A Rag-mannered Rogue (18 page)

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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

BOOK: A Rag-mannered Rogue
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Yes, he would seize the girl. He doubted not that Cathgar's heart was involved, and Cathgar deserved a punishing lesson. His eye still ached in its sockets. Tallows rubbed it and smiled sourly. No one gave him such a blow and didn't pay. Least of all Cathgar—and it was the earl, he knew, who'd been disguised as Higgins. He was a canny one, remarking that scar. And there had been rumors drifting, too . . . rumors all over Newgate that Lord Cathgar . . . meddled. Not just this time, but other times, too. The prince was still safe—some said it was Cathgar who kept it that way. Tallows grunted. He
must
have the girl.
Besides, there might be money in it. Fresh Bank of England notes for the Luddite cause. That would make Grange stare!
Grange, who promised to escape Newgate, though how, Tallows could not tell. But it was not his business to question Monsieur le Duc. Powerful friends, he supposed. Perhaps he'd keep a few sovereigns aside for a tankard of ale. And a little cottage, with creepers and vines and a well full of clear water. Lurking under the lamppost, Tallows's mind drifted lazily, though his eyes never faltered from his goal. Seizing the wench was just what he needed. Tallows sneezed. It was a pity, he thought, about the fog.
 
“Do you
really
wish to be a seamstress?”
“I do, though if I had known references were so important, I would have written them myself!”
The countess chuckled. “Well, at least you are honest! I happen to be in desperate need of a seamstress. My son is going to be married shortly, and I have the task of outfitting his bride.”
“Are you offering me work?”
“I am, though I fear there will be much of it. I live in the country, where there is not hide nor hair of a decent milliner even.”
“I can make hats!”
“Can you? A lady of rare talent!”
“Yes, well, I have not made many—”
“How many? A dozen?”
Tessie's tongue licked her small, delicate teeth. She was about to tell an unqualified whopper, and she wondered whether that was wise.
“Oh, piles and piles of bonnets . . .”
The countess's eyebrows rose a fraction. “Truly?”
Tessie couldn't do it. She sighed. “No, only in my imagination. I daydream a lot, you know. Grandfather said it is a very bad habit, only I can't seem to help it. . . .” She brightened, unaware of the countess's sudden cough, choking back laughter.
“I have
trimmed
bonnets. Oh, most marvelously. That is why I am certain I could fashion them with a very little effort!”
“Excellent. You shall try your hand with them. I have several bolts of velvet gathering dust in the attics. I shall pay you a weekly wage and board.”
Tessie bobbed up from her seat in ill-concealed excitement.
“You won't regret this, Madam. I am most excessively grateful, for there are some people, I am sorry to say, who didn't believe I could find honest employment anywhere, and just look at how wrong they have proven!”
The countess, who shrewdly inferred the mysterious “they” to be a “he,” and she suspected she knew exactly
which
“he,” merely nodded her head crisply.
“Some people are fools. Run along and see how Madame Fanchon is doing. Perhaps one of the ensembles is ready for you. I really do not think I can tolerate a trip into the country looking at that olive.”
“No, indeed, it is sadly drab, but better than puce, do not you feel?”
“Oh, undoubtedly better than puce but still worse than my nerves can tolerate. So do go dress yourself in something more pleasing!”
“But I cannot afford . . .”
“The outfits are your starting gift.”
“I cannot accept gifts!”
“Why ever not? I do all the time! It was only yesterday that Blanche Netherton gave me a most horrible potion for skin blemishes, though why she should when my skin, as everyone says, is quite perfect. . . .”
Tessie wanted to laugh, for the countess's skin could hardly be seen, she wore so much maquillage and paint. Still, she was apparently a dear old creature, so Tessie nodded patiently and listened politely to a long list of outrageous gifts the countess had recently received. These ranged from oranges “from that odious toady the duke of . . .” well, she wouldn't say, but she was positive he was angling for a lengthy house visit at her expense . . . to a box of “positively scrumptious sweetmeats from Emily Cowper,” an apology, she thinks, for ignoring her at the Pendergast ball, though it is hardly surprising, for it was such a crush, it was a miracle anyone could be seen at all, and what with being jammed between a pilaster and Lady Rotherham's ostrich-feather confection—hideous, but there is no accounting for tastes—” The countess rambled on and on, leaving Tessie intrigued but perplexed and finally in no doubt that it was quite
comme il faut
to accept a gift or two.
“You are very generous, ma'am. I shall make you the finest gowns I can! You shan't be sorry!”
“Indeed, I am beginning to suspect not. Is it true that you carry a pistol in that reticule?”
Tessie swung around, astonished. “Who told you
that?”
The countess, realizing at once that she had made a mistake, that she could not divulge a word of Nicholas Cathgar's communications to her without giving the game away, fanned herself calmly and improvised.
“I thought I saw the outline of a pistol through that material. Forgive me, I am prone to sudden fancies. Very worrying.”
Tessie laughed. “I think you are merely shrewd, ma'am! There is a pistol in my reticule, though no one has ever suspected it before.”
“Can you fire it?”
“Yes, of course. But I prefer not to, on account of my vile temper.”
The countess grinned. “Very wise! Hotheaded, are you?”
“Yes, though I almost always regret it.”
“I shall bear that in mind when we quarrel. Now, do be a dear and get ready. We have a long trip ahead of us, for I shall be returning to my country home.”
“What shall I call you?”
Tessie, who had been wondering for some time who she was addressing, now looked shy.
The Countess of Cathgar, by contrast, looked devious. No good telling the chit her real name before she'd had any fun. No point lying, though, for lies were always so tedious. So she smiled regally and answered with a deliberate vagueness that was really unparalleled in its sublimity.
“Oh,” she said, “just call me Countess.”
Tessie, overawed, for once in her life obeyed.
Sixteen
Lady Cathgar's barouche was supreme. From its blinding purple exterior—Tessie privately thought it wonderful—to the soft squabs of pinks, lilacs, and, yes, alas, crimson—Tessie thought she was in heaven. There were foot warmers at every place, and the chaise was so well sprung, there were none of the nasty jostlings that she had become quite accustomed to. The barouche was fitted with elegant mother-of-pearl drawers containing everything from sticking plasters to elixirs of all descriptions, a feathered muff, a jewelry case, and veritable feast of bonbons, Lady Cathgar's passion.
The countess selected for herself a sugarplum, recommended the candied pears to Tessie, then sank back gracefully into her seat. The carriage driver, seated up front, could be heard humming a gay tune, the sense of which, Lady Cathgar informed Tessie, though it was unclear how she knew, was licentious. Tessie grinned, for she suspected that the countess, though terribly regal, was also highly improper.
A kindred spirit. She only hoped, now that it came to the crunch, that she could earn her keep. The gown in which she positively luxuriated was a soft yellow with a crossover bodice, high-necked but soft, to show her swan-like features to advantage. Her sleeves, excessively modish, were tied in three places by lemon ribbons, the same ribbons that adorned her rows and rows of hem flounces. It was hard not to sigh with a deep satisfaction, especially now that her curls were imprisoned in a high poke bonnet of Cumberland straw. Oh, it was heavenly! Tessie tried not to peek at her precious kid slippers, magicked up by Madame Fanchon so as not to disgrace the ensemble with her horrible half boots.
Then there were the silk clocked stockings, finer than she had ever worn at Hampstead, and the ivory fan with its intricate Chinese design. If only Nick could have seen her! Then, of course, it would have been perfect. But she would school herself not to think of Lord Nicholas Cathgar—not now, or ever.
 
Not so for the vagrant Tallows, who was at this moment cursing Sir Nicholas roundly. He was cursing him for interfering with the Luddite schemes. He was cursing him for delivering the flush hit that he had, and, above all, he was cursing him for employing a carriage driver who tooled his horses at such a spanking rate.
Yes, no one had noticed one solitary apple hawker catching a ride on the small platform behind the barouche. Tallows, unremarked, was hanging on for all he was worth. His good eye—the one not clammed shut from bruising—was covered in the dust from the road. His clothes were splattered in mud as two oncoming chaises had liberally sprayed him with dirt from their wheels. Not a happy man, Tallows, but determined.
 
The Countess of Cathgar snored loudly. Tessie, wondering not for the first time where she was being taken, stared out at the countryside and thought of home. She gulped a little, for so much had changed since she was the darling of Hampstead Oaks, spoiled rotten by the villagers, forging a delightful—if irreverent—life with her grandfather. That she was an orphan had never particularly bothered her until then. Now, strangely, just as heaven had taken a helping hand, just as she was embarking on the post she wanted most, she felt in dreadful danger of crying. She sniffed instead, and brushed back her tears crossly.
Oh, if only she had not fallen in love with Lord Nicholas Cathgar! If only he were not so daring and spirited and damnably handsome! If only he did not devour her with his eyes and amuse her with his impudent smile. It ruined everything, for she could enjoy nothing without her thoughts creeping to him. Most trying!
She wondered if she would ever see him again and thought it unlikely, especially now that she was to be buried away in the country, sewing her life out. The countess seemed kind enough, but she owed her much. She would have to sew from dawn to dusk at the very least to ever repay her and earn her keep. A gloomy thought. She sniffed again.
“Here. Take my handkerchief.”
An enormous specimen was dangled her way. Tessie would have chuckled were she not so much in the doldrums.
“I thought you were sleeping!”
“I never sleep in a chaise. I have a nervous disposition.”
Tessie thought it wise and diplomatic to smile rather than point out the fact of her ladyship's snores.
The countess peered at her closely. “Yes, you want to tease me, do you not? I have a horrible son who does the same. Says I snore, impertinent rascal!”
Tessie blew her nose with the proffered handkerchief. It was embroidered all over with little crests in diaphanous blue, strangely delicate for the size of the kerchief and its owner. Also, vaguely, faintly, familiar. Tessie puzzled a little over the circumstance, then gave it up. The carriage was lumbering to a halt.
“Ah, here we are at last. The village of Chiswick. Are you acquainted with this part of the country?”
“No, not at all. Grandfather Hampstead traveled frequently to London but never further than Hampstead Oaks. He always said travel was an appalling waste of time!”
“Do you mean the late Viscount of Hampstead? Of the Wiltshire branch of Hampsteads?”
Tessie nodded.
The countess found her quizzing glass among a pelter of items she deemed essential to travel. “Yes, you have the look of him, though I daresay a lot prettier. I knew at once you were a lady born and bred. Always trust my instincts.” With a satisfied harrumph, the quizzing glass disappeared once more.
Tessie did not say a thing. Now was
not,
she felt, a good time to mention her disgraced reputation, though the very fact that she had offered herself into service must have spoken volumes. Her color rose slightly, but the countess was still musing, unaware of her discomfort.
“I was acquainted with him in my youth. Older than I, of course. A bruising rider to hounds.”
Tessie smiled. “Indeed. It was one of his passions.”
“Gambling too, if I recall. Never
could
beat him at a game of whist, though I tried often and often. Lost a ruby pin to him.”
“Was that yours, ma'am? I have it still. On a good night he used to toss all
sorts
of baubles my way. All quite unsuitable, of course. I wonder he thought I could use them, me not out and never venturing beyond the confines of our gates!”
“How stuffy that sounds! I have traveled all over the length and breadth of England and recommend it most highly. Oh, Italy, too, of course, and the usual places abroad. Very exciting it was before that damned Napoleon spoiled it all. Still, you can have no notion . . . but I ramble on as usual. For the moment, you shall discover the pleasures of Chiswick. There are several antiquities, and a stone church of interest. . . .”
“I doubt I shall have the time.”
Tessie looked wistfully at the little shops, displaying such interesting wares as ribbons and gloves and candle wax. On the street corner there was a boot polisher and a chimney sweep with a scrubby youngster beside him . . . there was a blacksmith, a rag-and-bone shop, a saddler . . . she tried not to peer.
“Nonsense. You shall have plenty of time in the mornings, for I positively detest rising early, and you shall need my opinion before hemming up the ensembles.”
Tessie, her mind at once on her task—which had, up to then, been extremely vague, owing to the countess's surprising reticence—plucked up the courage to ask a key question. It had chiefly been occupying her thoughts all through the countess's slumbers.
“How many gowns do you think is required?”
“Oh,
hundreds!”
The countess airily dismissed the question as Tessie's heart sank deep into her beautiful kid slippers.
It was not permitted to remain there long, however, for the countess suddenly began pointing animatedly to a forest of oak trees in the far distance. The village of Chiswick—such as Tessie had glimpsed—was already becoming a faint memory. The driver was setting an absolutely spanking pace. Tessie could tell from the clouds of dust arising on either side of the chaise, and from the rate at which Chiswick vanished into the distance. She had the most peculiar feeling that she heard several coughs from behind the chaise, and a muttered oath or two. But her attention was diverted by the countess, her sharp eyes alight with pleasure. “Not much farther now. Those forests border with my estate. Look, they are opening the gates.”
Tessie looked. The gates were made of heavy black iron worked in intricate patterns and attached by hinges to a huge, imposing stone wall. The gatekeeper doffed his cap as the carriage rolled through, then there was a great creaking as the gates shut, once more, behind them. Tessie grew more and more nervous as they drove on, through a singularly long tree-lined avenue, past a topiary garden—the countess pointed this out with pleasure—past several stone monuments and an enormous circular fountain until finally the chaise ground to a halt outside an enormous multiwindowed edifice that Tessie assumed to be the countess's ancestral home. She could hardly see the rough reddish-brown stone, for it was covered almost entirely by ivy and bramble-berry vines.
The countess waited for the steps to arrive, then dismounted first in a flurry of scarves and traveling blankets. Then it was Tessie's turn. Next to the house, she felt very small indeed. Especially as the housekeeper stood at the top off the grand steps with three housemaids and a footman in attendance. The countess seemed to think little of the matter, and raised her hands airily to them all, accepting their bows and curtsies as her due.
Presently, the carriage, relieved of its passengers, rumbled on slowly to the stables. There was no sign of any vagrant apple hawker. Tallows, lurking in the shadows of the oak trees, had made very certain of that.
Nicholas,
You may stop scouring London in a black study. Yes, I know you, my son! I have Miss Hampstead safe and secure at the country house. She is busily engaged in styling perfectly marvelous creations, and I won't have her disturbed for the world. Now, keep away, do, or she will doubtless get into a pelter and make a bolt for it again. Such a pother over nothing! Really, Nicholas, if you had just kissed her properly . . . she weeps when she thinks I don't notice. You are a positive monster engaging her feelings so . . . but stay away! I shall write when you are to return.
Your loving et cetera,
Stella, Countess of Cathgar
P.S. I am spending an enormous portion of your indecent fortune and am enjoying myself enormously.
The countess sealed her missive with a contented smile and a sinfully wasteful amount of sealing wax. Then, eyes alight with youthful laughter, she ventured off to find her prey.
“My dear, the poplin is coming along marvelously, but I think a few frills around the border might be de rigueur.. . .”
Tessie sighed. This was the tenth time that morning the pattern had changed. She was working with some splendid materials—oh,
heavenly
materials, scented with lavenders and exotic spices from the East—but her fingers ached despite the useful thimble her ladyship had bestowed upon her.
“Yes, my lady. The lady's measurements . . . I would not like the flounces to be too long, or the hem too short. . . .”
“No, indeed, though my son is such a rogue, I daresay he would not object in the least. . . .”
Tessie smiled. In spite of her woes, the countess's humor was infectious.
“Then we shall have to thwart him! I will add two inches for the flounces. Shall your future daughter-in-law be stopping by? It will be helpful to have her at hand for the measurements. . . .”
“No, alas! She is suffering from—” The countess's agile brain misgave her.
Tessie regarded her curiously.
“Consumption!” she announced with a satisfied smile.
“Consumption! Oh, my dear lady, you must be so concerned!”
“Alas, yes!” The countess drew out another of her voluminous handkerchiefs and sniffed. The sniff sounded curiously like a snort, for Tessie looked stricken and the countess was suffering huge paroxysms of laughter, but Miss Hampstead, pricking her finger yet again, remained in ignorance.
“Ouch!”
“Have a care. Those are wicked needles. Are you certain you can have the gown ready for this evening?”
“I believe so, though the beadwork I shall have to take up to my chamber. . . .”
“A pretty chamber?”
“Ever so! I did not know servants had such pleasant places.”
“You are a very superior servant. Indeed, your bloodlines are equal to my own.”
“But I am ruined and you are not.”
“Possibly . . . have a sugarplum.”
Tessie laughed.
“I shall grow as plump as a partridge! No, I thank you. What shall we do about the measurements, then?”
“Oh, measure the gowns against yourself. I am perfectly certain the young lady is about your size.”

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