Minor Indiscretions (12 page)

"Uncle Charles, is it?" he groused, but the hand was removed before another foul breath passed his lips. "You think to impress me, miss? Well, you won't get around old Frederick Pike so easy. I know what's what, and I knows you ain't above the law. Your fancy airs ain't worth pig swill. What'd you think, your ma found you under a cabbage patch? You're just another of the freaks and bastards she keeps around the place, and no better'n you should be."

If Melody had just slapped the makebate, she would have brushed through. Heaven knew the loose screw had been slapped many a time. What made it worse, and made Frederick Pike her enemy for life, was that she smacked him in full sight of Harry and Pip and Meggie. They could not hear the awful words, but they certainly had a good view of her hand flying forward, his head snapping back, and his rat-colored wig flying into the chicken coop.

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Long journeys could be conducive to deep thinking, especially if the carriage was well sprung and comfortable, the scenery was monotonous, and one's traveling companion had all the conversation of a plaster saint. Viscount Coe's man, Bates, wore the same long-suffering expression of many a martyr, but not a word of complaint would pass his lips. He would not mention two complete sets of fine clothing, ruined, nor the boots he'd labored so lovingly over, destroyed, nor all of the extra work involved for a loyal retainer just up from his sickbed. Bates would certainly not comment on his employer's distressing habit of having his face rearranged, nor the viscount's failure to discuss the circumstances of the past days with his devoted, faithful aide. There being nothing else on Bates's mind, however, he sat like a carving.

The viscount had a great deal on his mind, and except for an occasional sigh
or sniffle from the wounded valet, he was free to let his thoughts wander. The coach headed toward London; Corey's thoughts wended back to Copley-Whitmore.

Melody
. It did suit her. She was like a song that kept repeating in his head. He might not like the tune, nor admire its lyrics or tempo, but he could not forget it. The vision of an angel tenderly wiping his forehead fought with the picture of the fierce Miss Ashton nearly blowing his head off. She was magnificent in a rage, all fire and cutting ice, and she was adorable pretending to be a lady presiding at tea. A contrary animal, was his Miss Melody Ashton. Corey smiled, for there was no doubt about it, Miss Ashton was destined to be his. He could finally admit to the thoughts he'd held all along, from the first moment he had seen her at Barstow's inn: the viscount wanted that young beauty the way he'd wanted his first pony, with every fiber of his being. And now she could be his.

Lord Coe was not sure how he was to accomplish it, with so many guardians protecting the treasure. A man did not usually have to worry about seducing a woman with her mother nearby, much less a cook and a nanny, but he would do it. After all, Melody was not in any position to refuse. She had no name, no money, no future but hardship, and without his protection could be sent to gaol at any time.

Corey was not quite as certain of Melody's guilt as he had been. Oh, she had to be involved in the skullduggery to some extent, but she either had to be a consummate actress or the world's most inept blackmailer, and Lord Coe had difficulty believing either. Miss Ashton had to have known he would come down hard for possession of the child, but she never even opened negotiations. And there was that crack-brained notion of hers that the chit was his by-blow. A lot of men left their butter stamp around the countryside—not that he was one of them—without society's reproach and without their sisters paying leech fees on them, to Corey's sure knowledge. Only a moralist or an innocent would have thought otherwise. Corey smiled again. Or a woman who had already been approached by a—what had she called him?—a vile seducer. He hadn't disabused her of either opinion, his pursuit or his paternity. The first was obvious, and the second was insurance if by some improbable odds Miss Ashton really was unaware of Meggie's parentage.

No child of his would ever be called by such a common-sounding name. Meggie suited an upstairs maid. Margaret was more fitting for a nobleman's daughter, and that's what Lord Coe would call the lass when he went back to fetch her. But what in bloody hell did he know about children anyway, and sickly ones at that? Corey congratulated himself that he hadn't done too shabbily with Ducky—talk about names for aristocratic offspring!—and he had actually enjoyed horse-mad Harry and serious Philip. Maybe children were not such an affliction after all. Even the impish little twins were appealing, making him regret not having a glimpse of his new ward. Erica would have wanted to know, he convinced himself. Of course, he would never tell his sister the chit was frail. He'd say she was delicate and sweet and pretty, but lively, just the way he imagined a daughter should be, now that he was imagining. If a man were to have a daughter, of course. Getting Margaret to Cornwall was still no attractive prospect, but a son of his own mightn't be such a bad idea, someday.

The trip to Cornwall might not look inviting, but the return to Copley-Whitmore did. As usual these days, Corey's mind quickly reverted to thoughts of Melody. As soon as he had papers in hand to guarantee Margaret's future under his protection, he'd see about offering a different type of protection to Miss Ashton.

Perhaps he should bring a gift when he returned, something unexceptional for the mother's sake, to show that it was possible he had been overhasty in his judgments. It was premature for the emeralds those green, green eyes demanded. Lord Coe smiled on his side of the carriage, picturing Melody decked in emeralds and little else.

There, look at him grin, Bates grumbled to himself, sitting stoically rigid on the other seat. He's likely figuring a way to destroy more of his fine clothes.

Lord Coe's solicitor was not encouraging about speeding up the wheels of justice.

"No, a woman cannot adopt a child, or be named as trustee for a minor if property is involved. However, a man need only be named for the courts while the female is de facto guardian. Often the male dies, and no substitute is named. The courts are very overburdened with these matters, you must know. If there are no complaints, there is no inquiry.

"However," he went on, "in the hypothetical case you mentioned, there may or may not be accurate and complete filings whatsoever. Highly irregular situation from the start. I would have to direct a clerk to wade through court documents of the year and month in question. You don't have those details, my lord, for the, ah, hypothetical infant? In that case, I would send a man to the county of residence to search parish records, barring, of course, the cooperation of the
litage's
man-at-law. This could take time."

"If your man finds that the woman in question does have some trumped-up right to the child, how can that be overturned? Assuming for the sake of discussion, of course, that the person seeking custody is a legitimate relative of the child. Legitimate may be the wrong word. Blood kin, then."

"Quite, quite. Nearly every decision of the courts can be reversed, but often at unforeseen expense."

"Dash it, I'm not a nipfarthing! That is, the hypothetical gentleman does not consider the price of moral justice."

"Forgive me, Lord Coe, I had not meant mere financial expense, although justice is often hurried along by such means. I was thinking of the personal cost. If the gentleman in question were to present such papers to the higher court, seeking to rescind a legal adoption, there would have to be just cause, charges of neglect or whatever, an examination, proof of his prior claim, et cetera. There would be no way to keep said gentleman's name out of the public eye. The press, you know. I don't think that's what you want."

"B'gad, no!"

"Then I suggest I send a man to ascertain the details, and feel out the possibility of quiet negotiations."

Quiet negotiations, with Miss Ashton? Crocodile-legged sofas would get up and walk away first. Coe wished the man luck.

"I'm sure we can have the matter neatly wrapped up in, say, a month, my lord."

Coe gave him two weeks and left.

Two weeks before he would see… the child, of course. Two weeks in London at the height of the Season, acquaintances everywhere, entertainments and invitations too numerous to count, and Lord Coe had nothing to do. Idly, he directed the coachman to drive to Kensington, too abstracted to recall that he'd given Yvette her
congé
and was now keeping a pretty little ladybird in rooms off King Street.

"But
mon cher
, you give Yvette permission to stay on here another month,
non
? Ah, you've changed your mind and wish Yvette to remain,
oui
?"

Non
. But Corey could not come right out and say he'd forgotten and arrived in Kensington out of habit, not after Yvette's new protector had left in such a hurry, diving out the back door when Coe stepped through the front. Some protector. Now that Corey did remember dismissing Yvette, he also recalled leaving her a handsome enough parting gift that she need not settle for such a paltry fellow. He felt less gauche.

"I, ah, just wanted to talk. Is that all right?" He fully intended to pay for her time.

"Talk? You want to talk to Yvette?" She shrugged. One received strange requests in her line of work. "But of course,
cheri
, now that you have chased away that
chien
, what else is there to do?" She languidly bestowed herself, on the divan, allowing the neckline of her robe to fall open. Not that the frothy, pink garment concealed much of Yvette's charms anyway, being nearly transparent.

Coe expected to be interested, and wasn't, to his own surprise. He still wanted to know her opinions, however, on matters about which he definitely could not approach females of his own class. It occurred to him that, man of the world or not, he was woefully ignorant about certain facts of life. "Yvette, what would you do if you found yourself with child?"

She looked at him as if he'd grown another head. "
Enceinte, moi
? With your child?"

"No, no, just a hypothetical child."

"Me, I do not know this hypothetical."

"Um, just the child of any man, no one in particular," Corey explained.

Yvette drew herself up, and her robe closed. "Me, I always know the man. I am not, how do you say, Covent Garden ware, going with any man for the price." Her price just went up.

"My pardon,
chérie
. What if, then, it were my child, or the man who just left? What would you do?"

"Me, I would not be such an
imbecile
in the first place. But if, yes, if such a thing should happen,
incroyable
, I would take care of it."

"But would you discuss it with me, with the father? Would you hold him responsible?"

Yvette laughed. "Ah, finally I see. Some
jeune fille
is looking to net the so-handsome, so-wealthy
vicomte
. That is the oldest trap since the apple,
non
? No,
monsieur
, Yvette would not lay such a snare. That is not what you English call pound dealing,
n'est-ce-pas
? If I found myself in such a temporary embarrassment, I might ask
monsieur
for assistance, since you have been so generous, but no, I think not even then. I would simply get rid of
l'enfant
as soon as possible, if not before. A woman in my position cannot afford to lose her looks or so much of her time. The gentlemen, they forget, you see, if a woman goes visiting away too long. But no, no, and no, I would not spread a noose for one such as you, demanding marriage. Yvette knows the rules."

"Then I would never know?" Somehow the idea did not sit well with him.

"But what's to know?
Un homme
comes to Yvette for pleasure, not morning sickness and the shape of a cow. He has a wife for that.
Alors
, enough of this so-foolish talk you call hypothetical. Yvette is much better at the pleasure, oui?"

Oui
, but not today.

Two weeks in town. Lord Coe had dinner at his club, checked the betting book to make sure his name wasn't in it, heard the latest
on dits
, and was happy his name wasn't among those either. Later he went to the opera, where his newest mistress—there, he recognized her in the first row of dancers—curtsied to his box during the tenor's solo. The bucks in the pit whistled till he bowed, and the turbanned dowager in the next box clucked her disapproval. "Disgusting," she declared loudly to the younger woman next to her, a washed-out wisp of a thing in a faded gown that advertised a poor relation or a paid companion.

So Corey bowed to the matron and blew a kiss to the companion. After that they left him alone with his thoughts: of men like apes beating their chests, flaunting their possession of women, of women who had no knowledge of love, and women who had too much. He thought of men who craved heirs and begot bastards, and women who threw out children like the trash, women who feared losing their looks, ladies who feared losing their reputations, and a girl who truly seemed to care about the innocent ones. He thought about the children.

Dammit, why should he wait two weeks? He could help the solicitor's man check records, he could help sweet-talk the Ashtons into parting with Margaret. What a brilliant idea, and the one he wanted all along!

Corey almost convinced himself that he should be in Copley-Whitmore for the child's sake; it was his duty to ensure her welfare. Never before had duty and desire combined so happily

He left the opera house after leaving a check with the stageman. His mistress would understand. The green-eyed dasher could dance, but he bet she could not fire a rifle.

Bates was muttering over the packing—doubles of everything if they were going back to that hellhole—when the anguished letter came. Coe's sister, Erica, was in despair at not hearing from him and had decided to take matters into her own hands, despite his orders to stay away. The peagoose was going to Copley-Whitmore. She was leaving Bath in ten days. Blast, he had enough to worry over without another totty-headed female on his hands. She would only be overemotional about the child, possibly growing attached to the chit, and her very presence in that vicinity could give rise to the same conjecture he was trying to avoid. In addition, having his sister about would certainly cramp Lord Coe's efforts in Miss Ashton's direction. The mother and nanny and cook were bad enough.