Viscount Vagabond (Regency Noblemen 1)

“Oh, dear,” she said quickly. “I packed in such haste that I must have forgotten it. How stupid of me. Yes, I suppose the grey frock will have to do.”

Molly tiptoed from the room as Catherine crawled into bed. She did not expect to sleep, not with her mind churning so, but a few hours rest would help her think more clearly, as she should have done two months ago.

She hadn’t been able to think because the hot temper she’d inherited from her papa had made her wild and blind. Though she hadn’t shown it, she’d become completely irrational, just as he always had, incapable of considering consequences. At the very least she should have prepared for every eventuality. She’d had weeks to reconsider, to at least think ahead.

No wonder Lord Rand thought her an ignorant young miss. Now he thought even less of her. He’d called her a coward and a nonsensical one at that, which was no surprise considering the disgusting display of weakness she’d provided him. Twice at least she’d wept in front of him—she who abhorred tears. Was not weeping maudlin self-indulgence when done privately and a bid for pity when done in public? Aunt Deborah burst into tears at every fancied slight, which enraged Papa and filled even Catherine with exasperation.

Lord Rand must have been mightily relieved to have her off his hands. The thought set off an inner flutter of pain, and her eyes began to sting. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Of all the excellent reasons she had to weep, why must the mere thought of her rescuer be the one to set her off?

Firmly she banished Lord Rand’s image from her mind to concentrate instead on her hostess. The Andover name was so familiar. Was the family connected to hers? That would hardly be surprising, when half England’s, even Europe’s, aristocracy was related to the other. Perhaps, though, the earl’s family had simply been the topic of one of Great Aunt Eustacia’s rambling dissertations on genealogy. The old lady knew her Debrett’s as intimately as she knew her Bible. As Catherine recalled the long monologues in those dim, cluttered rooms, exhaustion crept over her.

Genealogy. “Hadn’t time to discuss genealogy,” he’d told his sister in that abrupt way of his. Actually, it was rather funny, in the circumstances.

What an odd man he was, Catherine thought vaguely as her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. Lost, of course, with his drinking and wenching, like Papa, but young ... and handsome... and so strong. He’d lifted her up as easily as if she’d been one of her bandboxes.

He must have been shocked, when he had sobered himself, to realise what he’d brought home with him. Perhaps that would teach him to exercise moderation in future. With this pious thought, Catherine drifted off to sleep.

“Now who in blazes are you?” Lord Rand demanded, surveying the small, slim man before him.

His lordship had already had two nasty surprises. The first was a butler even taller than himself, whose accents hinted an intimate acquaintance with the bells of St. Mary Le Bow: a Cockney butler named Gidgeon, of all things. The second was a chef who spoke not a word of English, thereby forcing Lord Rand to rake the recesses of his mind for the French he’d determined to bury there forever along with Greek and Latin.

In front of him at present stood a mournful creature who’d been dogging the viscount’s footsteps all the way down the long hall.

“Hill, My Lord,” said the little man sadly.

“Hill,” Lord Rand repeated. “And what do you do?”

“Your secretary, My Lord.”

“What the devil do I want a secretary for? Ain’t there enough here as it is? The bloody place is crawling with servants. I’ll wager there ain’t been such a crowd in one place since Prinny married that fat cousin of his.”

“Yes, My Lord. A tragic business, that,” Hill gloomily agreed.

“You don’t know the half of it,” his lordship grumbled. “Well, what is it you do, exactly?”

“Her ladyship—Lady Andover, that is—indicated that you required assistance in managing your paperwork, My Lord. Now that you are in residence there will be a daily supply of invitations requiring responses.”

“I ain’t going to any of those fusty affairs.”

“Very good, My Lord. You are aware, I trust, that you are engaged to dine this evening with Lord and Lady St. Denys?”

“Tonight? Already? Plague take him. The Old Man don’t give me a minute to catch my breath. How the devil did he know I was back?”

“It is a regrettable fact, My Lord, that servants’ gossip travels at an alarming rate,” said Mr. Hill in dismal tones. “His lordship’s summons arrived an hour ago. I am afraid the invitation is indeed for this evening.”

“Of course it is. They can’t wait to clap the irons on me.” The viscount muttered something unintelligible, then said more distinctly, “Very well. Might as well get it over with.”

Considering the matter closed, he was about to continue on his way, but the secretary seemed to be in melancholy expectation of something more.

“Is that all?” the master asked impatiently.

“Her ladyship also mentioned that there would be numerous matters claiming your attention, though scarcely worthy of it. She indicated that I was, insofar as possible, to relieve you of the more trivial.”

‘Lord Rand sighed. “Such as?”

“Your valet, My Lord.”

“Don’t want a valet. Can’t stand someone poking about my things.”

“Quite so, My Lord. Therefore I have screened the applicants in advance and reduced their number to three, in hopes of sparing you some trouble in seeking one worthy of your employ.”

“Didn’t I just tell you I don’t want a valet?”

“Yes, indeed, My Lord. So I will explain to the man you select.”

“I don’t want to select anybody, damn it. I can dress myself. I ain’t a baby.”

“Very good, My Lord.” The secretary stared dolefully at his master’s scuffed boots. “I suppose, then, one of the lower servants will attend to your footwear? In that case, I will ask Mr. Gidgeon whether such a person might be spared from the present staff.”

Lord Rand fought back a wild urge to bash either his own or his secretary’s head against the door frame. “Where are these prodigies? I suppose they are here or you wouldn’t be badgering me about it.”

“In the hall outside your lordship’s study. If you will be so kind as to ring when you’re prepared, I shall send the first candidate in.”

“No,” snapped the employer as he stormed down the hall. “I’ll see ‘em all at once.”

Half an hour later, the disagreeable task was done, the viscount having quickly settled on the one candidate whose serene countenance promised intermittent relief from the lugubrious Hill. Lord Rand was further heartened some hours later when Blackwood (for such was the name of this gentleman’s gentleman), having accompanied his master to the tatter’s private chambers, volunteered the information that he’d recently been invalided home.

“A soldier,” said Lord Rand, breaking into a smile for the first time since he’d entered the house. “Where?”

“Peninsula, My Lord. I caught a ball in my leg, and being of no further military use, had to take up my old work.”

So it happened that amid the exchange of stories, the one talking of the Old World and the other of the New, Lord Rand forgot most of his objections to having someone poking about his belongings and gave utterance to only one mild oath when the valet laid out dinner clothes.

“Confound it,” his lordship muttered. “I’d almost forgotten the kind of rigour I’d be stuffed into for dinner. With the Old Man, no less. You could stand a regiment on his neckcloth and the blasted thing wouldn’t so much as crease. Wouldn’t dare.”

“Likes everything in order, does he, My Lord?” the valet asked as he gathered up his employer’s scattered belongings.

“And can’t for the life of him figure out how he sired such a disorderly brute of a son.”

“If you’ll pardon my free speech, My Lord, I must disagree with that assessment. It’s a pleasure to a

man of simple tastes like myself to attend to a gentleman who wants neither padding nor corsets nor any sort of artifice to look as he should.”

Chapter Five

That he looked as he should, and better than he had ever done in his life before, was of small comfort to the Viscount Rand some time later when he endured his mother’s effusive welcome and his father’s frigid greeting.

Lord Rand’s neckcloth began to grow rather snug, in fact, as the dinner conversation turned to his domestic responsibilities and, in particular, his need for a wife.

“Lady Julia is very sweet,” his mother told him. “Raleforth’s youngest girl, you know.”