Viscount Vagabond (Regency Noblemen 1)

“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.”