Barbara Metzger (10 page)

"Bloody hell!” Lesley dove for the carriage and snatched Sue out of it just as the first dray horse crushed the fragile wicker beneath its platter-size hooves. “There, Lovey,” he soothed the startled child. Guilt tore through him, even before he saw the condemnation in Mrs. Kane's fine brown eyes. Damn, but he wasn't fit to own a canary, much less a baby. And damn, he needed a drink.

Mrs. Kane took the baby from him, as if he couldn't be trusted to hold the sprout now, Lesley lamented. So much for his plans to impress the widow. At least Glad hadn't caused any trouble at the butcher's. The dog was sitting at the corner, with Pippa holding one flopping flap up so she could whisper in his ear. Whatever she was promising him as reward for good behavior seemed to be working.

"Gingerbread,” she confided at his lordship's questioning look.

"Then gingerbread it shall be! There must be a bakeshop somewhere nearby."

Carissa was afraid her daughter would grow spoiled, but she kept still. The poor man was so remorseful over his lapse—and he'd been so magnificent in his rescue—that she couldn't disappoint him. As they left the bakery, however, they passed their neighbors, the retired schoolmistresses. The Misses Applegate pulled their skirts aside, as if afraid of soiling the hems, when the viscount's little party went by. And Glad hadn't even marked the spot so he could come back for more gingerbread.

"I am afraid our neighbors do not approve,” Lord Hartleigh said.

Carissa was enjoying her pastry too much to be upset “Oh, those ladies do not approve of anything. They are barely civil to me on the best of days."

"Still, they used to dip a shallow curtsy in my direction now and again. Honoring the title if not the man, I suppose. The baby seems to have sunk me beneath contempt, though. I do hope you won't be tarred with the same brush, accompanying me and the child."

"Think nothing of it, my lord. If you are concerned that anyone might suppose the infant to be mine, rest easy. I wasn't enceinte or on holiday in recent times, so there is no suspicion of that. Everyone in this neighborhood knows the tale of Sue's landing on your doorstep, anyway. It was too good a story for the servants’ grapevine, I am sure."

"Still, you cannot like being part and parcel of the gossip. We should turn back."

"But Pippa hasn't fed the ducks yet, and I did promise. Besides, my lord, I had no reputation to lose in the first place. People are always ready to think the worst of one, do you not agree?"

"Most definitely!"

"Why, do you know that there are persons who believe Sir Gilliam is my ... that is, that he has, ah, designs on my person?"

"You don't say?” his lordship exclaimed. “Tsk, tsk."

"As if the dear man would even think such licentious thoughts."

"Absurd,” he agreed.

She nodded at his understanding. “Sir Gilliam's is not merely an empty title handed to him in exchange for large donations to the Crown, I'll have you know. He is a true gentleman in every sense of the word."

"Here, here."

"No one who knows him, or you, for that matter, could ever suspect such a thing."

The viscount choked on his gingerbread.

They found the ducks, but Glad found them first and happily splashed through the stagnant waters to chase them off. So Pippa fed him the bread crumbs from her pocket.

"I told you he wasn't stupid,” the viscount said.

Then it was time to return home. Carissa had chores and Pippa needed her nap. The baby was growing fussy, too, and needed Maisie.

"Dash it,” the viscount muttered. He'd been enjoying himself, teaching Pippa to skip stones, jiggling the baby, listening to the widow's cork-brained comments. He was thoroughly unused to curtailing his pleasure for anyone else's convenience, especially a hungry infant's. “I suppose a father is de trop most of the time."

Hers was, Carissa concurred, and Pippa's. But she thought a doting papa just might have a place in a little girl's heart. If he didn't break it.

As he left, the viscount invited Mrs. Kane and her daughter to accompany him to Hyde Park on the next nice day. The ducks in the Serpentine wouldn't be afraid of any old dog, he told the girl, and if they were, the swans would send Glad to the roundabout. And there were horses too, not as fine as Blackie. he assured her, but very handsome. If she was very good—and he could not imagine the sprite being anything but—he might take her up in front of his horse.

How could Carissa say no? Especially when he made the engagement for her half day off? She fussed over Pippa's frock and her braids for an hour, after spending two hours on her own appearance. She wore her least shabby day gown, brightening it with the paisley shawl Sir Gilliam had given her last Boxing Day. And she wore her Sunday straw bonnet with fresh flowers tucked in the brim. For a housekeeper, she thought, she would not shame his lordship, not until the flowers wilted or the sunshine grew too warm to wear the shawl, at any rate.

Looking more handsome than ever in his buckskins and boots, blond hair gleaming in the sun, the viscount rode his gelding alongside an open carriage that held Maisie and Sue. Byrd drove, with Glad beside him on the bench, lop ears like windmill vanes in the breeze. Maisie was almost as excited as Pippa, and even Carissa had to admit that it had been ages since she'd been in an elegant rig, behind prime goers.

When they reached the park, Lord Hartleigh lifted Pippa out of the coach and onto his horse. Carissa couldn't doubt his power or his prowess, but she couldn't look, either. After a gentle canter, they all got down to feed the ducks and walk on the pedestrian paths toward some benches, where Byrd produced a jug of lemonade and some tarts.

The refreshments were from Gunter's, since Lord Hartleigh's most recent cook, a French chef, actually, had left his employ the evening before. It seemed Glad did not understand
allez, allez.
He did understand fricassee. Every last bite of it.

The previous cook had been overheard to speak of Sue as a foreign bastard. She hadn't lasted for breakfast. One of the new footmen had ogled Maisie while she was feeding the babe, and the maid-of-all-work had decided she'd rather work on her back, in the viscount's bed. Never had a man been so bedeviled by his employees, Lesley complained as they sat on the bench, eating and watching Glad chase squirrels. His lordship was thinking of trying another employment office.

"Perhaps you should try another city,” Carissa replied dryly. “The owner of the agency you've been using complained to me that his hirees would rather starve than serve in such a havey-cavey household. ‘Queer as Dick's hatband’ was the expression he used, I believe. And no, I will not leave Sir Gilliam."

"Well, Maisie offered to learn to cook, so I bought her a book of recipes. Now all I have to do is find someone to teach her to read. I don't suppose those Applegate women would, do you?"

Carissa had to laugh. And she had to offer the lessons, for she was starting to teach Pippa her numbers and letters. What was one more pupil, if Sir Gilliam was not discomposed by it? She would ask him.

When the last tart was gone, they returned to the carriage, walking away from the benches that were filled with shouting nannies and their rambunctious charges, shy young lovers and irate old ladies who'd come to feed the squirrels. The viscount tied his gelding behind and sat across from Maisie and Carissa, with Pippa on his lap. He pointed out to his fellow passengers all the trees and shrubs he could identify and made up names for the ones he could not. He asked for Pippa's opinions on the horseflesh they passed, and Carissa's on the fashions of the riders. He waved to friends, nodded to acquaintances, bowed to the long-nosed dowagers with lorgnettes, and ignored the garish women who tried to catch his eye. He did not stop for introductions, but neither did he hurry his companions away from society's gaze, until they passed Lord Cosgrove. He was riding a showy hack, and both of them were already winded after one turn around the tanbark. Maisie hid her face in the baby's blanket.

"Let's leave, Byrdie,” his lordship directed, loudly enough for those nearby to hear. “The park is growing too crowded with the raff and chaff of the city.” Lesley reached across and patted Maisie's hand. “No one can ever hurt you again, my dear. Remember that."

What a nice man, Carissa thought yet again, and what a delightful day. Pippa had fallen asleep without her supper, after a surfeit of treats, but Mrs. Kane knew she'd have a harder time of it. Why couldn't he be old and ugly, mean and miserly? Why couldn't Lord Heartless live down to her expectations? And why, oh, why, did she have to be growing so fond of the man when there was no future in it? Not with his reputation, not with her past.

The other thing keeping Carissa awake was the niggling feeling of being watched in the park. She did not mind the passersby who barely concealed their curiosity at the odd caravan, but she'd felt something furtive, half seen. It had been enough to bring shivery goose bumps to the back of her neck. Her past, again?

The viscount was entirely pleased with the day. His plan was working perfectly. The news would be served up at any number of fashionable dinner parties that evening, that Lord Heartless had a family. Not a sanctioned marriage, but a ménage. The baby was his—he'd never made an effort to deny it—and if anyone chose to wonder if Mrs. Kane's moppet belonged to him too, well, that was a bonus.

Today's performance should put paid to his stepmother's matchmaking once and for all, if it didn't give her an apoplexy. Not even the most desperate female would align herself, or her relations, with a gentleman so lost to propriety that he paraded his by-blows in the park. No marriage-minded mother would push her daughter into a match that was already adulterous, with no signs that the groom meant to cut the connection. No right-minded father would betroth his daughter to such a loose screw. Lesley knew he wouldn't. Why, let a rake like himself look twice at his little girl, or Pippa, for that matter, when they were of marriageable age, and Lesley would call the scoundrel out, by George!

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fatherhood was fine, but the straight and narrow was beginning to suffocate Lord Hartleigh. He did not wish to make his daughter feel unwanted, but a fellow couldn't spend every evening by his own fireside, talking with an infant. Sue didn't have much conversation and she tended to fall asleep at the best part of his stories.

He did not want to give Mrs. Kane cause to curtail their growing friendship. To Lesley's surprise, the idea of not calling on her, not going for walks with her, bothered him, and not only because his plan would work better with her cooperation. If he brought a Cyprian home, he knew, he could say good-bye to their easy familiarity.

Most of all, the viscount did not want little Pippa to see him disguised and disheveled again. He liked seeing the light of hero worship in the child's eyes, Lesley realized, and it was so easy to put there. A toy, a treat, a horseback ride—would that her mother fell into his lap as easily. But no, he would not think along those lines. Nothing would send Mrs. Kane fleeing faster than an improper proposal. The thought, the one that he wasn't supposed to be thinking, sent him into the night, seeking companionship.

Lesley took himself to White's, where he had no intention of losing a lot, drinking a lot, or finding a harlot. He did not intend to get into a duel, either.

After an hour or two, he was sorry he'd come. The air was fetid, the cognac was cloying, and he began to realize that he'd rather hold Sue's featherweight than a deck of cards. Winning a smile from her was more of a challenge than winning another fortune from the gamesters at his table. As he stood to leave, however, he heard his name mentioned at an adjoining table. He had no doubt that Lord Cosgrove meant him to hear every word. He sat back down and nodded for Harry Falcroft to deal him back into their game.

"I say,” the raddled peer was slurring, “did you hear Heartless has taken to keeping a harem?” Cosgrove was in his cups, and so far in Dun Territory that nothing could save him. He was going to have to rusticate in the country with his wife, by thunder. He hadn't won a hand since Hartleigh and his handmaiden had invaded Cosgrove House, carrying off the little red-haired maid.

Silence greeted his words, so Cosgrove continued: “Seems that expensive bit of fluff from the opera house ain't enough to satisfy the sod, nor that countess from Kent who's been throwing herself at his neck. Stealing other men's wives must've grown tame sport, ‘cause now he's stealing other men's mistresses."

"I say,” one of the other men at Cosgrove's table put in, knowing full well that Lord Hartleigh could hear Cosgrove's rant, “That's a heavy charge.” He laughed, trying to dispel the growing tension. “Everyone knows Heartless don't have to steal any females. They just flock to him, like bees to honey. You're just hipped ‘cause your pockets aren't deep enough to afford the dashers he keeps."

"They ain't dashers, I tell you. First he stole my convenient, right out of my house, and then he made off with Parkhurst's, y'know, the banker. Saw them with my own eyes, I did. Riding in the park as bold as brass. That female masquerades as Parkhurst's cook or something. Hah! The only baking she does is to keep buns in the oven!"

Hartleigh had heard enough. So had every other man in the room, in his opinion, if the oaf meant to make free with Mrs. Kane's reputation. He stood and turned to face the sot. “Did you have something you wished to discuss with me, Cosgrove? Perhaps we can meet tomorrow, say at Gentleman Jackson's?"

What, and get beaten to a pulp by this student of the Fancy? Cosgrove was angry; he wasn't insane. “What I wish to say, I can say right here, Hartleigh. I want my maid back."

"Why, so you can abuse her again?” He sneered. “Crawl back under your rock, Cosgrove, for only a slug would take his pleasure on a servant too helpless to refuse. And only a sack of slime would toss a wench onto the streets when she was increasing."

Now Cosgrove was on his feet, too. “What, is it noblesse oblige you're practicing, Hartleigh, keeping your bastards around, parading them in the park? I swear, decent people have to be offended!"