Barbara Metzger (2 page)

Byrd was going on: “And we've got to do it afore the whelp wakes up."

The viscount looked down at the sleeping infant, noting the bluish veins on his eyelids, the curl to his perfect ears. This tiny cherub was his—and was going to wake up hungry. Hartleigh looked at his man in stark terror. The viscount had sailed his yacht through fleets of French warships to bring messages to Wellesley and help transport wounded officers back home; he'd been out twice on the field of honor; he'd even told Sally Jersey to give her tongue a rest. But this? This was beyond him. “Oh, my Lord. What'll we do?"

"What I've been telling you, Cap'n. And soon, by the look of it.” The child was beginning to make soft whimpering noises and sucking sounds.

Lesley gulped more of the coffee. “Lud, the sprat's entire life depends on my decision. I ought to make it sober, at least."

Byrd wisely refrained from noting that the viscount rarely did anything while sober. “What's to decide? You can't take the cub to your stepmama, can you?"

Agatha, Lesley's father's widow, was but ten years older than her stepson, and disapproved of everything about him except for his title and wealth, which she firmly intended to ensnare for one of her bran-faced stepsisters. She was also vaporish, viperish, and as ugly as a vole. “Jupiter, can you imagine the uproar if I asked her to look after a baseborn brat? Burnt feathers and sal volatile and laudanum drops—and that's before I told her it was mine. Besides, the female has less maternal instinct than an andiron. If my father thought he was going to get his spare heir off her, he was sorely disappointed. Chances are, once she had his ring on her finger, she had nothing but headaches and excuses for him.” He shuddered at the idea of anyone willingly bedding Agatha Crumwell.

"I never understood why he married her in the first place. Wasn't like your father needed her da's blunt. And the governor could have had any chit from the ton iffen he wanted a young bride, without taking on some mine owner's daughter."

"Trapped, he was, in an inn and a snowstorm and a room with no lock on the door. Rolled up, horse, boot, and rifle. He was a downy bird, but no match for the scheming jade, who was set on getting a title one way or the other. No, I wouldn't inflict the shrew on any innocent babe."

"Then take the nipper to one of your friends’ houses. Some of your cronies have to have legshackles, I'd guess."

"And promising families, but I can promise you that no lady is going to take in a bastard. Highborn females are taught to ignore the very existence of such unfortunate creatures. They'd all go off in strong hysterics like Lady Hartleigh, and then their husbands would be calling me out. But you know, I believe you have given me an idea...."

Byrd muttered, “I should of given you a kick in the—"

"An excellent idea! Nothing is more likely to get me out of the Marriage Mart than an illegitimate issue. What woman would agree to rear another female's love child? What papa would let his daughter near such a loose screw? Why, Agatha might even send her sisters back to Yorkshire rather than let the gruesome twosome be contaminated by my wicked ways. I'd be free, Byrdie, free of all those females twisting their ankles on my doorstep, free of the chits trying to sneak into my bedroom at house parties, free of those man-eating mothers of marriageable misses."

"You wouldn't be free. You'd have a baby.” A baby whose fists were starting to wave in the air and whose lower lip was starting to tremble.

"But only for a while. Just long enough to make a stir and give everyone a disgust of me."

Byrd was disgusted already. “I'll be handing in my notice, then."

The viscount ignored him. “Meanwhile I'll be having my solicitor look out for a nice family to raise the infant. Perhaps in the country. There must be some childless couple who'd jump at the chance, especially if I agree to pay for his expenses and education."

"And while this search is going on, are you going to feed the nipper and change its nappies?"

The viscount's complexion turned from gray to green. “Of course not. I'll, ah, hire a nursemaid. Find me a newspaper. There's bound to be an advertisement or two."

Byrd shook his head, but went to see if, in addition to this morning's catastrophe, the morning paper had been delivered.

Lesley decided he needed another cup of coffee, at least, so reached for the pot on the table next to him. Just then the baby awoke entirely, hungry, soiled, frightened, and loud. Mostly loud. The pot landed on the floor; the hot coffee landed in the viscount's lap. “Byrd!” he shouted. “Get in here!” The infant screamed louder. Lesley's insides tied themselves in knots, and his brains—what few he had left—tried to escape the din by drilling on his skull. “How far away is that foundling hospital?"

"I'll get the carriage,” Byrd said, tossing down the papers.

"No, get some milk."

"But you always drink your coffee black, Cap'n. What you don't pour on your pantaloons."

"Not for me, nodcock. For the infant."

Byrd groaned, which was barely audible over the squalling. “I think we had some cream t'other day, iffen it ain't curdled."

"No, go get some fresh. There's always a dairymaid around the streets this time of day.” He knew that from coming home so many times after daybreak. “Do you think he can drink from a cup?” he asked as an afterthought.

"How the bloody hell should I know? I never had a baby, never touched a baby, and, far as I know, never was a baby. You're the one as got all goo-ga over your get, so you figure it out. And figure how to shut the brat up meantime, else you'll have the Watch here for disturbing the peace. The tyke likely misses his mum. Whyn't you pick him up or something?"

"I doubt he ever saw the princess after he was born. And pick him up? But he's all wet and..."

Byrd shrugged and went to find a milkmaid, leaving his lordship alone with the bawling bairn. That ought to knock some sense into the viscount, Byrd thought. Lord Heartless tending an infant? Hah! Not for long, he wouldn't.

When Byrd returned, though, having taken his own sweet time about fetching the milk, all was quiet in the little room. The viscount was rocking the wicker basket with his left hand, and dribbling brandy—laid down in his father's time, long before the embargo—off his finger into the baby's open mouth with his right. Occasionally he paused in one activity or the other to lift the decanter to his own lips for a hefty swallow. “There, this isn't so hard."

They tried dripping milk into the gummy mouth from the viscount's handkerchief, then they tried spooning it, pouring it, soaking a sponge with it for the sprout to suck on. The milk was on the baby, on the viscount, on the floor. The dog belched. And the baby's blue eyes, staring up so trustingly at the viscount, started to fill with tears.

"We need help."

"We need a blooming miracle."

The viscount cudgeled his already battered brains for the name of a temporary angel of mercy—and motherhood. He needed someone with knowledge of the infantry, not too high in the instep to look after a nameless brat; someone who lived in the immediate neighborhood. Junior's face was beginning to turn red, a sight more frightening to the viscount and his servant than any French cannons. Lesley did a mental tour of Gibsonia Street. Surely in this little corner of Kensington resided someone whom he could bribe or browbeat or beg into coming to his aid.

A family with hordes of ragged children lived around the corner. The viscount was always threatening to horsewhip the urchins for playing in the street, disturbing his daytime rest. The mother, a drink-sodden, slovenly creature, was forever threatening to take her rolling pin to him. No, she knew less about tender infants than Lesley did. And she'd likely laugh in his face, to boot.

According to Byrd, the two children who lived behind them never stopped sniffling and wheezing. That wouldn't do. The young couple next door were childless, and she had a racking cough besides. The schoolteachers on his other side were dried old prunes, and the elderly couple across the street were high sticklers. A solicitor and his grown son resided next to them.

Which left Sir Gilliam Parkhurst's housekeeper, two doors down across the street. Lesley shivered at the thought. The female was a prig. She dressed like a crow in shapeless black, with her hair scraped back under a hideous mobcap. Worse, her lips were always pursed in disapproval and her spine was as stiff as a poker. She crossed to the other side of the street when she saw the viscount coming, lest she be turned into a toad by his proximity, he supposed.

Heaven knew it would take more than the viscount's vaunted powers as a rake to turn her into a warm and willing woman. Granted, Sir Gilliam's housekeeper only saw him infrequently, and when he was not quite at his best. Like the unfortunate time he was relieving himself in the bushes, or when he was escorting that bit o’ muslin to the carriage. How was he supposed to know he had silk stockings draped over his shoulder?

He did allow as how the widow had seen him arrive home in his evening clothes on more than a few instances, when she was returning after her morning grocery shopping. What business was it of hers, though, that she should raise her chin in the air and turn her back? After all, Hartleigh never paid heed to Byrd's speculations that Mrs. Kane was not really a widow, and was not, in fact, Sir Gilliam's housekeeper. He pitied the old knight if she was anything more, but doubted the redoubtable female was warming the banker's bed. She wore her mantle of respectability with such a vengeance, ‘twas more likely she'd sent Mr. Kane to an early grave so she could be rid of him and his baser instincts. Lesley shuddered again. Kane was probably happy to stick his spoon in the wall.

None of which made a ha'penny's worth of difference to Lord Hartleigh. A proper upper servant or a prodigious actress, Mrs. Kane had a daughter. The child wasn't in leading strings, but was small, solemn-eyed, and quiet, and the widow took her everywhere with her. While Mrs. Kane was marching to the rhythm of respectability, the little girl skipped at her side. She seemed happy and healthy and devoted to her mother. That was enough recommendation for the desperate peer.

"Mrs. Kane it will have to be. You'd better go ask her to stop over,” he told Byrd. “The woman hates me."

"Well, she plumb terrifies me. I ain't going."

Not for the first time, Viscount Hartleigh regretted being on such familiar terms with his employee. They'd been through too much together, however, for him to come the lord and master at this point, so he pushed himself up off the sofa and tugged at his mud-and-milk-spattered waistcoat. His neckcloth hung in limp folds down his filthy shirtfront, and his trousers were still damp with coffee. His cheek was scraped raw, and a purplish bruise was forming on his chin, just visible under the blond stubble. He sighed, thinking of the widow's likely reaction. There was no hope for it, though, no time for a bath or a change of clothes, not from the sounds coming from the basket. “Very well, I'll go across the street. You stay with the baby."

The infant was starting to wail again. Byrd was already at the door. “You don't pay me enough."

"I'll double your salary, by George!"

"Fine, and you can send it on to me in Dover. Moral morts and infants is two things I can't stomach. I won't even be asking for a reference, Cap'n, for no one'd hire me on your say-so anyway. Not as a valet, leastways."

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Loyalty was everything; money was more. They both went. Hartleigh carried the basket as far from him as he could; Byrd carried the hopes of his own pub a little closer to his heart. The exhausted infant slept again, thank goodness.

The viscount rapped on the front door of the dwelling that resembled his own in shape and matching brownstone, naught else. This building's lawn appeared manicured, with carefully trimmed shrubbery and a border garden of bright spring flowers. The steps were swept, the railing was polished, the knocker gleamed. Curtains hung in all the windows and the shutters were newly painted. Whatever else she might be, Lesley considered, Mrs. Kane kept a neat house. He rapped again. Someone had to be awake, at such a respectable domicile. The hour might be early by his standards—hell, it was the middle of the night, by his standards—but the rest of Kensington was surely stirring.

A very proper butler finally answered the door, with immaculate white gloves and powdered wig. The man was short, thin, and sharp-featured, and the nostrils on his pointed nose flared at the sight that met his close-set, beady eyes. He looked like an indignant weasel, Lesley noted in the half second before the door slammed in his face.

"I told you we should of used the servants’ entry,” Byrd said, adding to the unraveling of the viscount's already frayed temper.

"I,” his lordship pronounced, “am not a servant.” Lesley squared his shoulders to their not inconsiderable width, raised his square chin, and hit the door squarely in the middle with his fist. The door shook. This time, when the stiff-rumped rodent opened the door, the viscount pushed it in and stepped inside before the butler could slam it again. From his greater height and greater arrogance, Lesley announced: “I am Hartleigh and I have come to see your Mrs. Kane."

If anything, the butler's demeanor grew more contemptuous. He couldn't look down his pointed nose, but he could thin his lips into a smirk. “Mrs. Kane is an employee here. She does not receive, ahem, gentlemen callers."

Lesley would have stuffed that “ahem” down the dastard's throat, except Byrd's cough reminded him of the urgency of their mission. “This is not a social visit, my good man, so please be so kind as to fetch the woman."

The butler announced, with equal pomp and satisfaction, “Tradesmen may call at the delivery gate."

The viscount supposed that his appearance was off-putting enough to justify the man's lack of deference, and his reputation might have preceded him. An unfortunate aroma certainly did. Still, such a decided lack of cordiality rankled. Lesley could easily have gone around to the back gate. Lud knew he'd used the kitchen entrance or the servants’ door or the second-floor window, even, to reach a lover's bedroom, but not today, and not at this rat-faced rudesby's direction. So he didn't look bang up to the mark, and his companions didn't smell so sweet; he was still a peer of the realm. “Viscounts use the front door, sirrah."