Ten
In Grosvenor Square, Nicholas was reading The Gazette with a faint twist to his lips. There was much on the upcoming nuptials of Lady Larissa Ashleigh to Captain Marcus Harding of the seventh dragoons, he late having served with great honor in the Peninsula. There was precious little, however, about the recent midland uprisings, or of the attempted assassination of his royal highness. He supposed he should be grateful. He frowned.
He sipped his tea. He frowned. “Amesbury!”
“My lord?”
“Take this confection to the kitchens and bring me a port.”
“Aye, my lord.” He frowned.
Amesbury opened the curtains. Nick frowned again. But Amesbury expected no less. Nick was in a black mood, blacker than his doting staff had ever known.
The port was poured. Another frown.
“Will that be all, my lord?”
“Has the mail been delivered?”
“Not since an hour ago, when you last asked, my lord.”
“Tell me when it has. Ah, Joseph!” A slight lightening of the features as his valet strode in.
“Parding yer lor’ship, but yer should not be drinkin’ that muck on an empty stomach.”
“That muck, as you put it, Joseph, was brewed in France in the last century.”
“Then it is old and will curdle yer spirits.”
“My spirits are already curdled.”
“Aye, me lord, that is as plain as a pikestaff.”
Amesbury made a stiffbow and departed, relieved. Really, there was no dealing with Lord Cathgar in such a mood! He would never dare address his lordship in terms of such familiarity! But then, the little valet had fought with him in the last campaign. Doubtless that accounted for matters. The door shut, and Joseph continued.
“Oi ‘ave taken the liberty of puttin’ out yer black velvet with the sapphire pin. . . .”
“Stow it, Joseph, I am not going out.”
“The Dowager Countess of Cathgar arrives tonight, me lor’.”
“You devil! I should dismiss you at once.”
“Very likely, me lor’.” Joseph drew out some top boots that sparkled like a very mirror. He eyed them complacently.
“My lady will want to inspect your wounds.”
“And I want to inspect your back. After it has been thoroughly whipped.”
Joseph grinned. “Will it be the velvet, then, me lor’?”
“Oh, God rot it, I suppose so. Anything better than Mama fussing with a hot posset!” And in this manner was his lordship, the great Nicholas Cathgar, coaxed from his solitude.
He was disappointed to find, however, that the dowager countess, whose robust disposition he always underestimated, was not safely tucked up and asleep when he arrived home several hours later. He had spent fruitless hours in his club, watching the great grandfather clock tick by, being rude to sundry very good friends, and generally feeling like a bear with a sore head.
How ever he could have let that little slip of a thing vanish into thin air he could not imagine. He vowed never to touch laudanum again if it could have so addled his wits. His wound hurt damnably, but the more so because they reminded him of her—the mischievous face framed in dark curls, the cheeky, insouciant smile, the unsure part of her, budding into shy womanhood, and, naturally, of course, the outright courage.
No one—no one had seen or heard of her, and he felt like a fool asking after someone whose name he did not know and whose kin he could not cite. Yes, he had suffered several sidelong glances from his peers, oh, countless quips about quivered hearts, until he needed a bout at Gentleman Jack’s to release all his energy. Unfortunately, no one would be so unsporting as to spar with a wounded man, so he was denied even that tame outlet. And now, here was his mama, resplendent in court dress and emerald-studded tiara, waiting up for him with a calm patience. It was enough to make a man scream.
“Mama! I thought you would have been in bed hours ago.”
“Nonsense, Nicholas! You know there was a supper party at Carlton House! And I do wish you would have attended, for I swear yours would have been the most handsome face present!”
“Oh, Mama! You are cutting a wheedle with me!”
“Indeed not, for poor Prinny grows fatter by the day, and I despair of any of the dukes, for Cumberland becomes as plump as a hothouse turnip. . . .”
“Mama! Have a care he does not hear you say that!”
“Well, he has, for I told it to him to his face.”
In spite of his black mood, Nicholas laughed. “Well, what did he say?”
“He made a very improper advance, with which I shall not sully your ears. . . .”
“He did not!”
“Indeed, he did, for though I have aged, I have aged, if I say so myself, most gracefully.” The dowager duchess preened herself slightly and smiled a self-satisfied kind of smile. “Now, the poor Countess of Froversham . . .”
Nicholas sighed. The Countess of Froversham and his dear mama had always been arch rivals. It was said that if one wore emeralds, the other wore diamonds. If one acquired a lapdog, the other would acquire a pug. And so it went on. If his mama had warmed to her pet theme, it would be a long night. Nicholas shifted one booted foot and winced.
“Sit down, Nick. I hope your fool of a valet rubbed basilicum powder into those wounds?”
“How did you know . . .”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Nicholas, you know I know everything.”
“Sometimes I believe you do.”
“Well, of course you do. You know I am the nosiest, most inquisitive, prying old harridan in all of London!”
“Mama, I do believe you are proud of it!”
“Yes, well, at my age, there are fewer diversions than there used to be. I daresay if that handsome devil Rutherford were still alive . . .”
“I thought he was.”
“No! Popped his cork on the hunting field. Most inconvenient!”
“For you or for the hunt?”
“Now, that would be saying, my dear Nicholas! And I am shocked at the low direction of your thoughts!”
“What a whopper. Nothing shocks you, Mama!”
The dowager countess smiled. “Precious little, my son. Precious little. And now may I take a look at those wounds?”
“No, you may not!”
“Yes, Joseph told me you were tetchy!”
“Joseph talks too much by far.”
“Indeed, I tend to agree with you on that point, for he praises you to the point of positive tedium.”
“Does he? I cannot say why, for I do not make good company, I fear.”
“Yes, I surmised that. Amesbury is tiptoeing about the house in a more stealthy manner than usual.”
“Good God! Does he think I shall eat him?”
“Very possibly, for you do have a tiresome temper. Now, am I to see those wounds or not?”
“Not.”
“You are very like your father when you glare at me like that. Now, he was a handsome rogue. . . .”
“You should not talk of him like that!”
The dowager countess ignored her son utterly. “But self-willed, opinionated . . .”
“Arrogant?” A hint of sarcasm in Nicholas’s tone.
“Oh, yes, indeed. Thank you. Arrogant, high-handed . . .”
“Mama. Are you cataloguing my sins or his?”
“Mmm . . . witty, and quick, too. Spill the beans, Nick, or we will be here all night. And much as I positively adore this glittering tiara, it is heavy on my head.”
“Take it off, then.”
“No, for it requires my dresser. Hideous amount of pins. But we digress, my son.”
“Is there no stopping you?”
“I think not, though one can never be certain. One of those earthquakes, perhaps, or a house fire possibly . . .”
“Maybe I should just take the tinderbox and set my house ablaze.”
“Easier to just tell me the truth. Besides, I like all your Axminsters. Such superior carpets. It would be a shame.”
“Mama, you are a bully. But maybe, this once, you can help . . .”
So Lord Nicholas Cathgar, after pouring himself a very strong drink—and his mama, for punishment, a watered-down version—finally succumbed. He spoke, at last, and at length, of a certain Miss Nobody.
“But, Nicholas, she must be staying somewhere!”
“True, but she has no funds, if you recall.”
“Maybe you should wait. She will probably send the tab for some posting house or other to your account.”
“Like she did the hansom cab?”
“Exactly.”
“I think not. She is a dear little hoyden, but she has strict notions of propriety. She will not borrow a farthing from me if she can help it.”
“Then why the hansom cab?”
“I would say she calculated that it was a fair exchange for my life. That, and the tab for dinner.”
“What an extraordinary girl!”
“Yes, and I want you to find her for me.”
“Me?”
“Oh, don’t look so innocent, Mama, you know everything. A whiff here, a scandal there . . .”
“Indeed, but I have so little to go on! Family in Wiltshire, you say?”
“Yes, she let slip something of the sort, but it is all supposition. She was wearing half mourning, if that signifies to anything?”
“Well, of course it does, Nick! No self-respecting female would don half mourning if she was not in half mourning! Gracious, all those poor, drab colors—I still shudder to think on it. I loved your papa dearly, but I did not enjoy my period of mourning for him! There is nothing original one can do with blacks and browns. Even when one gets to the puces and olives . . .”
“Mama, I have no wish to talk of fashion!”
“And that is why you will never find your lady! I say, if she was in half mourning, there was a death of a near relative. Maybe six months ago. In Wiltshire . . . mmmm . . . I will make inquiries.”
“Thank you. You might be eccentric, but you are a great good gun!”
“Which is no way to talk to your mama, but I will be lenient. Nick?”
“Yes?”
“What will you do with this paragon when you finally find her?”
“I will wring her neck.”
The Dowager Countess of Cathgar chuckled. “If ought of your tale is true, it is more like your neck that will be wrung! I have a mind to meet this girl.”
“Very funny! Now, if you will be kind enough to leave me to my port—”
“Without question—here, have mine.” The dowager duchess watched as her oldest and dearest gulped several sips of the disgusting stuff he had served her.
Then she chuckled outright, ignoring his roar of fury as she made her stately exit. Later, when the tiara was finally prized from her head, her brow became thoughtful. Extremely thoughtful indeed.
The idea of dunning Lord Cathgar was ludicrous. If she approached him, he would simply wed her out of hand as he had threatened to do. But were those not the words of a delirious man, one faint from blood wounds, one hardly capable of making rational choices?
Perhaps he no longer was so intent on marriage. Perhaps he was even now thanking heaven for his lucky escape. Worse, if he was, would he not think she was deliberately seeking him out? And would it not compound all of her scrapes together if she approached him, unattended, at his London residence? Tessie rather thought it would as she contemplated her warm chocolate and watched the smoke curl in slivery wisps from the cup.
But she needed to make a decision. Either the estate must be sold—that way she could maintain a small competence—or she must find some means of supplementing its meager income until it became self-sustaining again. That was by far the best option, since it meant the tenants and dependents could remain on the estate, a no small consideration being that most had been born and raised there, and certainly none had other resources to sustain them. Tessie had been brought up haphazardly but not without moral principle. Grandfather Hampstead would have expected her to find some solution. He had often enough himself when hamstrung with debts. And always, except for the occasion of his death, he had come right. Tessie must, too.
But how? She could not apply to Portland, who was debt ridden himself—no point in that. But Cathgar? It was not as if she were asking for charity. The money was hers by right. Just as she did not question poor Lord Alberkirky’s claim to her principal. That was the way of things, peculiar or not. Truly, Lord Cathgar must be approached. He simply must be. Then, if she were frugal, she might be able to keep the estates rolling over until summer. Until then she would refrain from making any kind of debut into London society.
Well, without funds she could not, of course. And though bloodlines were important, she could not think anyone would wish to take up or sponsor a penniless orphan. The beau monde, then, was probably now permanently out of the question.
That said, there was no reason she could think of not to procure for herself a job. Respectable, of course, not opera dancing or any such thing, but perhaps a milliner’s model. She had seen some at Hetty Martin’s, and they all looked very fetching in their feathered confections, smiling here, smiling there, encouraging all manner of rash purchases. Yes, she thought she could do something of the sort, if only someone would take her on!
But in the meanwhile there was the wretched business of Lord Cathgar’s ten thousand pounds. She scribbled a letter at the serpentine-fronted writing table provided for her comfort. It sounded too stiff, so she began again on more familiar terms. Then, confounded by her own annoying blushes and the manner in which her hand trembled, she threw the letter at the ink pot, causing its contents to spill onto the two blank wafers she had left.
She could have cried in frustration but did not. Instead, she dusted down her gown, shook out her hair, brushed her locks vigorously in the manner of her dresser, twisted the whole of it up in a tight top-not, and marched out of the room, famous reticule and all, prepared for battle.
It did not once occur to her through this whole process that she should leave the matter in the able hands of Mr. Devonshire. She had been doing that, after all, for a whole six months or more. The fact that a teeny traitorous voice urged her to see Lord Nicholas Cathgar one last time was most irrelevant. Most. She quashed it as firmly as she trod on the red carpets, soft with pile.
She ignored the curious eyes as she made her way down the marble staircase of the Colonnade. A gentleman with eyes far too admiring for his own good made her a low bow. She ignored him, hardly noticing, but she herself, unchaperoned, did not go unnoticed. Indeed, she raised several eyebrows in her plain half mourning as she trailed down the stairs, lost in thought. Fortunately, it was too early for the fashionable to take their promenades, and too late to be trapped by the men of business, who would take breakfast in the front salons. But still, she was noticed.
Calling a hack was less of a problem than giving him directions. As she tucked in her muff—for it was passing cold—she realized with a guilty look at the driver that she had no idea where on earth Nick lived. But if she had no idea, it transpired that she was in the minority, for half of London did. It was a short drive to the Mayfair address, much too short to collect her thoughts and her wits. She paid off the driver with scrupulous exactness and looked up at the great edifice that was Cathgar House. It was splendid, ice white with huge colonnades and marble pillars. It was so high, Tessie had to crane her neck back to catch a glimpse of the roof. When she did, great Gothic gargoyles seemed to glare out into the sunshine.
Then there was a bright polished knocker hung from an elaborate paneled oak door. To reach this, she realized, she would have to take at least a dozen steps up highly polished slate. She almost jumped back into the hack, but the horses were already trit-trotting off, and there seemed little else to do but push ahead with her original plan.
Only, in the broad light of cold day, it did not seem much of a plan at all. Tessie tossed her head. Lord Cathgar was simply her debtor. He could not eat her, after all. The fact that he could kiss her she refused to contemplate. Such thoughts were simply for ninnyhammers.