Viscount Vagabond (Regency Noblemen 1)

Lord Rand tore off his coat, neckcloth, and waistcoat, and flung himself onto the bed. He had not drunk an unusual quantity of wine, but lately he did not require very much alcohol to become dizzy and tired. Perhaps that was because he’d spent the past eight nights thrashing among the bedclothes instead of sleeping like a good Christian.

“I couldn’t say, My Lord. Evidently, Madame Germaine is extremely busy these days. He has not been by since—” The valet hesitated.

“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.