Viscount Vagabond (12 page)

“N’ I will too,” he said, looking round at the company. He marched up to Lord Rand, gave him a fierce glare, and spoke.

“Miz Kaffy is learnin’ me to write all ‘em hundred letters and now you come to take her away and we just got to ‘J’ and there’s a pile more arter. N’ who sez anyhow ‘afs all wot you say?” the boy demanded. “How does we know you don’t mean bad for her? She ain’t one of ‘em wicked ones, you know. Miz Kaffy’s a lady and knows all ‘em letters and eats wif her fork and all. N’ she tole you to go away besides,” the child summed up with his most unanswerable argument.

Lord Rand, as has been noted, was not a stupid man. He had been a bold, angry little boy himself once. He’d had precious scraps of treasure torn from him and burnt as trash, had been ordered to do and whipped for not doing a great many things without being given any comprehensible reason. Even as an adult, he’d had someone he cared for driven away from him. He knelt to look the urchin in the eye.

“Of course your friend is a lady,” he answered. “That is why I’ve come to fetch her. You know, don’t you, that ladies don’t work for a living?”

Jemmy nodded grudgingly.

“I realise you’ll miss her,” his lordship went on, “but her relatives have been missing her several days now, and they’ve been very worried about her. They’ll be most grateful to learn what good care you and Madame Germaine have taken of her in the meantime.”

The boy’s face grew very still, except for the tears that welled up in his eyes. “But ‘ey—they’ll—have her back and I won’t see her no more... and we only got to ‘J.’” His voice quavered.

“Yes, that is a problem.” Lord Rand stood up, darting a glance at Miss Pelliston, whose own eyes were filling. Gad, but her eyes were extraordinary—a great, unfathomable world seemed to exist there.

Lord Rand made a hasty decision, precisely as he was accustomed to do. “Suppose then, Jemmy, you come back with us to see where Miss Pelliston’s relations live, so you can be sure everything’s right and respectable. You can ride with the coachman,” he offered.

“The boy’s eyes lit up. “Ken I?”

“Yes—if you assure Miss Pelliston that you won’t raise any more fuss and will be as brave as you can. Maybe then she’ll come by to visit you from time to time.”

“You knew I had no choice but to come,” Catherine accused as the carriage rattled down the street. “Nonetheless, I cannot condone your methods, My Lord. You bribed that poor child with the promise of a ride on a fancy coach.”

“Miss Pelliston, you are the most contrary woman I’ve ever met. Did you honestly intend to work as a seamstress the rest of your days?”

“Yes. I was content—and it was honest work.”

Max studied her narrow face. Was it his imagination or was her color better? Somehow she didn’t seem as tired and drawn as before, yet she must have been working ten, eleven, twelve hours a day. What a mystifying creature she was.

Aloud he said, “I’ll be sure to mention that to Louisa. Perhaps she’ll set you to embroidering her gowns—or making your own. I suppose that would spare all those tiresome visits to dressmakers. She can boast that you’re the only debutante in London who’s made very stitch of her Season’s wardrobe.”

Miss Pelliston, who’d been staring dismally at her hands, looked up. “I am not, as you well know, My Lord, a debutante. I am engaged to be married—or I was. Perhaps he won’t want me now,” she added with a faint, rueful smile. “Then at least something good will have come of all this.”

“Sorry to upset your happy fantasies, ma’am, but I don’t think your fiance has anything to say in the matter. Louisa’s determined to bring you out, and once Louisa’s determined on something there’s nothing and no one can stand in her way. Certainly not irate papas or broken-hearted bridegrooms.’’

“Bring me out? Where? Why? What on earth are you talking about?” She leaned forward eagerly in her seat only to find Lord Rand’s blue-eyed gaze rather too close for rational thought. Abruptly she sat back, her heart thumping wildly.

“Oh,” she said. “You’re talking nonsense. I didn’t think you were inebriated, but one can never be certain. I suppose you have a very hard head.” She winced as soon as she’d finished speaking, realising that, as usual, she’d been quite tactless.

Lord Rand smiled. “Bless me if you don’t have the oddest way of flattering a man. I can hardly wait to see the other fellows’ reactions when you treat them to some of your compliments.”

To his satisfaction, her face turned pink.

“Yes, I do have a hard head, Miss Pelliston, but the fact is I’m sober as a judge at the moment. Dash it, didn’t the Andover name ring any bells with you? Probably not. Country’s crawling with relations—who’s going to keep track of a lot of third and fourth cousins?”

“Oh, dear,” she said softly as she took his meaning. “They are relations. I was afraid of that.”

“You weren’t afraid of slaving your life away for a miserable handful of shillings a week. What’s so terrifying about Andover?”

“I know it will sound cowardly to you,” Catherine began reluctantly, “but I didn’t want anyone to know who I was. People treat one so differently... I mean, they would have felt obliged to go out of their way on my account and I’d be obliged to accept, even though it would make matters worse.”

“With your family, you mean? But how? They don’t come any more respectable than Andover. Even the Old Man— my father, that is—can’t find fault with the fellow, though he’s tried hard enough for ten years.”

“I mean,” Miss Pelliston said so softly that Lord Rand had to bend closer to hear her, “I had rather face Papa alone— not before strangers.”

Lord Rand began to think he understood. She must have expected a perfectly horrendous homecoming if she’d elected to work for the miserable wages of a seamstress instead. The rage and frustration that had been building in him for days abruptly dissipated. She was gallant in her way, wasn’t she? He remembered the girl clutching a coverlet about her as she sought help from a wild, drunken vagabond. Brave then too.

“Miss Pelliston, I assure you I’m not the least foxed,” he said more kindly. “Edgar and Louisa intended to tell you the very next morning, after you’d had time to recover from your—experiences. No,” he added hastily in response to her horrified look. “They know nothing of Granny Grendle or how you spent that night and they’ll never know of it, I promise you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Anyhow, my brother-in-law’s no stranger, and no one intends to make you face your papa at all, because Louisa’s set on keeping you with her in London. You don’t know my sister, Miss Pelliston. She’s got scads of energy and intelligence and no productive use for ‘em. She wanted dozens of children and would have been happily employed domineering them, but she’s been unlucky that way. She needs to take charge of someone. She took to you right off, and that’s all the reason she needs. I do wish you’d give her half a chance—you’d be doing her more of a favour than you would yourself.”

That last was a stroke of inspiration. Catherine might have persuaded herself that she did not deserve to be rewarded for undutiful, ungrateful behaviour with a Season. She was not proof, however, against a plea on another’s behalf.

Lord Rand seemed to believe his sister needed her, and Catherine wanted badly to be needed. Though she was distressed to abandon Jemmy and Madame, and thought that they—Jemmy especially—being less privileged folk were more entitled to her help, she knew that she’d never be allowed to return to work. She was not certain she could possibly do the self-possessed, breathtakingly beautiful Lady Andover any good, but Lord Rand claimed she could.

“If matters are as you say, My Lord, I would be both ungrateful and un-Christian to object. I am deeply sorry now that I behaved so rashly.”

“Oh, never mind that,” his lordship answered generously. “I like a bit of rash behaviour now and again. Keeps things interesting, don’t you think?”

Lord Pelliston had spent a most enjoyable fortnight touring the Lake District with his bride. So enjoyable was the experience that more often than not he forgot to have recourse to his usual several bottles of strong spirits per diem. He had no idea he was being managed and would have scoffed at anyone who had the temerity to advance such a ridiculous notion.

His new wife had helped him forget a great many things, actually, including his dismal sister and waspish daughter. Now he had a letter from the Earl of Andover and one from his sister, in both of which Catherine’s name seemed to appear repeatedly. He was not altogether certain of this fact because he was too vain to wear the spectacles he needed or allow his new wife to see how far away from his face he must hold the epistles in order to peruse them.

He glanced at his helpmeet, who was tying the ribbons of a most fetching bonnet under her dimpled chin. She was a dashed handsome woman. Just as important, she understood a man and talked sense.

Lady Pelliston turned to meet his gaze.

“Why so thoughtful, my dear? You don’t like the bonnet? Say so at once and I shall toss it on the fire.”

“No, it’s the da—dratted letters. Don’t anyone know how to write legible any more?”

His wife smiled and held out her hand. “Let me see them,” she offered. “I seem to have a knack for deciphering anything.”

A few minutes later she looked up. “Well,” she said. “Well, well.”

“Can you make ‘em out?”

“Yes, dear. How I wish you’d explained matters to me more fully. I might have talked to the girl... but there, it is no business of mine. Catherine is your daughter and I do not like to interfere.”

“With what? What’s Andover palavering on about?”

“My dear, I believe you need a glass of wine.” Lady Pelliston knew he’d prefer a few bottles, after which he would become unpleasant. This was her idea of a compromise.

Not until after he’d been supplied with refreshment did she set to work. “Catherine is not a strong girl, I take it?”

“If you mean in will, she’s obstinate as a mule. If you mean body strength, well, what does she expect? Plays with her food instead of eating it and then goes gadding about among a lot of whining peasants, poking her nose where it don’t belong or else locked up in her room with her infernal books. Plagues the life out of me,” the baron complained.

“I see.” The baroness rapidly readjusted her previous estimation of her stepdaughter. “Apparently, these unfortunate habits resulted in unsettled nerves. She ran away on our wedding day and left a note for your sister saying she was driven to it because she could not abide Lord Browdie.”

“Ran off! There now—didn’t I just tell you what a stubborn, plaguey gal she was? Ran off where? As if she had any place to go, the little bedlamite.” Lord Pelliston polished off his glass of wine, muttering to himself between gulps.

“Evidently, she did not get far. Lord and Lady Andover happened to run across her. He does not say where, but he does remark that Catherine was quite beside herself. Very ill, he says, and terrified half out of her mind. I hope, James, it was not Lord Browdie who terrified her. His rather brusque ways are liable to intimidate a delicate lady. Particularly one,” she hastened to add, “accustomed to more refined treatment from her papa.”

“That’s ridiculous. Browdie tells me that if he so much as says a word to the gal she glares at him like she meant to turn him to stone.”

“As a Pelliston, she would scorn to show her fear, whatever she felt within,” the baroness flattered. “Dear me, I had no idea she objected so to the match. Though I daresay,” she quickly corrected, “that was mere missish-ness. How I wish I had been her mama and might have talked to her—but I am not and it is none of my affair. What do you mean to do, James?”

“Fetch her back, curse her. She ain’t back, is she?” he asked hopefully.

“No, she is in London with her cousin and his wife.”

“Cousin—fah! Family’s never had a word to say to me unless they wanted hounds. Sold Andover a fine pair too, years ago, and that was the last I heard of him. Why the devil didn’t he take her home again? Now we must be traipsing off to London—filthy, stinking hole that it is. Where’s that bottle, Clare?”

Lady Pelliston was a young woman, and she did not mean to waste her remaining youth buried in a remote country village. She had every intention of visiting London in the near future. She meant, in fact, to spend every Season there until she grew too decrepit to stand upright. Interrupting her bridal trip in order to drag an unwilling stepdaughter to the altar was not part of these plans.

The situation was bound to be unpleasant, and Lady Pelliston hated unpleasantness. Also, she knew that the action would not win her husband—and herself by association— the earl’s esteem. She had taken into account the Andover connection as systematically as she had all Lord Pelliston’s other assets, and meant to use it to her advantage. The baroness was a practical woman.

Lord Andover wrote of his wife’s intention to bring Catherine out. That was very odd of them, to be sure, but the Earl and Countess of Andover must be indulged their eccentricities. Lady Pelliston was not about to permit her spouse to interfere with those plans and thus wreak havoc upon her own. Accordingly, she removed her bonnet, poured her husband another glass of wine, and set about the formidable task of making him see reason.

Lord Browdie frowned at the heavily embossed sheet of vellum in his hand. Old Reggie had procured him the invitation to Lady Littlewaite’s ball, thinking to do his friend a favour. Reggie had been visiting the day Pelliston’s note arrived, and Lord Browdie being at the time more drunk than discreet had shared its contents with his friend. A good thing too. He might have dropped into a sulk if he’d been alone.