Viscount Vagabond (26 page)

“Since when?”

“I beg your pardon, My Lord. As there has been no formal announcement in the papers, the matter at present is mere household gossip.”

“What matter? What in blazes are you talking about?”

Blackwood bent to retrieve the abandoned articles from the floor. “There is word that your lordship has contracted an alliance with one of England’s great families.”

“Oh, that.” Lord Rand scowled at the bedpost.

“When Jemmy received that word, he left the house. He has not been seen since.” Blackwood straightened and draped the garments over his arm.

“Just like that—not a word?”

“Actually, My Lord, he had a great deal to say on that occasion. If you’ll excuse me, I’d rather not repeat it.”

The viscount transferred his scowl from bedpost to servant. “No, I won’t excuse you. What did the brat say?”

“He found fault with your thinking processes, My Lord.”

“None of your euphemistic translations, Blackwood. What did he say?”

“His words, as I recall, were, ‘He’s got no more brains ‘an ‘at shoe.’ He pointed to his footwear. He followed that with a long, not entirely coherent speech about his education, in which Miss Pelliston’s name recurred repeatedly. He expressed doubts regarding a profession as a tiger. Mr. Gidgeon pointed out alternatives, to which Jemmy responded he’d rather live in the Hulks.”

“Spoiled,” said the master. “That’s what comes of indulging the whims of—of maternal butlers. You’re excused, Blackwood. Wait—where are you going with my clothes? I’m going out again.”

“Yes, My Lord. I was taking them away to clean them. There is a spot of wine on your coat and what seems to be a gravy stain on your waistcoat.”

“Well, what do you expect? I’m a barbarian, ain’t I? Barely civilized, you know. Brought up by wolves. And illiterate. Not to mention a drunkard.”

A light flickered very briefly in the valet’s eyes, but his face was otherwise expressionless as he responded, “I beg leave to disagree, My Lord.”

The figure sprawled on the bed heaved a great sigh.

“You’re loyal, Blackwood, besides being a paragon. Because you’re loyal, I’ll share my secret with you. There’s been no announcement in the papers because the girl’s parents want to bore everyone to death with another overcrowded party where they’ll make the announcement and expect the world to be astounded. Ask Hill when that is—
I
don’t remember. End of the week, I think. In short, I am engaged to be married to Lady Diana Glencove.”

“Then may I take leave to wish you happy, My Lord?”

“You may wish,” the viscount answered gloomily, “all you like.”

To find Lady Diana Glencove in the drawing room was hardly surprising. She was, after all, engaged—though unofficially at present—to Lady Andover’s brother. What did surprise Catherine when she joined the sisters-to-be was that Lord Rand’s fiancée had stopped by primarily to ask Miss Pelliston to accompany her to Hatchard’s.

“Lord Rand tells me you are a prodigious reader,” Lady Diana explained. “It would be a great pleasure to have the company of one who shares my fondness for books.”

To refuse would be rude, to make excuses cowardly. Catherine had no reason, she told herself, to avoid Lady Diana’s company. Lady Andover having an errand or
two
to be performed in Piccadilly, the matter was speedily settled. Catherine would shop for a while with Lady Diana before going on to Madame’s for her regular Wednesday appointment with Jemmy. The Andover carriage would retrieve her at the usual time.

When they reached Hatchard’s, Lady Diana suggested that her abigail perform Lady Andover’s errands.

As soon as the reluctant maid departed, Lady Diana turned to Catherine and said in a low voice, “I’m afraid I asked you here under false pretences, Miss Pelliston. The plain fact is that I am in need of a friend at the moment. Lord Rand has spoken so highly of you. Your efforts on behalf of that poor orphaned boy I found particularly touching.”

Catherine abruptly realised that her mouth was hanging open. She shut it, but continued to stare in bewilderment at her statuesque companion.

“That is why,” the goddess continued, “I dared hope that perhaps you would act the part of a friend for me.”

Catherine stammered something that must have sounded like agreement, because Lady Diana quickly explained
her
difficulty. There was a gentleman, a member of
her
brother’s regiment, who had formed an attachment for
her
some months ago. Unaware that her parents had ordered her to see him no more, he had followed her to London.

“It is very difficult to explain, Miss Pelliston, but I must speak with him. My engagement came as a shock to him, and I feel I owe him a proper goodbye.”

Catherine might have made a speech about filial duty,
but her heart was not in it. She only nodded sympathetically and pointed out to her companion that they could not remain whispering in the street.

The fair Juno glanced over her shoulder, then led the way into the bookshop and stopped in an unoccupied corner.

“He is waiting for me near the theological books. I will be no more than five minutes. I would not involve you, Miss Pelliston, but Mama has set my maid spying on me. If Jane comes back too soon, I had rather she didn’t see me with him. Will you help me?”

Catherine examined her conscience. She did not understand what needed explaining to the fellow. Wasn’t Lady Diana’s betrothal to another gentleman sufficient? Still the lady wanted only five minutes and her disappointed suitor might be entitled to a kindly farewell. Miss Pelliston agreed to help. She would wait by the door. If the Abigail made an unwelcome appearance, Catherine would distract her, loudly enough to alert Lady Diana. Would that do?

“Oh, yes. Bless you, Miss Pelliston.” Lady Diana squeezed her companion’s hand then hurried off to the religious works.

The kind farewell took nearly half an hour, and Catherine grew mad with frustration. After reading the titles displayed by the door at least a hundred times, she lost all patience with Lady Diana and her thickheaded suitor. Miss Pelliston was also most displeased with Lord Rand. If he had not praised her to his fiancée, Catherine would not be in this awkward position now.

Lady Diana should not be meeting clandestinely with other men, regardless the reason. It was improper and equivocal. She should not engage in any behaviour that might trigger nasty gossip, that would make vicious-minded people laugh at or kinder hearts pity her affianced husband.

Not that Catherine pitied him, she thought, glaring at an innocent volume of the recently published
Pride and Prejudice.
His fiancée was beautiful. She did as her parents commanded and all the world knew they’d ordered her to
have the future Earl of St. Denys. He would marry her and do as he pleased, and so would she, after presenting him with the requisite male offspring. They would live as others in the Great World did—serene and comfortable. There would be no battles of will and none of that passion that gnawed at one and frightened one and made one so very unhappy.

Lady Diana finally approached, carrying two of Hannah More’s pious works. The tall fair one had time only to assure Miss Pelliston that “everything was settled” before Jane appeared, her face a mask of suspicion. Not another word could be uttered on the subject after that because the abigail was at their elbows all the rest of the time they shopped.

As previously arranged, Lord Glencove’s carriage deposited Catherine at the dressmaker’s. The coachman was about to start the horses again when his mistress cried out to him to wait. She turned to her maid.

“Go see if my bonnet is ready, Jane,” the lady ordered, indicating the milliner’s shop opposite.

“If it please your ladyship, Mrs. Flora did say it wouldn’t be ready until Monday.”

“Well, I have a mind to wear it tomorrow. See if you can hurry her.”

The sullen maid took herself across the street and disappeared into the milliner’s shop.

“Oh dear,” Lady Diana exclaimed. “I forgot to tell her about the ribbon.” She disembarked. “We may be rather a while, John,” she told the coachman. “Perhaps you would like to walk the horses.”

John would like, actually, to stop at a friendly place around the corner and refresh his palate with a pint of something. Visits to milliners, he knew, consumed at least half an hour. He smiled and drove down the street.

Lady Diana Glencove gave one quick glance towards the milliner’s, another at the window of Madame Germaine’s, then hastened off down the street in the direction opposite
the one her papa’s carriage took.

Miss Pelliston had entered the dressmaker’s shop in no pleasant temper. In the last hour she had come to a most distressing—and maddening—realisation. The maddening part was that her distress was all her own doing.

The sight of Madame Germaine in a fit of hysterics being comforted by the odious Lord Browdie was not calculated to lift her spirits. Madame sat in a chair talking agitatedly as tears streamed down her cheeks. Lord Browdie was alternately patting her elbow and clumsily waving sal volatile under her chin.

“What are you doing to that poor woman?” Catherine shrieked, hastening to Madame’s side.

“Oh, Miss Pelliston, how glad I am you’ve come,” the
modiste
gasped. Impatiently she brushed the man away. “It’s Jemmy. One of those dreadful street boys came running in—not ten minutes ago, was it, My Lord? When you had come to pick up that cerise gown for—” She stopped abruptly, having recollected, evidently, that as far as young ladies were concerned, gentlemen’s mistresses did not exist.

“One of those boys came running in,” she repeated, turning back to Catherine, “and said Jemmy was taken up as a thief—a thief, Miss Pelliston!” Madame’s voice rose. “Which of course he is no such thing, and it is a terrible mistake, but what am I to do with Lady Ashfolly coming any minute and Miss Ventcoeur’s
trousseau
scarcely begun and that dreadful contessa quarrelling about the silk—”

“There, there,” Lord Browdie interrupted. “No need to trouble yourself. I’ll just pop down to the magistrate and see everything sorted out. Have the boy back before you can wipe your nose.”

Catherine stared at her ex-fiance in disbelief. Lord Browdie had never in his life rushed to the rescue of anything, except perhaps a bottle in danger of toppling.

“You?” she asked incredulously, having already abandoned all pretence of politeness.

“Certainly. Can’t have an innocent lad tossed in with a lot of thieves and cutthroats, and his poor mistress breaking her kind heart. Just tell me what he looks like and I’ll be off.”

Madame’s description was rather skimpy on physiology and elaborate in details of attire.

“Brown hair, brown eyes, and about so high?” Lord Browdie gestured at a level with his belly. He shook his head. “To tell the truth, that sounds like anybody. There’s bound to be dozens of boys—always is—and he could be any of ‘em.”

Catherine sighed in exasperation. The man was obviously incompetent. Why could it not have been Lord Rand in the shop? That was just like him, wasn’t it? Always there when he had no business to be and not there when you truly needed him. Which of course was monstrous unfair, but Miss Pelliston was not in an impartial frame of mind.

“I had better go with you,” she said. “Every minute we stand here giving you particulars is another minute wasted, and I will not have that child thrust among the lowest sort of criminals.”

Lord Browdie objected that the criminal court was no place for a young lady.

That was all Catherine needed to hear. If he would not take her, she snapped, she’d go alone. It was a fine Christian world, wasn’t it, when a poor helpless boy, little more than a baby, must be left to languish among London’s foulest vermin while one stood idly by on pretext of being a lady.

Madame protested that Miss Pelliston truly must not go. Madame would go herself. She would close up the shop. She hoped she was as much a Christian as anyone else.

Catherine, however, had already worked herself up into the fury of an avenging angel. She was prepared to tear apart the temples of justice with her own bare hands if need be. She swept out of the shop. Lord Browdie hurried after her.

“Afraid well have to take a hackney,” he said apologetically. “My carriage is in for repairs.”

Miss Pelliston did not care if they rode donkeys, so long as they went
now.

***

“Well,” said Max, peering owlishly over his glass at the gentleman who’d just entered his study. “Well. There you are.”

Mr. Langdon took in the owlish expression and the empty champagne bottle standing on the desk. “You’re foxed,” he said.

“I’m celebrating,” the viscount announced, waving his glass airily. “Now we can celebrate together. I’m going to be married. Ring for Gidgeon, Jack. We want another bottle. ‘Fraid I couldn’t wait for you. Too impetuous, you know.”

“No, I think I’d better not. You’re going to have a devilish head by nightfall as it is, and I thought we were going to the theatre.”

Lord Rand hauled himself out of his seat and yanked on the rope. A minute later Mr. Gidgeon appeared, bearing a fresh bottle of champagne. In response to orders, he uncorked it with all due solemnity, though he cast a worried glance at his master. He shot another worried look at Mr. Langdon before exiting.