Viscount Vagabond (6 page)

“I didn’t know what else to do with her, damn it. I could hardly send her off in a coach on her own, and I couldn’t go with her—bound to cause trouble with her curst father.”

“Who is she, Max? Not a schoolmistress, despite that quiz of a dress. Not your mistress either, I’ll wager. Wild and unconventional as you like to appear, even you have your limits. Besides, if that girl ever had a depraved thought in her life, I’ll eat my new bonnet.”

“What a lot of strong opinions you’ve acquired, considering you hardly let her open her mouth.”

“I observed.” The countess settled herself comfortably upon the sofa. “I don’t think you’d have brought her here if you had not sensed that she is—how shall I phrase it? Out of the common way? Not what she appears or wishes to appear? Her curtsey was quite elegant. Her manners are
refined—though that is not at all unusual in a governess or teacher. However, since I did not perceive the usual submissive attitude of the class, I concluded that she was gently bred. I may be mistaken, of course. She may be a radical. That is not impossible, though most unlikely.”

There was relief in the countenance Lord Rand turned to his sister. “Then I did the right thing?”

“Oh, Max, you never do the right thing. Only you would take up a stray female as though she were one of those abandoned kittens you were forever bringing me. This is a bit different, I’m afraid. One cannot banish her to the kitchen to make Cook’s life a misery.”

“Don’t tell me you mean to send her back?”

“I never know what I mean until Edgar explains it to me, dear, and he will not be home until just before dinner. I confess I am curious why you’re so set against her going back. You’re not in love with Miss Pettigrew, are you?”

Her brother stared at her in horror. “Gad, Louisa—a scrawny little girl like that who sermons at the drop of a hat? You ain’t heard her yet. I daresay she was overawed by your magnificence, but give her half a chance and she’ll be preaching at you. It was all I could do to keep a straight face...” He trailed off, realising he could not very well repeat to his sister the lectures he’d heard in the brothel or his lodgings.

“Then what is it to you if she returns to marry this person her papa has selected for her?”

“It’s against my principles, and I won’t be a party to it, anymore than I was when the old man tried to shackle you to that birdwitted old troll. It’s against her principles as well. I know, because she gave me scold on that too before she ever admitted it was her own trouble.”

“Principles,” her ladyship repeated. “I see. Still, I must consult with Edgar. If he feels we must return her to her family, we must.”

“Now, Louisa—”

“Surely you don’t doubt his judgement? Was it not Edgar persuaded Papa to allow you six months to finish sowing your wild oats? And was that not because Edgar convinced Papa that you are a far better horseman that Percy and therefore much less liable to get your neck broken in the interim? That Papa has not troubled you once in these six months is all Edgar’s doing, I can assure you. Between answering Prinny’s every petty summons and keeping Papa in temper, poor Edgar has had not a moment to himself.”

“Don’t try to make me feel guilty. Andover’s only had to pamper the Old Man these six months. I’ll be doing that and everything else from now on. I suppose he’s got my bride picked out?”

“Actually, he’s picked out half a dozen. Not, I’m sure, that you’ll want any of them, as Papa well knows, but he does like to feel he’s doing something, poor dear.”

Max groaned. “Half a dozen. And the blasted house?”

“I’ve taken care of that. Not a trace of Percy. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, I wasn’t afraid he’d haunt the place, if that’s what you mean. Old Percy hadn’t the gumption. Wouldn’t have gotten himself killed if he had. Curse him, that horse could have taken the stream.”

“Yes, dear, and you’d told him often enough to put more trust in his beast. Poor Percy—he never had much spirit, did he? He should have been the younger son. He might have gone quietly into orders then, and Papa would have accepted it.”

“And I’d still be in the same blasted predicament. Oh, well.” His lordship finished his wine and deposited the glass on the mantel. “Might as well get used to it. I’ll go see the Old Man later today. But if Edgar wants to send the girl back, you must promise to tell me straightaway.”

“Why?”

Lord Rand bent to kiss his sister’s forehead. As he straightened he said, “Because I’ve half a mind to go back with her anyhow. Maybe I’ve a choice word or two for her papa.”

Catherine fretted over her dilemma while she sipped her tea. By dinnertime her host and hostess would be sure to ask unnerving questions. What on earth could she tell them?

To run away from home and travel unchaperoned was enough to soil a young lady’s reputation. To have spent one night in a brothel and another in a bachelor’s lodgings was utter ruin.

She would earn no credit for having managed to preserve her virtue. Appearances alone would make her an outcast, a disgrace to her family—unless, as Lord Rand had advised, no one learned of the matter. At present he was the only other person who did know. Since she was merely Miss Pettigrew to him, the Pelliston name was still unsullied. She had rather keep it that way. Her homecoming would be painful enough as it was.

Besides, if she admitted her true identity, Lord and Lady Andover would never let her return home unaccompanied, and Catherine did not intend to bring witnesses to the humiliating scene with which she was certain to be greeted, especially if Papa had been summoned home from his bridal trip. He had no self-control at all, and if he was drunk, as he was bound to be —oh, there was no point thinking about that. Papa was sure to carry on in the most mortifying way.

“There, Miss,” said Molly, jolting Catherine from her unhappy reverie. ‘You just lie down now and have a nice long nap, and I won’t bother you none ‘til it comes close on dinnertime. I’ll clean up your dress for you and press it,” the Abigail added, her gaze flickering disappointedly over the grey frock draped upon a chair. ‘You’ll be fine as fivepence and all rested too.”

“Oh, no. That is hardly appropriate for dinner,” was the embarrassed response. “The peach muslin will do far better.”

“Beg pardon, Miss, but there weren’t no peach muslin I could find, and I unpacked everything you brought. Just a brown frock and underthings and such.” The maid’s round, rosy face plainly expressed her bafflement at this paltry wardrobe.

Catherine had been too agitated earlier in the day to take inventory of her belongings. Now, with a faint stirring of anger, she realised that the brothelkeeper must have stolen her one good gown.

“Oh, dear,” she said quickly. “I packed in such haste that I must have forgotten it. How stupid of me. Yes, I suppose the grey frock will have to do.”

Molly tiptoed from the room as Catherine crawled into bed. She did not expect to sleep, not with her mind churning so, but a few hours rest would help her think more clearly, as she should have done two months ago.

She hadn’t been able to think because the hot temper she’d inherited from her papa had made her wild and blind. Though she hadn’t shown it, she’d become completely irrational, just as he always had, incapable of considering consequences. At the very least she should have prepared for every eventuality. She’d had weeks to reconsider, to at least think ahead.

No wonder Lord Rand thought her an ignorant young miss. Now he thought even less of her. He’d called her a coward and a nonsensical one at that, which was no surprise considering the disgusting display of weakness she’d provided him. Twice at least she’d wept in front of him—she who abhorred tears. Was not weeping maudlin self-indulgence when done privately and a bid for pity when done in public? Aunt Deborah burst into tears at every fancied slight, which enraged Papa and filled even Catherine with exasperation.

Lord Rand must have been mightily relieved to have her off his hands. The thought set off an inner flutter of pain, and her eyes began to sting. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Of all the excellent reasons she had to weep, why must the mere thought of her rescuer be the one to set her off?

Firmly she banished Lord Rand’s image from her mind to concentrate instead on her hostess. The Andover name was so familiar. Was the family connected to hers? That would hardly be surprising, when half England’s, even Europe’s, aristocracy was related to the other. Perhaps, though, the earl’s family had simply been the topic of one of Great Aunt Eustacia’s rambling dissertations on genealogy. The old lady knew her Debrett’s as intimately as she knew her Bible. As Catherine recalled the long monologues in those dim, cluttered rooms, exhaustion crept over her.

Genealogy. “Hadn’t time to discuss genealogy,” he’d told his sister in that abrupt way of his. Actually, it was rather funny, in the circumstances.

What an odd man he was,
Catherine thought vaguely as her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. Lost, of course, with his drinking and wenching, like Papa, but young ...
and
handsome... and so strong. He’d lifted her up as easily as if she’d been one of her bandboxes.

He must have been shocked, when he had sobered himself, to realise what he’d brought home with him. Perhaps that would teach him to exercise moderation in future. With this pious thought, Catherine drifted off to sleep.

“Now who in blazes are you?” Lord Rand demanded, surveying the small, slim man before him.

His lordship had already had two nasty surprises. The first was a butler even taller than himself, whose accents hinted an intimate acquaintance with the bells of St. Mary Le Bow: a Cockney butler named Gidgeon, of all things. The second was a chef who spoke not a word of English, thereby forcing Lord Rand to rake the recesses of his mind for the French he’d determined to bury there forever along with Greek and Latin.

In front of him at present stood a mournful creature who’d been dogging the viscount’s footsteps all the way down the long hall.

“Hill, My Lord,” said the little man sadly.

“Hill,” Lord Rand repeated. “And what do
you
do?”

“Your secretary, My Lord.”

“What the devil do I want a secretary for? Ain’t there enough here as it is? The bloody place is crawling with servants. I’ll wager there ain’t been such a crowd in one place since Prinny married that fat cousin of his.”

“Yes, My Lord. A tragic business, that,” Hill gloomily agreed.

“You don’t know the half of it,” his lordship grumbled. “Well, what is it you do, exactly?”

“Her ladyship—Lady Andover, that is—indicated that you required assistance in managing your paperwork, My Lord. Now that you are in residence there will be a daily supply of invitations requiring responses.”

“I ain’t going to any of those fusty affairs.”

“Very good, My Lord. You are aware, I trust, that you are engaged to dine this evening with Lord and Lady St. Denys?”

“Tonight? Already? Plague take him. The Old Man don’t give me a minute to catch my breath. How the devil did he know I was back?”

“It is a regrettable fact, My Lord, that servants’ gossip travels at an alarming rate,” said Mr. Hill in dismal tones. “His lordship’s summons arrived an hour ago. I am afraid the invitation is indeed for this evening.”

“Of course it is. They can’t wait to clap the irons on me.” The viscount muttered something unintelligible, then said more distinctly, “Very well. Might as well get it over with.”

Considering the matter closed, he was about to continue on his way, but the secretary seemed to be in melancholy expectation of something more.

“Is that all?” the master asked impatiently.

“Her ladyship also mentioned that there would be numerous matters claiming your attention, though scarcely worthy of it. She indicated that I was, insofar as possible, to relieve you of the more trivial.”

‘Lord Rand sighed. “Such as?”

“Your valet, My Lord.”

“Don’t want a valet. Can’t stand someone poking about my things.”

“Quite so, My Lord. Therefore I have screened the applicants in advance and reduced their number to three, in hopes of sparing you some trouble in seeking one worthy of your employ.”

“Didn’t I just tell you I don’t want a valet?”

“Yes, indeed, My Lord. So I will explain to the man you select.”

“I don’t want to select anybody, damn it. I can dress myself. I ain’t a baby.”

“Very good, My Lord.” The secretary stared dolefully at his master’s scuffed boots. “I suppose, then, one of the lower servants will attend to your footwear? In that case, I will ask Mr. Gidgeon whether such a person might be spared from the present staff.”

Lord Rand fought back a wild urge to bash either his own or his secretary’s head against the door frame. “Where are these prodigies? I suppose they are here or you wouldn’t be badgering me about it.”

“In the hall outside your lordship’s study. If you will be so kind as to ring when you’re prepared, I shall send the first candidate in.”

“No,” snapped the employer as he stormed down the hall. “I’ll see ‘em all at once.”

Half an hour later, the disagreeable task was done, the viscount having quickly settled on the one candidate whose serene countenance promised intermittent relief from the lugubrious Hill. Lord Rand was further heartened some hours later when Blackwood (for such was the name of this gentleman’s gentleman), having accompanied his master to the tatter’s private chambers, volunteered the information that he’d recently been invalided home.