Viscount Vagabond

  “Oh, dear,” she said quickly. “I packed in such haste that I must have forgotten it. How stupid of me. Yes, I suppose the grey frock will have to do.”

  Molly tiptoed from the room as Catherine crawled into bed. She did not expect to sleep, not with her mind churning so, but a few hours rest would help her think more clearly, as she should have done two months ago.

  She hadn’t been able to think because the hot temper she’d inherited from her papa had made her wild and blind. Though she hadn’t shown it, she’d become completely irrational, just as he always had, incapable of considering consequences. At the very least she should have prepared for every eventuality. She’d had weeks to reconsider, to at least think ahead.

  No wonder Lord Rand thought her an ignorant young miss. Now he thought even less of her. He’d called her a coward and a nonsensical one at that, which was no surprise considering the disgusting display of weakness she’d provided him. Twice at least she’d wept in front of him—she who abhorred tears. Was not weeping maudlin self-indulgence when done privately and a bid for pity when done in public? Aunt Deborah burst into tears at every fancied slight, which enraged Papa and filled even Catherine with exasperation.

  Lord Rand must have been mightily relieved to have her off his hands. The thought set off an inner flutter of pain, and her eyes began to sting. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Of all the excellent reasons she had to weep, why must the mere thought of her rescuer be the one to set her off?

  Firmly she banished Lord Rand’s image from her mind to concentrate instead on her hostess. The Andover name was so familiar. Was the family connected to hers? That would hardly be surprising, when half England’s, even Europe’s, aristocracy was related to the other. Perhaps, though, the earl’s family had simply been the topic of one of Great Aunt Eustacia’s rambling dissertations on genealogy. The old lady knew her Debrett’s as intimately as she knew her Bible. As Catherine recalled the long monologues in those dim, cluttered rooms, exhaustion crept over her.

  Genealogy. “Hadn’t time to discuss genealogy,” he’d told his sister in that abrupt way of his. Actually, it was rather funny, in the circumstances.

  What an odd man he was, Catherine thought vaguely as her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. Lost, of course, with his drinking and wenching, like Papa, but young ... and handsome... and so strong. He’d lifted her up as easily as if she’d been one of her bandboxes.

  He must have been shocked, when he had sobered himself, to realise what he’d brought home with him. Perhaps that would teach him to exercise moderation in future. With this pious thought, Catherine drifted off to sleep.

  “Now who in blazes are you?” Lord Rand demanded, surveying the small, slim man before him.

  His lordship had already had two nasty surprises. The first was a butler even taller than himself, whose accents hinted an intimate acquaintance with the bells of St. Mary Le Bow: a Cockney butler named Gidgeon, of all things. The second was a chef who spoke not a word of English, thereby forcing Lord Rand to rake the recesses of his mind for the French he’d determined to bury there forever along with Greek and Latin.

  In front of him at present stood a mournful creature who’d been dogging the viscount’s footsteps all the way down the long hall.

  “Hill, My Lord,” said the little man sadly.

  “Hill,” Lord Rand repeated. “And what do you do?”

  “Your secretary, My Lord.”

  “What the devil do I want a secretary for? Ain’t there enough here as it is? The bloody place is crawling with servants. I’ll wager there ain’t been such a crowd in one place since Prinny married that fat cousin of his.”