The Primrose Path (26 page)

“That bastard Fredricks has a lot to answer for. But I’d like to know why—”

Then they heard the shouting. It was definitely Mercedes Lavalier’s voice, and it was coming from above, from her suite of rooms.

“I told you,
batard,
I have not had the time to write my memoirs. You waste your time and your stupid life trying to find what does not exist,
non
?
Quel betise,
thinking you will make your fortune selling what does not belong to you,
chien.
Go, and I shall try to forgive you for shooting
mon cher le duc.
I do not want your filthy blood on my carpet.”

They heard a slap and a scream. “Stay here, damn it,” Corin ordered, heading for the stairs at a run. Angelina was right behind him, grabbing up the silver candelabrum from the hall table. Some of the dogs followed after her, to see what new game she was playing.

The viscount paused at the top of the stairs to listen. He felt a tug at his jacket and heard a whispered, “To the right, fourth door down.” Muttering foul and dire curses, he headed in that direction. At the fourth door he pressed his ear against the wood. He could hear Mercedes weeping—the bastard was going to hang twice for this night’s work—and drawers being slammed. He stepped back and then lunged forward, crashing his shoulder into the door. Which hadn’t been latched, so he went tumbling into the room to land at the renegade soldier’s feet.

Fredricks shifted the aim of his pistol from Mercedes Lavalier to the fallen viscount. “Now what have we here? His high and mighty lordship’s not looking so fancified tonight.” He brought back his boot to kick Corin in the head.

“No!” shrieked Angelina from the doorway, which stopped six dogs in their tracks, and Fredricks.

“And the uppity companion, too,” he said, moving the pistol again.

That was all Corin needed. He rolled and aimed, but missed intentionally because Pug was suddenly in his line of fire, trying to lick his nose. “Blast!”

But the blast was all Spooky needed. The gun-shy gun dog was going back to his house in the yard, where no one shot at him, no matter who was in the way. Which happened to be Fredricks. Spooky tore right between the soldier’s legs, upending him almost at Angelina’s feet. She raised the candelabrum and brought it down on his head.

She missed, too, but then Ajax was there, roused by his mistress’s earlier scream. The huge dog was on Fredricks in a flash, with a debt of his own to pay and wolf-long teeth to do it.

“Get him off me!” Fredricks screamed. “Help me!” Which Corin was in no hurry to do. He got to his own feet, checked to make sure that Angelina was unharmed—she was untying Mercedes from the chair—then politely asked Ajax to desist. He wasn’t putting his own hands anywhere near those ivory hedge clippers. Not when Ajax had a headache.

Fredricks was still screaming, the three little terriers were yipping, Mercedes was crying, and Sadie was attacking the soldier’s boots. Corin was reloading his pistol. “Uh, Angel, do you think you might tell Ajax to leave enough of the dastard to hang?”

Then Major McKennon arrived, pistols drawn. He’d seen signs of trouble, so he’d gone around the back, where he’d found the servants locked in the kitchen. They were right behind him, armed with frying pans and meat cleavers. If a few of the former happened to fall on Fredricks’s head while the footmen bound the villain, no one seemed to notice, except Fredricks, of course.

And everyone seemed to be looking the other way when the viscount tucked his pistol away and then took Angelina by the shoulders and shook her. “Don’t you ever listen to orders, you impossible female? I told you to stay downstairs, by George!”

Ajax noticed and started growling again, so Corin just folded his arms around Angelina and held her against him, where she fit perfectly. “My God, you could have been killed,” he spoke into the curls on the top of her head. “I’ve never been so frightened as when I saw the bastard turn his gun on you. Angel. If you ever do such a corkbrained thing again, I swear I will shoot you myself.”

“Me, I am happy
mon ange
is not one of your soldiers, Knolly, to obey orders.” Mercedes was repinning her hair as if she’d just finished a nap, instead of being abducted. “She saves my life again, no?”

Blushing, Angelina stepped away from Corin. “No, Mercedes, I did nothing. Thank Lord Knowle if you must, for riding with the wind to get us here, but it is Ajax who is the real hero.”

So Mercedes hugged all of them, Angelina, Corin, and the great dog. Then she wanted to go back to the castle to see how her dear duke was faring.

With McKennon and two armed grooms escorting Fredricks to the army post via horseback, Mercedes and her rescuers squeezed onto the bench of Corin’s curricle. Having refused to be left behind, Ajax rode on the tiger’s bench behind them, drooling on Corin’s shoulder. The viscount didn’t even mind, not with Angelina pressed against him.

Despite the absence of Florrie and her husband, who had taken to their beds, the threesome’s welcome—four if one counted Ajax, who was determined not to let Angelina out of his sight—was heartfelt and tearful, with much hugging between the ladies of Primrose Cottage. While Mercedes went to check on Fellstone, Angelina was enfolded by Lady Hathaway and Elizabeth. The viscount received his share of back-slapping congratulations, too, from Browne and Nigel and Lord Wyte, who had given up the chase when he recalled his daughter was alone and unprotected.

But Melissa hadn’t been, it seemed. Nigel still had his arm around her, as if the fragile miss couldn’t lift her teacup without his assistance. Corin raised his brow, and Nigel, speaking low, said, “I hope you don’t mind, old chap.”

“Not at all, Nigel, but Papa Wyte might object.”

Truesdale smiled. “Actually, he doesn’t. He rather fancies a son-in-law in the ton, not the country gentleman you’re turning out to be. Besides, I think I found a shabster who owed him a bundle, so he believes I’m a handy fellow to have around. And, unlike other sons-in-law he could have settled for, I’ll watch out for Lord Wyte’s interests, instead of being more concerned over my own estates and investments.”

“You
have
no estates or investments.”

Melissa spoke up from Nigel’s other side. “He does now, my lord.”

“Then I assume congratulations are in order. I wish you both much happiness. You’ll certainly be the prettiest couple in London.”

“Thank you, cuz. We’ll be leaving in the morning to insert the notices in Town. We’ve missed enough of the Season, and I’m sure everyone will want to throw balls in our honor, that sort of thing, don’t you know.”

“Oh, I do indeed.” And Corin wouldn’t mind missing any of it.

“I hope you don’t mind something else, cuz. Lady Hathaway is coming along with us to help plan the wedding. Lord Wyte wants a big affair, of course.”

“Of course. But whose wedding?” Corin couldn’t help noticing that Lord Wyte was standing behind Lady Hathaway’s chair, his hand on her shoulder. ‘Twould be a good match: the countess would gain the family she missed, and the nabob would gain the polish he lacked. Corin had no doubt those stuffed trophies would be in the attic before the countess was in London for a week. Good.

Confident that Angelina was being comforted and cosseted, Corin went upstairs to check on His Grace. The duke was lying in his bed, one arm in a sling. The other was around Mercedes.

“Good job, my boy,” the duke said. “Saved one of our national treasures, what?” He coughed, then went on: “I think we’ll toddle up to Town in the morning. Recuperate better in my own home, what? And the lady will be safe there, once we give out that she’s not publishing her memoirs. Greedy bastard, what? Can’t trust anyone, my boy, can’t trust anyone. Except you, lad. Good show. And I’ll be sure to put in a good word at the War Office for you. In fact, make you an undersecretary if you’ll keep the poodle here, what?”

“No, thank you, Your Grace. I’ve had my fill of the spy business. There’s too much to be done right here and too many people dependent on me.”

And one who wasn’t dependent upon him at all. Corin returned to the drawing room where the others, weary but reluctant to part, were having tea. He sat beside Angel on the sofa.

Nigel was saying, “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help in locating your sister, Lena.”

“It was a goosish notion to start with,” Lord Wyte stated. “Let the past stay past, I say.”

Lady Hathaway started to object, but Melissa agreed. “I don’t see how you hoped to identify the girl anyway, Lena. I don’t remember much from when I was so young.”

So Angelina explained how she’d hoped her sister would retain the strongest memory there could be, of the nickname their parents had used. “Even if she was renamed, even if she could not recall Philomena, she might have remembered Papa’s pet name for her. No one else would know it.”

“How can you be so certain of that? Why, Papa used to call me Tootsie. I’m sure there must be thousands of little girls with the same memory.”

The teacup slid out of Angelina’s fingers onto the floor. “Tootsie?” she whispered, just as Lord Wyte blustered, “Nonsense, I always called you Missy.”

Melissa was remembering more: “And I had a sister, Popsie, but they said she died.”

Tears were running down Angelina’s cheeks. “I didn’t die, Mena. I didn’t die.”

“You mean ... ?” Melissa looked at Angelina, then she looked at her father, whose face was red and whose eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “But that can’t be! Why, you don’t even know how to ride!”

“And you don’t like dogs,” Angelina blubbered into Corin’s handkerchief until he took her onto his lap altogether. Then she wept into his shirtfront.

Lord Wyte called for a brandy. “Blister it, they never said a word about another chit. Never let on Missy was the granddaughter of any duke, either. The solicitor never gave us names and we didn’t ask; my wife wanted a chick of her own very badly. She couldn’t have any, and it was eating her up. We were on our way to India, so there was no one to say the little moppet wasn’t ours. We never told her she was adopted because we never wanted her to feel like an outsider. And we loved her as much as if she was our own blood, I swear.”

Melissa was crying in his arms now. There was hardly a dry eye in the parlor, in fact. “You did. Papa, you did love me better than any girl was ever loved. That must be why I never remembered anything else.”

Lord Wyte cleared his throat, still patting Melissa’s back. “We would have taken you, too. Miss Arm— Angelina. I only wish we could have.”

How different her life would have been if her four grandparents hadn’t been so cruel and unforgiving of their own children, Angelina thought She could have been raised by loving parents with every luxury and a sister of her own. She would have had a London Season, with a dowry that might make her as attractive on the Marriage Mart as Melissa.

But she wouldn’t have been the same person. She wouldn’t have had the schooling, and she wouldn’t have known Lady Sophie. She might never have met Viscount Knowle.

Angelina went over and kissed Lord Wyte’s cheek. “I would have been proud to call you father, my lord. Thank you for being there for Mena.”

Lady Hathaway was dabbing at her eyes. “Does that mean I’ll have two daughters now? And Elizabeth, too, and darling Robinet?”

“You can have as many chits as you want, my dear,” Lord Wyte told her, “but only the one dog.” He turned to Corin. “Does it have to be the stupid mutt that takes seizures?”

When Corin nodded, the older man shrugged. “Oh, well, it looks like Truesdale will be there to catch Missy when she swoons. I suppose I can deal with a passing-out Pekingese.”

Eventually they were all too tired to talk anymore. Lady Hathaway’s carriage was called for, but Corin declared he would see Miss Armstead home in his curricle with Ajax to chaperon. No one argued with him, least of all Angelina, who rested her head on his shoulder. Which was better than dog drool, Corin reasoned, a great deal better.

It was almost dawn when they reached the cottage, but instead of seeing her inside, Corin lifted Angelina down and led her along the path to the gardens. There was the faintest tinge of pink on the horizon, and the dogs in the yard barely made a whimper. Ajax padded over to the front door and lay down.

When they reached the primroses, the rows upon rows of flowers that bloomed every spring, Corin raised Angelina’s hand to his mouth and asked, “Will you make me the happiest of men. Angel? Will you marry me?”

Angelina took her hand back. Reluctantly. “You don’t want me, my lord.”

So he kissed her until she couldn’t breathe. “That’s how much I want you. Angel. No, that’s not even half as much.”

“But you don’t want to marry me.”

“Can I have you any other way?” he teased. “No, I’m too much the gentleman to offer you a slip on the shoulder. Miss Armstead, but if you go around kissing every man that way, people will begin to doubt your morals, you know.”

“I don’t—Oh.” She could see his grin. “Well, you only want the cottage anyway.”

Now he laughed out loud. “My dearest peagoose, this cottage comes with twenty-five mongrels. No, thank you.”

“But what about the dogs, then?”

He didn’t mistake her concern. “They will be welcome at Knowle Castle, every last useless one of them. But I think Mrs. Gibb and your architect will be needing a place to set up housekeeping in the near future. Perhaps they’d be interested in staying here, with a few of the dogs. Fifteen? Twenty? Not Ajax, of course. Not the hero.”

“Oh, I forgot—”

“Enough, sweetheart. Enough talking. You have to know that I love you more dearly than life, that I want to spend the rest of eternity making you happy.”

“Even if I’m not a real lady and have no dowry?”

“You’re the only lady I want, and what do you call those twenty-five dogs, if not a dowry?”

“In that case, I cannot think of anything I’d rather do than marry you, Corin, for I do love you with all my heart, you know. Even when I thought you arrogant and stuffy, I couldn’t help falling in love with you. But I have to tell you—”

She didn’t get to say much of anything else for a while except “ah.” Or perhaps “hm.” Corin was arrogantly making sure his love no longer thought him stuffy. He was sealing their engagement with every fiber of his being, with the promise of forever in his kiss.