad Mrs. Gibb will have a treat. I hear nothing but praise for her, and not merely from her smitten beau. I admit I am looking forward to seeing Mercedes dance again.”

The “again” gave Angelina pause until she recalled that this time he’d be watching his former mistress dance while seated next to his future missus. Viscount Knowle had nothing whatsoever to do with Angelina Armstead, she told herself for the hundredth time that morning. And he had fleas.

* * * *

Melissa Wyte did not usually arise so early in the morning. Then again, she did not usually spend her evenings resting in bed, either. The sun was out, she was totally refreshed, and it was time to hear his lordship’s apology for her abysmal welcome. Besides, the only good thing about being in the country was that she could ride whenever she wanted, and as fast, unlike London, where a lady was restricted to the carriage paths at the fashionable hours.

Melissa rang for her maid and her riding habit, knowing she appeared to advantage atop Firefly. She wore her amber velvet ensemble because it matched the mare’s coloring. It also made her own blond hair seem even more golden where it trailed in ringlets down her back, and her fair complexion appear more glowing. The little matching hat had a scrap of net veiling and a feather that curled along her cheek in an adorable manner, if she had to say so herself, which she didn’t, for London gentlemen had been complimenting her throughout the Season. Bucks and beaux and Bond Street swells had been tossing praise and posies and proposals at her feet ever since she arrived in Town, where she’d be right now if not for her father’s insistence.

Melissa gave her hair a final pat and went downstairs to see if his lordship could neglect her in favor of a mangled mongrel now. The smile on her perfect lips said she didn’t think so, not at all. Unfortunately, the unbending butler informed her, his lordship was not at breakfast. He had already left the house. Something about a dog.

Something about that woman at Primrose Cottage more likely, Melissa thought. Papa had explained last night about the aunt’s old maid companion, the will, and the waste of good money on a pack of dogs. He’d also mentioned a veritable houseful of other females of dubious birth or character, presided over by the Countess Hathaway, which made everything right. Not for Melissa, it didn’t, not last night and even less this morning.

She was giving up her London Season to be ignored? Not by half, she wasn’t. Shredding a sweet roll, Melissa sent a footman to ask her father to accompany her on a ride. He was the one wishing her to make a match with the viscount; let him come along to track Lord Knowle down. She could ride out with her groom, of course, but if there was anything havey-cavey about that cottage, Melissa wanted her father to see it, too. She’d be back in Town that much sooner.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to marry Knowle, Melissa told herself. He was the most eligible
parti
on the Marriage Mart that Season, after all. He was handsome, she supposed, although not as good-looking as his exquisite cousin, Mr. Truesdale. Even that young architect person she’d caught a glimpse of last evening had more dash than the viscount. Of course, Lord Knowle had the title and wealth Papa considered necessary for her future happiness, and he was a good horseman, she conceded. Melissa wasn’t sure that was enough if he didn’t also worship her. What did Melissa want with a husband she couldn’t wind around her dainty little diamond-ringed finger?

* * * *

Nigel Truesdale wasn’t one for early mornings. His acquaintance with the dawn, in fact, was usually noticing it as he went home to bed. At the castle, though, things were different. His valet, pleased with the extra income from serving the viscount, was happy to be on the lookout for just such an opportunity for Nigel to be of service to Lord Wyte or his daughter. The valet threw open the drapes and shook his master’s shoulder. “Miss Wyte is calling for her horse,” he said. “Lord Knowle rode out forty minutes ago, in the direction of Primrose Cottage.”

Truesdale hadn’t made such a hasty toilette since the time the bailiffs were at his front door. In no time at all he was in the breakfast parlor, pouring cream into his coffee and pouring the butter boat over the beautiful heiress.

Nigel didn’t have much of a seat, but he made a more than creditable appearance on one of his cousin’s highbred hacks. At least the Wytes were pleased with his company; he could lead them to Primrose Cottage.

“Bit early for a morning call, don’t you think?” He made a halfhearted attempt to alter their direction as Melissa brought her cavorting mare back under control. She’d dismissed the groom, and Nigel was eyeing that fidgety creature with a bit less enthusiasm. “Although the primroses should be worth seeing this morning. We can ride by to take a look, I suppose.”

“A good look” was all Lord Wyte had to say, disgruntled at being roused so early, disgusted with the viscount’s derelict wooing.

The primroses, not quite in full bloom, were magnificent. There were rows and rows of them, reds and yellows, pinks and oranges. Birds and bees and butterflies hovered around them, only momentarily disturbed by the horses’ passing. The sight put even Melissa in a better mood, as did seeing his lordship walking alone toward the cottage’s stable with a basket in his hand. He must have been fetching something for the injured dog after all, she thought.

She rode away from the others toward him, to make sure it was the viscount who handed her down off Firefly. So pleased was she by the appreciative smile he gave her that Melissa chirped down at him, “What a lovely cottage, my lord. We can use it for a retreat from the drafty old castle after we—Oh.” She put one hand in its Limeric yellow gloves to her mouth.

At that moment Jed Groom came around the side of the cottage to return one of the dogs from its morning run. Jed looked up to see the sweetest little filly he’d seen in years. The Arabian mare was a prime article, too. So lost in admiration was the old groom that he relaxed his grip on the leather leash he was holding—the one with Domino at the other end.

That was all the black-and-white horse hater needed. Lord Wyte had been appraising the value of the cottage, and Nigel had been staying out of his cousin’s sight. He was too far away to help anyway, Nigel was relieved to note, as the dog snapped at Miss Wyte’s horse’s feet.

The horse kicked, the dog balked, everyone shouted. Jed ran to grab the dog’s collar. Corin tried to grab for the Arabian’s reins. And Melissa, one hand still at her rosebud lips, tried to grab for air—and missed.

She landed on her seat in a bed of primroses, the feather on her bonnet broken and sticking in her eye. Everyone came running, asking if she was injured, including that female Melissa had seen yesterday. Only now Miss Armstead wasn’t any dowdy spinster, she was elegant and willowy and well dressed, and she wore her hair in the most fashionable curls, a la Caro Lamb.

That was too much for Melissa, in her ignoble position. Her lip started quivering, and her eyes started filling with tears.

It was too much for Corin, too, and he committed the utterly unforgivable mistake of laughing as he reached a hand down to help her up.

Instead of accepting his hand, Melissa picked up his basket, which had landed near her during Corin’s dive for the horse’s head, and heaved it at the insufferable brute. Lord Knowle, that was, not her beloved Firefly or the dog that was being dragged away by the servant. If she’d had another basket, Melissa would have tossed it at the pretty female who was even now asking if the
dog
was all right.

The stuff in the basket went every which way, over Corin and over Melissa as well. He seemed to think that was even funnier, that now she smelled like garlic, too! Melissa drummed her feet on the ground and sobbed.

All the attention from all the females at Primrose Cottage restored Miss Wyte’s equilibrium. Lady Hathaway managed to soothe Lord Wyte’s agitated nerves, while Mavis, Mrs. Franklin, Mrs. Gibb, who hadn’t left for school yet, and Miss Armstead took turns at brushing and wiping and smoothing Melissa’s offended dignity. Her habit was ruined, but Miss Armstead offered to purchase another one for her.

At last Melissa felt ready to join the others in the parlor for a calming cup of tea.
Her father, Lady Hathaway, and Mr. Truesdale ended their discussion to make much of her entrance. The viscount had gone home to change his clothes, thank goodness. The architect fellow didn’t seem eager to leave, and two uniformed officers calling too early on Mademoiselle Lavalier were inclined to linger in Miss Wyte’s presence. This was more like it; Melissa preened. She sipped her tea, batted her eyelashes, and smiled at everyone, including Miss Armstead, who was really too old, too thin, and too poor to be of competition.