Barbara Metzger (19 page)

Rosellen held firm. “I will not accept charity, my lord."

He pushed the jar of honey toward her. “So you've mentioned many times. Would you accept a position then?"

Rosellen put down her cup of tea. “As what?"

Wynn wished the chit would stop seeing conspiracies behind the coffee urn. Here she was looking so winsome that he almost forgot she had windmills in her attic. “As companion to my mother and Susan, of course. Cousin Lenore was called home, wherever that may be. Do try some of Cook's pudding."

"I'm sure it's delicious,” she said without tasting it. “Are you serious, my lord, that you would really employ me?"

"Not as a chaperone for my sister. You are still too young and..."

"Unprepossessing? Unconnected? Unpolished?"

"Unfledged yourself. I much prefer to have you stay on as our guest if you do not move directly to your uncle's, but, yes, I would hire you as a companion to my mother and sister rather than have you seek a position elsewhere."

"A position,” she said, sighing, absently chewing on the toast he had spread with jam. Rosellen would have nibbled on his neckcloth if he'd handed it to her, she was so elated. A position, she said to herself. Where she wouldn't have to live in the attic or fear for her life. She'd have wages of her own and a bed of her own. She did not expect to keep the lavender suite, but the meanest room in Stanford House had to be better than anything at Miss Merrihew's.

The viscount was going on, thinking her silence was a rejection. “No one needs to know of our arrangement, of course. I would not have you treated as second class by Susan's friends or the servants. And you'll have to dress the part, naturally. A wardrobe would be included with your remuneration.” He pushed another piece of toast, dripping jam, at her. “It's customary in these arrangements.” His mother had paid for Lenore's dressing, he knew, so that wasn't an outrageous taradiddle.

"What about Susan? I'll have to confer with her, to see if she still wants me."

Susan had no choice, but Wynn did not wish to get into another argument about the right of women to order their own lives. “We discussed it last night and Susan is thrilled. She already has you paired with Lieutenant Stubbing, my secretary."

Rosellen laughed, the gayest, most natural laugh Wynn had heard from her. Now the viscount had two missions: to get Miss Lockharte fired off into a comfortable marriage and to make her laugh again.

"Susan always did have the most romantical imagination. I'm sure your secretary is safe from my coils."

Wynn wasn't so sure, hearing that sweet sound. “And my mother is delighted that she won't have to attend any more musicales, so there is nothing to fear except that your uncle might have prior claim to your company."

Wynn had plans there, too, but until he spoke to Haverhill, he would not mention them to Miss Lockharte.

Rosellen had forgotten all about her uncle. How could she tell Lord Stanford that she'd rather stay on as a pampered upper servant than return to her own kin as an unpaid, unloved lackey? Susan would get married, but Lady Stanford would always require someone to fetch her sewing or read to her or handle her correspondence. Rosellen would be needed. She could even be governess to Susan's children or his lordship's.

What an odd notion that was, to be sure. She would not take time now to consider why the notion of Lord Stanford's offspring should be unpleasant. He only wished her to be company for his sister. On the other hand, if her uncle had gone to the academy looking for her, perhaps he did care, after all. Family of one's own was a precious thing, too.

"Yes, the sooner I speak to my uncle, the better."

"I thought I'd find him at one of his clubs today.” Wynn tried not to put too much emphasis on the
I
, although he did have hopes of conducting his business with the baron without Miss Lockharte's presence.

"No, Uncle Townsend would not have left Haverhill House yet. He rarely departed before my aunt and cousin were abroad.” But he used to disappear shortly thereafter. “There is time to catch him at home, for the ladies are never seen downstairs before noon. I think a morning call would be better than waiting for the afternoon, when my cousin and aunt will be entertaining. What do you think?"

Stanford thought she wanted to avoid those impossible females as much as he did. Thank goodness for small favors. Wynn made one more futile try. “Since this is nearly your first day out of the sickroom, though, don't you think you should return upstairs for a rest, Miss Lockharte? Unless you're not through eating, of course."

She had not eaten anything but the two pieces of toast and jam she'd ordered, dash it. How was he going to get her fired off when she looked as if the first breeze could blow her away? “And Susan will be stirring soon. You can share another breakfast with her, that's the ticket."

"I could not rest easy until I've spoken to my uncle. The uncertainty, don't you know."

"I'd be happy to tell you what he said as soon as—"

"You're right, my lord, both of us do not need to go. I am sure you have better things to occupy your morning."

"I am going. You should stay here."

"What, and let you and my uncle decide my fate between you?"

Who better? Wynn thought. A chit with bats in her belfry?

The baron did not know whether to call for a preacher, a pistol, or a passage to the Colonies. “Stanford's here with m'niece, you say?” He inched away from the silver salver his butler held out, as if the engraved calling card upon it had just sprouted fangs and scales. He chose to be offended. “How dare the dastard bring his damaged goods here, after he's ruined her. Neither one is fit for decent company. Show Stanford and his fancy piece the door, Jamison, else I'll be forced to call the blackguard out."

"Very good, milord. But they did arrive in the dowager viscountess's open landau."

"You saw the crest, eh?"

"And the raised platform for Lady Stanford's wheeled chair."

"And the dowager is in Town. Saw her m'self last night at that blasted poetry reading. So the Lockharte chit must be staying at Stanford House. Damn, who would have believed he'd take his ladybird to his mother's?"

The butler coughed. “Miss is dressed as a lady of fashion, milord, not as a lady of the night. And a highly respectable abigail is riding with them."

"What are you trying to say, man, that he didn't dishonor m'niece by stealing her away from her employer?"

"I am sure I could not say, milord, but he does seem to be treating Miss Lockharte with all due courtesy. Perhaps he has come to make formal application for the young lady's hand?"

And wouldn't that just set the cat among the pigeons here at Haverhill House? Jamison would be delighted to see Miss Clarice taken down a peg or two, with her country cousin making the match of the Season.

"Hmm. I suppose I could demand he do the right thing, if he's not coming up to scratch on his own. You'd better show them in."

Rosellen was looking as pretty as a picture, the baron thought, except for the sling around her neck. “Deuce take it, Rosellen, I knew you weren't at death's door,” he said when they were seated. “I made that cursed trip to Worthing for nothing. Aggravated my rheumatism, it did. You should have waited."

"I was ill, Uncle. I don't know what would have happened to me if his lordship had not come along and offered me a ride to the nearest inn."

"An inn, eh?” The baron was still hopeful.

"Where the innkeeper's wife watched over her like a mother hen with one chick,” Wynn put in, making sure Haverhill knew his niece had not gone unattended. He did not mention the Heatherstones or their abduction; the baron already had a certain glint in his eye.

Wynn took his quizzing glass out and polished it, the better to stare him down with. “Miss Lockharte's situation was dire, Baron. She could not stay at the academy, where no one was caring for her."

"Not caring for me?” Rosellen squawked. “They were trying to—"

The viscount hurried on: “If I had known you would arrive eventually, however, I would have waited and let you escort Miss Lockharte back to London. She should have had family with her, not the landlady's daughter-in-law.” In one breath he managed to put the baron in the wrong for not coming sooner to his niece's rescue and himself out of the race for the altar.

"Quite, quite. But that Merrihew female only told me you'd gone off with Stanford, puss. Where was I to look?"

Or what was he to think? Rosellen also mistrusted her uncle's calculating scrutiny of the viscount. The girls at the school would have called Wynn bang up to the mark, in his fawn pantaloons and burgundy superfine coat. Uncle would like to call him nephew-in-law, it seemed. How ridiculous! Wynn was a nonpareil and Rosellen was a nobody. He owed her nothing while she just happened to owe him her very life. She could not, therefore, see him repaid with such allegations as Uncle Townsend was insinuating. Rosellen just hoped her relative would not embarrass them all. “His lordship has been everything courteous and kind, Uncle."

The baron was annoyed. Here was a philanderer of the first water. Why, in all of England, did he have to play propriety with this one silly female? If the viscount didn't take the chit off his hands, Haverhill would be stuck with her. “Then he should have brought you directly here, so there could be no tittle-tattle."

Now Wynn did look at the older man through his quizzing glass, as if he were studying a bug that had crawled out from beneath a rock. “It was late. Miss Lockharte was exhausted. I placed her in my mother's care. Who is going to gossip?"

Rosellen saw that her uncle was getting red in the face. “You do not need to worry, Uncle. Lord Stanford has offered—"

"Yes?” The baron sat forward eagerly.

"I have offered her the hospitality of my home,” Wynn put in smoothly. “My sister is lonely for a young woman her own age and my mother's condition does not permit her to get around as much as she might wish. Miss Lockharte would be welcome for as long as she wishes to stay."

Haverhill almost fell off his chair, this time in relief. “That might be for the best. My wife is subject to ‘conditions’ of her own and couldn't help the injured chit."

He did not say that his spouse could not nurse a cold or that his daughter would not tolerate comely competition. Besides, who knew what would happen with the girl under Stanford's roof? If she worked at it, she might get compromised after all.

"What do you say, puss, would you like to visit with the dowager awhile? There's no gainsaying she's a high stickler, so your reputation won't be in question."

"I'd like it above all things, Uncle."

"There, that's settled. I'll give your aunt and Clarice your direction. I am certain they'll be calling on you soon."

So was Wynn. The baron's ambitious daughter wouldn't lose the chance to try to fix his interest. If he had to suffer, Wynn thought, so should Haverhill. “I didn't wish to discuss this in Miss Lockharte's presence,” he said with a frown in her direction. “But your niece will need a new wardrobe. My sister is out and about constantly, and I'm sure you'd want your niece dressed appropriately."

A wardrobe was a cheap enough price to pay if it kept Rosellen away from his Clarice. Damn, when had the chit grown so pretty? If she'd been this attractive two years ago, he'd have insisted she stay on and snare a husband. Now, escorted by a top drawer like Stanford, accompanied by his sister and mother, she was bound to catch some gentleman's eye. “Of course she has to dress for her station. You may send the bills to me as long as you do not land us all in the poorhouse, Rosellen."

"And a bit of pin money, Baron? You wouldn't wish your niece to be unable to pay for her own thread and books and bonnet trims. I could lay out the funds, of course, but then the rumor mill would get to grinding about Miss Lockharte's virtue. You wouldn't want that, I am sure."

"Incidental money, of course. I should have thought of it.” Haverhill rang for the butler, then whispered in the man's ear. Jamison disappeared, only to come back with a small purse, which he placed on Rosellen's lap with a stiff bow.

Satisfied, Wynn stood to go, offering Miss Lockharte his arm. “Oh, one last thing, Baron. If an eligible suitor should approach me about paying his addresses to your niece, I may refer him to you concerning her dowry, may I not?” He raised one dark eyebrow.

A dowry? Haverhill was having to spring for another closetful of clothes and now he was expected to produce a dowry for his wayward ward? Next thing he knew, Stanford would be dictating terms. But how could he refuse when this top-of-the-trees nobleman was making a veiled threat to tell the world that Townsend Haverhill was a nipcheese?

Lady Stanford could see that the doors of Society were closed to Clarice if the dowager thought her houseguest was being slighted. By Jupiter, then Haverhill would have both chits on his hands forever! The baron nodded, jowls flapping, and showed his unwelcome and expensive guests to the door before the wily viscount could think of another way to spend someone else's money.

Rosellen was awed. “That was masterful, my lord,” she said to Wynn when they were back in the carriage. “You have missed your calling."

He didn't pretend to false modesty. “I always thought I could do well in the diplomatic corps."

"No, I meant you could have found a vocation as a horse trader. Why, in another minute you might have talked my uncle into purchasing me a carriage of my own!"

"Haverhill must have thought so, too, the way he hurried us out the door.” Wynn barely had time to ask about the baron's hat.

"The results were everything I could have wished, but I still say that your high-handed method was abominable. But I don't mean to pull brass tacks with you, my lord, for you have given me a future!"

"And not as a paid companion, so you can stop ‘my lording’ me. Stanford will do if you cannot bring yourself to call me Wynn."

"Not as a servant, Stanford,” she agreed happily. “And please call me Rosellen. That way I might come to believe that I am really not a schoolteacher anymore. But I might still ask your mother for references if I cannot find a gentleman to marry. I won't wed simply anyone, you know."