Viscount Vagabond (Regency Noblemen 1)

“If Miss Pettigrew wishes to return, I can hardly keep her prisoner, can I?”

“Dash it all, Louisa—”

The countess turned her back upon her brother. “All the same, Miss Pettigrew,” she said, “you are too overset at present for travel. You will pardon my saying so, but your colour is not good. If I were to allow you to depart now, my conscience would plague me so, I would become ill.”

“Really, I’m quite well,” Catherine protested. “I’ve never had good colour.”

“My conscience refuses to believe you. I do apologise, my dear, but mine is a very fierce conscience. Molly will convey you to a guest chamber and bring you a fresh cup of tea—you’ve scarcely touched yours and it is grown cold, I’m afraid.” Lady Andover’s tones became commanding. “Tonight you will remain here. We will reserve further discussion until tomorrow when you are rested.”

“Might as well do as she says,” Lord Rand suggested, taking his cue. “My sister’s got a stubborn conscience. No use arguing.”

In other circumstances, no amount of cajolery or command would have kept Catherine in Andover House. She was still in London, and every step she’d taken since coming here had hurled her into disaster. She wanted only to flee.

She knew she should press harder for the small loan that would allow her to go home immediately without having to answer embarrassing questions. By the time she’d met Lady Andover, however, Catherine was on the brink of hysteria. Miss Fletcher’s elopement had been the coup de grace of a series of stunning calamities. A clean, comfortable bed, a maid to look after her, and a hot cup of tea to consume in private was more temptation than Catherine could withstand.

She made the feeblest of protests, to which Lady Andover proved quite deaf. Moments later, Molly was leading the unexpected guest upstairs.

Chapter Four

Now that his charge was in capable hands, Max was eager to get away. He was not permitted to do so. Fortunately, Lady Andover not only ordered him to remain where he was, but invited him to sample the contents of the alluring decanters. After filling a glass and taking a long swallow, Max ambled over to the fireplace and commenced a rapt contemplation of the marble.

His sister studied him for a few moments before she spoke. “Well, dear,” she said, “this is a very interesting homecoming present you’ve brought me. Only I’d thought it would be you welcomed back with fatted calves and such—though she isn’t very fatted, is she?”

“I didn’t know what else to do with her, damn it. I could hardly send her off in a coach on her own, and I couldn’t go with her—bound to cause trouble with her curst father.”

“Who is she, Max? Not a schoolmistress, despite that quiz of a dress. Not your mistress either, I’ll wager. Wild and unconventional as you like to appear, even you have your limits. Besides, if that girl ever had a depraved thought in her life, I’ll eat my new bonnet.”

“What a lot of strong opinions you’ve acquired, considering you hardly let her open her mouth.”

“I observed.” The countess settled herself comfortably upon the sofa. “I don’t think you’d have brought her here if you had not sensed that she is—how shall I phrase it? Out of the common way? Not what she appears or wishes to appear? Her curtsey was quite elegant. Her manners are refined—though that is not at all unusual in a governess or teacher. However, since I did not perceive the usual submissive attitude of the class, I concluded that she was gently bred. I may be mistaken, of course. She may be a radical. That is not impossible, though most unlikely.”

There was relief in the countenance Lord Rand turned to his sister. “Then I did the right thing?”

“Oh, Max, you never do the right thing. Only you would take up a stray female as though she were one of those abandoned kittens you were forever bringing me. This is a bit different, I’m afraid. One cannot banish her to the kitchen to make Cook’s life a misery.”

“Don’t tell me you mean to send her back?”

“I never know what I mean until Edgar explains it to me, dear, and he will not be home until just before dinner. I confess I am curious why you’re so set against her going back. You’re not in love with Miss Pettigrew, are you?”

Her brother stared at her in horror. “Gad, Louisa—a scrawny little girl like that who sermons at the drop of a hat? You ain’t heard her yet. I daresay she was overawed by your magnificence, but give her half a chance and she’ll be preaching at you. It was all I could do to keep a straight face...” He trailed off, realising he could not very well repeat to his sister the lectures he’d heard in the brothel or his lodgings.

“Then what is it to you if she returns to marry this person her papa has selected for her?”

“It’s against my principles, and I won’t be a party to it, anymore than I was when the old man tried to shackle you to that birdwitted old troll. It’s against her principles as well. I know, because she gave me scold on that too before she ever admitted it was her own trouble.”

“Principles,” her ladyship repeated. “I see. Still, I must consult with Edgar. If he feels we must return her to her family, we must.”

“Now, Louisa—”

“Surely you don’t doubt his judgement? Was it not Edgar persuaded Papa to allow you six months to finish sowing your wild oats? And was that not because Edgar convinced Papa that you are a far better horseman that Percy and therefore much less liable to get your neck broken in the interim? That Papa has not troubled you once in these six months is all Edgar’s doing, I can assure you. Between answering Prinny’s every petty summons and keeping Papa in temper, poor Edgar has had not a moment to himself.”

“Don’t try to make me feel guilty. Andover’s only had to pamper the Old Man these six months. I’ll be doing that and everything else from now on. I suppose he’s got my bride picked out?”

“Actually, he’s picked out half a dozen. Not, I’m sure, that you’ll want any of them, as Papa well knows, but he does like to feel he’s doing something, poor dear.”

Max groaned. “Half a dozen. And the blasted house?”

“I’ve taken care of that. Not a trace of Percy. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, I wasn’t afraid he’d haunt the place, if that’s what you mean. Old Percy hadn’t the gumption. Wouldn’t have gotten himself killed if he had. Curse him, that horse could have taken the stream.”

“Yes, dear, and you’d told him often enough to put more trust in his beast. Poor Percy—he never had much spirit, did he? He should have been the younger son. He might have gone quietly into orders then, and Papa would have accepted it.”

“And I’d still be in the same blasted predicament. Oh, well.” His lordship finished his wine and deposited the glass on the mantel. “Might as well get used to it. I’ll go see the Old Man later today. But if Edgar wants to send the girl back, you must promise to tell me straightaway.”

“Why?”

Lord Rand bent to kiss his sister’s forehead. As he straightened he said, “Because I’ve half a mind to go back with her anyhow. Maybe I’ve a choice word or two for her papa.”

Catherine fretted over her dilemma while she sipped her tea. By dinnertime her host and hostess would be sure to ask unnerving questions. What on earth could she tell them?

To run away from home and travel unchaperoned was enough to soil a young lady’s reputation. To have spent one night in a brothel and another in

a bachelor’s lodgings was utter ruin.

She would earn no credit for having managed to preserve her virtue. Appearances alone would make her an outcast, a disgrace to her family—unless, as Lord Rand had advised, no one learned of the matter. At present he was the only other person who did know. Since she was merely Miss Pettigrew to him, the Pelliston name was still unsullied. She had rather keep it that way. Her homecoming would be painful enough as it was.

Besides, if she admitted her true identity, Lord and Lady Andover would never let her return home unaccompanied, and Catherine did not intend to bring witnesses to the humiliating scene with which she was certain to be greeted, especially if Papa had been summoned home from his bridal trip. He had no self-control at all, and if he was drunk, as he was bound to be —oh, there was no point thinking about that. Papa was sure to carry on in the most mortifying way.

“There, Miss,” said Molly, jolting Catherine from her unhappy reverie. ‘You just lie down now and have a nice long nap, and I won’t bother you none ‘til it comes close on dinnertime. I’ll clean up your dress for you and press it,” the Abigail added, her gaze flickering disappointedly over the grey frock draped upon a chair. ‘You’ll be fine as fivepence and all rested too.”

“Oh, no. That is hardly appropriate for dinner,” was the embarrassed response. “The peach muslin will do far better.”

“Beg pardon, Miss, but there weren’t no peach muslin I could find, and I unpacked everything you brought. Just a brown frock and underthings and such.” The maid’s round, rosy face plainly expressed her bafflement at this paltry wardrobe.

Catherine had been too agitated earlier in the day to take inventory of her belongings. Now, with a faint stirring of anger, she realised that the brothelkeeper must have stolen her one good gown.