Barbara Metzger (17 page)

"She was too upset to be of much use, so I sent her to her own room to rest. I am not used to having someone wait on me, anyway."

The maid was too distraught to do her job, but Miss Lockharte could calmly wash her own hair with one hand. For a female in his care to be so ill used was beyond everything Viscount Stanford believed as a gentleman. More forcefully than necessary, he demanded, “Are you sure you were not harmed in any way?"

Rosellen thought he was angry that he'd have to look after her for an extended time. She took the towel from his hand and sat back. “Quite sure, my lord, so you need not be concerned. I am sorry about your coat, however."

Wynn leaned against the mantel and watched the cat play with the tassels on his boots. “My coat?"

"Yes, the one you lent me. I hadn't had a chance to return it to you, you see, and then when Noah started meowing and I smelled the smoke, I grabbed the first thing to hand. Your greatcoat was over the back of this chair, drying. I threw it on the fire."

"What, did you dislike it so much? I was rather fond of the garment myself."

"Don't be foolish. I was trying to smother the flames before they reached the walls. The coat was still somewhat damp, thank goodness, and it contained the fire until your man Tige arrived. As soon as he saw what was toward, he went back into your room for cans of water from his bathtub. He said you were sleeping in the stables.” Rosellen couldn't keep the curiosity from her voice. Gentlemen did not, in her experience, bed down with the cattle when every luxury was at their fingertips.

"I, ah, couldn't sleep, and Tige needed his rest after the harrowing day he'd spent getting held up and shot and his nose broken. We switched, is all."

"Lucky for all of us that you did,” she said, once again implying that he could not have been as quick thinking or valiant as his coachman. “But I fear your coat is ruined."

He brushed that aside. “Now neither of us has a warm wrap. I am sure the Murphys will provide us with something. But tell me, Miss Lockharte, how many of me do you see?"

"Why, one, my lord. But..."

"Excellent. We'll set out for London as soon as we have changed and breakfasted. We'll reach town by dinnertime."

"Why ever would we do that?"

"Because you cannot wish to spend the night in yet another inn. I know I don't."

"No, I mean why would I be going to London, Lord Stanford?"

"Because you will get better care there, obviously. Susan and my mother will quite dote on you, of course, and Cousin Lenore will be good company until we can contact your Haverhill relations."

Miss Lockharte would be safe, and so would he, Wynn had decided. A friend of Susan's, recuperating in town under his mother's aegis, what could be more innocent? His nerves might stop twitching.

"No."

"No, we shouldn't contact your family?"

"No, I am not going to London with you, my lord. I appreciate the honor of your invitation,” she said, although he had issued a command, not an invitation, “but I cannot accept. I will not become your obligation. I am deeply enough in your debt already."

"There is no debt, Miss Lockharte, and never has been. I believe you would do better at my home than among strangers."

"I understand, my lord, that you feel you have to return to London. Please do not let concern for me stop you. Mr. Murphy said I may stay on here as long as I need. I can help him with his accounts until my uncle comes."

Wynn was pacing now, the kitten at his heels chasing the swinging tassels. “Your uncle may not come at all, Miss Lockharte. Have you considered that? He might have had a change of heart, you know, for he should have been here long ago. Or perhaps Miss Merrihew refused to give him your direction. I wouldn't put it past that harridan."

"No, I wouldn't either. I hadn't thought of that.” Rosellen leaned over and scooped up the kitten, out of harm's way. His lordship looked angry enough to commit mayhem.

"Precisely!” he exclaimed. “You didn't think. I did. All night. We'll go to London and call on your uncle first thing in the morning."

"No."

Wynn was not used to being contradicted. He did not enjoy the new experience one iota. “You are trying my patience, Miss Lockharte,” he said through clenched teeth, “by being difficult."

"No, I am merely disagreeing with you. There is a difference, you know."

"Thank you for that lesson, ma'am. If you are finished with your classroom lecture for the day, I'll leave you to get dressed. Please ring when you are ready to depart,"

Was the man deaf or merely dense? “My lord, I shall not go to London with you. I am not budging from here until I have found my fifty pounds."

"I'll give you the blasted fifty pounds!” Wynn shouted.

"Why would you do a thing like that? You didn't steal it. And I could not accept in any case."

Wynn ran his fingers through his hair. In a minute he'd be pulling it out at the roots—or hers. Those soft brownish ringlets looked tempting. “I would give you the money to shut you up, Miss Lockharte. Damn, but you would have been better called Lockjaw! If the brass is what's keeping you from going where you'll be safe and restored to your family, then I will gladly pay the price."

"No, as I said, I am not leaving.” Rosellen sat ramrod straight in her seat.

Taking a deep breath, Wynn told her, “Miss Lockharte, you asked for my help. Now you are getting it. We are going to London, and that is final."

"No, my lord, you are going to London and I am staying at the Blue Bottle Inn."

"There is no blue bottle, thanks to you. You, miss, are a hazard."

"And that is my cross to bear, not yours. You cannot order my life, Lord Stanford. I am not your ward. I am neither in your employ nor in your keeping.” She ignored his snort. “I am a grown woman who can take care of herself."

Wynn held up his right hand, ticking off each finger as he counted: Runaway horses. Slippery stairwells. An abduction, now a fire. Did I forget anything?"

Rosellen didn't think it was a good time to remind Lord Stanford of the strangulation and suffocation attempts on her life while she was ill. “Very well, I am not doing a very good job of it at present."

"Miss Lockharte, you are making lumpfish out of living through the week!"

"That does not give you the right to order me around."

"It gives me every right. Someone has to look out for you, and I seem to be the someone in charge. Now you can come with me politely or I can carry you down the stairs. No, I'll likely end up carrying you anyway,” he said, looking at her pale face and trembling lip, “so it makes no matter what you do."

"You never did intend to find Fanny for me, did you?"

Blast, those azure eyes were filling with tears again. “Yes, I did. And I intend to leave Roger behind to make inquiries. Will that satisfy you?"

"No, do you care?"

"Stubborn wench, I care about getting you locked up someplace safe so I can get my sanity back!"

"If I am such a burden,” she said with a sniff, “why are you bothering with me?"

"Miss Lockharte, all women are burdens. You, at least, are interesting."

"But not interesting enough for you to respect my wishes."

"I respect your wishes, miss. I simply do not agree with them. There is a difference, you know,” he said, throwing her words back at her.

Rosellen dabbed at her eyes with the towel. “Do you recall my apology of last night, when I said I was sorry for calling you a pompous prig?"

He nodded, handing over his handkerchief.

"Well, I take it back."

They set out for London after lunch. Rosellen insisted on waiting to see if her uncle arrived; he did not. Defeated, she agreed to leave. Her agreement, of course, was simply a matter of pride since the viscount was not giving her a choice. She left Noah with Mrs. Murphy, who begged to keep the hero of the inn.

Rosellen was uncomfortable enough going to Lord Stanford's home herself, much less bringing a kitten along, and if she did end up at her uncle's, poor Noah would be relegated to the kitchens, if not the backyard. Aunt Haverhill was cat-feverish. The cat would be better off guarding the Blue Bottle from fire, but now Rosellen had another gripe against his lordship. She decided not to speak to him, to show him what she thought of his domineering manner.

Her resolve was easy to keep, since she sat inside the traveling coach with Letty, Mrs. Murphy's daughter-in-law, and Wynn sat outside on the driver's bench with Tige. He wanted to give her privacy, the viscount claimed. More likely he didn't want to give her the chance to express an opinion of the scenery, Rosellen believed. She'd never met a more high-handed, autocratic despot in her life.

On the other hand, she had to admit, he had arranged for her to have a female companion on the journey and he had provided her with a warm cape. Most important, he had left his groom behind to find Fanny. How could one person be so kind and yet so cloddish? Rosellen did not have an answer. Letty wanted only to talk about what a fine figure of a man he was. Didn't Miss think so? Rosellen still didn't have an answer, so she decided to take a nap.

At one of the changes, Wynn ordered tea in the inn's private parlor. When he noticed how uncommunicative his guest was, he asked if she was feeling poorly. They could rest there the night, if she'd rather. Rosellen would rather return to Brighton. Then he decided she was simply anxious about her welcome at Stanford House.

"There is nothing to worry about, you know. Susan will be in alt to have you with her. She quite sings your praises. My mother will be delighted if you help keep Susan occupied, and Cousin Lenore won't mind in the least taking another young lady about with her."

Rosellen was so startled, she forgot her vow of silence. “Taking another young lady about with her where?"

"Why, to all the parties and balls, of course.” He made a grimace in the direction of her shapeless gray uniform, which was as clean as Mrs. Murphy could get it. “Shopping, too, I daresay, as soon as you are feeling up to it."

"In case you've forgotten, I have no funds to go shopping, my lord."

"I did remember, Miss Lockharte. How could I forget with you giving Roger reams of instructions for the recovery of your fifty pounds? And I did guess that you would fly up in the boughs over it, so I decided I would make you a loan until you recover your own funds. If, that is, your uncle does not claim you for the Season."

"The Season? My lord, you are talking fustian. I do not need your loan, for I do not need a new wardrobe, for I won't be attending any of those entertainments you mentioned. I am no debutante making her curtsy to the crown, no belle of the
belle monde."

"But you do deserve to have some fun,” he insisted, peeling an apple for her.

"Those of us who work for a living do not have ‘fun,’ my lord. It is not in our contracts. I am not a member of your pleasure-seeking, sophisticated society, nor do I wish to be."

"But you
will
be. There is no other way for you to meet eligible young gentlemen."

"No, thank goodness, I won't be forced to meet the likes of the Honorable Heatherstones or their friend who died. Incidentally, I did not kill him."

Confound it, Wynn thought, just when the female was making rational conversation—pigheaded and persnickety, but rational—she tossed in a bizarre statement that was going to make his job of getting her married off all the harder. “I never assumed you did, my dear. Ah, while we're at it, did you ever happen to meet Tulliver Hadfield when you were in London?"

"No, not that I recall. Why?"

"Just that he's the type you do not want to know. What about Tripp Hayes?"

Rosellen shook her head. “You can list a hundred names, my lord, but I met very few gentlemen, and fewer who deserved the tide. I will not be going back into their midst."

"Of course you will. How else can you find the one to marry? And no, don't say you don't wish it. All females wish to be married.” And he wished to see her wed, that being the best solution he'd arrived at for the disposal of Miss Lockharte.

Rosellen laughed. “Once again my wishes do not enter into the equation. Even if I wanted to find a husband, I have no dowry and my own family has cast me off for all intents and purposes. I do not have looks or flirtatious ways.” Rosellen remembered that she could not attract so much as a dishonorable proposal from one of London's premier womanizers. “And I left London under a cloud two years ago. No, sir, I do not think I would fare well on the marriage market."

"Gammon. I suspect you'll be a handsome female when you get your health back, and not every gentleman needs a wife to fill his coffers, besides his bed. As for gossip, the ton has a short memory. There have been a thousand scandals worse than yours, whatever it was. Finally, you will be sailing under my mother's flag. No one would dare snub you."

"They won't, because I am never stepping one foot into their circles and that's final."

"Never say never, Miss Lockharte. Nothing is final except death."

Rosellen thought back to the night she believed she was dying. Sometimes not even death was all that final.

They arrived well past dinnertime, and the ladies of the house were out, the butler informed Lord Stanford. Wilkins looked past his employer, ignoring the drooping, draggle-tailed female on his arm.

"Miss Lockharte will be staying? Very good, milord."

His sniff told a weary Rosellen that the starched-up butler did not think it was a very good idea at all. She did not like the way he asked, “Which bedroom shall I have Mrs. Wilkins give her?” either, as if the majordomo were assuming Wynn would say his own. She half expected the viscount to say the attic, she had been so troublesome to him. She tried to stand straighter, without his lordship's support.

In the end she was half carried up the marble stairwell by Wynn himself to a suite of rooms next to Susan's, with two maids assigned to help her. Wilkins bowed himself out with the utmost deference. If that was the way the wind was blowing...

Rosellen was asleep almost before the maids left the bedchamber, too tired to notice her surroundings except for the bed, which was the softest she'd ever slept in, and the pillow, which smelled of lavender.