Vanity (36 page)

“I shan’t tell him,” Octavia said with a serene smile, flinging her cloak around her shoulders. “I run the household, my lord. My husband has no interest in how I do so, only that it should run to his satisfaction. He won’t know anything about it, I can assure you.”

Philip looked around the ruined scene of seduction. While he didn’t mind his staff knowing that he had a female visitor in his bedchamber, he couldn’t bear the idea that they would come in while Octavia was still there and see
this shambles and draw their own conclusions. If Octavia was out of the house before the scene became common knowledge among the staff, it would be as if she’d never been in the room. And if she was insane enough to take the hideous cause of the trouble with her, then it was no concern of his. And even if it were, he had no desire to continue this hideous scene another minute.

It was inconceivable that Octavia would tell the tale herself in society, since it made her as much of a jesting stock as himself. If he bought off the sweep himself, the incident would be as if it had never been.

“Hurry,” he commanded curtly, going to the door.

Octavia picked up the child, heedless of the dirt immediately conveyed to her gown and cloak. “Lead on, my lord.”

Philip was too intent on the need for haste and secrecy to notice the mockery in her voice. “You may leave through the side door. You won’t mind taking a hackney, I trust. If I summon my own carriage, it will draw attention to you. Besides, I don’t want that piece of gutter filth on my seats.”

“A hackney will be no trouble, sir,” Octavia said with the same serene smile that concealed the irony in her voice and the bitter contempt in her eyes. The child in her arms was still and quiet, and she thought he was probably too shocked to react to what was happening to him.

Philip hurried them down a side corridor, through a door, and down an internal staircase. Another door at the foot of the narrow stairs opened onto a small hallway that, judging by the faded flock wallpaper and worn carpet, belonged to the nether regions of the house. He opened the door onto a narrow alley running into York Street.

“You’ll find a hackney on York Street, madam,” he said stiffly.

“You’re too kind, my lord.” Octavia curtsied, while still holding the child, managing to invest the courtesy with a wealth of irony. But Philip was again too intent on getting rid of her—and closing this ghastly episode without further
damage to his dignity—to notice anything untoward in the salutation.

Without so much as a half bow in response, he almost shoved them out into the alley and slammed the door behind them.

“Oh, what a gentleman!” Octavia murmured gleefully. “What an abject, cowardly gentleman! What wouldn’t I give to spread that tale around town? But, alas, it can’t be done.”

She glanced down at the child. “Do you have a name?”

“Frank.”

“Well, Frank, let’s take you home. You weren’t quite the prize I expected to bring away from this house this afternoon, but never mind. There’s always tomorrow.”

And she knew, as she tripped lightly over the cobbles, avoiding a steaming pile of manure and a dead cat, that her high spirits came purely and simply from the reprieve. It would perforce be only a short reprieve, but it was wonderful, nevertheless.

“G
ood God, Octavia! What on earth do you have there?” Rupert exclaimed in astonishment as Octavia entered the hall still carrying Frank.

“This is Frank,” she said. Her eyes were dancing merrily, her mouth curved with amusement.

Rupert came closer. Raising his eyeglass, he examined her burden with an incredulous frown. “A climbing boy?”

“Precisely. Poor little mite, he’s been most dreadfully mistreated.” Octavia smoothed the jagged fringe of hair off the boy’s forehead where bruises and dirt were so intermingled, it was hard to distinguish between them.

“Where did you get him?” Rupert moved a hand to touch the boy, and the child cowered against Octavia with a whimper.

“It’s a long story, and
very
entertaining,” Octavia said with a chuckle. “I’ll tell you when I’ve seen to Frank and changed my dress. I must look as if I’ve been climbing chimneys myself.”

There was something strange about her that transcended her amusement. Her eyes were too bright, the set of her jaw too tense.

“Griffin, will you take the boy to the kitchen, please?
He should be bathed, but be gentle, he’s covered in sores and abrasions. See if you can find him some clean clothes, and feed him. Then bring him back to me.”

She smiled radiantly at the butler, unpeeled Frank, who was clinging to her like a limpet, and deposited him firmly in the arms of the astounded Griffin.

The butler held the child at arm’s length, his head turned away from the offending scrap. “As your ladyship pleases.”

“Thank you.” Octavia brushed at her skirt with a grimace. “And send Nell up to me, will you? This gown is probably ruined beyond salvation.”

She hurried to the stairs, seemingly oblivious of the confusion and indignation she was leaving behind her.

Griffin turned and stalked off to the kitchen regions, still holding his burden as far from him as possible. Rupert stood frowning for a minute; then he followed Octavia upstairs and into her bedchamber.

“I don’t believe Griffin has ever been so insulted in all his days,” he observed, leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, watching as Octavia began to unlace her bodice. “Where in the name of grace did you find the creature?”

“He fell out of a chimney.” Laughter brimmed in her voice, but her fingers were all thumbs as they fumbled with the lacing. “He can’t be more than five, and I’ll wager he doesn’t weigh much more than a starveling kitten.”

“Which, or do I mean whose, chimney?” Rupert inquired, still casually, although he was convinced now that something was very wrong. There was a febrile glitter to her eyes, and an edge to her laughter that seemed closer to tears.

“Oh, it’s a long story … ah, here’s Nell.” Octavia turned brightly to her maid. “See if you can reclaim this gown, Nell. It’s one of my favorites. And I need lots of hot water. This soot is so greasy, I doubt it’ll come off my skin with one washing. And I’m sure it’s in my hair.” She was unpinning her hair throughout this brittle racing speech.

Rupert’s expression showed none of his unease. “I’ll
leave you to Nell, my dear. Should I tell Griffin to put dinner back for half an hour?”

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. I’m certain I shall be ready in plenty of time,” she said with the same rushed breathlessness. “Aren’t we to go to the opera after dinner?”

“It’s not an irreversible arrangement,” he said mildly.

“Isn’t it
Iphigénie en Tauride?”
The question was muffled as Nell lifted her gown over her head.

“Your favorite Gluck,” he agreed with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.

“Well, perhaps we could miss the first act.” She sat down at the dresser and examined her soot-streaked face. “Lud, it’s no wonder the jarvey looked askance. I dare swear he was about to refuse the fare.”

“What were you doing jauntering around town in a hackney? I was under the impression we maintained both a carriage and a chair. Or am I imagining things?”

“Now, don’t be sarcastic, my lord,” she chided with a laugh, dabbing at her face with a washcloth. “I will tell you the whole story over dinner, if Papa doesn’t join us. You’ll find it monstrous amusing. But leave me to dress now, or it’ll be midnight before we sit down to table.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He bowed and left her room, going downstairs to the library, a deep frown etched between his brows.

“My lord?”

“Yes, Griffin.” He looked up as the butler entered the library, his impassive features still somehow managing to convey the deepest outrage.

“Lady Warwick’s … uh … protégé, my lord.”

“What about him, Griffin.”

“My lord, he refuses to be bathed.”

“Her ladyship assures me he’s but five years old and weighs no more than a starveling kitten. I find it hard to believe that two footmen couldn’t ensure his immersion in a tub of hot water.”

“No, my lord. But he bites.”

“Then muzzle him, Griffin.”

“Her ladyship said we were to be gentle, my lord.”

“Her ladyship will not know.”

“No, my lord.” The butler bowed himself out, every line of his body radiating umbrage.

Rupert poured himself a glass of sherry. A straightforward act of philanthropy on Octavia’s part wasn’t particularly surprising. He knew how sensitive her own experiences had made her to the miserable conditions under which most people struggled to survive. But there was more than philanthropy at work in this situation. She said the story was amusing, but her amusement didn’t strike him as the genuine article. She said the boy had dropped out of a chimney—not an unusual occurrence, given the warren of chimneys threading their way through the houses of the gentry. But
which
chimney? Not one of her own. A friend’s? But if so, why had she not said so at the outset? Why the secrecy? Why the excitement?

When Octavia entered the library ten minutes later, dressed for the opera in a caraco of tangerine silk over a wide hooped skirt of figured orange taffeta, he was ready with his questions.

Smiling, she tripped into the room on her dainty slippered feet, cinnamon ringlets clustering on her shoulders, a black velvet ribbon, sewn with perfectly copied diamonds and seed pearls, encircling the creamy slenderness of her throat.

“A glass of sherry, if you please, Rupert. I wonder how they’re managing in the kitchen with Frank.”

“With difficulty, as I understand it,” he said dryly, pouring sherry. “He bites.”

“I expect he’s frightened,” Octavia said as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She took the glass with a smile of thanks. “I wonder if it would be possible to civilize him sufficiently to make him a page.”

“Where did you find him?”

“I think I’ll hand him over to my father,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Papa dearly loves a project, and he might enjoy teaching Frank his letters. I wonder if he’s coming down to dinner? He said he might if he’d finished his day’s work.”

She pulled the bellrope before Rupert could press his questions.

“Griffin, is Mr. Morgan joining us for dinner?”

“I believe so, my lady.” Griffin still radiated grim disapproval, although his expression was completely neutral. “When would you wish to see the climbing boy, madam?”

“Is he presentable?”

“I would hardly say that, ma’am. He is, however, as clean as we can make him at present. We have no clothes small enough to fit him, so he’s wrapped in a sheet.”

“Has he been fed?”

“Copiously, my lady. He has the appetite of a boa constrictor. It’s to be hoped he hasn’t made himself sick with it.”

“I think I had better see him after dinner,” Octavia said as Oliver Morgan entered the library. “Papa, I have a surprise for you. A climbing boy.”

Griffin departed, and Rupert could have sworn he heard the whisper of an outraged sniff.

“Good heavens, my dear. What am I to do with a climbing boy?” Oliver asked with mild curiosity as he took a glass of sherry from Rupert.

“I thought you might teach him his letters. He’s so battered and bruised, poor mite, he can’t possibly work, so I thought he might be company for you.”

“Is he completely untutored?” Oliver’s eyes sparked with interest.

“I’m certain he must be.”

“Then I shall take him with pleasure. I’ve long wished to try a teaching experiment. A child with no learning at all is a clean slate on which one should be able to write anything one chooses. He has nothing to muddle his brain, and if he has any native intelligence at all, I expect to have him reading Latin and Greek before six months is out.”

“Literacy in his own language might be more useful,” Rupert observed, wondering whether he should pity the climbing boy who was about to be plunged from the hells of the chimneys to the rigors of scholarship.

“Pshaw, Warwick!” Oliver scoffed. “One is not interested
in utility here but in the process by which language is acquired.”

He rubbed his hands gleefully. “I shall document the experiment, and I’m certain some scientific journal will be fascinated to publish the results.”

Griffin reappeared in the doorway, looking no happier than before. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Octavia took her father’s arm. The ultimate fate of little Frank was yet to be decided, whatever her father’s plans, but nothing would be gained by disturbing his contemplation of such a satisfying project. She herself was inclined to think five rather young for classical scholarship, but Oliver would discover that for himself.

Throughout dinner Rupert maintained an easy flow of small talk, but his eyes were watchful, his ears attuned to every nuance in Octavia’s conversation. She still appeared to be in the greatest of good spirits, but her laugh was too brittle, her color fluctuated wildly, her eyes darted everywhere and rested nowhere. And she paid more attention to her wineglass than to her plate.