Viscount Vagabond (10 page)

She wondered anew at the little boy who’d led her to this momentous decision. He’d apparently taken to her immediately, and he’d never heard of the Baron Pelliston. To Jemmy she was another waif like himself, in need of useful work and shelter.

Shelter. Good heavens. Where would she live?

“Madame Germaine,” she began hesitantly, “I wonder if, before I begin working, you might direct me to the nearest pawnshop.”

When Catherine explained to the startled
modiste
that she required funds in order to obtain lodgings, and went on to admit that she had no idea where to find said lodgings, Jemmy cut in.

“Din’t I tell you wot a green ‘un she is? You orter put her upstairs wif Betty, Missus.”

“Oh, no,” Catherine cried, seeing the doubts writ plain on the dressmaker’s face. “I would never impose in such a way.”

Jemmy’s dire predictions regarding what would happen to Miz Kaffy if she were let loose upon the streets combined with the new employee’s dignified refusal of charity to erase Madame’s doubts. With an empty bed in the housemaid
Betty’s attic chamber, there was no reason Miss Pennyman could not be accommodated until she’d received her wages and might seek proper lodgings.

After lengthy debate and many direr predictions from Jemmy, Catherine acquiesced—on condition, she said, that she might repay the favour. Her eyes on the little boy, she proposed to tutor Jemmy in the rudiments of reading and writing.

Madame snatched at the suggestion as though Miss Pennyman had showered gold upon her.

“Why, that’s just the thing! What a clever, kind girl you are to think of it. You can see for yourself what an ignorant creature he is. I cannot trust him to go to school as he should— nor spare the time to teach him myself. And though I do my best to keep him tidy, he is such a restless little devil, always into something, that in half an hour one would think he never saw soap or water in his life. How he manages to tear his clothes to ribbons in such a short space of time I shall never know. I would need half a dozen more girls just to keep him patched. Isn’t that so, you young ruffian?” she asked, pulling Jemmy to her for yet another fierce embrace.

“Wot’s she going to do to me?” Jemmy asked, scowling at the hug, though he otherwise bore it manfully.

“Why, teach you the alphabet, you ignorant child. Do you know what that is?”

Jemmy didn’t know nuffink and didn’t want to know nuffink, especially if it had to do with soap and water. The
modiste’s
excited monologue had led him to conclude that reading and writing were somehow connected with bathing.

Catherine hastened to explain, pointing out the advantages of being able to read signs and shopkeepers’ bills without assistance. She was not certain how much the boy understood, but he seemed to trust her and eventually agreed to “try it some and see as he liked it.”

A just Providence must look favourably upon efforts to lead this young soul out of the darkness of illiteracy, Catherine assured herself later as she sat working with the other seamstresses. Surely that must compensate in part for
the disobedient act to which she’d been driven.

She was far less easy in her mind concerning the family she’d run away from this morning. She had written a long letter of apology, though, hadn’t she? Besides, Lord and Lady Andover had more important concerns than the fate of the lowly member of the working classes they must have taken her for. They’d probably decided, just as Lord Rand had remarked the other night, that Catherine was either insane or horribly ungrateful. By now they’d all ceased thinking about her altogether. She only wished she could stop thinking about
him.

Well, strong personalities were very difficult to ignore— look at Papa—and whatever one thought of Lord Rand’s unfortunate habits, one must admit he had an overwhelming sort of presence. When he was in the same room one became oblivious to everything else. He was also mind-numbingly handsome. His deep blue eyes alone were enough to stop one’s brain dead in its tracks. Add to that a face and physique like a Greek god and a mop of wavy golden hair... yes, indeed, he was just as Molly had said, like a great handsome statue. Any person of any aesthetic sensitivity must be impressed.

Handsome is as handsome does, Catherine reminded herself as she threaded a needle. She would never see the man again, and that was fortunate, because he was evidently embarked upon the same dissolute courses as Papa, and in a few years those god-like features would degenerate. In time Lord Rand’s face would match his character, a conclusion she had rather not witness. She sighed softly. What a terrible waste.

The search for Miss Pelliston was not brought to the speedy conclusion Lord Rand had hoped for. He’d expected to find her the same afternoon, cowering in a corner of the inn yard, or else—as he imagined in a more lighthearted moment—delivering one of her scolds to a giant, red-faced coachman.

Three days later he was still seeking her. When enquiries at coaching inns proved futile, he had, sick at heart, de
scended into the seamier environs in which he’d first found her. He’d even stormed Miss Grendle’s establishment, where he was met with mocking assurances that the “ungrateful young person” was warming the bed of some rich nob.

The viscount learned no more in London’s underworld than he had at the inns. The only news he acquired in those three days was from a tavern keeper. The man had not seen the young lady, but had heard her described by another “gentry cove.” The description of this man—a tall, thin, middle-aged redhead—bore no resemblance to anyone with whom Max or Lord Andover was acquainted.

“The fellow’s not her father,” Lord Rand confided to his valet. It was daybreak of the fourth day since Miss Pelliston had run away, and his lordship had made another of his brief visits home for a bath, an hour’s rest, and a change of clothes. “Andover says the old brute’s short and shaped like a pear. Besides which he’s in the Lake District on his bridal trip. Must be the confounded fiance.”

“That tells us the young lady has not returned to her family,” Blackwood replied.

“I wish she
had,
damn her. At least then we’d know she was safe and could forget about her, the stupid chit.”

Blackwood, who’d learned somewhat more about the missing lady than his master had intended to relate, had begun to have some ideas of his own. While his employer lay down for a short nap, the valet noiselessly exited the chamber, donned his hat and gloves, and departed for Andover House.

In the same quietly efficient manner in which he’d taken charge of his employer, Blackwood insinuated his way into the heart of the Andover household, eliciting from Jeffers, the earl’s butler, an invitation to stop belowstairs to “take a bite of breakfast” with the others.

As Blackwood had hoped, the very same Molly his employer had characterised (though in more vivid terms) as incapable of intelligent speech was enjoying an early repast with her colleagues. The valet’s openly appreciative
gaze won him a place at her side and a scowl from Tom, the footman. Mr. Blackwood’s charm did the rest. Lord Rand would have been amazed to find what an entertaining fellow his inscrutable valet could be. That was because his lordship did not know what Blackwood quickly learned: that added to his own winning personality was the considerable advantage of personal attendance upon Molly’s idol.

Molly’s infatuation with Lord Rand was a household joke, and a grim provocation to Tom, who was equally besotted with the rosy-cheeked abigail.

“Why, all he had to do was look at her or anywhere’s near her an’ she busts out bawling. Didn’t you, then?” he accused his beloved. “An’ wasn’t no help at all, an’ his lordship’s cousin lost now an’ his lordship up all hours looking for her.”

“I’m sure Miss Jones faithfully reported all she could,” said Mr. Blackwood, bestowing a compassionate smile on the maid. “Though it must have been very trying indeed having to answer two gentlemen’s questions at once.”

“Oh, don’t you know it, Mr. Blackwood. Here was my master asking me a hundred things and Mr. Max—his lordship, I mean—frowning and grumbling like I stole her myself. And all I ever did was explain about his lordship being away all that time and tell her what nice hair she had. As even you said yourself, Tom Fetters, and was carrying on so about her eyes as made a body wonder what
you
was thinking of.”

Blackwood smoothly stepped in to prevent the angry retort forming on Tom’s lips. “Ah, yes,” Lord Rand’s gentleman said, “even ladies of quality do not object to being reminded of their assets from time to time.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Molly said frankly. “She looked like she didn’t believe a word of it—as if I was the kind to flatter in hopes of getting something by it,” she added scornfully.

“You strike me,” said Blackwood, “as the soul of honesty. She ought to have believed you.”

“I should say so. Don’t I know that Lady Littlewaite’s paid as much for a set of curls like that as she did for a ball gown? Nor they didn’t match properly neither, but was the best Monsoor Franzwuz could do on short notice, when the other one fell into the turtle soup. Which it never would have done, he says, if she wasn’t always flirting and tossing her head like she was a girl of eighteen instead of a grandmama.”

Blackwood listened carefully, his precise mind examining, selecting, and discarding as Molly continued talking. He had come because he knew Lord Andovefs servants would speak more freely to one of their own kind than to their masters. In their less guarded speech might be a clue to Miss Pelliston’s whereabouts. A remembered word or phrase might offer some inkling of her plans.

Now he sorted out two facts that appeared significant. Miss Pelliston had come to Andover House penniless, and, according to his master, desperate to go home. Molly had talked to her of the buying and selling of hair. This, perhaps, was the clue he wanted.

“Sold her hair?” Max repeated, aghast, when the valet presented his report. “That glorious—” He stopped short, equally horrified at what he’d been about to say. “That’s ridiculous,” he snapped. “If she’d done it, then why ain’t she home? Why didn’t anyone remember her at the coaching inns?”

“A confused mind is a vacillating mind, My Lord. Perhaps she changed her mind about returning. If she managed to acquire money, she may have sought temporary shelter in London.”

“Or maybe someone changed her mind for her,” was the angry response. “Confound the woman! Why couldn’t she stay put? Did you ever hear of such a henwit?”

Blackwood wisely refrained from responding to this. Silently he handed a snowy white length of linen to his employer.

“Damn it, man, I haven’t time to fool with that thing. Takes me half a dozen to do it right, and I’m in no mood to bear those pained looks you give me when I do it wrong, as though I’d just put a ball through your other leg. I’ll wear one of the old ones that don’t feel like such a noose about my neck.”

“With the Bath superfine, My Lord?” the valet stoically enquired.

Lord Rand looked at his coat, then back at the neckcloth the valet held. “I suppose,” he said after a moment, “if we do meet up with the wretched girl, you think the combination will drive her off again.”

“Rather excessive for a young lady’s sensibilities, I do believe, sir.”

“Very well,” said the defeated employer. “The gibbet it is. Only you had better tie it, unless you mean to see your master garrote himself.”

“Bit early in the day for this sort of thing, ain’t it? Sun ain’t even set, said Lord Browdie as his companion led him through the door into a red velvet-draped vestibule.

“Ah, you’re getting old, Browdie. Time was you were ready for a bit of fun morning, noon, and night. Or is it you’re afraid of being disappointed? No fear of that. Granny’s gals’ll tend to you, day or night—and cheaper than the kind you usually spend your money on.”

On no account did Lord Browdie care to be reminded of his age. If his dark red hair had origins more pharmaceutical than natural, that was a secret between his manservant and himself, as were the yards of buckram padding that filled out his chest, shoulders, and calves. These features were no secret to a host of low females of his acquaintance, either, but he regarded their opinions no more than he regarded their sensibilities.

Might as well have a bit of fun, he thought, as he was led to meet his hostess. Damned tiresome business, this. He’d been in London four days and not a trace of his fiancée could he discover.

He had, moreover, met with a great deal of discourtesy.

The frigid crone at the school had disclaimed all knowledge of Miss Pelliston and had been notably unforthcoming regarding the blasted governess. A man-hater, that one. He’d had to bribe a maid to learn what little he now knew— that a young woman answering his description had come calling, but had stayed only a short time.

The maid, who’d been daydreaming out a window instead of attending to her work, had seen the young lady meet up with a tall gentleman, but no, she couldn’t say who that was. The two had met up on the opposite side of the square, and that was too far away to see what the man looked like.

When Catherine turned out not to be where she was supposed to be, Lord Browdie was stymied. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to find her. Thus he spent most of his time in diverse taverns and coffehouses, occasionally remembered to enquire about the girl, and generally convinced himself he was diligently seeking her.