Barbara Metzger (13 page)

"Well, let's be off then.” He tried to sound encouraging as he picked up the satchel.

"And my mother's lap desk?"

And the lap desk.

"Good.” She nodded and immediately started to sink to the floor.

Wynn dropped the satchel—and the lap desk—and rushed to catch her. He cracked his head against the beam first. Dash it, he'd look as battered as the bacon-brained female in another half hour. They had to get out of there now. Without bothering to ask permission, he put one hand beneath Miss Lockharte's knees, the other around her back, and lifted. The woman weighed less than his saddle, by all that was holy. “I'll come back for your bag,” he told her, starting the descent.

"And the lap desk?"

"And the lap desk. Heaven forfend you don't get to write any more letters.” He could have sworn the burdensome female in his arms giggled.

When they reached the first landing, that same gray-haired, gray-gowned teacher was there.

"I never!” she declared, dropping her spectacles.

"I'm not surprised,” Wynn said. Yes, that was definitely a giggle. If nothing else, Miss Lockharte had bottom, to be seeing the humor in a situation like this.

Then a parcel of schoolgirls popped their heads out of a classroom, their eyes huge in their heads, until a stern voice called, “Ladies!"

Miss Merrihew was waiting at the bottom. “You cannot do this, my lord."

"Why ever not?” Wynn was still holding Miss Lockharte in his arms; her weight was hardly noticeable even after the stairs. His major concern had been not to miss his footing and drop her. He didn't think her sticklike bones could stand another jarring.

"Why?” the headmistress spluttered. “Why? Because you cannot simply walk in here and carry away one of my instructors, that's why."

"But I thought you said she had been dismissed. In fact, I'm certain of it. You do not wish to stay on here, do you, Miss Lockharte, if Miss Merrihew reconsiders?"

Rosellen grabbed his collar even more firmly with her one good hand. That seemed to be answer enough for Wynn. “I thought not. We'll be going then."

Miss Merrihew was standing in the doorway now, arms crossed militantly over her chest. “No, I will not permit this ... this outrageous behavior."

"More outrageous than not calling in a physician or providing proper nourishment? I think not, madam."

"Fabrications,” she shrilled. “All fabrications. I told you she was nothing but a liar. The gel has been ill, that's all."

"And I am taking her to where she may convalesce, that's all."

Miss Merrihew's beady eyes narrowed. “And where might that be, my lord? I'm sure my brother, Reverend Merrihew, will not approve."

If his arms weren't full, Wynn would have taken out his quizzing glass, to depress any pretensions the stiff-rumped female might have that he gave a rap about her brother's approval or not. Instead he informed her, “I am first taking the lady to an inn between Worthing and Brighton. If your reverend brother wishes to discuss the matter with me, I have a few choice words I'd like to mention to him, such as faith, hope, and charity. Good day."

Miss Lockharte's whispered “Bravo” in his ear made Wynn smile, until he realized they couldn't make the grand, triumphal exit she deserved; the front door was closed, for one thing, and they did not have their coats, for another. His was lying on a chair by the entry, with his hat and gloves on the paisley-covered table nearby.

"Where is your wrap?"

Rosellen had no idea what had become of her spencer after its encounter with the stableyard in Brighton. “I don't need one. Let us just go, please."

"Nonsense, it's rainy and damp outside, and you're already in poor health.” He carefully lowered her onto the chair, pushing his own apparel aside.

Nothing was more important than getting out of this place. “If you must know, I gave my cloak to Fanny for mailing my letters."

Wynn just shook his head. “You gave her your only coat?"

"I told you, I thought I was dying. I didn't think I'd need a mantle where I was going, and Fanny did."

"You didn't think at all, it seems. I've never seen such a one as you for rash behavior."

"Such a fool, you mean."

He didn't answer, too busy trying to decide which of his estates was farthest away from his impressionable sister. Susan was excitable enough without this female's flighty influence. The Jamaican properties were too far away for the schoolteacher's condition, regrettably. The Cornwall natives were a superstitious lot; they might think Miss Lockharte's tales the work of the Devil. It would have to be Yorkshire. Neither the sheep nor their equally taciturn herders would credit her far-fetched suspicions, not even if she warned them that the king of England was about to murder them all in their beds. Then again, the king of England was just as mad as Miss Lockharte.

Meanwhile, Wynn was buttoning his greatcoat around her drooping form, no easy task when she could barely hold herself erect even in the chair. Deuce take it, she needed a hat. The female was not going to die of pneumonia, he swore to himself, not while in his care. The peagoose's cloak would have had a hood, by Jupiter. The viscount shoved his own hat on his head, stuffed his gloves in his pocket, and pulled the paisley cloth off the side table. He tossed it over her hair—no need to worry about mussing her coiffure—and tied it under her chin. He could hear Miss Merrihew sputtering in the background, so he threw a coin onto the bare table.

"There, now we are ready to go.” This time Wynn opened the front door before he lifted Miss Lockharte up in his arms, greatcoat and all. Without a glance or a good-bye to the proprietress of the school, Viscount Stanford strode out to where his carriage was waiting. The driver hopped down off his perch and hurried to open the coach door.

"Go inside and make that harpy show you the way to the attic, where the rest of Miss Lockharte's things are. A cloth bag and a small lap desk. And, Tige, do shut your mouth."

While they waited for the driver's return, Wynn tried to make his companion as comfortable as possible. “I'm sorry, there is only the one pillow."

But it was clean and she was warm. Rosellen was going to be safe. She didn't know what tomorrow might bring, but for now she was out of danger. Now she could cry.

"Thunderation,” Wynn swore, looking helplessly at Tige when the coachman handed in the lap desk and the satchel.

Tige just shrugged. “Don't know nothin’ ‘bout no weepin’ fillies, m'lord. Now was she a mare, I mebbe could—"

"Spring ‘em,” Wynn ordered.

"Right, m'lord."

Wynn found the flask he always carried in the door's side panel. “Just the thing. Here, Miss Lockharte, this will help calm your nerves."

She looked up so that he could see those amazing aqua eyes again, swimming in tears. “No, I don't think I should. My stomach..."

"Will be improved by the brandy, I swear.” He held the flask up to her lips and tipped it until she swallowed. He had no idea how much she took in, but she coughed, color returning to her cheeks beneath the bruises. “There, better already,” he said, taking a hefty swallow for himself.

The viscount was right, Rosellen marveled as the fiery warmth spread down her chest. And she was a ninny to be weeping now that Lord Stanford had effected her escape from her attic mausoleum. She snuggled into his coat, trying not to notice the rocking movement of the carriage. It was remarkably well sprung, but her head was still spinning, even with her eyes closed. She would try not to think about it.

Instead, she replayed the viscount's dramatic rescue. No one else could have been so commanding, so authoritative. Rosellen doubted Admiral Nelson would have stood up to Miss Merrihew so bravely. Furthermore, Lord Stanford could have sent his driver back to help her, but the viscount had carried her himself in arms so strong that she hadn't felt the least frightened of the stairs. He'd wrapped her in his own coat and made sure she had her treasured possessions. He wasn't just giving her a ride to Brighton; he was giving her a new lease on life.

Why?

As the carriage rattled on, Rosellen asked herself why a gentleman of the viscount's stature would have bothered with a nobody like her. Why would he have taken her away when he could have handed her a guinea? A bit of silver should have satisfied whatever sense of duty had brought him to the school in the first place. The Merrihews would have stolen the blunt, but he couldn't have known that

So why had he rescued her? The man was an aristocrat to his manicured fingernails, a self-important despot, as she well knew. He inconvenienced himself for no one, ignored anyone in his way, yet he had not ignored her pleas.

Why?

Rosellen snapped her eyes open to study the man in the seat across from her. He was staring out the window, impatiently drumming his fingers on his high-topped, highly polished leather boots. The noise added to the pounding in her head and she was still seeing double, which roiled her insides. The brandy was hitting her stomach now, too, with a vengeance. But she kept her eyes open, searching his countenance for answers. He was devastatingly handsome, with his dark hair fallen forward on his forehead, asking for some woman to touch it, to brush it back, just like the practiced rake he was.

The rake?

Rosellen could never pay back the debt she owed this man, not in kind, not in money. What else could he want with her? She cleared her throat and pronounced: “I will not become your mistress."

Wynn almost fell off his seat. He hadn't had that much brandy, had he? “Pardon?"

"I said I will not become your mistress, my lord."

He looked at the pathetic waif, lost in his coat, with a face that could frighten small children. He knew from holding her that a man could injure himself on her sharp bones if he got too close. And her tongue was sharper yet. And she thought ... Wynn couldn't help himself. He laughed. And he kept laughing, slapping his knee until tears ran down his cheeks.

"My lord, please stop the carriage."

He held up his hand. “My apologies, Miss Lockharte, but the idea that you thought ... that I would...” He went off into laughter again.

"Please, sir, I fear I am going to be—"

"I am sorry, truly.” But he didn't stop chuckling or stop the coach.

"—sick.” And she was, all over his fancy boots. Now Wynn was sorry, truly. He banged on the front panel of the carriage until it rolled to a halt.

"I'll ride ahead to make arrangements at the inn,” he told his driver. “We'll need a doctor and someone to do the nursing. Medicines, that type of thing. I'll meet you there."

"But your coat, m'lord. It's still pouring."

Viscount Stanford was halfway to Brighton.

Miss Mirabel Merrihew made it a practice to know all about the ton. She knew she wouldn't let the harebrained Heatherstone twins near any of her girls. She was not being paid, and handsomely at that, to let the darling daughters of society mingle with basket-scramblers, her brother excluded, of course, being in the clergy.

What Miss Merrihew did not know about the Heatherstone brothers was if they had a sister or a cousin they wished to enroll in her academy, so she agreed to see them, despite the day's perturbation. There was nothing more she could do about the Lockharte female anyway. Miss Merrihew had already put a flea in Jonas's ear and had even written to notify the school's patron, Lord Vance. Let him take responsibility for a change.

She shooed away the moonstruck maid who brought twin calling cards and frowned a herd of hovering students into retreating up the stairs, before she opened the door to the “good” parlor, the one the students never saw except on visiting days. Two equine-odored gentlemen sprang to their feet, leaving muddy footprints on her Turkish carpet. One was holding his wet hat; the other was holding what appeared to be a wet dead squirrel. At her pointed glare he stuffed the sodden pelt inside his equally sodden waistcoat.

Most people, seeing the matching redheads with their freckles and grins, were usually charmed into a smile. Miss Merrihew was not charmed and never wasted smiles on any but the most influential of customers. She was sorry, in fact, that she'd wasted her courtesies on that dreadful viscount. She was not about to look with favor on two caper-wits who rode in open carriages on rainy days. If they could not afford a coach, she could not afford the time. They had better have two sisters.

"Yes, gentlemen, what may I do for you? I am particularly busy this afternoon."

She was particularly bothered by their request to see Miss Lockharte. What could these two flash coves want with a nondescript social outcast who worked for a living? She wondered where the showy Bond Street beaux had so much as come upon the problematic miss. Miss Merrihew knew for a fact that Miss Lockharte had not received communication from them, or any other gentlemen, in the years she had been at the academy. Miss Merrihew would have read the letter first.

Even more worrisome to the headmistress was the notion that the chit was so well connected. First Stanford, now these lesser sprigs of the nobility. Miss Lockharte was even more dangerous to Miss Merrihew and her school.

Eyes narrowed to slits, Miss Merrihew asked her callers, “What did you wish to speak to Miss Lockharte about, sirs? I cannot imagine you are acquainted."

"It's personal,” one of the twins answered.

"Private,” the other echoed.

"I see,” she said, seeing nothing but more trouble ahead. “Well, you cannot speak with Miss Lockharte, for she is gone."

"Gone?” Tom repeated, while his brother cried, “Gone? You mean we're too late? Damn, we're sunk!"

"No, we're soldiers. Sunk is in the navy. Do you feel well? Has she started haunting you yet?"

"No, but we better hurry to join up."

"But what'll we do with the kitten, bro? Can't put it back where we found it, drowning in that ditch."

"We should have brought her a dog. I told you, Tim. She didn't say anything about a cat."

"What's the difference if she's already dead?"

Miss Merrihew had had enough with gentlemen thinking Rosellen was dead when the ungrateful chit was all too lively for her own good—or anyone else's. “Sirs, Rosellen Lockharte has not passed on; she's gone off with Viscount Stanford."