Viscount Vagabond (13 page)

Fortunately, Reggie had been there to rally him, repeating his red-haired crony’s many complaints about the girl’s sour disposition and physical inadequacies. She had told her papa she couldn’t abide Lord Browdie. Well, she’d soon learn that no one could abide
her,
and in a few months her papa would be apologising again and begging Browdie to take the shrew back.

Lord Browdie thought this unlikely. Lady Pelliston must have engineered the betrothal’s end, just as she had instigated its beginning. Pelliston, he told Reggie, had been henpecked before he ever reached the altar. Pitiful, it was.

“Don’t waste your pity on him,” Reggie had argued. “Hell be feeling sorry for himself soon enough. You’re a free man again—in London in the Season—with a hundred pleasanter females ripe for the plucking. What better time and place to find a wife? They’re all here, my boy, from the baby-faced misses fresh from the schoolroom to the lonely widows who know what they’re missing.”

Hence the invitation. The trouble was, Lord Browdie had
far rather spend his time with the accommodating Lynnette than at the tedious work of courting either innocent misses or less innocent widows. He was even beginning to think seriously of setting Lynnette up in a modest house in Town. Though that would be a deal more expensive than what he now paid for her company, he’d have that company whenever the mood seized him, instead of having to cool his heels in Granny Grendle’s garish parlour while his ladybird entertained another fellow.

Lynnette was greatly in demand. If he did not remove her from the premises soon, some other chap might. Still, no reason a man mightn’t eat his cake and have it too. He’d take a look at Lady Littlewaite’s display of potential breeders. If nothing there appealed to him, he’d pay Lynnette a visit. Meanwhile, he’d better see about that house.

“What in blazes is that?” Lord Rand demanded, staring out the window.

Blackwood looked out as well. “Jemmy, My Lord.”

“I know it’s Jemmy. What the devil is he doing there?”

“Sweeping the steps, My Lord.”

“May a man ask why he is sweeping my steps when I have a regiment of servants already stumbling over one another looking for something to do?”

“Gidgeon set him to it, My Lord. The boy’s been haunting the neighbourhood this past week, and the footmen complain that they hardly dare step out the door for fear of tripping over him.”

Lord Rand sighed. “Doesn’t the brat have work enough at the dressmaker’s? Why must he haunt my house?”

“Apparently, sir, he’s spying on you.”

“Oh, give me strength.” The viscount ran his fingers through his golden hair.

“Indeed, sir. It seems Mr. Hill was endeavouring to chase the boy away a few days ago. Mr. Gidgeon, who doesn’t care for interference in household matters, took the lad’s part in consequence. They had rather a row about it, and what must Mr. Gidgeon do but call Jemmy in for a talking to and tell
him we wouldn’t have vagrants hanging about. Mr. Gidgeon handed the boy a broom. Mr. Hill was fit to be tied.”

“No wonder Hill’s been sulking. I was missing his funereal pronouncements. So Jemmy’s watching me, is he? Does he thing I’m one of Buonaparte’s spies?”

“No, My Lord. He wishes to assure himself that you do not attempt to spirit Miss Pelliston away to your domicile for no wicked biznez,’ as he puts it.”

The viscount decided it was high time to have a talk with young Jemmy.

When Lord Rand opened the door, he found Jemmy diligently cleaning the railings. “Don’t the maids do it well enough for you?” his lordship asked.

“Me hand’s smaller,” was the sullen reply. “I ken get in ‘em—them—those little places.”

“Don’t you have work to do for Madame Germaine?”

“Not in the arternoons. Besides, SHE’S in one of ‘em Aggerations. Allus is now, wif Miz Kaffy gone and Annie still sick.”

Jemmy threw the viscount a reproachful glance before returning to his work.

“I suppose you haven’t seen your friend in some time now?”

“Not since you took her off.”

“Would you like to see her today?”

The urchin nodded, though he kept his focus on the railing.

“Shall I take you, then?”

A pair of brown eyes squinted suspiciously at the viscount. “You don’t mean ‘at—that.”

His lordship uttered a small sigh. “I’m afraid I do. Only I can’t take you to my sister’s looking like a dirty climbing boy. Go down to the kitchen and ask Girard to give you something to eat,” he ordered, breaking into a grin as he envisioned Jemmy’s confrontation with the temperamental Gallic cook. “I’ll see whether Blackwood can find you a better rigour.”

Despite his vociferous objections, Jemmy was given a bath by a pair of housemaids assisted by a footman. Following that ordeal, the boy was dressed by Lord Rand’s own valet in a brand-new suit of clothes, and his brown hair was brushed until it shone. Jemmy’s own mother, even if sober, wouldn’t have known him. He endured these diverse insults to his person only because, according to his lordship, they were necessary sacrifices.

“Look at me,” Lord Rand said. “D’you think I let Blackwood strangle me with this blasted neckcloth because I
like
it? Ladies are very difficult to please,” he explained.

Had he been so inclined, the vicount might have also mentioned that he’d like to take a look at Miz Kaffy himself. He’d not seen her since he’d removed her from the dressmaker’s shop—more than ten days ago.

Miss Pelliston had been nowhere in View whenever he’d called, and his sister had refused to bring her into sight, claiming that Max would have to wait, as everyone else must, until Miss Pelliston was fully prepared for her entrance into Society. Lord Rand was not, however, inclined to explain this to Jemmy.

When their respective sartorial tortures finally ended, the two males marched bravely to Andover House and into the glittering presence of Lady Andover.

“I believe you’ve heard something of Jemmy,” the viscount said to his sister.

“Oh, indeed I have.” She smiled at the boy. “Catherine has told me all about you.”

“Where is she?” Jemmy demanded, not at all intimidated by Lady Andover’s grandeur, though he thought her very fine indeed.

“She’ll be down in a moment,” the countess said easily, making Max want to slap her. “Perhaps you’d like some biscuits and milk to sustain you while you wait.”

Though Jemmy had been very well sustained at the viscount’s establishment, he was not fully recovered from his recent ordeal. He was, moreover, a growing boy, and
like others of the species hungry all the time. He nodded eagerly.

He had just plunged a third biscuit into his mouth when Catherine appeared. He nearly choked on it, so great was his astonishment. Lord Rand, who had not been eating biscuits, only blinked and wondered if he’d been drinking all day without realising the fact.

In place of the prim schoolteacher he’d expected was a delicate-featured young lady in a fashionable lavender gown. Her light brown hair was a confection of curls, some of which framed her face and softened its narrow features, while the others were held back in an airy cloud by a lavender ribbon.

He stared speechless at her as she made a graceful curtsey. She darted one nervous glance at his face, then hurried forward to clasp Jemmy in her arms.

“How happy I am to see you,” she said. “And how fine you look.”

“He made me do it,” Jemmy answered, recovering quickly from his surprise. “Made me have a bath ‘n’ everything.”

“Oh, my. Was that very dreadful, dear?”

“It wuz horrid. But I done it cuz he said he wouldn’t bring me if I didn’t.
He
had to be strangled, he sez.”

Lord Rand did strangle an oath before hurriedly explaining, “I was referring at the time to my neckcloth. Blackwood claims it is a Mathematical. I call it a Pesticidal myself. Feel like a curst mummy.”

“You look very well for all that,” said his sister. “This Blackwood must be an extraordinary fellow from all I’ve heard—and seen,” she added, eyeing her brother up and down.

“Yes. Drives me terribly. He has interesting notions about who is master. Just like the rest of the household. Not a one of them does anything but what he pleases. My butler drops his aitches and sets young vagrants to sweeping my steps. I’m hanged if there’s one of them ever hears a word I say.”

“If they listened to you, Max, the house would be a shambles and yourself the sad wreck you were but two weeks
ago. Was he not a sad wreck, Catherine? Was he not felling to pieces before our very eyes, and that because he’d spent six months doing exactly as he pleased? Now that he does his duty instead, he’s almost presentable, don’t you think?”

Though Miss Pelliston had led Jemmy to the sofa in order to talk quietly with him, she had not missed any of the preceding discussion. She glanced at the viscount then looked quickly down at her hands when she felt heat rushing to her cheeks.

She had never thought him a sad wreck, except perhaps morally, and now he was so tidy and elegant that one must have a very discerning eye indeed to detect the crumbling moral fiber within. One certainly could not detect it in his eyes, which were no longer shadowed and bloodshot. There had never been any lines of dissipation about his mouth, as there were about Papa’s, nor was Lord Rand’s long, straight nose webbed with red, spidery veins.

Still, Papa was past fifty and Lord Rand not even thirty... and it was perfectly absurd to sit here tongue-tied like a shy little rustic, she told herself angrily.

She raised her head to meet the viscount’s unnerving blue gaze. His lips twitched. Was he laughing at her?

“His lordship and I are so recently acquainted that I have no basis for forming an opinion on that subject,” she answered. “At any rate, I do believe some years of concentrated effort are needed for a healthy young man to reduce himself to a sad wreck. The human body is amazingly resilient.” Then, in spite of herself, she winced.

Lord Rand’s blue eyes gleamed. “Right you are, Miss Pelliston. I told my family six months wasn’t nearly enough time. Some years, did you say? How many do you suggest?”

“I suggested nothing of the sort. Certainly I would never undertake to advise anyone upon methods of self-destruction.”

“No? Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to have it get about that a young lady of one and twenty had to instruct me in dissipation. Most lowering, don’t you think?”

“I should say so. I hope I know nothing whatever about it.”

“Catherine, you must not take Max so seriously. He is blaming you.”

“I was not. I thought for once I had someone on my side.”

“You have your valet on your side, dear, and that is all a man requires, according to Edgar.”

“Can’t be. Miss Pelliston has neatly avoided answering your question about my presentability, so I can only suspect the blackguard has failed me.”

“I beg your pardon, My Lord. I had no idea you sought reassurance,” Catherine responded with a trace of irritation. “I assumed your glass must have told you that your appearance is altogether satisfactory.”

“Is it? Kind of you to say so. Did your own glass tell you that you look like a spray of lilac?”

If this was more teasing, Catherine was at a complete loss how to respond. Her face grew hot.

“Here now,” Jemmy cut in. “Wot’s he about?”

Haven’t the vaguest idea, Max answered inwardly. Aloud he said, “I was telling Miss Pelliston how lovely she is. Don’t you agree?”

Jemmy gazed consideringly at his friend for a moment. Then he nodded. “Why’d you go all red, ‘en?” he asked her.

“I was embarrassed,” was the frank reply.

While Jemmy was deciding whether or not he approved this state of affairs, Lady Andover hastened to Catherine’s rescue. “My dear, you must become accustomed to compliments. You will hear a deal more tomorrow at Lady Littlewaite’s ball.”

“Still, she might blush all she likes,” said the provoking Max. “The chaps will love it.”

“Since you know nothing whatever about how gentlemen behave at these affairs, I beg you keep your opinions to yourself,” the countess retorted dampeningly.

“Being a chap myself, I expect I know more about it than you do,” her brother rejoined before returning his attention to Miss Pelliston. “So that’s to be your first foray into Society?”

“Yes.
I
did not wish to take any steps before we were certain Papa would not object. Lord Andover just received his letter a few days ago. Apparently, Papa has reconsidered— about Lord Browdie, I mean.”

“Browdie. So that’s the old goat’s name. Never heard of him.”

“You never heard of anybody higher in the social scale than a tapster, Max. The Baron Browdie is not precisely an old goat, as you so poetically put it, though he does have nearly three decades’ advantage of Catherine. He is also reputed to lack refinement. According to Edgar’s mama, Lord Browdie’s company is not coveted by Society’s hostesses, though he is tolerated.”

“Better and better,” said Max. “Means you’re not likely to be running into him very often. That is, if he’s in London at all.”

“That we don’t know,” the countess answered, before Catherine could look up from her conversation with Jemmy. “Lord Pelliston wrote that Lord Browdie had come to Town looking for Catherine but would be receiving written notice that the engagement was off.”