The Primrose Path (7 page)

“But what about my hair?” Angelina complained when Mavis was done poking and pinning. “I’ll never look like a fashion plate with this unruly mop. Can you do anything with it?”

“Gladly,” the maid replied, and set to it with a will and a scissors.

Angelina hadn’t meant Mavis should cut all her hair off, but she had to admit that the short cap of little curls made her feel younger, more carefree. Now that she wasn’t worrying over her mistress, staying by her bedside night and day and later grieving, Angelina was sleeping better and eating better. She was outside more, too, and the sun added a touch of color to her cheeks, a honeyed glow to her brown curls.

Yes, she was starting a new life, this elegant creature in the mirror, even if it was the one Angelina had been born to but had never known. Now she almost felt equal to meeting the granddaughter of a duke, her own sister.

Mavis was pleased with her afternoon’s handiwork, too. “Don’t you look a treat, Miss Lena. A real lady and no mistaking. Now that hard times is past, blood will show.”

Angelina’s blood was as blue as any in Debrett’s. Half of it, anyway. The other half of her ancestry came from the minor gentry, respectable until Reverend Armstead heard the call from his Maker, and answered by making everyone else miserable. He didn’t care about titles, fortunes, or worldly goods. Souls were all that mattered. His son Peter’s soul was lost when he ran off with the Duke of Kirkbridge’s daughter, Rosellen.

Both of their names were struck from their respective family Bibles, but Peter and Rosellen Armstead didn’t care. With his earnings as a tutor and her small inheritance from her mother’s estate, they lived comfortably enough for two people in love. After five wonderful years they died together in an influenza outbreak, leaving two orphaned tokens of their affection. Neither set of grandparents was willing to claim the little girls, Angelina and Philomena, yet the Armsteads were too full of Christian morality to throw them on the dole, and the Kirkbridges were too full of pride. So they each took one. That was the last Lena had seen of her sister.

Philomena would look like this, she thought now, staring at her reflection and half listening to Mavis’s lecture about wearing a hat and not ruining her hands by bathing the dogs herself anymore. Mena would be a real lady. Lord Knowle would never mistake her for a servant.

* * * *

Viscount Knowle was soaking his sore muscles in a bath. He’d left the dog in the stable, not knowing if Spooky was housebroken or not. The spaniel had been tied outside at the cottage, and Knowle Castle was filled with priceless antique rugs. Corin did make sure one of the stable boys would look after the dog, keeping Spooky with him at all times, especially at night. With a name like Spooky and a place in Miss Armstead’s array of outcasts, the dog was most likely afraid of ghosts. He’d be better off in the stables, sharing a cot with the lad. Not that the castle was haunted, of course, despite local whisperings that Corin did not discourage, since they kept his formidable mama in Bath. No, he thought, scrubbing his hair again to get the road dirt out, the dog was undoubtedly named Spooky because of his black color.

He was a nice dog, too, friendly and intelligent without any demonstrative shows of drooling devotion. Corin decided he wouldn’t mind having the spaniel around.

The castle was a big, empty mausoleum of a place. Why, Primrose Cottage could fit in the viscount’s private wing. Here Corin was, rattling around by himself except for the scores of servants. It would be much nicer, he decided, to come home to a loyal companion, to uncritical and uncomplicated affection.

Yes, he’d offer for Miss Melissa Wyte, by George. The girl was a beauty and an heiress, and she’d make him an excellent hostess. With her background she wouldn’t be too high in the instep to entertain members of the Commons, as well as of the Lords. Furthermore, she seemed like a pleasant, polite chit. She wouldn’t make scenes or make a man uncomfortable. Miss Wyte would never contradict her husband, much less shout at him. She was certainly too well bred to laugh at him when he was down.

Chapter Eight

Early the next morning, wearing an apron over the new gown that Mavis, Mrs. Penn, and two maids had stayed up sewing, Angelina proceeded to make the promised list of resident dogs. Some belonged to various members of the household, as their own pets, and would leave with Cook or the Penns or the gardener when those worthies retired. Angelina listed them in parentheses, to make sure his lordship did not accuse her of hiding any creatures. She also wrote down Ajax’s name and the three little terriers she could never part with.

Upstairs, downstairs, Angelina double-checked with the maids and the footmen to make sure she hadn’t missed a single animal before going outside. She made notes as the schoolchildren brought each dog back from its walk, and led the students on a counting session in the stable and barn. She did hope the vexatious viscount wouldn’t take it into his head to verify her count in person, for she doubted a noted sportsman like his lordship would appreciate finding Foxy in the tally. But poor old Foxy had no teeth. He wouldn’t last a week out in the woods without Cook’s lamb stew and chicken pies and porridge.

Finished with the list, Angelina took it inside to make a neat copy of all six pages while the children were at their lessons. Since most of her pupils were needed at home to help get fields ready for planting or to move the sheep closer to the shearing pens, Angelina dismissed them early again. She handed the list to Tom, the youngest footman, for delivery to the castle.

Tom returned with the donkey cart and a grin. “His lordship wasn’t in,” the servant reported. “So I left the note with his niffynaffy butler like you said, Miss Lena. Uh, Miss Armstead. That’s what Mr. Penn says we should call you now.”

Angelina brushed his confusion aside. “Lena is fine, Tom. But what of Lord Knowle? Did the butler say where he was, or where Spooky was?”

“He said they was out together. Shooting.”

“Oh, dear. With a bow and arrow?” she asked hopefully.

Tom’s grin grew broader. “With a rifle.”

“Oh, dear.” Angelina opened the gate to Spooky’s pen. Then she took off her apron.

Corin was enjoying his tromp through the home woods despite the slight drizzle starting to come down. He admired the new green leaves, the busy chirpings overhead, the fresh scent of growing things. The dog at his side was perfect company, not disturbing the serenity of the day with idle chatter the way a human companion would. Spooky was happy to nose through piles of leaves, investigate fallen tree trunks, and startle the occasional small bird. He’d stand still then, quivering in anticipation, waiting for directions.

“No, old chap, we’re not interested in pigeons today.” Spooky would return to Corin’s side for a job-well-done pat. Country life was delightful, the viscount thought. Perhaps, when the Corsican was finally defeated, he’d spend more time away from London. He’d go to Town for Parliament’s sessions, of course, but maybe he wouldn’t devote so much of his effort to the political machinations beyond taking his seat. He had responsibilities here in Kent, too, after all. A property the size of the Knoll didn’t run itself.

Corin didn’t think he’d miss London. He didn’t pine for the late nights, the boring receptions, the interminable dinners, or the constant gossip and gambling. He didn’t regret not seeing another production of
Romeo and Juliet
or another assembly at Almack’s. Even his favored pastimes of sparring at Gentleman Jackson’s or shooting at Manton’s gallery could easily be foregone. Corin had exercise and camaraderie right here, in his own home woods.

All he’d need to be content, he thought, was a pretty little wife waiting patiently at home, puttering in the rose garden and providing him with the required heirs. The only thing he did regret missing, being in the country, was the chance to fix Miss Melissa Wyte’s interest. Every gentleman in Town, it seemed, was throwing himself and his empty purse at her dainty little feet. Corin shrugged. There’d be other heiresses. There wouldn’t be many days as perfect as this one, even if the viscount’s corduroy jacket was growing heavy with moisture and his game leg was beginning to ache.

Then Spooky flushed a covey of quail. “Now that’s more like it, sir!” Corin congratulated the dog, taking aim. Boom! went the rifle, “A-woo” went the dog. Thud went the falling bird, and thud went Lord Knowle as Spooky knocked him off balance by running right between his legs. A ghost couldn’t have disappeared into thin air any faster than the spaniel fled the woods and the loud noise.

He’d strangle her this time, Corin decided as he brushed leaf mold off his shirtfront. No matter that she hadn’t even been in the yard when he’d taken Spooky, it was all Miss Armstead’s fault. Hell, his being in this benighted backwoods was her fault! If she’d just behave like a rational person, taking his money and her dogs elsewhere, he could leave Primrose Cottage to the spy, leave the Knoll to his stewards, and leave his card at Miss Wyte’s house tomorrow afternoon.

Instead, he’d spend the cursed morning marching through miles of wet woods in sodden garments, looking for the world’s most useless gundog. Poachers could be lurking in the woods, or itinerant bands of starving ex-soldiers. Lud knew what would become of Spooky if he fell into their hands. And Lud knew what would become of Corin if Miss Armstead found out!

Damn and blast, he had to find the muttonheaded mutt. So the viscount shouted himself hoarse and walked himself lame. He missed lunch and he missed tea, and most of all he missed his clubs and his comfortable town house. With every miserable mile, Corin got madder. Seeing Spooky happily gnawing on a meaty bone back in his enclosure at Primrose Cottage made the viscount see red.

“You could have told me the bloody dog was gun-shy, damn you!” he shouted, even more furious with himself for not realizing the dog could find his way back home more easily than Corin could.

“You didn’t ask, did you?” Angelina replied from the front doorway where she stood, Corin noted, out of the weather.

He also noted six smirking servants and one immense, alert dog. Lowering his voice, he ground out, “I shouldn’t have to ask, by all that’s holy! No one keeps a dog that runs away at the sound of a rifle. He’s useless!”

“Lady Sophie didn’t think so. Spooky sat by her chair all the time.” Angelina knew she was wasting her breath. “Oh, do come inside, my lord, before you take your death from the rain. I’m sure you’ll blame that on me, too.”

“Who else?” he muttered, but stepped through the doorway and wiped his muddy boots on the mat Penn had put there, for the dogs. Then he saw Miss Armstead. That is, then he actually looked at Miss Armstead.

One look at her and Lord Wyte would pack his little heiress back to London, if not India. The sanctimonious old sod would be sure Corin couldn’t resist making Lena his mistress. Hell, no man could resist. Seeing that artless elegance, the delicate blush, the perfect roundness, Corin wouldn’t be surprised if Lord Wyte wanted her for himself, what with his wife gone these past years. No man was monkish enough to look at Miss Armstead and not see Aphrodite.

Miss Armstead wasn’t beautiful, the viscount told himself; it was the change in her appearance that so stupefied him. He had to stop staring like a schoolboy who’d never seen a pretty girl before. He had to stop his heart from pounding loudly enough to send the little terriers into barking fits. First he had to run home to cancel his instructions about the new schoolteacher and doctor.

Only last night Corin had written to his man in London that he wanted energetic young fellows to fill the demanding positions. Now he wanted to hire foggy-eyed octogenarians. Married ones.

No, Corin realized. Getting the chit married off was the best solution to his problem, even if it wasn’t his favorite solution. Deuce take her, Miss Armstead would likely marry his hireling and move the blackguard into Primrose Cottage with her, just to spite Corin. He’d have to check with his solicitor to see if she could do so.

Then again, thinking of her as another man’s mistress didn’t sit much better. Some lucky chap would be able to take her upstairs, or take her right here in the morning room. There must be a rug without dog hair on it somewhere in Primrose Cottage.

Confound it, the jade was all prettified to entertain a gentleman at Corin’s cottage! That was the outside of enough, when she was looking at him like something that crawled out from under a rock. Most likely he smelled that way, too, after searching for Spooky half the day.

Corin had to get a hold of himself. The woman was no enchantress; she was a nuisance sent to plague him for all his sins. So what if she had cherubic curls and tempting curves, milky white skin and swanlike grace? She had no business being here, and he had no business lusting after her.

Now that he had his head convinced that his aunt’s bothersome companion wasn’t worthy of his regard, his lordship could work on convincing his body. It was easier to turn away, to stare out the window.

What he saw outside could dampen any man’s ardor. Dogs. And more dogs. “By all that’s holy, isn’t there one of the mangy beasts that I can take home?”

Angelina joined him at the window. “None of the animals you’re looking at. They are working dogs, not used to being indoors, for the most part. And they don’t have mange. What about Pug?”

Corin hated pugs.
He loved lilacs, which was what she smelled of, drat the distraction. “What about that good-looking collie? I’ve always admired their intelligence.”

“That’s Gemma, Ti Wingate’s dog. Ti is one of your tenant farmers.”

“I do know the names of my tenants, Miss Armstead. I am not an absentee landlord.”

Angelina raised one eyebrow, but did not comment. “Gemma is retired now, of course.”

“What do you mean, retired? Not even Aunt Sophie would give dogs pensions.”

“No, but she’d give them a loving home when they got too old to work. Gemma developed a limp,” she said, as if that explained the dog’s presence.

“If the dog is injured, why the deuce wasn’t it destroyed?” Bad enough they were harboring singularly inept animals, but breakdowns, too? It would be like a breeder keeping every racehorse past its prime.