Barbara Metzger (17 page)

Because she was the housekeeper.

The housekeeper, by Jupiter! What the deuce was he doing, lusting after his prim and proper housekeeper, destroying her reputation, using her for his own purposes? Blast, he was no better than that churl Cosgrove.

And what the deuce was Carissa doing coming from Sir Gilliam's? Looking out the same window that Carissa had earlier, Lesley could clearly see Parkhurst's house, even in the dusk. He saw Mrs. Kane crossing the street, then saw a man step out of the shadows and accost her. Lesley reached for the pistol he kept in his nightstand, but the dirty dish had already released her and was stepping back, bowing. She inclined her head only slightly and held herself rigid, he could see, yet she made no effort to leave the alley. He was waiting when she came through the rear door.

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Chapter Eighteen

Lord Hartleigh was furious. If Carissa had noticed, she would have been afraid. Right now all she knew was that he was detaining her from rushing up the stairs to make sure her daughter was safe and sound, asleep under the watchful eyes of Maisie and the despicable dog who wouldn't bark. So she brushed past him. “Excuse me, my lord."

"Like hell I will,” Lesley said, reaching for her arm.

So she stabbed him with her hatpin, too.

"Blast!” He grabbed the weapon from her and tossed it to the ground while Cook and her helpers watched, amazed. Lesley was not about to put on a raree show for their edification, so he spoke softly, for Mrs. Kane's ears only: “If you do not accompany me to the study, I shall throw your mobcap into the oven, then I shall go looking for the blasted cat."

"Fustian.” But she followed him to his private room, where he shut the door, then dabbed at the drop of blood on his finger.

"I thought better of you,” he said when she sank onto a chair. In truth, her legs could not have held her up much longer.

She barely had the stamina to raise her head. “What, for sitting in your presence, or for striking you with the pin? I apologize, but I thought you another—That is, I was not thinking, my lord. I beg your pardon. Now may I be excused? Pippa will be waiting for me to hear her prayers.” Carissa really had no time or energy to waste on his lordship's megrims. What, had Cook served him asparagus again? Or had Cleo used his Hessians for a scratching post?

"No, Mrs. Kane, you may not leave, and you know deuced well that I am referring to the man you met in the alley not five minutes past."

Obviously there was no use denying it. “What about him?"

"What about a man who does not call for you at your door but lurks down alleys? I actually thought you were a virtuous woman."

Carissa sat up straighter. “He was a stranger, asking directions."

'To where, the Canadian provinces? Those were complicated instructions you gave, fifteen minutes’ worth, by my watch.” So what if he revealed that he'd been keeping time, ready to fly down the stairs and skin the man alive?

Carissa didn't notice. “I did not think I had to account for every minute of my day, my lord. If my work does not meet your expectations...” She started to get up.

"And do you pay strangers’ fares, too?” he demanded. “I saw you hand him your purse."

"Where I spend my salary is even less your concern than to whom I speak on my own time.” Then his words sank in, and her anger almost matched his own. “But you were spying on me, keeping track of my comings and goings, how many seconds I was away from the job? That is despicable."

"I was not spying. I happened to be looking out of my own window, checking the weather, when I noticed a man come out of the alley. How was I supposed to know he was a friend of yours? I thought you might be in trouble, so I continued to keep an eye on him.” And her.

"Trouble, my lord? I have been in trouble since I was born a female and not the son my father wanted. He could not have disowned a male, for the boy would have been his legal heir. My feckless husband could not have stolen my meager inheritance, for a man does not lose all rights to his own property as soon as the marriage vows are spoken. And I might, I just might, had I been a man, have been taught to use a sword instead of a sewing needle.
Then
I might not be in trouble."

"Then I would be bleeding all over the kitchen floor, 1 suppose.” Relieved by her diatribe, for she wasn't defending the man in the alley, only bemoaning her sex, Lesley poured her a glass of wine from the decanter on his desk. “Here, drink this and tell me what is wrong. What did the fellow say to upset you so?"

Carissa wanted to tell him. More than anything, she wanted to lay her burden at his feet and beg him to help. But. But he might be so disgusted at her lies that he'd throw her out. Or he might insist she return to her legal husband. Or he might treat her as a wayward wife, ready for an affair.

Most of all, if one more person knew that Phillip Kane was alive, she would never be able to have him declared dead in a few years. She would have a hard enough time as it was, swearing under oath that she'd seen neither hide nor hair of her husband since his disappearance. Wishing would not make it so.

"I cannot tell you,” she said in a whisper, not denying that the man in the street was known to her after all. “It is a personal, private matter."

"You mean you will not.” He nodded curtly, hurt that she did not trust him, but knowing he did not have the right to demand more from her. “Very well. If you wish to unburden yourself in the future, feel free to do so."

Carissa was starting to her feet again when he added, “Oh, by the way, if you do not feel I am overstepping the bounds of an employer's authority, what the deuce were you doing at Parkhurst's place?"

Recognizing his barely controlled fury despite his milder tone, Carissa took a step backward. “I believe that the missing will exists. I went across the street to search Mason's room for it."

Lesley took the glass from her hand and drained down its contents. “Excuse me, I thought you said you'd gone to Mason's room."

"I did. I'd seen him leave the house, so took the opportunity. The will wasn't there as far as I could tell. Nothing was. You were right that he must have another room somewhere."

"And you could not wait for the Bow Street Runner to find it? You could not trust me to do what I said I would? Are you that desperate to leave my employ? Dash it, I've done everything I could think of to make you happy here. I've even got blasted cat hairs on my pillow."

Now was not the time to tell him those were his own blond hairs on his pillow, not Cleo's black ones. “You have been more than kind, my lord."

"And you have been a peagoose, Mrs. Kane. Good grief, that Mason character is a bully at best, a thief, a blackmailer, and who knows what else besides. And you decide to search his bedchamber, as if he were a parlor maid accused of filching milord's snuffbox. By all that's holy, madam, do you know what Mason would have done if he'd found you there?"

Carissa could well imagine. She could also imagine that Lord Hartleigh was wishing Mason had strangled her, or whatever, to save himself the effort. She took another step closer to the door.

Lesley was in a rage. She hadn't trusted him, yet she'd confided in that slyboots who met her in alley. Now he had a focus for his anger. “You dared to lecture me about fighting duels, Mrs. Kane, if you'll recall. My responsibility toward Sue dictated I keep myself whole and hearty, you said. Is your daughter less vulnerable than mine? Less worthy of her only parent's regard?"

"Of ... of course not."

"Dash it, you could have been murdered! Or arrested for attempted burglary. What would have happened to Pippa in that case, other than the agony she would suffer? You've seen the blasted foundling hospital! Would she have ended there or would your father have taken her in?"

In a small voice, she answered, “No. He'd see her in the poorhouse first."

"Some other relative, then?"

"There is no one but my mother's Aunt Mattie. She lives in straitened circumstances herself, barely sustaining a livelihood on the tiny annuity she receives. And her landlord does not permit children. We tried when I first came to Town, before I started working for Sir Gilliam."

"And yet you dared to endanger your life. That was foolish beyond permission, Carissa."

Carissa did not have the energy to condemn his familiarity. What was one more insult on this day, after all? Besides, he was correct. Being found by Mason was nothing compared to being found by Phillip Kane, of course, but she should not have gone. She bowed her head in acknowledgment.

Lesley wasn't finished. “And what if Parkhurst had discovered you in his house? He'd probably be in his cups at this time of day and—"

"He was."

"He was, by Zeus? You met up with the whopstraw? What did you do, fend him off with your hatpin?"

"No, I invoked your name. It might have been Beelzebub's, he was that loath to call down your wrath."

"So the clunch has a dram of intelligence after all. Unlike others I could name.” His hands were still shaking with the urge to wrap themselves around someone's throat, anyone who dared to threaten his ... his friend. So he placed them on her shoulders and shook her, not hard enough to rattle her brains, only enough to knock some sense into her. And that monstrous mobcap off her head.

Seeing Lord Hartleigh's lowered brow and narrowed lips, Carissa had meant to apologize for upsetting him. When he touched her, she meant to shout back at him that none of this was any of his affair, and he had no right to mock or manhandle her for things he did not understand. What she did, however, was cry. She simply could not be strong any longer. Carissa put her hands to her face and cried.

Then his arms were around her and she was crying into his neckcloth, the one Lesley had taken an age to tie. “Good gods, ma'am, don't cry. Whatever the problem is, we'll fix it, I swear!"

"There's no way to fix it,” she sobbed onto his shirtfront.

He stroked her hair, then her back, feeling the dampness soak through to his skin. “Of course there is. Enough money and influence can fix almost anything, my dear. You ought to know that by now."

"I"—sniff—"have neither."

He handed over his handkerchief so she could blow her nose. “But I have both. They are at your disposal, whether you wish it or not."

Which kindness called forth another bout of tears. Devil take it, his waistcoat was beginning to wade. Lesley kept stroking Carissa, the way he would an agitated horse, only now his hands, without thought, were pulling out hairpins, loosening the tight knot of hair and spreading it across her shoulders.

She blew her nose again. It was not an elegant gesture. Nor did she look very appealing with her eyes all puffy, her lashes stuck together, and her nose a bright pink. A half-drowned rat was possibly more attractive. And Lesley found her irresistible. So he kissed her.

He'd been wanting to do it almost since he'd met the woman, so prim and proper he was challenged to see if he could melt her icy disdain. Then, when he'd seen her hair down, he'd wanted to taste her lips, to prove to himself that he was right, that a real woman lived inside the shell of sanctity she wore like a chastity belt. Recently, however, having come to know her sweetness and humor and intelligence, he'd simply wanted her.

Carissa did not struggle, did not kick him or slap him or stab him with her hatpin, wherever the thing had gone. She did not even take a step away, full knowing that he would release her at the first sign of resistance. No, she kissed him back. She'd been wanting to do that almost since she'd met the viscount, to see if a rake's kisses really were more proficient, more pleasing, more profound.

They were. She'd been wanting to feel his arms around her since seeing him cradle his baby daughter so tenderly, since seeing his dimple, since forever, it seemed. She'd been lonely, starved for a man's attentions, aching for someone to love, even if it was only a pleasure-seeker's passing interest.

Who knew where the simple kiss of discovery, a gesture of comfort really, would lead? Lesley had hopes of his bedroom, the sofa, the rug in front of the fireplace. Right here, against the wall, before he embarrassed himself. Carissa was beyond thought, reveling merely in the almost forgotten wonder of his embrace: his hard chest beneath hers, his powerful thighs against hers, his sighs of desire pressing on her lips. Or were those her sighs?

Carissa was lost. Lesley was foundering.

Then the voice of reason spoke up: “Mama, don't you want to hear my prayers?"

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Aunt Mattie arrived the next day. The old lady was almost dancing a jig, so pleased was she that all her cronies at the boardinghouse had seen a magnificent crested coach pull up and a handsome swell hand her in. Would she be so kind as to move into Lord Hartleigh's town house to safeguard her grand-niece's reputation?

"Laddie, I'd be your mistress m'self,” she cackled, “if it gets me out of that rooming house for rheumatic relics. Why, they're all just waiting around to die there. Here you've got children. You've got life!"

And he had food in abundance, servants in attendance, fires in every hearth. Aunt Mattie was in alt. She was also in a muddle. What did a housekeeper need with a chaperon? She wouldn't have blamed dear Carrie for becoming the handsome peer's mistress, and could understand why everyone would think the worst, but they were going to do so no matter how many old ladies he invited to stay. As far as the good opinion of the members of the ton, her grandniece was sunk beneath reproach already, merely by going into service. What good was an old lady, one who never went about in Society anymore, going to accomplish?

It was a good question, one Lesley kept asking himself. He did not like the answer. Aunt Mattie, as she told him to call her, wasn't so much guarding Carissa's reputation as guarding Carissa's virtue. She was there as a buffer, pure and simple. The viscount knew he was not going to be able to keep his hands off the housekeeper, otherwise.

Thunderation, he'd had a hard enough time getting to sleep, knowing she was in the other room. He'd find sleep twice as long in coming now that he knew how warm and responsive the demure widow could be. He'd be in her bed in a minute, and to hell with sleep. Lesley didn't think she'd refuse him, either, not after that kiss. Hence Aunt Mattie.