Viscount Vagabond
“Assault?” Browdie screamed indignantly. “I never touched her. I’ll have her up on assault, the murdering jade! And tell some things about her. I’ve got witnesses too.”
“The man is unhinged,” said Mr. Langdon. “We’d better bring him to a lunatic asylum instead. He wants treatment.”
“Do I? Then fetch a doctor. We’ll see how crazy I am. Maybe that doctor’ll want to have a look at you as well eh Missy?” He shot Catherine a murderous look.
Catherine glared right back. “You are a filthy, lying swine,” she snapped. “I wish I had dashed out your brains.”
Mr. Langdon’s jaw dropped, though he did not take his eyes off his captive. Perhaps it occurred to him that the storm had finally moved in to burst about his ears.
“Harlot!” shouted Browdie. “Slut!”
Mr. Langdon hustled Catherine and Jemmy out into the shop. “This is no spectacle for a lady,” he said. Then, his own face reddening, he returned to the back room.
Lord Browdie’s compliments had abruptly ceased meanwhile, because in one graceful movement Lord Rand had yanked him up by his coat lapels and knocked his head against the wall.
“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, Browdie, if you know what’s good for you.”
When he saw that his interlocutor was more disposed to listen, the viscount added, “There’s nothing I’d like better than to kill you. But that just might get me hanged, and you aren’t worth swinging for, are you?”
Another crack of skull against plaster was deemed a necessary aid to decision making. This must have helped, because Lord Browdie shook his head.
“I’m so happy we agree,” said Lord Rand amiably. “Since you’re disposed to be reasonable, let me offer you two courses. The first is that you get on the very next ship leaving England. I can recommend North America from personal experience, but you can go where you like, so long as you never come back—except perhaps in a casket.”
“I ain’t going nowhere,” the baron growled.
“The alternative,” the viscount continued, unheeding, “is that I take you to Bow Street and bring the charges I mentioned. You may say what you wish in your behalf—but do rest assured, dear fellow, that if you’re indiscreet and a softhearted magistrate releases you, I’ll find you, wherever you hide, and break every bone in your filthy body. Oh, I should mention there’s a fellow named Cholly who’ll be looking for you as well. He’s disapponted about something-—I think it’s a broken jaw. Coarse fellow, that Cholly. Doesn’t care a bit for gentlemanly codes of honour. Has a way with a broken bottle, I understand.”
Being bested in physical combat by a mere slip of a girl cannot be agreeable to a man’s amour propre. Instigated by a combination of too much wine drunk too fast and humiliated rage, the baron had been incautiously belligerent. Lord Rand’s suggestions, along with the occasional physical reminder, had restored Lord Browdie’s reasoning powers. Being a coward, he would have run very far away on his own, if Mr. Langdon had not prevented him.
The baron elected exile, though he did so most ungraciously.
“That’s settled, then,” said the viscount. He abruptly released his hold on the man, who crumpled to the floor.
“Jack, you’d better take Cat—Miss Pelliston—home to Louisa. I want to take our friend to an acquaintance of mine who’ll make sure he keeps his promise.”
“Why don’t you let me go with him?” Jack offered. “It seems there’s something... well, maybe you and Miss Pelliston need to talk—”
Lord Rand’s face hardened. “No. Take her and the boy back and tell Louisa I’ll explain everything later. On no account is she to trouble Catherine. Is that clear? Just tell her to put the girl to bed.”
En route to Andover House, Jemmy was deposited at the dressmaker’s with adjurations not to reveal unpleasant details to Madame. The lad having a discretion beyond his years, all the modiste ever learned was that he had been mistaken for another, but had managed to escape. She believed that Lord Browdie and Catherine had simply been delayed at the magistrate’s office by the usual bureaucratic incompetence.
Lord and Lady Andover were told only to wait for Max, who would explain everything. Fortunately, these two had not had time to become unduly alarmed. Catherine customarily lingered two hours or more at the dressmaker’s, and their carriage had returned without her scarcely half an hour ago. If they were alarmed now, they were too tactful to show it. They assured Mr. Langdon they would do as he asked. They would wait up for Max, however late he returned.
Spared an interrogation, Catherine escaped to her room. She found a hot bath, waiting for her, but there was no ease in it, except perhaps for her aching muscles. Even though she was safe, she could not stop trembling. She would never feel safe or right again, would never feel clean again.
Why had she gone with that horrible man? How could she have been so foolhardy? Though Jack had promised that Lord Browdie would never trouble her again, Catherine knew he would. All the rest of her days Lord Browdie would haunt her because he’d told her about Cholly, told her she was soiled, polluted, foul.
She could never marry. She would never know the quiet joy of being cared for, of having children to care for. Still, since it would never be Lord Rand caring for her or his children she might love, it was just as well there would be no one.
She’d convinced herself that she could be happy with Jack, or at least content. Now she realised how selfish that was and how unfair to Jack. She’d seen that when she’d drawn away from Max and caught a glimpse of his friend’s face, so shocked and—oh, she hoped he wasn’t hurt. Jack was so kind and gentle. It wasn’t fair that he should be hurt because she was a fool.
Catherine crawled under the bedclothes and buried her face in the pillow, but the tears she expected wouldn’t come. Her throat raw, she lay curled up in a tight ball, unable to weep.
“My brave girl,” Max had called her—that and so many other tender words—as his strong arms sheltered her. He had been her shelter from the start, hadn’t he? She had trusted him instinctively, from the moment she’d first asked his help. She’d continued to trust him, though she hadn’t realised it because she’d been too busy finding fault with him.
How could she have believed he was her bad angel, when all he ever drew from her was honesty—the truth of her feelings. In response, she’d insulted him repeatedly. Instead of appreciating Lord Rand’s kind, noble heart, she’d fixed instead on trivial misbehaviours, exaggerating them into major character flaws.
How on earth could she have believed he was just like Papa? When had Papa ever been kind or gentle? When had Papa ever tried to comfort or help her or even tease her out of her overnice notions of propriety? When had anyone in her whole life ever made her feel so interesting and feminine and special?
With his teasing and prodding, Viscount Vagabond had uncovered the real Catherine: the short-tempered, passionate, willful, occasionally improper young woman under the stiff schoolmistress’s pose. Along the way, he’d revealed himself as well, only she had been too stubbornly blind to see who the real Max was and how much she loved him. Oh, she did love him dearly, passionately, and would always love him... hopelessly.
Utterly hopeless. She gasped as despair flooded her heart. The dam gave at last, and she broke into wracking sobs that shook her frame until she wept herself empty. Finally, exhausted, she fell asleep.
Max did not arrive until after midnight. Lord Andover had had an urgent summons from Lord Liverpool meanwhile, and was not yet returned. Thus Max had only his sister to tell his tale to, and because she was his sister, he found himself telling her everything.
She bore the news about the brothel with not a hint of swooning. Rather, she spoke with admiration of Catherine’s courage. “That is one of the things I like so much about her, Max. She is a perfect lady, yet amazingly capable and fearless. Not nearly as fragile as she looks. From the first moment I saw you with her, I rather hoped—”
“I know you’re breeding, Louisa, b
ut even in that condition, sentiment doesn’t become you,” he interrupted hastily. “Anyhow, whatever you hoped, the fact is, I offered twice for her and was rejected in no uncertain terms.”
Louisa sighed. “I can think of a dozen reasons for her to refuse when she would rather accept, but you are determined to be thickheaded.”
“I’m engaged to be married, Louisa,” was the quiet answer. “To Lady Diana Glencove, remember? Maybe you also remember that a gentleman can’t jilt a lady. I might as well be thickheaded, don’t you think?”
Chapter Twenty-One
For a man whose head is not only thick, but hard, two glasses of brandy cannot be sufficient to induce unconsciousnes if he is otherwise inclined. Lord Rand was not so inclined. He did not fall asleep until well after daybreak. Thus he slept soundly until midafternoon, when he was awakened by a pair of rabbits hopping on his chest.
He opened one eye to discover not rabbits, but two small grubby fists. He opened the other eye and discerned that the fists were attached to a pair of short arms, in turn attached to the personage known as Jemmy.
“Get away from me,” his lordship grumbled. “What the devil are you about? Curse me if the boy has any manners at all, and respect for his betters is out of the question.”
“Get up, will you? Wot are you waiting for?”
“Judgement Day. What in blazes do you want?”
Blackwood appeared at the bedside, having entered the room in his usual noiseless fashion. He pulled Jemmy away and apologised for the lad’s outlandish behaviour. Unfortunately the boy had dashed up the stairs so quickly that Mr. Blackwood had been unable to catch him in time.
“There is rather odd news, My Lord,” he explained.
“She’s bolted,” Jemmy cried, thrusting himself in front of the valet. “Run off wif a sojer.”
Lord Rand jerked himself upright. “What? Cat? When? What soldier? Drat her. Why don’t that woman stay put?”
He threw back the bedclothes, thereby presenting Jemmy with the interesting spectacle of a naked aristocrat. Duly impressed, Jemmy backed away as the viscount scrambled out of bed and ripped the dressing gown out of his servant’s hands.
“I beg your pardon, My Lord. The young lady in question is Lady Diana Glencove.”
Lord Rand, who had hastily wrapped the dressing gown around himself, was about to tear it off again, having evidently decided on dressing immediately and eliminating the middleman. He now sat back down upon the bed.
“Lady Diana?” he echoed blankly.
“Your fiancée, My Lord,” Blackwood clarified. “I’m afraid the news is all over Town because Lord Glencove’s servants have been everywhere looking for her since yesterday afternoon. I heard from his lordship’s footman that the family received a message from the young lady this morning. She was married by special license last night, as I understand. Her message said nothing regarding her subsequent itinerary. One imagines that was in order to elude pursuit.”
“Well,” said Lord Rand.
“Indeed, My Lord, most shocking. Lord Glencove sent the footman round with a message asking you to call upon him at your earliest convenience. I believed it proper that his lordship should break the news to you, but unfortunately, Jemmy has anticipated that.”
“Yes,” said Lord Rand with a dazed look at Jemmy.
“I heard it at the shop first,” the boy said defensively. “They come by asking for her yesterday and today again and today when they come they tole HER and SHE tole Joan and she tole me so I come to tell you.”
“I see,” said the viscount, still looking blank. “I had better get dressed.”
Lord Rand’s interview with Lord and Lady Glencove was not the most agreeable of his life. Lady Glencove was beside herself with grief. She raved about annulments and having the fiend horsewhipped, hung, drawn and quartered. Occasionally she remembered to feel sorry for the betrayed fiance and that was even worse.
Lord Glencove, fortunately, was of a more philosophical temperament. He had, not an hour since, received encouraging news about his daughter’s new husband. Though the man’s immediate family was relatively obscure, the late father had been a man of property, which compensated somewhat for the maternal connection with commerce. The son—Colonel Stockmore—had a respectable income. He also had prospects: that is, he had a very ill, very old eccentric bachelor cousin who happened to be a viscount. Prom this cousin Colonel Stockmore would inherit a title. A prospective viscount was not a prospective Earl of St. Denys, but a man cannot have everything. Or a woman, either, as Lord Glencove was forced to remind his wife at tediously frequent intervals.
Lord Rand was also philosophical. He bore his disappointment with a most becoming manliness, which provoked Lady Glencove to another plaintive outburst after he was gone.
From the home of the Earl of Glencove, the viscount proceeded to Lord Browdie’s love nest. There he purchased a peach muslin gown for five hundred pounds. Being philosophical enough for any two aristocrats, Lynnette bore her own assorted disappointments like the Stoic she was.
Molly related the news of Lady Diana’s elopement before Catherine had even opened her eyes, and accompanied the dressing process with recitals about the mysterious ways of Providence, and human beings refusing to understand what was good for them, and the course of true love being a rocky one. The maid concluded with fervent thanks that she herself was content to love from afar, because getting close made folks act so foolish.
Fortunately, Lady Andover had very little to add at breakfast or thereafter.
“I suppose Molly has told you,” she said, “with more detail, I am sure, than I could. It is astonishing. I had always thought Diana completely under her mother’s thumb. I am relieved she is not. Their temperaments were badly unsuited. She would have bored Max to distraction and he would have taken up a life of crime in consequence.”
Catherine mumbled something about being amazed. That was the end of the subject.
Chastened by the revelations of the previous night, Miss Pelliston elected to spend the afternoon in the library reading Foxe’s Actes and Monuments of These Latter Perilous Days. Her mind, however, refused to concentrate on the Protestant martyrs of the sixteenth century.
One did not require above average intelligence to ascertain that Lady Diana’s rendezvous with her forbidden love had been devoted primarily to plans for immediate elopement. As participant, however unwitting, Catherine should at least be displeased with herself for not sensing what was afoot and striving to set Lady Diana back upon the course of duty.
Miss Pelliston could not be displeased or even surprised, considering the startling insights she’d had regarding her powers of perception. She could hardly expect to read another lady’s mind when her own was such a miserable muddle.
Besides, she defiantly admitted to herself that she was pleased with the news. Even though it changed nothing for her—Lord Rand was still forever beyond her reach—he at least would have a second chance. Perhaps this time he would find a woman who truly loved him. That could not be difficult. Only fools like herself were blind to his perfections.
All she could pray for was an opportunity to apologise for more than a month of ungrateful, childish behaviour. For more than that she could not hope. She was beyond the pale.
This morning, after a long struggle with her conscience, Catherine had decided no useful purpose would be served by confessing her shame. To tell her cousin or Louisa about Cholly would only distress them needlessly. She would plead exhaustion and tell them she wished to go home.
After that, the years seemed to stretch out interminably.
Perhaps she would sell Aunt Eustacia’s property, invest the money, and live quietly, humbly, alone. She would devote herself to good works among those even more wretched than herself. She would work among the poor. Perhaps she would contract some loathsome disease that would put a period to her vile existence.
Thus she reduced herself to a deeply penitential, utterly tragic state with no assistance f
rom The Book of Martyrs. The volume proving useless, she very sensibly closed it and commenced to dolefully studying the carpet
There was a tap at the door. She looked up to meet Jeffers’s dignified gaze.
“Lady Andover’s compliments, Miss, and would you please be so kind as to join her in—”
“Oh, do be quiet,” Lord Rand snapped, pushing past the butler. “I ain’t sitting in some damned parlor waiting for tea and making small talk with my own sister. Go away, Jeffers.”
Jeffers sighed and went.
Lord Rand strode towards her. Under his arm he had a package which he now dropped at Catherine’s feet.
“There’s your dress,” he said. “It cost me five hundred pounds. Then there’s the fifty from a month ago. Altogether I’ve paid five hundred fifty quid for you.”
Catherine’s heart immediately commenced a steady chamade. She stared blindly at the package. Then she slowly dragged her gaze up to the viscount’s face. His eyes were the blue of a frosty moonlit night, chilling her. He hated her. She deserved to be hated, she told herself. Even so, temper began to rise within her. He needn’t be so callous... and mean.
“I can do sums,” she said rather unsteadily. “I shall write to Papa for five hundred fifty pounds. Or do you require interest as well?”
“You will write to your papa, young lady, to tell him we’re going to be married.”
Inelegantly, she gulped. “I beg your pardon?” she said stupidly. She would like to say—and do—a thousand things, and could not think where to begin.
“You’re not deaf, Cat, so don’t pretend to be. We’re going to be married, as we should have done at the start.”
The viscount looked hastily away from her face and began pacing the room.
“I don’t know who had the training of you,” he continued determinedly, “but your morals are shocking. You spent a night in my bed, remember, after a night in a bawdy house. You go about collecting street urchins and letting inebriated vagabonds kiss you, and then you get into brawls in pawnshops. You are probably past all redemption, but I’m going to reform you anyhow. If you behave yourself, perhaps I’ll let you reform me on occasion, but I make no promises.”