“Very well,” she said. “Since you are obviously proof against all my feminine wiles, I am obliged to turn the subject. What is this I hear about Jemmy wanting to become your footman?”
Lord Rand had lost the upper hand so quickly that he felt giddy. That must account for his witty rejoinder.
“What?” he gasped.
“As you probably know, I’ve continued Jemmy’s lessons since that day you so thoughtfully brought him by. Lady Andover has consented to my tutoring him twice a week at the shop because it seems we cannot have him coming to the house. Mr. Jeffers claims that not only does the child distract the servants, but he is sticky. Cook evidently gives him too much jam. At any rate we have hardly begun, and Jemmy tells me he knows enough because he means to be a footman. Your Mr. Gidgeon has apparently encouraged him.”
Lord Rand groaned. “I should have expected it. Well, if that’s what Gidgeon means, there’s nothing I can do about it. My servants do exactly as they please.”
“All the same, I do not see why any servant need be illiterate. I wish you would talk to Jemmy.”
“I don’t see where I come into it. The boy dotes on you. I’d think he’d do whatever you tell him.”
“I’m afraid he puts up with the lessons only for the sake of my company. That’s flattering, of course, and I would not complain except that all he wants to do is talk about the livery he’ll wear one day and tell me what fine fellows Mr. Gidgeon and Mr. Blackwood are. Mere grammar cannot compete with those paragons. However, he seems to have some respect for you as well, so I ask you to use your influence.”
Lord Rand had begun to think that in spite of his earlier confusion, he’d managed to make a decent start in driving Miss Pelliston off by showing her what an ill-behaved lout he was. Now she was entangling him again in what was plainly her affair. What was it to him if Jemmy was illiterate? In fact, if she had to give up this tutoring business, that would be one less commitment keeping her in London.
The trouble with her—or one of the troubles—was her obsession with being useful. She’d returned to Louisa mainly because she believed Louisa needed her. She continued teaching the boy because she believed he needed her.
What the girl truly needed was a permanent occupation—like a husband. The sooner she got one, the faster the viscount could wash his hands of her and her plaguey problems. She needed Jack Langdon, and though Jack wanted no tutoring, he did need someone to take him in hand. They were perfectly suited. They would speak of books the livelong day and night and bore everyone else but themselves to distraction.
Lord Rand smiled benignly upon his companion. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll talk to the br—boy.”
Chapter Fifteen
Following the drive in Green Park, Lord Rand took himself to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing establishment. The viscount had an excess of nervous energy and physical exertion was the obvious cure. Today the Gentleman himself deigned to accommodate his lordship. At the end of the exercise Max was pleasantly fatigued, his nervous energy dissipated in perspiration.
He even lingered for a while after, watching the other gentlemen at their labors and offering the occasional piece of unwelcome advice to his less agile fellows. Thus he had the surprise of his life. He was just preparing to leave when Jack Langdon entered.
The probability of finding Jack Langdon in a boxing saloon was approximately equivalent to that of encountering the Archhishop of Canterbury at Granny Grendle’s— though the odds were rather in favour of the Archhishop.
“What the devil brings you here?” the viscount enquired of his friend.
Mr. Langdon stood for a moment looking absently about him as though in search of something he’d forgotten. “Not the most pleasantly fragrant place, is it, Max?” he noted in some wonder. “Odd. Very odd. I count three viscounts, one earl, a handful of military chaps and—good God—is that Argoyne?”
“Yes. One duke.”
“All come, it seems, for the express purpose of letting some huge, muscular fellow hit them repeatedly.”
“So what’s your purpose?”
“I suppose,” Mr. Langdon answered rather forlornly, “I’ve come to be hit.”
This was insufficient explanation, as Max promptly pointed out.
“I’ve come to be more dashing, as you advised. I’ve been thinking over what you said the other day, and I concluded ‘Mens sana in corpore sano,’ in the words of Juvenal... or as Mr. Locke so aptly put it, ‘A sound mind in a sound body is a short but full description of a happy state in this world.’ Physical prowess accords self-confidence. Boxing is reputed not only to increase physical strength and skill but to improve one’s powers of concentration. Just the thing for me, I decided.”
“So you mean to leave off meditating and hesitating and prepare yourself for action instead,” said Max. “Well, they do say love works miracles.”
Mr. Langdon flushed. “I was referring to what you said about throwing books at twenty paces. No reason I should be letting a gangly, decrepit drunkard twice my age push me about.”
Jack plainly did not care to be teased about Miss Pelliston. If he wanted to believe that manly pride had brought him to the boxing saloon, that was perfectly acceptable. At least the chap was making an effort, and that ought to be encouraged. A hesitating, insecure Jack Langdon did not bode well for Lord Rand’s plans regarding a certain young lady’s future occupation.
“Right you are. No reason on earth, my lad. Wait here a minute and I’ll find Mr. Jackson for you.”
Lord Rand might have taken his friend to the famous boxer instead of the other way around, but he needed to talk to Mr. Jackson privately first. The viscount did not want Mr. Langdon discouraged in his first efforts, and decided to drop a gentle hint in advance regarding the care and handling of dreamy-eyed intellectuals.
Mr. Jackson proving a sympathetic soul, Jack Langdon’s introduction to the manly art was considerably less debilitating than that, for instance, of an insolent young sprig of the nobility whom the professionals in the place all agreed wanted taking down a peg or two.
Mr. Langdon, in contrast, was handled with the proverbial kid gloves, and vigorously encouraged by both Max and the Gentleman. Both repeatedly pointed out that the neophyte, despite his sedentary habits, showed great promise with his fives.
At the end of his exercise, Mr. Langdon was glowing, literally and figuratively. In this malleable state he was open to every one of Lord Rand’s suggestions regarding another manly art—courtship.
“Almack’s tomorrow,” Max reminded as they left the saloon. “It’s her first time, and you have to get a waltz. More romantic, you know.”
“I know. The trouble is, I have to face one of the Gorgons first and they all hate me because they heard I called them Gorgons.”
“What in blazes are you talking about?”
“The waltz. The Gorgons—the patronesses—have to give her permission to waltz, and that means they pick a suitable partner and I’m not suitable. If I go up and ask them, they’ll laugh in my face. The only reason they let me in the door is so they can humiliate me at their leisure.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You’ve been away too long, Max. You don’t know what cats they can be. If I ask to waltz with Miss Pelliston, they won’t just refuse me. They might even not let her waltz at all with anyone, just for spite.”
“They won’t alienate Louisa.”
“They don’t care who they antagonise. Don’t you know they wouldn’t let Wellington in one night because he was a few minutes late? And another time because he wore trousers instead of knee breeches?”
“No, I don’t know it, but I ain’t surprised. Of all the dull, stuffy stupidity that passes for entertainment, Almack’s is the dullest, stuffiest, and stupidest. So naturally that’s where everyone wants most to be. If Society had half a grain of sense it’d shun Almack’s like the plague.”
“But it doesn’t,” said Jack. “So I can’t waltz with her.”
“All this means is you can’t have the first one,” Max answered bracingly. “HI take care of that. Then you have to make sure you manage the rest.”
What he meant by taking care of the matter was that he’d find someone who had less to fear from Almack’s patronesses. Not himself, of course. Though Lord Rand was afraid of nobody, there was that nagging problem with Catherine Pelliston’s proximity. He had enough trouble sitting beside her in a carriage. Whirling about a dance floor with his arm about her waist was an invitation to disaster.
He reported none of this to Jack Langdon because Jack would feel obliged to analyse the problem. Max didn’t want anything analysed. He just wanted Catherine Pelliston to go away.
Having nudged Mr. Langdon gently but firmly down the path to matrimony, Lord Rand went home with equally charitable resolve to release Miss Pelliston from her onerous educational responsibilities.
Jemmy, Mr. Gidgeon reported, was belowstairs assisting Cook.
“Annoying him, you mean. Girard doesn’t know any English and I’ll eat my hat if the brat knows a word of French.”
Mr. Gidgeon politely responded that the scrubbing of pots did not require bilingual skills. “Cleans ‘em very well, My Lord, ‘e does. As ‘e does everything. A most enterprising lad. Wotever we sets ‘im to, ‘e does it—with a vengeance, if I may say so.”
“Well, set him to come up to see me in my den—library— whatever you call it. I want a word with him. While you’re at it, you might as well send a bottle along with him. My throat’s dry as the Pharaoh’s mummy.”
Mr. Gidgeon withdrew. A few minutes later he returned with Jemmy, who bore a tray upon which reposed a decanter of Madeira and a sparkling crystal wineglass.
The boy carried the tray and set it down with a deft grace that astonished Lord Rand and brought a satisfied smile to the butler’s face. Mr. Gidgeon had preceded the tray into the room in order to lend the ritual the appropriate dignity and ceremony. Now he withdrew.
Jemmy remained by the sturdy, marble-topped table upon which he’d placed the tray, and looked about him with an air as complacent and proprietary as that of the butler.
“You’re a lad of many talents, Jemmy,’’ said Lord Rand as he poured himself a drink.
“I hope I give satisfashun, sir.”
His lordship blinked and put the glass down to stare at the boy, half expecting him to have miraculously sprouted whiskers and shot up two or three feet.
No, this was still an eight-year-old boy, but one doing an uncannily accurate imitation of Mr. Gidgeon, minus the misplaced aitches.
“So you mean to enter my employ, young man?” the viscount asked with like gravity.
“Yes, sir—My Lord. ‘N wear one of ‘em blue coats wif shiny buttons, like Roger got.”
“Exactly. Shiny buttons. I commend you on your choice of profession, Jemmy. The question is, what about your lessons?”
“Wot about ‘em?” Jemmy asked, a guilty expression overtaking his grave dignity.
“Miss Pelliston tells me you don’t attend as you used to. She’s worried.”
Jemmy sighed. “First it wuz the letters and then the words and still there’s no end to it. Sentences, she says. And punk—punk—”
“Punctuation,” Max supplied.
“Wot you said, Wi grammar. Don’t it never end?”
“I’m afraid not. After that, there’s books. No end to them at all, as you see.” The viscount gestured towards the bookshelves Louisa had crammed with several hundred tomes his lordship had no intention of opening.
Jemmy groaned.
“Not as interesting as the buttons, eh? Why should they be, to a lad of your talents? You have greater things awaiting you. In a few years, with diligence, you might become a footman. Or if you find your tastes don’t run to fetching and carrying, perhaps you’ll consider horses.”
“Horses?” the boy echoed wonderingly.
“Yes. If you’re as conscientious as Mr. Gidgeon says, perhaps I ought to think of training you as my tiger.”
“You don’t mean ‘at!” The child’s face glowed with excitement. Evidently he’d not dared aspire to the honour of tending his lordship’s prime cattle and dashing vehicles.
“I do. But it will require a deal of work. I don’t know where you’ll find time for your lessons.”
Gloom overtook the glow.
“What’s the trouble, Jemmy? You don’t care for them anyhow. You might as well give them up now and spare Miss Pelliston and yourself some pains.”
“I can’t,” Jemmy answered in anguished tones.” ‘Ats the only time I get to see her. ‘Cept when she comes for gowns and such—and all that time she’s talkin’ wif HER—Missus, I mean. Or Sally or Joan.”
“So the only reason you put up with these lessons is to have Miss Pelliston’s undivided attention?”
Jemmy nodded dolefully, rather in the style of Mr. Hill.
Max sipped his Madeira and thought. Buttons, even shiny ones, could not compete with Miss Pelliston’s undivided attention. One had better reveal the ugly truth. The child would have to face it sooner or later anyhow.
“Jemmy, I must speak with you man to man. Do you know why Miss Pelliston is in London?”
“Parties. She dresses up fancy and goes to parties, day and night.”
“She is in London, going to these parties, in order to find a husband. The parties are given mainly so that unmarried young men and women can find someone to marry. Because Miss Pelliston is a very wealthy young lady of fine family, she will marry some great lord. That lord will not want his ladywife teaching anybody—not even his own children. He will hire governesses and tutors for that purpose. Do you understand?”
“No.”
Lord Rand decided to take a simpler if more brutal approach. “Miss Pelliston will marry soon—possibly within the next month. When she does, I promise you will not see her again, except when she visits the shop to buy more gowns. There will be no more lessons.”
To his credit, Jemmy did not reel from this blow. Instead he gazed upon the viscount with something very like suspicion. “Why din’t she tell me, then?”
“I don’t know. Today is your lesson day, isn’t it? Ask her. I am not trying to deceive you. I am not so desperate for a tiger.”
Immediately after this discussion, Jemmy sought out Mr. Blackwood. If anyone knew what was what, this gentleman did. To his distress, Jemmy learned that Lord Rand had spoken the truth. In fact, rumour had it that both Mr. Langdon and the Duke of Argoyne were vying—albeit slowly and cautiously—for Miss Pelliston’s hand.
As Jemmy was aware, servants knew a deal more about what went on in the Great World than its members did. If you could not get the facts belowstairs, you couldn’t get them anywhere in the kingdom.
“Wot about HIM?” Jemmy asked after he’d digested this catastrophic news.
“His lordship, you mean? What about him?”
“Is HE here to get married too?”
“It is his lordship’s duty to marry at some point and get heirs to carry on the title. Whether he has set his mind to that matter yet is a question I cannot answer. I have heard some talk about Lady Diana Glencove, but no more than talk. To my knowledge, his lordship has called on her once and danced with her on occasion.”
“Don’t HE see Miz Kaffy too? Don’t HE never dance with her?”
Mr. Blackwood studied the round face lifted enquiringly towards his. He believed he could see the inner wheels beginning to turn. Mr. Blackwood approved of turning inner wheels.
By and large the aristocracy was intelligent enough. The problem was that its members had no need to live by their wits. Thus their wits atrophied. If they could not rely upon the sharper instincts and abundant common sense of their servants, the British upper classes would destroy themselves through sheer inertness.
That was precisely what had happened in France, and look at the result. Until very recently, most of the civilized world had been under the boot of one short, ill-tempered Corsican
. Compared to Napoleon, even a mad King George III was a desirable monarch, and the fat, dissolute Regent an Alexander the Great. Mr. Blackwood was no radical.
For the survival of Britannia the turning of inner wheels must be encouraged.
“Yes, Jemmy,” the valet answered, “he does see her and he does dance with her and he has, to my knowledge, taken her driving twice.”
“Wot for?”
“I hope, my boy, you have abandoned the notion that his lordship has designs on the young lady’s virtue.” Receiving a blank look, the valet explained, “He doesn’t mean anything wicked, you know.”
“Then wot does he mean?”
In his pursuit of wisdom, Jemmy had followed Mr. Blackwood along the hall and up the stairs. They now stood at the door of Lord Rand’s chambers.
Mr. Blackwood glanced about him. Then he bent towards the boy and said in a low voice, “I think my lad, I had better explain something to you about the upper-class mind.”
Lord Browdie sat in the bedchamber of his love nest glaring at the peach-coloured gown that lay in a heap on the floor. There Lynnette had dropped it after opening a large box containing the two monstrous overpriced gowns she’d insisted on having.
What a greedy creature she was. Worse, here he was, throwing away perfectly good money on a whore—captivating though she was—when he still hadn’t found himself a wife. The only respectable willing females he’d met had turned out to have pockets to let. His affection for Catherine’s property and dowry was increasing daily in consequence.
“Now isn’t that better?” Lynnette asked coyly as she re-entered the room. She made a slow, langorous turn so that her protector might fully appreciate every entrancing detail of the crimson gown and the shapely form upon which it was draped.
“Yes, better,” the baron answered shortly, wondering what the bill would look like.
“There was a moment there I thought it wouldn’t be ready after all, such a fuss there was at the mantua-maker’s. That little girl,” she went on while admiring herself in the glass. “You know—the one was with him that day—that tall one you said was a viscount.” Lynnette knew very well the man was a viscount and she knew precisely how tall he was, but she didn’t tell her protector everything she knew.