Barbara Metzger (20 page)

He’d be a faithful husband, Kathlyn had no doubt, until he fell in love with a woman of his own milieu, one who was welcome in the Queen’s Drawing Room, who could run a ducal mansion, and whose children never had dirty faces. Then he’d still be a dutiful husband because he was such an honorable man, but he’d be miserable. Kathlyn loved him too much to do that to him, or to herself.

“No, my lord, I fear that if you want to give me children, you shall have to find yourself a wellborn bride, beget yourself a parcel of perfect poppets, and send them to my school.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Winter was hanging on like an old dog with nubby teeth. He’d slink off in the end, but not before giving the enemy something to remember.

A bitter wind swept across the land, not bothering with snow or rain, just making people wretched enough with the icy gale. The temperatures dropped and dropped and dropped until washing hung outside turned to rigid banners, wells wouldn’t pump, and horses’ breaths froze into ice packs around their muzzles. Newspapers, when they were thawed out enough to open, warned of frostbite, lung damage, and possible death by congealing blood. Parties were canceled, shops were closed, and even London’s beggars were forced off the streets. The only ones doing any business were the icemen, out and about cutting blocks of ice to store belowground for summer use; they sure as Hades weren’t selling any now.

Lady Chase’s coachman in Trowbridge flatly refused to set out in such weather. The viscount would have his head for sure, imperiling his lordship’s prime cattle, to say nothing of his lordship’s mother. So Lady Chase kept searching the newspapers, dreading to find her son’s name.

Lady Bellamy was nearly to London, stalled at an inn by the iced-over roads, though one more day of her daughters’ brangling would see her hiring a sled to convey them the last few stages. At least the inn received the London papers, a mere few hours off the presses, although the delivery boy had to be pried off his horse. Lady Bellamy kept scanning the slander sheets, dreading to find her niece’s name.

The Duke of Caswell didn’t wait for the London journals; he had a whole network of secretaries, solicitors, and servants doing his spying for him so he could stay warm and comfortable, at home.

Harry Miner’s gang took to burning newspapers, when they could find them, for their meager heat. Unfortunately for Ursula, not even ladies in her profession could ply their trade in this cold, so she was forced to let Sean and Quigley move into her Chelsea rooms to pool their resources. Even more unfortunately for Ursula, the erstwhile thieves packed their parasites along, too. When it came to arguing, the spoiled Bellamy siblings had nothing on three failed felons in a flea-ridden flat.

“I say if she don’t show her nose soon, we break into the house and snatch her away.”

“What, under the eye of that old Runner what’s practically moved in there to protect the mort? ‘Sides, there’s the dog and the dummy.”

“Well, she has the young’un trailin’ her skirts when she does leave the house to go to t’other place, so it’s seven of one, half a dozen of t’other.”

“He’s a boy, ain’t he?” asked Ursula. “Don’t worry about the sprat. I’ll take care of him.”

So they went back to arguing over whose turn it was to go out for bread—and itching powder.

* * * *

After three or four days, mongrel winter loosened its grip on the city. People could move about again, if they were careful of the icy patches and didn’t stand in one place too long. Travelers could continue their journeys, tradesmen could hawk their wares. The only one not happy with the chance to be out-of-doors again was Inspector Dimm, for now he had to report to his superior about the failure of his plan.

“ ‘Twere a good plan, too, if not for that jackanapes Ripken,” Mr. Dimm told his cat. “A’course, I couldn’t say that to the governor, him being the Nipperikin’s kin and all.”

The young Runner had decided that if Miss Partland wasn’t guilty, then she was a goddess. “Gorblimey, the lackwit’s tossed his hat over the windmill for sure. If ‘is nibs thinks he’s aggravated with me not finding the jewels, I can’t wait till he hears about me losing his nevvy to a female what’s blotted her copybook.”

Dimm didn’t believe Miss Partland was a sneak thief, a light-skirt, or liable to lead that chub Ripken astray. Why, the cawker was so tongued-tied in her presence now, she likely was not aware of his silent adoration. She had to be aware, though, of Ripken’s dogging her footsteps since he was hardly ever more than a foot away. ‘To keep her safe,” the clunch explained. More like to get a whiff of her perfume, or a glimpse of skin, or a not-so-accidental touch when he held the door open for her. Dimm shook his head. The mooncalf never stood a chance of winning more than a polite smile, not when it was as plain as a pimple on the peabrain’s nose that the lady had eyes for no one but the viscount. Heaven alone knew how that situation was going to unfold, for heaven alone could figure out the workings of a woman’s mind. Meantime his lordship was making mice-feet of his courting, and more to the point, Ripken was scaring away the jewel thieves.

Even a half-weaned hound can deter trespassers, albeit just by setting up a howl. No one looking at Ripken would cringe in terror, but no would-be kidnappers would want him looking their way, either.

So Dimm revised his strategy. Telling Miss Partland the danger was likely passed after all this time, he let her go unaccompanied back and forth to Meg’s house, stationing Ripken out of sight down the alley across the street. B’gad, he thought, maybe standing out in the cold would cool the jackass’s ardor. Dimm, naturally, would continue his vigil, too, from right there in Mrs. Dawson’s parlor window. The new plan ought to keep the governor from complaining, if not content. It sure made Mr. Dimm happy.

* * * *

Happiest of all with the moderating temperatures were the children, who could finally go out to play, unless it was Kathlyn, who’d been cooped up with their boundless energy for ages, it seemed. Or perhaps his lordship was most pleased, for now he had an excuse to call on Miss Partland, to invite her and the children to go skating.

No, Harry’s gang was happiest to see her outside more, for they were close to burning the furniture for firewood.

“Yeah, but now she’s lost the Runner runt, she’s got the toff to do her ice skates,” Sean whined.

Quigley bashed him on his good ear. “That means he loves her, you cabbage-head. An’ the chummier them two get, the more he’ll pay to get her back onct we nab her. ‘Sides, they can’t be ice-skating forever.”

They could skate for hours every day, however, despite the cold and despite the viscount’s weak leg. Courtney’s wound seemed to improve with the exercise on the frozen ornamental lakes in the park as they laughed and played, instructed the children, and performed magical ice dances. When they grew tired or cold or his leg finally gave out, they all went to Gunther’s, tearooms, or chocolate shops. And they didn’t only go skating. They went to the circus and the menagerie and the waxworks museum. Courtney made sure that Kathlyn couldn’t refuse, for the children’s sakes. Like Mr. Dimm, the viscount had a plan.

Kathlyn was going to become his wife. That was a fact, in his heart and in his mind, if not in his immediate future. It wasn’t merely a matter of satisfying his honor anymore, to save her from an ignominious reputation; now it was a matter of fulfilling his dreams. He couldn’t even recall wanting a demure little debutante bride, all simpers and spit curls. What would he speak of to a nursery-fresh ninny? How could he argue about the Corn Laws and enclosures with a chit more knowledgeable of fashions and the latest gossip? Besides, how could he take another female to wife when all he wanted was Kathlyn Partland? That would be counter to his lifelong tenets. He, of all men, would finally make love to a woman, only to be having adulterous thoughts of another! Why, he’d have saved his body for his bride, only to have his mind unfaithful. To even contemplate such a circumstance was absurd! He’d have Kathlyn or no other.

She was in his dreams, waking and sleeping. When they were out abroad, he’d dream what he’d do with her abed. When he was home alone in his huge four-poster, he suffered. Oh, how he suffered. Kathlyn was beautiful and bright, spirited and sensitive, proud—and pure. She was everything he wanted. They’d have a good life together, if only he could convince the stubborn little shrew.

Well, Courtney was stubborn, too. He’d kept a difficult—no, a well-nigh impossible—vow all these years; he could outlast any mulish miss. Bribery didn’t work, appeals to logic had availed him nothing, and citing her lost reputation only reminded her what a nodcock he could be. So now he had a new plan. He was going to make Kathlyn love him, by George!

First she had to like him, so he’d show her what a friendly chap he could be, likable, easygoing, a good companion. He wouldn’t even threaten to strangle her if she mentioned emigrating to Canada again. Since she was as skittish as a colt around him, he made sure the children were present, just as he made sure she couldn’t refuse his invitations without disappointing his godchildren. He did have a modicum of intelligence, despite Inspector Dimm’s opinion.

The opinion around Town varied, depending on the quarter from which it came.

The children were too old to be Kitty Parke’s, everyone agreed. Everyone who saw her, that was, which was nearly everyone returned to Town by the time the ice melted. His lordship had no nieces or nephews or young cousins, the gossips concurred, yet he appeared to dote on these two youngsters.

“Must be that Mrs. Dawson’s,” Algie confided to his friend.

Woody looked around at the crowded tables at White’s, then back at the betting book. He gingerly touched the bandage across his broken nose. “We weren’t supposed to talk about any of them, remember?”

Algie lowered his voice, easy with his recently dislocated jaw. “Deuce take it, everyone else in London is. What did the gudgeon expect, when he parades his mistress and two by-blows around Town? Lud, we may as well make some blunt off the wagering.”

So the rumor mills ground on: Viscount Chase had two mistresses, two illegitimate children, in two houses in Kensington. His own dear friends, the ones who’d helped him fend off the footpads in Epsom, poor brave things, practically confirmed it.

* * * *

The old duke slapped his thigh and nearly fell over laughing. Damn if the boy didn’t have cullions after all! And damn, but that was one accommodating mistress the lad had found for himself, taking on another whore’s whelps. Now, if Chase would only find a wellborn bride half so obliging, His Grace could finally stop worrying over the succession. The duke admitted that the cub had been wise to end that engagement he’d encouraged so hard, for the Marlowe chit wouldn’t have known the first thing about satisfying such a lustful lad, bless his fruitful soul.

* * * *

Two mistresses, the cad had? Two children while he was spouting about virtue and the sanctity of the marriage bed? Lady Fostwick, nee Adelina Marlowe, smashed two of Lord Fostwick’s favorite snuffboxes against the wall. Now the drawing room smelled as bad as the old goat she was married to.

* * * *

She’d been married to a rake, and she’d given birth to a rake. It was too, too much for Lady Chase to bear, so she took to her bed at Choate House in Grosvenor Square and refused to come out until she ran out of handkerchiefs to dry her eyes. She had her maid tell Courtney she was ill from the journey to Town.

She was sick, all right, sick with knowing she’d failed to instill the least bit of decency in her philandering husband’s son. And she’d tried so hard to make Courtney a better man than that dirty dish who’d sired him, likely when Chase was between mistresses. What was she going to tell Reverend Hollingsworth? Oh, children were the very devil.

* * * *

That devil and his doxy were trying to ruin her children’s lives! It was scandalous enough that Gwyneth’s girl was a member of the muslin company, but a
ménage a trois?
Lady Bellamy heard of nothing else at the modistes’ and the morning calls, over tea or over the latest tenor. All of London was abuzz with the most recent scandal. The only thing she didn’t hear, thank heaven and all the stars that shone in it, was this Kitty Parke’s real name. No one was exclaiming over her similarity to Lady Bellamy or her deceased sister. Yet. Most likely the gabble-grinders were too busy inspecting those children for a resemblance to his libertine lordship to notice anything else. Yet.

They’d be ruined. Lord Bellamy would be furious. First she’d lost her diamonds, now she’d lose their entree to the haut monde. Her only hope was to get rid of the girl before her identity came out. But how? By all reports the chit was having a high old time of it, so it would take a fortune to buy her off.

On that long journey to Town Lady Bellamy had conceded that she knew only one man who could possibly handle the delicate negotiations, besides finding the wayward wench in the first place. He’d be discreet and understanding, having daughters himself, even if he wasn’t the cleverest detective on Bow Street’s staff.

* * * *

As he read Lady Bellamy’s carefully worded note, Inspector Dimm decided this was going to be the easiest money he ever earned, reuniting aunt and niece. Besides, Mrs. Dawson would be pleased as punch to see her protégé back in the bosom of her niffy-naffy family instead of going out as a governess or such. ‘Twould give that chaw-bacon Lord Chase a nudge, too, to see Miss Partland taking her place in society.

* * * *

Kathlyn set the places for supper, smiling. He liked her. Lord Chase didn’t have to spend so much time with her; he could take the children places on his own if he wished. He could leave them altogether and go back to his own world. But he didn’t. He liked skating and sightseeing and strawberry tarts. And he liked her. Maybe Canada wasn’t such a good idea. She heard it was cold.

Chapter Twenty-two

The sun was out. Like Kathlyn’s old cape that she’d worn to London, it was thin and threadbare, ragged around the edges, and did not provide much warmth, but the sun was out at last.