Viscount Vagabond (Regency Noblemen 1)

Lady Diana Glencove gave one quick glance towards the milliner’s, another at the window of Madame Germaine’s, then hastened off down the street in the direction opposite the one her papa’s carriage took.

Miss Pelliston had entered the dressmaker’s shop in no pleasant temper. In the last hour she had come to a most distressing—and maddening—realisation. The maddening part was that her distress was all her own doing.

The sight of Madame Germaine in a fit of hysterics being comforted by the odious Lord Browdie was not calculated to lift her spirits. Madame sat in a chair talking agitatedly as tears streamed down her cheeks. Lord Browdie was alternately patting her elbow and clumsily waving sal volatile under her chin.

“What are you doing to that poor woman?” Catherine shrieked, hastening to Madame’s side.

“Oh, Miss Pelliston, how glad I am you’ve come,” the modiste gasped. Impatiently she brushed the man away. “It’s Jemmy. One of those dreadful street boys came running in—not ten minutes ago, was it, My Lord? When you had come to pick up that cerise gown for—” She stopped abruptly, having recollected, evidently, that as far as young ladies were concerned, gentlemen’s mistresses did not exist.

“One of those boys came running in,” she repeated, turning back to Catherine, “and said Jemmy was taken up as a thief—a thief, Miss Pelliston!” Madame’s voice rose. “Which of course he is no such thing, and it is a terrible mistake, but what am I to do with Lady Ashfolly coming any minute and Miss Ventcoeur’s trousseau scarcely begun and that dreadful contessa quarrelling about the silk—”

“There, there,” Lord Browdie interrupted. “No need to trouble yourself. I’ll just pop down to the magistrate and see everything sorted out. Have the boy back before you can wipe your nose.”

Catherine stared at her ex-fiance in disbelief. Lord Browdie had never in his life rushed to the rescue of anything, except perhaps a bottle in danger of toppling.

“You?” she asked incredulously, having already abandoned all pretence of politeness.

“Certainly. Can’t have an innocent lad tossed in with a lot of thieves and cutthroats, and his poor mistress breaking her kind heart. Just tell me what he looks like and I’ll be off.”

Madame’s description was rather skimpy on physiology and elaborate in details of attire.

“Brown hair, brown eyes, and about so high?” Lord Browdie gestured at a level with his belly. He shook his head. “To tell the truth, that sounds like anybody. There’s bound to be dozens of boys—always is—and he could be any of ‘em.”

Catherine sighed in exasperation. The man was obviously incompetent. Why could it not have been Lord Rand in the shop? That was just like him, wasn’t it? Always there when he had no business to be and not there when you truly needed him. Which of course was monstrous unfair, but Miss Pelliston was not in an impartial frame of mind.

“I had better go with you,” she said. “Every minute we stand here giving you particulars is another minute wasted, and I will not have that child thrust among the lowest sort of criminals.”

Lord Browdie objected that the criminal court was no place for a young lady.

That was all Catherine needed to hear. If he would not take her, she snapped, she’d go alone. It was a fine Christian world, wasn’t it, when a poor helpless boy, little more than a baby, must be left to languish among London’s foulest vermin while one stood idly by on pretext of being a lady.

Madame protested that Miss Pelliston truly must not go. Madame would go herself. She would close up the shop. She hoped she was as much a Christian as anyone else.

Catherine, however, had already worked herself up into the fury of an avenging angel. She was prepared to tear apart the temples of justice with her own bare hands if need be. She swept out of the shop. Lord Browdie hurried after her.

“Afraid well have to take a hackney,” he said apologetically. “My carriage is in for repairs.”

Miss Pelliston did not care if they rode donkeys, so long as they went now.

***

“Well,” said Max, peering owlishly over his glass at the gentleman who’d just entered his study. “Well. There you are.”

Mr. Langdon took in the owlish expression and the empty champagne bottle standing on the desk. “You’re foxed,” he said.

“I’m celebrating,” the viscount announced, waving his glass airily. “Now we can celebrate together. I’m going to be married. Ring for Gidgeon, Jack. We want another bottle. ‘Fraid I couldn’t wait for you. Too impetuous, you know.”

“No, I think I’d better not. You’re going to have a devilish head by nightfall as it is, and I thought we were going to the theatre.”

Lord Rand hauled himself out of his seat and yanked on the rope. A minute later Mr. Gidgeon appeared, bearing a fresh bottle of champagne. In response to orders, he uncorked it with all due solemnity, though he cast a worried glance at his master. He shot another worried look at Mr. Langdon before exiting.

Mr. Langdon had no choice but to accept the glass thrust in his face. “All right, then,” he said. “Congratulations.”

“Don’t you want to know who the lucky bride is?”

“All London knows. Alvanley has lost a pony to Worcester on account of your haste. He gave you another week.”

“No matter. Somebody will propose to somebody in another week. You, maybe, Jack. Why don’t you offer for Cat?”

Mr. Langdon’s posture stiffened. “I presume you mean Miss Pelliston.”

“As you say—Miss Pestilence. I expect she’s well? Preachy as ever?” The viscount stared dolourously at his glass. “I ain’t seen her in seven days. Couldn’t, you know. Had to sit in what’s-her-name’s pocket. Minerva. Athena. One of ‘em. Diana,” he said gloomily.

“Lady Diana Glencove,” the friend reminded. “What on earth is the matter, Max?”

“Nothing. Couldn’t be happier. She’s just in my style. Tall, you know. I like to look a girl right in the eye. Small women give me a crick in the neck. And a headache,” he added, tapping his chest, having apparently misplaced his skull.

Mr. Langdon liked accuracy. He pointed out that his friend’s head was located several inches above his breastbone.

“Who cares?” Max scowled at the bottle for a moment before refilling his glass. ‘Is she?” he asked. “Is she preachy as ever?”

“Miss Pelliston is never preachy,” was the reproachful reply.

“Not with you, I’ll warrant. You never do everything wrong. You talk to her about books and never put her in a temper or tease her just to see her eyes flash and her chin go up and her face turn pink. And her hands.” He stared at his own. “Small white hands all balled up into fists. It’s completely ridiculous. Why, if she hit you, you’d think maybe a fly had landed on your face.”

Jack’s countenance grew very grave. “Max,” he began. Then he stepped back, startled, as the door flew open and a hideous little goblin burst into the room.

Chapter Nineteen

Upon closer examination, the goblin turned out to be Jemmy, sporting a bloody nose, a cut lip, and what promised to become an organ of such magnificent colour that “black eye” could scarcely do it justice. At present that eye was swollen shut.

“What the devil happened to you?” Lord Rand asked the apparition. “Trampled by a horse, were you?”

Jemmy burst into rapid speech, or what would have been speech to Mr. Blackwood. As far as Mr. Langdon was concerned, the boy might as well be speaking Chinese.

Lord Rand’s perceptions were at present not very quick. Even he needed several minutes to decipher any part of this oration.

“I see,” he said finally, as he refilled his glass. “A thief taker grabbed you. You bit him. He hit you. You kicked him where it matters and escaped. You have had an interesting adventure. Now go and wash yourself.”

Jemmy turned to Mr. Langdon. “Is he deaf? Din’t I jest say as she went off to the beak’s wif him in a hackney and him been hangin’ ‘round like that every Monday

and Wednesday. I was goin’ to tell her about it too today, only what happened—”

Here Lord Rand interrupted, mainly because the mention of “Monday and Wednesday” shot a beam of light into his clouded mind. Catherine went to the shop on those days to give Jemmy lessons. Therefore this hysterical speech had something to do with Catherine. Now that he’d identified “she,” he demanded to know who “he” was.

Given that Lord Rand was a trifle foxed and Jemmy incoherent, it was some time before the viscount began to grasp the problem.

“Are you telling me Miss Pelliston has gone off in a hackney with Lord Browdie and they’re headed for the magistrate’s? Why?”

“Because she thought ‘at trap took me there. Which he tried, like I said, only—”