A Wicked Gentleman (5 page)

“Just keep the watch going, nothing else,” Harry pronounced. “I'll take it from here myself.” He rubbed his chin, grimacing at the stubble. “I can't pay a social call looking like this.”

“You could do with a mutton chop inside you,” Lester observed, well aware of his master's eating habits when he was working. “And a pint of good claret, I daresay.”

Harry considered this, taking stock of his body for the first time in a day and a half. “I believe you're right, Lester. Tell Hector to serve me in the breakfast parlor and I'll be down in half an hour.” He took the parchment out of the drawer…. “Oh, and have someone take this immediately to the War Office.” He dropped wax on the folded parchment, pressed his signet ring into the wax, and handed the document to Lester before leaving his office with an energetic step that belied his fatigue.

Half an hour later he was addressing a mutton chop and boiled potato and making inroads into a decanter of claret. Plain fare certainly, but Viscount Bonham had little time for the delicacies when dining alone in his own house. Food and drink merely served a purpose, and right now he was starving.

“You're going to call on this Lady Livia Lacey then, sir?” Lester said, more of a statement than a question. “Will I be coming with you?”

“Yes, and no,” Harry said succinctly. “You're looking positively whey-faced again, man. When I
do
need you, I'll need you in full fettle, so get some rest this afternoon. I don't need a bodyguard to pay a courtesy call on some old spinster biddy.” He wiped his mouth and threw down his napkin. “Well, I'll be off.” He strode to the door, calling to his butler, “Hector, I'm walking round to the mews.”

“Aye, m'lord.” The butler stood ready beside the hall table, the viscount's riding cloak over his arm, beaver hat in his hand. He handed both to his master, then passed him his riding whip.

Harry nodded his thanks and went out of the front door, held by a footman, and paused on the top step to draw a deep breath of the cold air. It felt wonderfully refreshing after his hours of stuffy incarceration, and his head cleared immediately, his fatigue dropping away from him.

He walked around to the mews and waited patiently while his horse was saddled, inhaling the sweet fragrance of the hay overlaid with the stable smells of leather, manure, and horseflesh. He recognized his sense of slightly heady euphoria as an old friend, the natural result of his long hours of work and the utterly satisfactory conclusion of that work. Later would come exhaustion and a dreamless sleep. But for the moment he was running on nervous energy.

Eric led the chestnut from the stable and held him while the viscount mounted. “I'll fetch the cob, shall I, m'lord?”

“Yes, I'll need you to walk Perseus while I pay a call. It's too cold to leave him standing.” He sat the chestnut, murmuring softly to him as the animal shifted impatiently on the cobbles, threw back his head against the bridle, and showed every sign of wanting to be on the move. As soon as Eric appeared on the sturdy cob, the chestnut needed no encouragement and plunged forward towards the arched entrance to the mews. Harry checked him with a sharp word, and the animal obeyed, high-stepping onto South Audley Street.

It was early afternoon when Harry arrived outside the house in Cavendish Square. He looked up at the dilapidated facade, frowning. Why on earth wouldn't the new owner, a country dweller with presumably no interest in town life, jump at the chance to sell her inheritance at an inflated price? It made absolutely no sense at all. Then he remembered what Masters, the lawyer, had said.
Perhaps the lady's circumstances are not what we think.

True, he knew nothing about her, and it mattered little. But where did the children come in? He was sure Lester had mentioned children. A husband could complicate matters since presumably he had charge of his wife's affairs. But it was the lady herself who'd written to her solicitor.

He swung down and passed the reins to Eric. “Walk them; I doubt I'll be above twenty minutes.” That was the appropriate duration of a first call even if this was more business than social.

He ran lightly up the steps to the front door and raised the tarnished lion's head knocker. There was no response to his first politely discreet knock, so he tried again. This time the clang resounded in the quiet street. He tapped his whip impatiently against his boot. Somebody had to be in. Apart from the three retainers in the house that he already knew about, Lady Livia had brought women with her, a lady's maid and presumably a companion of some description, or a nurse for the children.

At last he heard the creak of an unoiled bolt on the far side of the door. It opened and a woman stood on the threshold regarding him with a questioning air in her piercing blue eyes. Her hair was invisible beneath a headscarf, her figure swathed in a none-too-clean apron. A smudge of dirt adorned a straight nose.

“Yes?” she said.

The black cat twined itself around her ankles before leaping, tail erect, down the steps between Harry's booted feet.

Harry was for a moment disconcerted by the whirlwind of fur and took a step backwards to the second step. This left him looking up at the woman in the doorway, a position that for some reason he immediately resented. He stepped up again and proffered his card, saying distantly, “Viscount Bonham presents his compliments to Lady Livia Lacey.”

Cornelia took it and read it. So this was the mysteriously eager would-be buyer. She glanced up at him. Quite attractive if one liked the lean and hungry type. A very broad, domed forehead, of the kind that usually denoted intelligence. An impression borne out by a pair of wide-apart and very deep-set green eyes. There was a cool distance in his gaze that was rather unnerving, as if he observed the world from some Olympian peak. Arrogant seemed a good description on first observation.

Harry did not care to be kept standing on a drafty doorstep in the middle of winter by anyone, let alone a mere servant who seemed to be subjecting him to an impertinent scrutiny that unless he was much mistaken found him wanting in some respects.

“My good woman, I would be much obliged to you if you would carry my card to your mistress immediately,” he stated. “You will find that Lady Livia will recognize my name, and she will know my business. Kindly go about yours without delay.” Having issued his order, he turned his back on the woman and gazed off into the distance towards the square, still tapping his boot with his whip.

Mistress! Good woman!
Cornelia opened her mouth to protest, indignation sparking in her eyes as she stared at his insolently turned back. Then a smile touched her mouth. Viscount Bonham was in for a few mortifying surprises. “Begging your pardon, my lord,” she said humbly, “but my Lady Livia is not receiving at present.”

“Ah.” He turned back to her slowly, his gaze still cold, his tone crisp. “I daresay she's resting after her journey?” He didn't wait for confirmation, merely continued, “Present my card with my respects and inform her that I will call again tomorrow when I trust she will have recovered her strength.” He swung away, saying over his shoulder, “My business with your mistress is urgent. Convey that, if you please.”

Cornelia stared at his retreating back, her mouth ajar at his breathtaking arrogance. What made him think Livia was so feeble she couldn't manage a two-day journey without needing to rest? What the devil gave him the right to make any of the disparaging assumptions that had poured from his mouth in the last three or four minutes? She looked down at the card in her hand and for a second was tempted to tear it in shreds and send them flying after their owner.

But no. She could imagine a much more satisfactory revenge. She stepped back into the hall and closed the door with a slam.

Harry had only just reached the pavement when the door slammed behind him, and he started at the sound, spinning around to look behind him. Flakes of paint from the door, dislodged by the violence of its closing, fluttered onto the steps. The new servants seemed on a par with the old, he thought, shaking his head with a flicker of reluctant amusement. But at least he hadn't been driven away by the old man's blunderbuss. One should be thankful for small mercies. He took the reins from Eric and mounted his horse. He'd know what to expect on his return.

R
IDING THE TIDE OF HER INDIGNATION
, Cornelia stalked into the kitchen, where she knew she would find the others. “Who was that at the door, Nell?” Livia asked, backing out of the inglenook where she'd been examining the chimney, directing Morecombe to push a broomstick up as a high as he could to dislodge any birds' nests.

“That, my dear, was Viscount Bonham,” Cornelia informed her. “And a nasty piece of work he is.” She exhaled noisily. “Arrogant, insulting, presumptuous. He informs you that he will be calling upon you tomorrow to discuss a matter of urgent business.”

“Dear me,” Aurelia murmured, coming out of the pantry with a dusty armful of jars of preserves. “Lord knows how long these have been there.” She set her burden on the now-scrubbed deal table and dusted off her hands. “So you didn't care for the gentleman then, Nell?”

“Is it that obvious?” Cornelia said with a sardonic smile. “He took me for a servant, addressed me as his ‘good woman,' and demanded to see my mistress!”

Aurelia went into a peal of laughter and was joined by Livia. “Look at yourself, Nell,” Livia said. “You look like a servant. We all do.”

Cornelia examined her friends, both of them dusty, swathed in grimy aprons, hair tucked away beneath protective scarves, faces smudged with, in Livia's case, soot, in Aurelia's, cobweb residue. She glanced down at her apron, put a hand hesitantly to her headscarf, then burst into laughter. “You're probably right. But even so he had no right to make assumptions. And no right at all to his manner. People should be polite, and most particularly to servants.”

“What d'you want done with these, mum?” One of the twin retainers gestured to a box of china she'd just put on the table.

Livia peered at the contents of the box. “They're all mismatched, but look at this.” She lifted out a sauce boat. “It's Sèvres, look how lovely it is.” She carried it to the wide sink and poured water over it from the jug. “I wonder if there are any more pieces.”

Aurelia went to examine the box. “Where do they come from…uh…Mavis?” she hazarded.

“It's Ada, mum,” the woman corrected stolidly. “And they're all bits o' broken sets. Lady Sophia wouldn't throw any of 'em away, but she'd never 'ave an unmatched set on her table neither.”

“That explains it.” Livia came back to the table. “Let's see what else we've got. Oh, look, there's a paper knife at the bottom here.” She took the slender knife out and held it up. “It's bone I think…oh, my goodness.” She peered closely at the blade. “Look at the engraving.” Her eyes were wide as she held the object out to her friends. “It's positively indecent.”

Cornelia took it and gazed closely at the engraving. “It's scrimshaw, I think they call it. The kind of carving that sailors do to pass the time on long voyages. But, oh dear, this poor sailor must have been feeling very deprived of some of the comforts of home. The mermaid seems to be engaging in some very friendly activity here.” Her voice trembled with laughter as she showed the paper knife to Aurelia.

“What on earth is such an object doing in a spinster's kitchen?” Aurelia murmured as she examined the cavorting figures. She glanced across at Morecombe and the twins, who maintained a steadfast silence. “I think we should put it back where it came from. I'd hate to have to explain what's going on to Franny, and you know she'll ask if she sees it.”

“I'll keep it in the desk in my room,” Livia said, taking the knife from her. “I think it's ivory not bone.”

“Well,
please
keep it away from the children,” Aurelia begged, shaking her head with amusement, as she returned to her preserves.

The kitchen was beginning to look usable again, Cornelia reflected, but it was still cold. There was a draft coming through the window that was opened at the bottom, and she went across to close it.

“Eh, madam, don't you be shuttin' that,” Morecombe declared. “Tis fer Lady Sophia's cat. She needs t' come in an' out like. Her ladyship insisted on't.”

“Well, maybe she did,” Cornelia said firmly. “But I'm still closing it. If the cat wants to come in, she can jump on the sill and let us know.” She was about to slam the window closed when the cat jumped like a shadow from the dank darkness, through the narrow aperture, and into the kitchen.

“Too cold for you? I don't blame you,” Cornelia said, bending to stroke the cat. “What's her name, Morecombe?”

“Oh, Lady Sophia jest called 'er Puss,” the man responded. “But I tell you straight, ma'am, that window stays open at night. She likes t' go ahuntin'. 'Tis agin nature to expect a cat t' stay in at night.”

“We'll worry about that later,” Cornelia said pacifically. “She's in now anyway.” She closed the window firmly and turned her attention to an ancient pottery flour barrel that could be put to good use again. She peered into it with a grimace of disgust. “This flour's full of weevils.”

She hefted the barrel and upended it into the sink. Something chinked against the porcelain. “What's this?” She delicately sifted the flour through her fingers, closing her mind to the wriggling grubs. “Well, would you look at this. This kitchen's full of surprises.” She held up a thimble. The light from the now-clean window above the sink caught and held a sparkle of silver through the flour dust. She wiped the thimble on a corner of her apron and held it up again. “It's most unusual. Look at the design.” She chuckled slightly. “It's fascinating but not as much fun as the engraving on the paper knife.”

Aurelia and Livia abandoned their china treasury and came over to her. They examined the thimble in turn. “It's obviously silver, and the design is such an intricate piece of engraving. A very skilled silversmith had a hand in this,” Aurelia commented.

“But what's it doing in a flour barrel?” Livia asked.

“Well, the flour's been in there since the last century, judging by its condition,” Cornelia said, taking the thimble back. “I'd guess some long-ago maid forgot she was wearing it when she delved into the barrel for a cup of flour or something and it just slipped off.”

“It doesn't look like something a maid would use,” Livia said doubtfully.

“Well, perhaps the lady of the house was doing some baking of her own,” Cornelia said with a careless shrug. “Anyway, you may as well ask what a lewd paper knife is doing in a box of rejected china.”

“Fair enough,” Livia agreed. “Let's see what else we have in the way of china.”

“I'm going to explore the cellar,” Cornelia said, slipping the thimble into her apron pocket. “Do you have the key, Morecombe?”

“Aye, mum. Haven't been down there in a while,” he said, pulling his broomstick out of the chimney, bringing a fine cloud of soot with it. “Lady Sophia weren't much fer wine. She took a small glass o' port of an evening, but that was about all.”

“Is there anything worth drinking down there?”

“Oh, aye, reckon so.” He pulled a ring of keys from the pocket of his britches and fumbled through them, holding each one up to his eye for closer inspection. “The old earl, Lady Sophia's brother that was, kept a good cellar.”

“How long ago did he die?” Cornelia asked somewhat doubtfully.

“Oh, twenty year at least,” the old man said, and shuffled across the kitchen to the door that led down into the cellar.

“Ghoulies and ghosties,” Cornelia said with a mock shiver. “If no one's been down there in twenty years, what do you think I'll find?”

By evening they had the kitchen functioning, cooking fires lit, and the twins were engaged in some form of cooking although Cornelia and her companions had little confidence in the outcome of their efforts. But at least the children had been given a supper that met with Linton's approval, and they were ensconced in the nursery suite in relative warmth.

“Fire's lit in Lady Sophia's parlor, Lady Livia,” Morecombe announced, coming into the kitchen where the three women were taking stock of their achievements. “And I've opened a bottle of that burgundy you wanted brought up, m'lady.” He nodded towards Cornelia.

“Did you fill the decanters too?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said.

“There was a butt of quite passable sherry down there,” Cornelia said, as they left the kitchen. “And a pipe of port, barely breached, and another cask of Madeira. The old earl knew what he was about. At least we'll be able to warm the cockles even if we don't get anything palatable to eat.”

“I wonder what they cooked for Aunt Sophia,” Livia commented as she opened the door to the only room in the house that had borne any signs of recent habitation. “I don't think she left this room in years.”

It was an overstuffed, shabby parlor at the rear of the house, and that morning it had had the rather unpleasant aroma of old dusty fabric, overlaid with an odd stale flowery perfume, candle wax, and ashes from the cold grate. A day with the windows open had freshened the air, and the grate had been black leaded, the furniture polished with beeswax, and the carpets and upholstery subjected to a vigorous carpet beater. It was not a room one would ever call elegant, or even warmly comfortable, but it was a tolerable refuge.

Cornelia poured sherry, and the three of them sank down into sagging armchairs with small groans of relief. “I don't think I've ever worked so hard in my life,” Livia remarked. “I ache from head to toe.”

“I would love a bath,” Aurelia murmured, taking a long sip of her sherry. “But it'll take far too long to heat the water, then who's going to lug it all the way upstairs. Morecombe doesn't look as if he could carry a tray, let alone enough water for a bath.”

“We'll tackle that issue tomorrow,” Cornelia said, kicking off her shoes. She stretched her feet to the fender and wriggled her toes in the fire's warmth with a little whimper of pleasure. “And talking of tomorrow, Liv. Will you receive the uncivilized viscount? I wouldn't,” she added. “I'd send him off with a flea in his ear.”

“Don't you want to know why he's so keen to buy the property?” Aurelia asked, fetching the sherry decanter to refill their glasses. “He must have some reason…to offer all that money, and for what?” She gestured liberally at their surroundings. “Putting this place in shape will cost a small fortune.”

“Well, I might as well receive him,” Livia said comfortably, holding out her glass towards Aurelia. “Just to see what a barbarian he is. Oh, and Aunt Sophia's solicitor, Masters, the one who first wrote to me, he's going to call as well. Some papers I have to sign apparently.”

“Well, you'll be busy,” Aurelia said. “What'll we do, Nell?”

“Oh, you have to be here as well,” Livia said, sounding alarmed. “This is a joint enterprise…and particularly when it comes to the viscount.”

“Nell, what are you thinking?” Aurelia demanded seeing her sister-in-law's flickering smile. “You're up to something.”

“Well, I was just thinking…”

The arrival of Morecombe and one of the twins carrying trays prevented her finishing her thought.

“There's potato soup,” Morecombe announced, setting his tray on a gateleg table in the bow window. “An' bread and cheese and a bite o' ham.” He stood aside as the twin set down her own tray of china and cutlery. “Should I pour the wine, m'lady?”

“Yes, please,” Cornelia answered since the question was clearly directed towards her.

“Thank you, Morecombe.” Livia rose from her chair and came over to the table. “You and Ada and Mavis have done wonders with so little. We're really very grateful.”

“Eh, as to that Lady Livia, we do what Lady Sophia told us. Take care of the house an' all her things. An' that's all…jest doin' our duty.” He stepped to the sideboard and took up the bottle of burgundy.

“Could I ask…” Aurelia said hesitantly. “Ada and Mavis are sisters, I believe.”

“Aye, that we are,” the present twin agreed. It was unusual for either of the twins to volunteer a comment, and Aurelia was emboldened to continue.

“Have you worked here with Morecombe for long?”

“Eh, bless you, ma'am, Morecombe married our Ada thirty year ago,” Mavis, it was now clear that it was Mavis, declared. “An' where our Ada goes, I go too. Always been like that.”

“I see.” Aurelia smiled. “And did you marry too, Mavis?”

The woman shook her head with an expression of disgust. “Men,” she stated. “Never could abide 'em. Dirty, messy things stompin' their mud all over the house.” She tossed her head with something approaching a sniff and left the parlor.

Morecombe, apparently untroubled by this wholesale condemnation of his sex, nodded to the women in a semblance of a bow and followed in Mavis's wake.

“So, as I was saying,” Cornelia continued as the door closed, “I was thinking it might be amusing to teach our viscount a salutary lesson in manners.” She dipped her spoon in her soup.