Viscount Vagabond by Loretta Chase
Only when he’d opened the wardrobe door did he note the flaw in his plans, such as they were. The small space contained several items of clothing, all of them female attire. So far, so good. However, while one might distinguish by touch silk or satin from muslin, one’s touch was not so refined as to distinguish a peach-coloured frock from one of any other hue. He cursed softly to himself.
At that moment a candle flickered into light and a soft voice murmured, “If it is a dream, I do hope I don’t wake up.”
Lord Rand turned towards the bed and found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.
Chapter Fourteen
At the other end of the weapon was a comely brunette. The candlelight was gentler upon her countenance than the grey daylight of Hyde Park, and she was not so heavily painted now. Max judged that she was pretty, though in a rather blatant way.
He smiled, the pistol notwithstanding.
“I suppose,” he said calmly, “you wonder why I’m here.” He had not attended Eton and Oxford for nothing. Max knew how to preserve a mask of indifference even when in the throes of the greatest inner misery. At the moment he was not miserable, only a tad concerned that the weapon might have been constructed with a hair trigger, and thus might accidentally go off... in his face.
“Only if I am awake,” Lynnette answered, quite as calmly as if she too had known the privileges of public school education. “If I am, I expect I’d better shoot you and have it over with, because whatever the reason, it must be a wicked one. Either you’re here to murder me, or...” Her voice trailed off invitingly.
“Then shoot me,” said his lordship. “It makes no matter. When a man has lost his heart and has no hope, it makes no matter whether he lives or dies. My heart,” he went on, gazing soulfully into her eyes, “is yours. Has been since I saw you yesterday. And I have no hope because”—he hesitated meaningfully, but upon perceiving the pistol shaking, quickly continued—“because you belong to another.”
Lynnette was no more proof against those devastating blue eyes than any other young woman. Besides, a handsome, virile lord had entered her bedroom, like manna from the heavens. She was not so ungrateful as to question the motives of Providence.
She relented, whereupon a tender scene ensued which is better left to the memoirs she will feel compelled to write when middle age begins to fasten its clammy hands upon her person and bank account.
The scene might have proceeded with dispatch to its inevitable conclusion—thereby providing Lord Rand another black spot on his conscience—had not the young woman’s protector returned earlier than expected.
Since that gentleman returned drunk—as was his wont on all occasions—and therefore noisily, young love was not taken unawares. A mere twenty minutes after Max had arrived, he was once again clambering over the balcony, and Lynnette, her own conscience considerably clearer than she would have liked, appeared to be sleeping the sleep of innocent angels when Lord Browdie stumbled into her bedroom.
Lord Rand was not accustomed to failing in his enterprises. This time he had failed miserably, and now he thought on it, the enterprise itself had been hasty and ill-considered. Hasty he could understand. What baffled him was how he’d expected to steal a peach-coloured muslin frock from an ink-black wardrobe in an equally dark bedchamber. Still, he told himself, had he not been interrupted, he could have taken everything that felt like muslin— though he’d have had the devil’s own time climbing down from an upper storey carrying a stack of gowns.
The whole business now struck him as patently ridiculous. Had this been an isolated incident, he might have put it down as one of his occasional aberrations. The trouble was, aberration seemed to be growing a habit with him lately—and it had all started, he now realised, the moment he’d met Catherine Pelliston.
An assortment of unrelated rash behaviours was normal. A string of freakish activities all connected to one female was not. The girl was dangerous.
Lord Rand began to wish, precisely as her papa often wished, that Catherine Pelliston would go away. Thence the viscount proceeded—again, like the parent—to wishing she’d never been born. To wish the latter was futile. He concentrated instead upon how to make her go away. How difficult could that be? Even her father had done it, though it had taken the old fool twenty-one years.
Lord Rand doubted that Lady Diana would wait patiently twenty-one years for him to disentangle himself. Strong measures were called for. He must frighten Miss Pestilence away, terrify her back to Wilberstone. That would be hard on Jack, but really, if Jack was so taken with her there was no reason he couldn’t go to Wilberstone after her.
In pursuance of dark plans, Lord Rand betook himself to his sister’s establishment the very next morning. Twinges of conscience he had none. In fact, as he met Molly upon the steps of Andover House the next morning, Max bestowed upon her such a dazzling smile that the abigail had to clutch at the railing to keep from stumbling headfirst onto the pavement.
He marched into the breakfast room in his usual unceremonious way and announced to his sister and brother-in-law that he’d come to take Miss Pelliston driving.
“Max, I don’t care what Catherine says. You are a sad wreck. You took her driving yesterday, don’t you remember?”
“Yes, and I’ve come to take her again. Where is she?” the viscount demanded.
“Max, it’s scarcely nine o’clock in the morning.”
“Confound it, I can tell time as well as the next chap.”
“Catherine is still abed, you great blockhead,” said his loving sister. “Now, you may either sit quietly and breakfast with us or you may go away.”
Miss Pelliston chose that moment to enter the breakfast room.
“There you are,” said Max. “Wide awake too, I see, to give the lie to my rag-mannered sister. But she’s always out of sorts these days. Will you take a turn in the park with me this morning?”
“Good heavens, but you do take hold of something and worry it to death,” Lady Andover complained before Catherine could recover sufficiently to make a reply. “Will you sit down and be quiet? Catherine has not breakfasted yet.”
Though Max was impatient to get his nefarious enterprise over with, he did realise that he was behaving like an idiot. He subdued himself, sat down, and dined relatively quietly, waiting until Miss Pelliston’s plate was empty before he renewed his invitation.
Catherine realised quickly enough that her caller would not be so insistent about her driving with him and would not have come at such an early hour if he hadn’t important news for her. She was mightily curious why he’d left the party and what he’d done. Besides, she was eager to relay her own interesting news. Now that they could be sure she was in no danger, perhaps he’d leave her alone. Certainly he would not subject her to any more disquieting physical displays and mad proposals.
Catherine, in short, grew as impatient to be gone as the viscount was. She scurried to get her bonnet, and the two were out of the house before the earl and countess had time to realise they were going.
Considering the unhappy memories of aberrant behaviour the place held for him, it was curious that Lord Rand took Miss Pelliston to Green Park. Perhaps he thought in this wise to exorcise the demon that had possessed him there. Whatever his motives, he directed the horses along a path of shifting shade and dappled sunlight. No colourful flowerbeds distracted the eye from the park’s green serenity, for this was the place in which Charles II’s Queen had commanded no flowers ever be planted. Here at least the straying husband could not pluck bouquets for his army of mistresses.
Max brought the carriage to a halt beside a large plane tree and turned a troubled gaze upon his companion. At least he meant the gaze to be troubled, because he meant to make her anxious. Unfortunately, he found a pair of hazel eyes gazing back. Those eyes were so unfairly large and their depths disclosed such a tumultuously thrilling universe that his own features relaxed, and the only trouble he knew was a mad desire to kiss her.
He forced
He began by apologising for his abrupt departure the night before. When Miss Pelliston answered graciously that Mr. Langdon had been an altogether satisfactory replacement, Lord Rand experienced a novel, and thoroughly disagreeable, sensation—one that could not be, though it was suspiciously like, jealousy.
He forgot the slightly exaggerated warnings he’d meant to frighten her with and proceeded to relate his adventures instead, describing in unnecessary detail his meeting with Lord Browdie’s mistress.
“Good heavens!” Catherine cried. “Steal back my dress? Whatever were you thinking of?”
“Destroying the evidence. You must see that the dress is the only concrete proof you were ever at Granny Grendle’s. Without it, everything else is just hearsay—only the word of a tart against yours.”
“Well, I do wish you’d waited a bit before rushing into such a dangerous act. Wasn’t it you told me to find out how much Lord Browdie knew? And then you didn’t wait to hear what I learned. Which you ought to have done, you know— and perhaps would have, if you had been sober,” she added, half to herself.
Lord Rand had, all his life, considered it beneath his dignity to justify his behaviour to anyone. He knew the world called him Viscount Vagabond and he was rather proud of the title than otherwise. All the same, he was heartily sick of hearing this sanctimonious female constantly ascribe his every word, practically, to the effects of spirits.
“I wasn’t drunk, dash it. Why are you always accusing me of being so?”
Being a just woman, Catherine considered the question impartially. After a moment she answered, “I suppose it is because I can think of no other explanation for your behaviour. You are very inconsistent. Sometimes you appear perfectly normal.”
Max knew a dangerous wish to be enlightened. At which times, he wondered, did she consider him normal? Was it at all possible that at such times she found him pleasant company? But he didn’t want to be pleasant company to her!
A light breeze rose then and a faint scent wafted to his nostrils. Violets... and there were no flowers in this park. There was that strange stirring, a dull ache, somewhere in his chest. Resolutely he turned to gaze straight ahead. The horses’ tails restored him to objectivity.
“Consistent or not, I’m not a drunkard,’’ he snapped. “Not yet, anyhow. But I think you’ll drive me to it, Miss Pelliston. I can’t open my mouth without being accused of being half-seas over. Is that some sort of hobbyhorse of yours, ma’am?”
He stole another glance in spite of himself, and his heart smote him. He had forgotten about her father. Now the wet brightness of her eyes told him he’d struck a painful spot. He felt like a brute—a great, clumsy lummox.
“Oh, drat.” His instincts told him to take her in his arms and comfort her. What remained of his rational mind told him to keep his hands to himself, no matter how they itched to touch her. The two inner voices had a violent argument, and the rational mind won out. He apologised.
He told her he was out of sorts because he’d failed regarding the dress, had made such a mess of the business, in fact, that Lord Browdie’s mistress was now confidently expecting to become his.
This is not the sort of talk to which a gentleman normally treats an innocent young miss. Miss Pelliston should have been insulted. She ought, at least, have pointed out the impropriety of the subject.
Like other ladies, she knew that gentlemen kept mistresses and that in the Beau Monde this was considered in light of a duty. Other women would feign ignorance of such matters. In Catherine’s case, pretence was not only impossible, but absurd—after all, the man had found her in a brothel.
This was how she justified her reaction. She did not include in that justification the conspiratorial thrill she’d experienced as the viscount told his adventures. She did not even consider the relief she’d felt upon learning that the unfortunate female was not Lord Rand’s mistress yet.
Catherine did admit—not only to herself, but aloud— that she was touched by his efforts, ill-considered though they’d been, on her behalf.
“All the same,” she added, “it wasn’t necessary. Lord Browdie thinks it was some other woman you paid fifty pounds for. He was so tickled that you’d paid so much only to be cheated of the girl’s belongings that I wonder he hasn’t told all the world about it. What was most provoking was that, in between chortling with glee about your being made of fool of, he was lecturing me on the dangers of your company.”
Perhaps Lord Rand was beginning to understand how very dangerous certain company could be. Perhaps he’d begun to wish someone had warned him away weeks ago. He said nothing, however, only smiled rather bleakly.
“So there is no need to worry about the dress,” Catherine went on, thinking the man was not yet convinced. “I should have realised that. Lord Browdie is not the kind of man who’d notice what a woman wore. I’m sure he never noticed any of my frocks—any more than Papa ever did.”
Lord Rand’s smile grew a tad more bleak. Perhaps it had occurred to him that he could, if asked, provide an accurate list of every garment he’d ever seen Miss Pelliston in, from the moment he’d seen her wrapped in a blanket.
He said, “Then we’ve been making mountains out of molehills—is that it? Thinking everyone sees Banquo’s ghost, so to speak.”
Catherine looked puzzled.
“Macbeth, Miss Pelliston. Shakespeare and his confounded ghosts.”
“I know—only—”
“—only you thought I didn’t. I suppose, besides considering me a drunkard, you also believe I’m illiterate.”
“No. I’m only surprised at your not pretending to be illiterate.”
A grim foreboding began to overtake him. “Let’s keep that a secret, shall we? I never meant to let on. Your happy news took me by surprise and I’m afraid I let my guard down.”
“Why have it up in the first place, My Lord? Why pretend to be less than you are?”
“Don’t want to raise expectations, don’t you know,” he answered with a fine display of insouciance. “People would start expecting me to be erudite all the time, and it’s confounded tiring. It’s hard enough just behaving myself without adding intellectual responsibility to the lot.”
“You’re a very strange man, My Lord.”
“‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.’ That’s what Caro Lamb said about Byron—or so Louisa tells me. Still, the foolish creature got to know him anyhow, and look where that led.”
Miss Pelliston’s colour deepened about six shades, which must have brought her companion some enjoyment, because he grinned as he gave the horses leave to start.
Catherine was no more pleased with the smug grin than she was with the thinly veiled threat. He was warning her off, was he? Did the conceited brute think she was pursuing him?
“You forget,” she began as soon as she’d crushed down an incipient urge to do him violence, “that Lady Caroline is also accounted mad. She became entangled with Lord Byron because she was not thinking rationally. A sensible woman would certainly keep away from dangerous men.”
“Would she? But you don’t keep away from me, though my character failings, according to you, are legion.”
“I do try to keep away,” she snapped, “but you are always there.”
“May I remind, you that if I hadn’t always been there, you’d be languishing in a whorehouse now, or getting run down by carriages, or working your fingers to the bone in a dressmaker’s shop.”
“Then you may derive comfort from the fact, My Lord, that I am no longer in any sort of danger, and you need waste no more of your valuable time with heroic rescues. You are at liberty to do exactly as you like. If you have accidentally got into the habit of rescuing helpless women, perhaps you should set about rescuing the one who now has my dress. I daresay that sort of activity is more in keeping with your tastes.”
“Miss Pelliston, that last smacks of jealousy.”
“And what a devil of a temper you have. I suppose you’d like to strike me,” he said with the most infuriating grin. “No, on second thought, I recall that strangling is more to your tastes. Maybe you’d like to fasten those ladylike white fingers about my throat and choke me? Be warned that there’s a deal of linen in the way. Punching me on the nose would be more efficient, though more untidy. In either case, my cravat would suffer and Blackwood would never forgive you.”
“You are insufferable,” she muttered, clenching and unclenching her fists. “How I wish I were a man.”
“I’m so glad you’re not. Manly rage couldn’t be nearly as entertaining as the present spectacle. You look like an outraged kitten. I shall have to call you ‘Cat’ from now on.”
“I never gave you leave—”
“I never wait for leave, Miss Pelliston... Pettigrew... Pennyman... Catherine... Cat. What a lot of names you have, just like a common criminal.”
With a mighty effort, Catherine controlled herself. She would have liked nothing better than to choke the breath out of him and hated him for knowing it and teasing her with it. She folded her hands in her lap.
“I see,” she said with a reasonable appearance of calm, “that you are bent on provoking me. I suppose that is the most productive activity you can think of.”
“No. Kissing you would be much more productive in that way. Unfortunately, being a mere male and driven by baser instincts, I’m afraid I’d provoke myself even more. Therefore I shall not kiss you, Cat, however much you beg me.”
Catherine stifled a gasp and turned her gaze towards the trees shading the Queen’s Walk. Their leaves stirred in the light breeze, and above them the sky was changing from blue to grey. Her heart was stirring too, more agitated than the gently swaying branches—but that was only because she was so incensed. Of course he didn’t mean to kiss her. He wanted to outrage her, and she was playing into his hands. Catherine decided she’d given Lord Rand enough entertainment for one morning.