Barbara Metzger (18 page)

Wynn returned below, after giving instructions for Letty Murphy's care and transport back to the Blue Bottle in the morning. He went through some of his correspondence while waiting for his family to return. He wanted to speak with Stubbing, too, their escort, according to Wilkins. At least the lieutenant was good for something, Wynn thought, eyeing the haphazard piles of papers on his office desk, for the fellow was not much of a secretary.

Before long he heard Wilkins welcome the party home, so he went to greet them in the hall and help the footmen carry his mother and her Bath chair into the parlor. “And a moment with you later if I might, Stubbing?"

"Of c-course, sir,” the lieutenant stuttered, blushing a fiery red and fleeing as if he were afraid of being called on the carpet or sent to another poetry reading.

Wynn shrugged. He'd deal with the military later. “Where is Cousin Lenore? I wanted to speak with all of you at once. If I'd known she was at home I'd have asked her to look in on Miss Lockharte."

"Oh, Wynn, you brought her home with you!” His sister stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “How wonderful! And she didn't die!"

"To everyone's surprise, it seems, no."

"Then I'll just run up and welcome her—"

"No, Sukey, don't go up. She's sleeping. The poor puss has had a sorry time of it, I fear. You'll have to wait until morning."

Susan turned to her mother. “You remember my speaking to you and Lieutenant Stubbing about Miss Lockharte, Mama? She is the young lady I wished to hire as my companion."

"Perfect timing then,” the viscountess said, opening the workbasket Wilkins placed in front of her wheeled chair after he brought in a tea tray. “Now I won't have to haul my aching bones to another harp recital."

Wynn accepted a cup of tea. He was still chilled after riding in a thin wool coat on the carriage box all evening with Tige. “Is Cousin Lenore ill then?” Nothing else would have gotten his mother to exert herself except a high-stakes card game.

"The chit had to return home on some business with her in-laws. I thought they didn't want her, which is why she came to stay with us.” Lady Stanford was miffed all over again. She signaled Wilkins to pour her a sherry instead of the tea while she sorted through her threads. “Her note did not say when she'd be back, but she took most of her things. Ungrateful wench, I'd say."

Susan was nibbling on a macaroon. “But it is no matter now, Mama, since Miss Lockharte is here. She can go about with me."

Wynn disagreed. “First, she needs time to recover. And second, she is still not a fit chaperone for you, Sukey."

"What, is she not a lady then?” his mother wanted to know. “Why in Heaven's name did you bring her here?"

"She is too a lady,” Susan insisted, instantly coming to her friend's defense. “Her father was a vicar and she has titled relations. Besides, she is everything polite and well mannered."

Wynn wasn't so sure about “polite and well mannered,” after the icy treatment he'd received all day and not from the chill breeze atop the carriage. Still, he held up his hand. “Hold, brat, I did not mean Miss Lockharte was not gently bred or behaved. She is simply too young to be a proper chaperone.” He looked toward his mother. “The female is younger than Sukey. Furthermore, she's been desperately ill. I am afraid she has not quite recovered in her body or her mind."

"Skitter-witted, is she?” the viscountess asked. “Fevers can do that. I recall Uncle Fred coming down with a quincy. He was never the same after—"

"No,” Susan protested. “Miss Lockharte is the most levelheaded, reliable person."

Wynn sipped his tea. “She is deuced peculiar, Susan, and that's a fact."

Lady Stanford shrugged that off. “Lots of eccentrics in the ton. The gal will fit right in. Be good company for Susan, at any rate. And if Miss Lockharte cannot play propriety, Stanford, you'll have to watch out for both of them, that's all. I am too weary. A gel doesn't need a chaperone if she's got her own brother as escort and a lady friend along."

"I will not go to those insipid debutante balls and picnics, Mother."

The viscountess pushed her embroidery back into its basket and started to wheel her chair toward the door. “Fine. In that case I am sure Miss Lockharte will be happy to sit at home with Susan and me until Lenore gets back, if the chit does return to us at all. Susan's little schoolteacher friend cannot be used to having gay times at that academy, can she? She won't realize what she's missing. Does she embroider, do you know?"

"Stubbing!” Wynn called. “Get in here!"

Susan gave the young man a smile that set the lieutenant to blushing again, Wynn noted as he bade his mother and sister good night. “Don't let the minx plague you, Stubbing,” he advised.

"Oh, no, sir. Miss Susan would never do that"

"Hah! But tell me, did Whitehall come up with any new leads? Have you any information for me?"

Wynn wasn't surprised when the lieutenant had to admit that they were no further along in their investigation than before Lord Stanford had left.

"Well, we can eliminate Lord Haverhill and the Heatherstone halflings from our list of suspects. They were all out of town on the same errand. I am afraid we'll have to keep Tripp Hayes under investigation. The man just wasn't where he was supposed to be. I cannot imagine why my old friend would have his man lie to me. And Hadfield never showed up either, you say? That one bears watching. But, meantime, do you think you might look into the background of a pair of Sussex citizens? They are Reverend Merrihew and his sister, Mirabel. There is something deuced havey-cavey about that twosome."

Stubbing wrote the names down on a pad. “Do you think they could be the French contacts?"

"What, smuggling toy soldiers? No, they are more likely liable to commit larceny, if that. They are certainly guilty of producing young females as empty-headed as possible."

"Miss Lockharte, sir?"

"No, that one's head is too full of wild imaginings. I was thinking of my sister, Stubbing, and that smile she gave you. A word to the wise: Unless I miss my guess, the minx has matchmaking on her mind."

"She d-does?"

"Yes, I can recognize that look at a hundred yards. She inherited it from my mother, you know. But it won't do, Stubbing."

The color was flowing and ebbing on the poor lieutenant's face, first a blush, then a blanch. “It-it w-won't? That is, I know, sir."

"Yes, Miss Lockharte is not suitable for a diplomat's wife. She has a stubborn streak so wide it wouldn't fit through the doors of Lord Castlereagh's dining room. And she's too outspoken by half."

"Miss Lockharte?"

"Hell and confound it, that female is as hard to kill as a tick on a tiger's tail. What will we do now?"

"I am thinking. One of us has to."

"The bailiffs haven't appeared. Maybe she won't talk."

"And maybe pigs can fly. It's a sure bet that if they can, you'll never get to eat bacon again."

"Well, you were the one who said no one would believe an attics-to-let female like her."

"No one hereabouts. But if the wench has Stanford in her pocket, we're ditched. A woman can get a man to believe anything when he's in rut."

"You never got Vance to believe he ought to leave that dry stick he's married to,” Miss Merrihew's loving brother noted. “Besides, Stanford cannot be panting after the Lockharte female. You saw her, Mirabel."

"And I saw you trying to corner her in the choir loft. If you ever managed to keep your pants buttoned, we wouldn't be in half this mess. There's nothing for it, you'll have to go to London to find out where he's stashed the girl. Every hackney driver is bound to know where Stanford keeps his
chères amies."

The reverend was not averse to a jaunt to the capital. His finances rarely afforded such an expense, but if his sister was paying...

Miss Merrihew was thinking. “Yes, you'll go up to London. What could be more natural than the academy's spiritual adviser calling on some of its former students to find out how they go on? You'll drop a hint or two about poor Miss Lockharte's fall from grace and how the viscount took advantage of her confused and deluded state. You'll be all concern for the welfare of her health, her mind, and her immortal soul. Then you'll kill her. Try to make it look like a suicide this time, you clunch."

Rosellen awoke with a start, almost as if someone had walked over her grave. But she was very much alive, and in a lovely room with sprigs of lavender painted on the silk wallpaper. A fresh bouquet of the flowers was on the bedside table next to her and the fire was already lit. Rosellen would have pinched herself, except she did not need any more black-and-blue marks. She was actually at Stanford House. She did not know why the viscount had been so insistent, or how long she would stay, but she did not intend to waste a moment of her time there lolling about in bed. After she'd come so close to losing it, life seemed more precious than ever.

She was used to getting up early, and had done nothing but sleep for weeks, it seemed. Now she wanted to be up and accomplishing. Unfortunately, the ormolu clock on the mantel read six o'clock. Londoners did
not
get up at the crack of dawn; Rosellen knew that from her last visit. Still, she could get washed and dressed and see if she could find the kitchens for a cup of chocolate.

First she had to find her gown. None of her gray uniforms was hanging in the clothespress or folded in the drawers. Her satchel was missing altogether, although her mother's lap desk was on a table in the sitting room. Was she a prisoner then, to be kept in a violet-scented cell? Not even the overbearing Wynn Alton would dare do such a thing. Or would he?

Rosellen was about to go and give the viscount a piece of her mind, near dawn and her flannel nightgown notwithstanding, when a young maid entered the room, a pile of pastel-colored gowns draped over one of her aims. She seemed more surprised to find Rosellen awake than Rosellen was to see her.

"I'm sorry I didn't hear the bell, miss. I was just pressing these gowns for you to choose from. I would have brought a pot of chocolate."

"That's quite all right. I didn't ring, and I can find my way downstairs."

The girl—Betsy, she informed Rosellen—looked uncertain. “The ladies never take breakfast except in their rooms, miss. But Mr. Wilkins did say you were to have whatever you wanted."

"Fine, I want my gowns returned."

Betsy looked at the dresses in her arms, then at the frayed cuffs on Rosellen's nightgown. “Whatever for, miss? Miss Susan picked these out special for you until you can have new things made. I'm to take in seams or let down hems as need be."

"I cannot wear Susan's clothes!"

"Pardon, miss, but these are her last year's clothes, and I'm afraid her feelings will be hurt an you don't accept. Besides, it wouldn't do for Miss Susan's friend to look a fright when morning callers come, would it?"

Rosellen's past was embarrassment enough. She could not repay the viscount's kindness by looking like a peasant in his parlor. And the dress Betsy was holding up was silk, shell-pink silk.

"Here now, miss, you can't be a-weeping in a silk gown, else you'll have stains. If you don't like the gown, we can try another."

Betsy did not consider her dressed until the bodice of the gown was taken in to fit Miss Lockharte's fever-thin frame.

"I would gain weight, I'm sure,” Rosellen said, her stomach protesting the delay until breakfast, “if I could just go down to the kitchens."

But Betsy thought she needed a matching ribbon in her hair, with the curls trimmed more evenly. Then she required a madras shawl to use as a sling for her bandaged arm, a touch of the hare's foot to cover the remaining bruises, and a tiny dab of color on her cheeks. “Just so's it doesn't look like the Altons are neglecting one of their guests. And, miss, company does not visit the kitchens. Cook would up and quit, I swear."

Wynn swore under his breath, that his solitary meal was being interrupted by the prickly Miss Lockharte. He was trying to decide what was best for her and did not need her interference. He was going over the eligible bachelors in his mind, wondering which could handle a short-sheeted shrew. Then he got a better look at his uninvited breakfast partner and swore again.

Deuce take it, the female could be stunning with a few more pounds on her and a few less frowns. His task just got easier. The schoolteacher looked well rested, he noted, and most of the injuries were healed or hidden. Even her lips looked less swollen and more, well, kissed. Well kissed, Wynn amended, then caught himself. He had no business noticing Miss Lockharte's lips, and certainly not in the same sentence with kissing.

He held her seat, then gestured for a footman to fill a plate for her from the sideboard.

"Two pieces of toast and jam would be heavenly,” Rosellen told the footman, who, looking over at his employer, piled a selection of eggs and bacon, kippers and kidneys on the plate. Then he went back for another plate, for the toast and jam.

"But I could never—"

Wynn waved the footman out of the room before she could protest more. Didn't the plaguey chit ever know what was good for her? “I see Susan found something for you to wear,” he commented, hoping she would shut up and eat.

Rosellen touched the silky skirt. “Yes, but only until I can purchase my own.” She was wondering how far her fifty pounds would go. In the country, the sum was a fortune. In London, she worried that it mightn't buy her enough time to plan a future. “Or perhaps I'd do better to make my own gowns. I know there are places where one can purchase slightly damaged dress lengths."

If her sacklike uniforms were an indication of Miss Lockharte's skill with a needle, Wynn did not want to see the results, nor did he want to see her dressed in a costermonger's castoffs, not if his ambitions for her were to succeed. “No, the modistes work for pennies,” he lied. “Do you need me to cut your meat?"

"I do mean to pay you back for all the expenses, so I hope you are keeping account."

"My secretary will take care of it,” Wynn offered, wondering if Stubbing would recognize a ledger book if he saw one. “Have a sweet roll. The butter is made at Alton Abbey, from our own milch cows."