“I didn’t mean the dog.”
“Mr. Browne is very dedicated,” Angelina defended the architect, a trifle too vehemently for Corin’s taste.
“He’s a good businessman,” he countered. “But about the other dog, Molly. My cook grew attached to her, and he promises to prepare better meals for her if you’ll send a list of her requirements.” Just like a demanding dowager, Corin muttered to himself. He didn’t say whom he felt was being difficult, the mongrel bitch, the brown-haired chit, or the Belgian chef for threatening to resign unless Corin brought his dog back. The viscount’s toast was burned and his eggs were cold this morning. Henri understood blackmail.
So did Lord Knowle. “Of course I cannot force you to let me have either dog, no more than I can force you to play hostess to Miss Lapine. If you absolutely refuse to give up the dogs, though, I shall find it necessary to go to the gentlemen overseeing my aunt’s estate and inform them that in keeping the dogs from excellent homes you are not acting in the animals’ best interests.”
Angelina laughed. “Since one of those gentlemen was Homer’s original owner, I don’t think I have anything to worry about. The vicar couldn’t keep the dog with him for more than a week at a stretch before Homer would disappear. Of course his name was Redemption then, which high standard, Lady Sophie used to say, caused the animal to bolt in the first place. Nearly every Sunday sermon ended with a prayer for Redemption. No, the vicar won’t think the less of me for not sending Homer where he won’t stay. Besides, my lady’s will said nothing about
having
to find new owners for her dogs. She was content knowing they could live out their days at Primrose Cottage.”
Unlike Corin. He sighed. “Three years, all the construction, new collars all around. That’s my final offer.”
“How long?”
“How long should the collars be? How the deuce should I know? I suppose it depends on the dog.”
“No, my lord, how long shall your spying strumpet be foisted on me and the servants here?”
“Not long at all, I shouldn’t think.” Corin couldn’t imagine Mercedes Lavalier rusticating in the country away from adoring gentlemen for any length of time. If she couldn’t return to France; she’d be off to Italy or Austria to find herself a new Golden Ball. “Does that mean you agree to do it? You’ll welcome Maria?”
“I’ll never welcome her, my lord, but I am thinking I might accept her. Not for the money, you understand, although donations are always appreciated. What I want in return for permitting a fallen Frenchwoman to stay here is your promise.”
Corin would promise his firstborn son at this point. “Anything.”
“I want your promise that you will cease your badgering ways, that you will stop trying to weasel me out of Primrose Cottage.”
“Badger? Weasel? Me?” Blast, his last bird-brained promise kept Corin honor bound from making sheep’s eyes at this pigheaded female. Her new demand placed the viscount firmly under the cat’s paw, robbing him of the greatest challenge he’d faced in dogs’ years. But he had to swear it, to resolve this mare’s nest. After his cow-handed handling of the last interview, Corin was too chickenhearted to face the Duke of Fellstone again with Miss Armstead’s mulish refusal. Rats.
* * * *
Dinner at the castle was excellent. Henri was once more in fine form, although Lord Knowle had to wonder if the mutt in the kitchen was getting a better cut of meat than the master in the dining room. Conversation wasn’t exactly scintillating, as Averill Browne chatted about his work on the shelter and his admiration for Miss Arm-stead, her generosity, her noble purpose. Corin knew all about her noble purpose: to drive him insane.
Listening to the sprig sing Miss Armstead’s praises throughout the meal was better than listening to him sing to his deaf dog after. The setter sat by the gudgeon’s feet all evening, her head on his knees, her gaze worshipful. Molly couldn’t be coaxed out of the kitchen, not when Henri was preparing tomorrow’s menus. And Homer, Corin’s chosen companion, had chosen to return home ages ago. The not-so-addlepated Airedale had waited until Corin walked him on a lead through the formal gardens, which would never be the same with three dogs in residence, and fed him with his own hands. Then he’d gone out the French doors when Corin stepped out to blow a cloud.
At least he didn’t have to chase the dratted dog through the home woods, Corin reflected, watching Homer bound across the lawns in the direction of Primrose Cottage, proving the blasted female right. Again.
It was the devil’s own bargain he’d made, Corin thought as he stubbed out his cigarillo. Now the companion would be here on his doorstep in perpetuity, tempting and tantalizing—and there wasn’t a deuced thing he could do about it, the proximity or the appeal. Lena was safe from him on all counts.
Of course after Mercedes Lavalier left, and once Lena got that goosish notion of finding her sister out of her head, perhaps he’d see if her principles were still so firm. He’d promised to behave like a gentleman, that was all, not a monk. If Miss Armstead turned willing—No, not even then. Her tale of the lost sister had more than one implication: Angelina Armstead had rogues for relatives, but she was a lady.
Corin didn’t know the current Duke of Kirkbridge and didn’t want to know any cad who disowned a female who should have his protection. If the dastard were here now, Corin would have to call him out. Then again, if the duke cared about his distant cousin, and knew the viscount’s thoughts, he’d have to call Corin out. Either way, her honor would be defended.
She was the granddaughter of a duke, by all that was holy. If his oath hadn’t stopped Corin from trying to get Lena out of Primrose Cottage and into that little jewel box of a house he maintained in Kensington, her birth did. He did not seduce gently bred virgins. Not even if they were willing, had no male protectors, and looked as entrancingly tousled as if they’d just stepped out of bed. Blast, Miss Armstead could send him to Bedlam without half trying.
Besides, he ruefully acknowledged, by the time Mercedes was gone and Lena was reconciled that she’d never find her sister, he’d be firmly affianced. Or married. Lud, married. Why had that seemed like such a good idea last month—and such a wretched one this month?
* * * *
Angelina missed Homer. That must be why she was so blue-deviled, she told herself as she sat alone to dine. Mr. Penn no longer let her eat in the kitchens with the servants. It was not fitting to her position, the butler and the housekeeper insisted. Angelina had to smile at that. She was still a paid companion as far as she was concerned, only now she was better paid and her charges were all dogs instead of dowagers. She was still the same Angelina Armstead, wasn’t she?
Perhaps not. Perhaps now that she had fancy feathers, she could fly a trifle higher. For a bit she had even wondered if the viscount would invite her to any of the parties sure to be held at the castle to entertain the houseguests. Mavis was counting on it, fashioning a rose silk ball gown.
Angelina had never been to a ball where she didn’t stand behind Lady Sophie’s chair all night. The viscount might even—No, Mr. Browne was sure to ask her for a dance. Angelina did not think she’d disgrace herself, having watched for so long.
Homer came home after dinner, and so did Angelina’s wits. The viscount might be democratic enough to invite the vicar and the squire and others of the local gentry to his parties; he wouldn’t be inviting a French
fille de joie.
No, Angelina wouldn’t be invited to the castle. She wasn’t a paid companion anymore, she was hostess to a prime piece of Haymarket ware. That’s what the viscount thought of her, the dastard.
* * * *
The dastard showed up at breakfast the next morning. To fetch Homer, he said. Angelina had to invite him to partake of Cook’s muffins, for Mr. Browne was already there, helping himself at the sideboard like one of the family.
No wonder she took his offer, Corin thought in disgust as he watched the architect eat his second breakfast of the day. The blasted builder was eating Lena out of house and home. But damn, those were excellent muffins.
The viscount glared at Averill until the younger man took the hint and allowed as how he had to get to work, so the unfortunate doggies in the neighborhood would have a place to stay all the sooner.
Tomorrow, if Corin had his way. “Deuce take it, what is that puppy doing running tame here? I warned you that people are going to talk, Miss Armstead, if they haven’t already.”
Angelina kept spreading jam on her roll. “Not as much as they are going to talk when Miss Lapine arrives. I can’t see how Mr. Browne, who is in my hire, can do my reputation worse harm than Miss Lapine. An actress, did you say?”
“A dancer,” he mumbled so low she had to strain to hear.
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken: “For that matter, your presence here is most suspect of all. We are related neither by birth, marriage, nor the bonds of employment. And frankly, my lord, your reputation can only reflect poorly on mine. I’ll bid you good day, then.”
With the barest of curtsies, she sailed out of the morning room to greet the arriving children. Children of his tenants, by George. The viscount stood and watched for a moment before taking himself and Homer off to the army base. Damn, he owed the female more than a check toward expenses. More than a slip on the shoulder, too.
Corin didn’t much care for the man the post commander assigned to head the security detail. Something about Sergeant Fredricks rubbed him the wrong way, most likely the officer’s leer when told he’d be guarding two attractive women.
He wasn’t any better pleased at Fredricks’s response to learning he’d be stationed at the Knoll’s gatehouse. He was a soldier, he protested, not a bloody servant for the nobs who didn’t want to get down to open the gate for themselves. And as for protecting a Frog informer, the sergeant declared the mort ought to be here at the army base under lock and key.
Corin looked toward the senior officer, who assured him that Fredricks was a crack marksman and a good soldier, precisely the man for such an important mission. Fredricks saluted, turned, and marched out, directly toward where Homer was tied. The dog had to scramble aside to avoid being stepped on, which bit of inconsideration rankled the viscount further.
“I say, Sergeant, there are going to be a great many dogs around the cottage. It’s a breeder’s kennel, of sorts. If you don’t think you can deal with them, speak up now and I’ll find another man.” Fredricks saluted again. “I knows my duty, cap’n.” Another man would have stepped around the dog, or would have stopped to pet Homer. Petting Homer’s curly head himself, Corin thought that perhaps he should speak to the commander anyway. No, he decided, he was overreacting from being around Miss Armstead too long. You couldn’t judge a man by how he treated a dog. Could you?
Chapter Fourteen
Homer came back to Primrose Cottage later that evening: later at night, and later than the evening before. Viscount Knowle must be making more of an effort, Angelina thought as she opened the door to Homer’s barking. She wished he hadn’t tried so hard, for she was exhausted but hadn’t wanted to go to bed until Homer was accounted for. Now she was asleep almost as soon as she found room in her crowded bed, not bothering to recall whose turn it was to share her feather mattress.
Less than two hours later, Angelina was awakened by dog barking, all the dogs barking, inside and out, from the Yorkshires’ high-pitched yips to Ajax’s windowpane-rattling roars. The viscount was right about not needing to worry over intruders at Primrose Cottage.
This wasn’t any sneak thief or cracksman, not even a wandering deer crossing the yard. It was a determined rapping on the front door. Mademoiselle Maria Lapine had arrived, at three of the clock in the morning.
Angelina struggled into her robe and slippers, then went downstairs to greet her guest, who was standing in the foyer surrounded by baggage, dogs, and half-dressed servants.
“Bonsoir,
Mademoiselle Lapine,” Angelina called into the chaos. “Welcome to Primrose Cottage.”
The woman turned and threw back the hood of her ermine-trimmed pelisse. She was petite, dark-haired, and absolutely the most beautiful woman Angelina had ever seen. No wonder Lord Knowle was ready to sell his own mother to get her here. Not that Angelina would have taken his mother.
Miss Lapine’s voice was lilting, her smile charming. Her clothes were elegant, and her figure was lithe rather than voluptuous. She might never see twenty again, but there wasn’t a wrinkle, a sag, a gray hair, or the slightest hint of faded glory. This woman was the most gloriously vibrant creature imaginable. Angelina couldn’t discover a single blemish, could not find the most minor of faults in her guest except, of course, that she was not Mademoiselle Maria Lapine.
“Mademoiselle Lapine? Who is this Lapine person,
cherie?
Didn’t
mon ami
Knolly tell that I was coming? Me, I am Mercedes Lavalier, the premier
danseuse
in all of France. You have heard of me, no?”
Angelina blinked her sleepy eyes. “Knolly?”
“This is the Primrose Cottage,
oui?”
“Oui,
I mean, yes, this is, and yes, we were expecting you, mademoiselle. I am your hostess, Angelina Armstead.”
“Angelina? Angelique, in my country, no? But you, you are
mon ange.”
And the Frenchwoman grabbed Angelina with surprising strength for such a slight female, pulled her close, and kissed first one cheek, then the other. “You saved my life,
ma cherie.
Homeless, I was, and at the mercy of every
scelerat
in France, until you so kindly opened your door to me.” Mercedes dabbed at a tear with a pristine white scrap of lace. Her eyes were not swollen, her cheeks were not red. Angelina was green with envy. “Now I am your friend, yours and my sweet Knolly’s. But you must not fear I will—how do you say it?—hunt on your preserves.”
“Oh, but his lordship and I—”
“Mon cher
Knolly is an excellent
chevalier,
no? I wish you much joy with him.”