“Wh-why—L-Lord Rand, sir,” stammered Sir Matthew Melbrook, his poise knocked to pieces at being addressed by the Great Beau. “A r-radical—and a great r-ruffian.”
“Ah, yes. Viscount Vagabond. His neckcloth is a work of art,” said Society’s arbiter of fashion. He turned away and sauntered back to the card table.
In less than a minute his pronouncement had made its way out to St. James’s Street. A gentleman who’d been endeavouring to lay his hands upon that same neckcloth— apparently intending to throttle his adversary with it—backed away, and Lord Rand, to his astonishment, was invited to enter the club.
“I ain’t a member,” he challenged loudly as he stomped inside.
“‘Fraid you are,” drawled Lord Alvanley while he surveyed the newcomer with appreciative amusement. “Have been this twelvemonth. Andover sponsored you and the decision was unanimous. Apparently some of our lads forgot that small matter. I would have spoken up sooner myself, but I hated to spoil the entertainment you were so kind to offer us.”
“Confound it,” the viscount complained as Lord Alvanley ambled away. “Has everyone in Town taken leave of his senses?”
“If you mean the warm welcome,” came a voice behind him, “it must be they suddenly remembered what a dull old stick Percy was. Either that or the fact that Brummell admired your cravat.” The voice’s owner, a good-looking young man with dreamy grey eyes and rumpled brown hair, moved to Lord Rand’s side. “Don’t you remember me, Max? Langdon. We were at Oxford together.”
“So we were, Jack,” said the viscount, a smile finally breaking through his clouded countenance. “Only how was I to know you without a book in front of your nose? Damn if I didn’t think they grew there.”
“Oh, these suspicious fellows won’t let me read when we’re at cards. They claim I keep a spare deck between the pages. But come. As your brother-in-law isn’t here to do the honours, let me introduce you around.”
His humour partially restored by the presence of his old school chum, Max submitted with good grace. Whatever remained of his rage soon evaporated in the convivial atmosphere of gambling, drinking, and increasingly raucous conversation as the night wore on. So convivial was the company that Lord Rand had to be carried out to a hackney shortly before dawn, from which vehicle he was removed by a brace of footmen, who carried him to his bedroom. There Blackwood succeeded to the honours of attending to his happily unconscious lordship.
While Lord Rand had been trying to ascertain whether an alien spirit had taken possession of his father’s body, Miss Pelliston had been having an equally baffling evening with her host and hostess. Catherine had expected an interrogation. When that did not occur during a dinner she was far too agitated to eat, she anxiously awaited it later, when Lord Andover, after a quarter hour alone with his port, rejoined his wife and guest.
No attempt was made, however, to ascertain just what exactly this odd young woman was doing in the Earl of Andover’s noble townhouse. Catherine was sure her pristinely elegant host must think her odd, given the occasional pained glance he dropped upon her grey frock.
Whatever he thought, he was scrupulously polite and thoroughly charming. Conversation through dinner focused on politics, and after dinner on books, the earl having quickly discerned his guest’s keen appetite for literature.
While she inwardly cursed her cowardice, Catherine could not bring herself to open the subject so courteously ignored, though she did wince every time her host addressed her as “Miss Pettigrew.”
It must be as the countess had said, Catherine told herself later, while Molly brushed her hair. The matter was reserved for discussion on the morrow. She did wish she might have some peace and quiet in the meantime, so that she could decide at last what to do. Unfortunately, Molly talked incessantly from the time she entered the bedchamber until the time she left.
The abigail’s main subject was Lord Rand, with whom she unblushingly admitted she was infatuated.
“Not but what I knows, of course, that he’d never notice me—or should, either. Still, a cat may look at a king,” she paraphrased in response to Catherine’s startled expression. “Once when her ladyship took me with her to a picture gallery I fell in love with a picture of a foreign gent what had on no clothes to speak of, just a bit of cloth. And so long as he was only paint on a bit of cloth himself there’s no harm in it. Same with him—My Lord Rand, I mean—like a great handsome statue, because he wouldn’t be pinching a girl, either, no more than the statue would. Not like some I could mention, who if you so much as smile the least bit they grows another dozen hands all at once, I declare.”
Catherine’s attempts to distract Molly from discussion of the roving hands of males of all classes only led to further enlightenment about the idol. He had not returned to England, according to Molly, until eighteen months after his brother’s death.
“It weren’t so long a voyage as all that, Miss, either, but that he didn’t want to come back on any account, as he already had a sweetheart there and was planning to marry her and stay there forever, living among the wild Indians.”
“I collect,” Catherine faintly responded, “the lady changed her mind.”
“Say Lord St. Denys changed it for her, rather. Mum’s been with Lady St. Denys since afore her ladyship married and she was at the house when Mr. Max come back. Mum said he was arguing so loud with his papa you could hear it down at the stables. She says everyone in the house heard him yelling that his papa had sent the girl money to break it off. Not but it wasn’t the right thing, you know, her being a nobody and a foreigner at that. Mr. Max—his lordship, I mean—couldn’t hardly bring back some poor farmer girl and take her to meet the Queen, now could he?”
From what Miss Pelliston knew of his lordship, she was convinced that he could very well introduce a farmer’s daughter at court—and in pattens, no less. Had he not introduced to the Countess of Andover a girl he’d found in a brothel?
“I suppose that would be rather awkward,” said Catherine. “Especially when our two nations are at war.”
Molly, who knew nothing of international politics and who believed the United States was located somewhere in China or Africa, wisely ignored this remark.
“Anyhow, I know he never did get over it,” she went on. “He hasn’t spoke a word to Lord St. Denys six months now— nor anyone else, either. Until today, that is. Why, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I come into the drawing room and seen him sitting there, chatting with her ladyship just as easy as if he’d been here every day, and her ladyship no more amazed than if he had been.”
Having doggedly brushed Catherine’s hair the required two hundred strokes—Catherine had kept count as a means of steadying her nerves—the abigail stood back to admire the results. “What splendid hair you have, Miss. I declare when I first saw it I was sure I was in for a long night of it—curly hair do tangle so—but yours is soft as a baby’s. Such a handsome colour too. There’s folks’d pay a pretty penny for it.”
Miss Pelliston had been contemplating, in spite of herself, Lord Rand’s tribulations. Now she came abruptly to attention. “Pay?” she asked. “Not money, surely? Or did you simply mean that some would be envious?”
“Brown hair is common enough, but not light and soft and curly as yours. Oh, I’d expect plenty would like to have it, Miss.”
“You mean for wigs? But surely those have been out of fashion for years.”
“That don’t mean a hairpiece don’t come in handy for some folks. Monsoor Franzwuz, what does her ladyship’s hair, could tell you stories about that. Nor I don’t mean her,” the maid hastily explained. “Every bit of what’s on her head is her own, and no curlpapers, neither. Now then, Miss, shall I bring you a nice warm cup of milk?”
This Catherine politely declined.
“Really, I think you should, Miss. Tom says you never touched your dinner hardly and if you’ll pardon my saying so, you’ll be all hair and eyes if you keep on at this rate.”
&n
bsp; Touched by this concern, Catherine acquiesced, though when the milk arrived she found it difficult to swallow enough to satisfy the well-meaning Abigail. Miss Pelliston was too excited about the alternative that had suddenly presented itself to care about nourishment, and the prospect of becoming all hair and eyes did not alarm her in the least.
“Well, Edgar,” said the countess as her husband settled himself among the pillows and took his book from the nightstand, “what do you recommend we do about her?”
“Burn that dress,” he replied. “It frightened me out of my wits. And do something about her hair. That knot is a crime against nature.”
“Then you believe we should take her in?”
“Have to,” said his lordship as he opened his book. “Pelliston’s chit.”
Her ladyship, who’d also snuggled comfortably against her pillows, bolted upright. “What? Who?”
“How many times have I told you, Louisa, not to make sudden movements? You’ve made me lose my place.”
“Stop teasing, you wretched man. Are you telling me you know her?”
“Not personally. I believe her mama was my mother’s second or third cousin.” He returned his attention to the Bard.
“Edgar!”
“Yes, my precious?”
Lady Andover jerked the book from her husband’s hands. “If you do not explain this instant, I shall tear the curst thing to pieces.”
The earl breathed a sigh. “Ten years, and I have never been able to teach you patience. Still, what’s a mere decade to centuries of impatient Demowerys? I see you intend to beat me over the head with poor Will’s work if I cannot satisfy your all-consuming curiosity.” He gazed sadly at the bedclothes.
“Well, then?”
“I met her some months before that blissful day when we two were united—”
“Edgar!”
“Ten years ago. Our families have never been close, but Pelliston is known for his hounds and I meant to make a gift of a pair to your papa.”
“And you recognised her after all these years?”
“She closely resembles her mama, especially in the eyes—most unusual, very like Eleanor’s.”
“No wonder you never questioned her. I expected to see you work your subtle arts upon her, extracting information without her ever realising. Still, I’m surprised she didn’t recognise you,” the countess added fondly as she admired her husband’s wavy black hair and classically sculpted features.
“Her father had a crowd of his cronies rampaging about the place. To her I think we were all one noisy, unwanted crowd. Besides, she kept her eyes on her papa. I found her intriguing. She behaved as she did tonight, stiffly proper and courteous, but with that wild, pent-up look in her eyes. I was waiting for her to explode. She never did, though her papa was provoking enough.”
“Apparently, he has provoked her at last.”
“Yes. I’m not surprised he wants to marry her to one of his loutish friends, if his behaviour that day was typical. Still, I know little enough about them. In fact, it’s only because my dear mama pointed out Pelliston’s wedding announcement in the paper that I made the connection. He and his doings were already in my mind when I met the girl tonight.”
“If her papa is the ogre he sounds, I can understand the false name,” said Louisa, “but then why is she so adamant about returning home?”
“We needn’t understand everything this minute. Tomorrow you can tactfully explain that we know all. I’ll write her father.”
“To say what?”
“Why, that you wish to bring my cousin out. Since fate— or your brother, actually—has dropped her upon our doorstep, we might as well keep her. I am not blind, Louisa. You are itching to get your hands on the girl. Potential there, you think?”
“Oh, yes. How convenient that she’s a relation, however distant. My motives will seem of the purest. How considerate of Max, don’t you think, darling?”
Chapter Six
Lord Rand eyed with distaste the murky liquid in the glass his valet offered him. “What’s that filthy mess? You don’t mean me to drink it?”
“I highly recommend it, My Lord. Guaranteed to eliminate the aftereffects.”
Either the aftereffects or the cure would kill him, the viscount was certain. He groped for the glass, brought it to his lips, held his nose, and drank.
“Ugh,” he croaked. “That’s the vilest tasting stuff I ever swallowed in my life.”
“Yes, My Lord, I’m afraid so. However, I thought you would require a prompt-acting restorative, as the Countess of Andover has sent a message requesting your immediate attendance.”
“She can go to blazes,” his lordship groaned, sinking back onto his pillow.
“She sent this,” the valet said, holding up a note.
Lord Rand shut his eyes. ‘Tell me what it says.”
Blackwood unfolded the sheet of paper and read aloud: “The cat has bolted. Please come at once.’“
The viscount let loose a stream of colourful oaths while his valet busied himself with arranging shaving materials.
“Yes, indeed, sir,” Blackwood agreed, when his master stopped to catch his breath. “Your bath is ready, and I have laid out the brown coat and fawn pantaloons.”
Not long after, Lord Rand stormed unannounced into the breakfast room of Andover House, where the earl and countess sat, their heads bent close together as they perused what appeared to be a very long epistle.
“There you are, Max,” Lord Andover said, looking up with a faint frown. “Seems our guest has fled. Apparently,” he went on calmly, oblivious to the thunderclouds gathering upon his brother-in-law’s brow, “she slipped out shortly after Jeffers unlocked the doors—before the rest of the household was up.”
“Then why the devil ain’t you out looking for her?”
“Because we were waiting for you,” Lady Andover answered. “Edgar has already dispatched nearly all the menservants to comb the streets, so there is no need to stand there scowling. Do sit down, Max. Perhaps you can help. We were rereading her note in hopes of discovering some clue as to where she’s gone.”
Lord Rand snatched up the letter and read it; “Oh, the bloody little fool,” he muttered when he’d finished.
“I do wish you’d speak more respectfully of my relations,” said the earl. “‘Poor, misguided creature’ would be rather more like it, I should think.”
“Relations? What the devil are you talking about?”
“My cousin—at least I believe she is the daughter of my mama’s second or third cousin—but you will have to ask Mama about that. By the time it gets to second cousins and times removed I lose all ability to concentrate.”
Lord Rand sat down abruptly.
“Her name,” said Louisa, “is Catherine Pelliston—not Pettigrew. Her papa, according to Edgar, is the Baron Pelliston of Wilberstone.”
“Why that deceitful little b—”
“If you persist in insulting my cousin, Max, I shall be forced to call you out, and that will be a great pity, as you are the better shot and Louisa has grown rather accustomed to me, I think.”
“Your cousin can go to the devil,” Lord Rand retorted. “How dare she pretend to be a poor little schoolmistress, playing me for a fool—”
“As easily as you pretended to be some lowborn lout, I suppose,” his sister interrupted.
“Perhaps,” said the earl, “she suspected that you might hold her for ransom if she admitted her identity. You did not, I understand, admit yours, and Pelliston’s rich as Croesus. At any rate, I was intending to question Molly as soon as she recovered from her hysterics. Care to join me, Max?”
Lord Rand maintained crossly that he didn’t give a damn what became of a spoiled debutante and an ingrate at that, not to mention she was an ignorant little prig. His brother-in-law took no heed of these or any of the other contradictory animadversions which followed regarding the young lady’s character, motives, and eventual dismal and well-deserved end. When the viscount had
finished raving, Lord Andover merely nodded politely, then rose and left the room. Grumbling, Lord Rand followed him.
The Viscount Rand was too restless a man to be much given to introspection. All the same he was not stupid, as his Eton master or Oxford tutors would have, though some of them grudgingly, admitted. He was therefore vaguely aware that his invectives upon Miss Pelliston were a tad irrational.
Although she’d had no reason to trust him with her true identity—just as Edgar said—Lord Rand felt she’d betrayed him somehow, which was very odd. His chosen course of life had resulted in what he called “a tough hide.” Even Jenny’s defection had not penetrated his cynical armor—he was too used to having careers and friends bought off by his interfering father. He’d had a wonderful row with the Old Man about it, of course, but inwardly he’d felt nothing more than a twinge of disappointment in his American friend.
Though he told himself he had far less reason to be disturbed about Miss Pelliston, the viscount was disturbed all the same. He was worried about her—she was far too naive—and he hated being worried, so he was furious with her.
Unfortunately for his temper, Molly was worse than useless. When asked about her conversations with the young houseguest, the loquacious abigail became mute. She was not about to admit having discussed Lord Rand’s private life in vivid detail, and was so conscious of her indiscretion in doing so that she could remember nothing else she’d said.
“She gave no hint of her intentions?” the earl asked patiently. “Did she seem distraught or frightened?”
“Oh, no,” said Molly. “She didn’t say much of anything. Shy-like, My Lord. Even when I admired her hair she acted like she didn’t believe me, poor thing,” the abigail added as tears welled up in her eyes. “It weren’t no flattery, either. Curly and soft it was, like a baby’s, and as easy to brush as if it was silk.”
“You needn’t carry on as if she was dead,” Max snapped, agitated anew by the tears streaming down the maid’s round, rosy cheeks.
The earl quickly intervened. “Very well, Molly. Thank you,” he said, patting the girl’s shoulder. “Now do go wash your face and compose yourself. You will not wish to distress her ladyship, I am sure.”