Five days later
“Is he going to get up and eat today?” Mrs. Petchell asked Tiploft when the butler came downstairs for his morning tea. She didn’t like cooking for someone who didn’t deign to show up for her meals.
“He remains a bit under the weather,” Tiploft said in even tones as he settled slowly and wearily into his place at the head of the servants’ table.
Under the weather! Mrs. Petchell wasn’t fooled. She knew exactly what the man meant. His Lordship was still drunk.
He’d come home from Almack’s and ordered a bottle sent up to his room. And no one had seen hide nor hair of him since. Only heard the bell tolling when his bottle went lacking.
Men! Matilda silently huffed. Idiots and fools, all of them. Drowning their problems in a bottle of gin. Or, as the viscount was wont to do, a case of Madeira.
Yet she could see the worry and despair etching lines of concern on the butler’s otherwise impervious features.
That a good and respectable man like Mr. Tiploft cared so much for the viscount and was worried sick that this time, their employer’s despair could not be rectified, said enough about the recluse upstairs to keep her from packing her bags and leaving.
Besides, Matilda Petchell knew a thing or two about men and how to drive them out of their caves.
“Leave this to me, Mr. Tiploft,” she told the butler as she went to the larder. “Leave this to me.”
Pierson awoke to the most wretched smell he’d ever encountered. Even on the sun-baked battlefields of Spain.
Dear God, had someone left a corpse in his room?
He opened one eye and spied an innocent-looking tray on the bed stand beside him. Cautiously, he raised the silver dome over the plate and just as quickly put it back. He rolled over and emptied his stomach into the chamber pot.
When he finished tossing up his accounts, he knew he had two choices—stagger over to the bell and then wait for Tiploft to arrive and carry that wretched tray out of his room.
Or flee.
Stealing one last look of loathing at the tray, he made his choice, taking the most expedient route out of his room, catching up his dressing gown and ignoring the fact that the cold floor was biting at his toes.
If anything, it helped to hurry him along.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by an ear-splitting yowl.
R-r-r-ro-oew. Hannibal looked up at him and went to open his mouth again.
“Do not,” Pierson warned the ugly creature.
Thankfully, that worked, for the cat stopped, and then went jauntily down the hall toward the stairs.
The viscount followed, if only to escape that horror in his room. But it wasn’t easy. Halfway down the flight, his head spun, his leg ached like the devil, and when he thought he might throw up again, he caught hold of the railing and willed his stomach back into order.
But since the entire house seemed to smell as if it had been converted into a morgue, he suspected he was fighting a losing battle.
Right then, a slight figure brushed past him and when he glanced in that direction, he found a young girl in a mop cap gaping at him as if she were looking at a monster.
“Milord,” she squeaked, and then scurried up the stairs, bucket in hand.
A maid? When had he agreed to hire a maid? Well, if he had, he certainly hoped she could find the source of this stench and clean it up. Better yet, he wished she’d left him the bucket.
As he reached the foyer, an upright young man stepped forward, eyeing him as if he were a housebreaker. “Who might you be?” the fellow asked, reaching into the hat stand near the door for one of Pierson’s walking sticks.
Hannibal, who had followed him downstairs, continued on into the dining room without any such confrontation, the viscount noted. Rather something when a cat had more precedence in a house than the lord and master. But it was Bob who came to his rescue and saved the day, poking his head out of the study. “Put that down, Clarks, that’s himself.”
“My lord?” It was more a question than a greeting from the man.
Meanwhile, Bob caught the viscount’s arm and towed him into the study, explaining as they went. “That’s Clarks, the new footman. He’s not as daft as he seems.” The boy took a look up at him and his expression was one of sympathy and understanding. But, like most children, he accepted Wakefield’s less-than-stellar appearance for what it was, and appeared pleased that he was simply back among the living.
Not that Pierson felt like he was—living, that is. His head was pounding and he could barely keep his eyes opened, especially with the sting of sunlight pouring in from the opening in the curtains, where Bitty stood peering out the window. The bright light cut a swath through his aching head that he was sure was akin to being shot again.
That and the stench that had chased him downstairs was only more pungent in here.
If he didn’t get some fresh air soon, he’d make an even worse fool of himself in front of the children.
“What are you two doing?” he asked, crossing the space toward the window—he needed to get it open and quickly.
“Watching the young miss, milord,” Bob said.
The young miss? Pierson paused, then stepped back a bit. Oh. Miss Tempest.
How could he forget? Even with all the alcohol he’d consumed, she invaded his dreams, his hallucinations.
Tempting him. Calling to him. Cursing him for his failures.
And now here she was again. He spun to face Bob. “She’s not coming to the door, is she?”
“Oh, no,” whispered Bitty.
Pierson glanced over at her, for he’d nearly forgotten she was here, such a silent little mite that she was. “Then what is so interesting?”
“She’s going riding,” Bitty told him.
“Oh, aye,” Bob said, not at all hesitating to resume his watch, parting the curtains without the least thought of subtlety. “Say what you will about that Jemmy out there, but he’s got an excellent set of cattle.”
Pierson snorted. “What do you know of ‘excellent cattle’?”
Bob didn’t even blink, but nodded toward the street as if that was proof enough.
The viscount went to the other window and parted that drape slightly, enough to see out, but not so much that he had to close his eyes to blot out the bright spring morning that came flooding in.
It was morning, wasn’t it?
He wasn’t certain.
But when he looked down in the street, demmed if the boy was right—the horses were well matched.
“She’s so lovely,” Bitty sighed, having come to stand right beside him.
Pierson nearly jumped, especially when the little girl reached out and took his hand, as if she thought he needed a reassuring presence.
He had to admit, he didn’t feel quite as off with Mrs. Petchell’s urchins on either side of him.
“Isn’t she?” Bitty urged.
“Isn’t she what?” he asked, finally daring to raise his gaze from the horses to the lady being helped into the carriage.
“Lovely,” Bitty prompted.
“She’s something,” he muttered back. For indeed, there she was, all dressed up for a ride, her bonnet all but hiding her face, leaving only the curve of her delighted smile for him to see.
A smile being given to another.
The ache in his chest, he told himself, was because he hadn’t eaten in a day.
It had been a day, right?
“Where do you think they are going today?” Bob asked his sister.
Today? Pierson shook the cobwebs from his addled thoughts. As in there had been a yesterday?
“What the devil day is it?” he asked, letting go of Bitty’s hand. He’d nearly forgotten she was holding on to him.
“Monday,” Bob said.
Pierson shook his head. No. That was impossible. “Are you certain?”
“Aunt Matilda made us go to church yesterday,” Bitty said with a bit of pious indignation. “You were still . . . sleeping.”
Always the diplomat, this Bitty.
Bob just snorted as if he hadn’t heard anything so amusing. He glanced up at Pierson, once again taking in his appearance. Sleeping. The boy snorted again.
All the while, Pierson was coming to the realization that this was indeed Monday . . . and that the world had moved along quite well without him, long enough for him to acquire a new maid and a footman.
Meanwhile the children had continued their debate as if he weren’t even there.
“Probably going riding in the park,” Bitty offered.
“Nah,” the boy scoffed. “They’re off on an assignation.”
“Not on a Monday,” Bitty shot back, sounding most authoritative on the subject.
Pierson nearly opened his mouth to argue the matter—that any day of the week would do for an intimate interlude—when he realized what the devil these children were debating.
“A bloody wh-a-a-at?” Pierson sputtered, looking from one to the other.
“An assignation,” Bob repeated slowly as if he wanted the word to penetrate the viscount’s Madeira-soaked brain, and, to make matters worse, then added a cheeky wink to his confident statement.
“What would you know about such matters?” Pierson asked.
Immediately he wished he hadn’t.
The boy drew himself up to his full height, stuffed his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked on his heels. “About the same as I know about horses.”
Which didn’t do much for Pierson since the lad had been spot-on about the cattle.
His gaze shot back to the street outside. An assignation? Over his dead body. Or rather the soon-to-be-dead body of the bastard who dared.
He strained to spy who this interloper, this rare devil, might be, but the man had his back to the house.
“Do you think she might be in trouble, milord?” Bitty asked, her little brown brows furrowed, making her look like a sparrow who’d lost her nest. Worse, an expression that made him feel utterly responsible for fixing her worries. “She hasn’t got no one else with her. Not a maid. Not that kindly Lady Aveley. No one but him.”
Pierson’s gaze swiveled back to the street, this time taking in the entire tableau before him.
Curricle, check. Fast horses, check. Gentleman of dubious intentions, check.
Lady without a respectable, or even a questionable, companion. Check. And check again.
His gut clenched into a tight, bitter ball. This was all wrong. And he blamed this mysterious rake who had her smiling . . . and now laughing—had he ever made her laugh thusly? He couldn’t think of a single instance, and that alone had him considering murder.
Oh, that innocent fool. Yet he knew full well he was just as guilty, for hadn’t he done much the same thing . . . take advantage of her?
But it was quite another matter when someone else began unraveling his Miss Tempest. Yes, his.
Nor did his mood improve when the man turned around.
“Bloody hell,” he swore at the familiar sight.
Tuck.
“Oh, aye, milord,” Bob said, rocking on his heels again, taking great delight that Pierson had just confirmed his observation. “Same knave who came round yesterday.”
“And the day afore that,” Bitty added.
Pierson groaned. Had the world gone mad? What was his uncle thinking allowing this? Or Lady Aveley? Wasn’t anyone seeing to Miss Tempest’s welfare?
He spun from the window and marched toward the door, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Tiploft! Tiploft!”
Tiploft came hurrying up from the kitchen, Mrs. Petchell on his heels. “My carriage!” Pierson ordered. “And be quick about it.”
Then Pierson went toward the door.
“My lord, no!” came the anguished cry from Tiploft.
Pierson stopped, hand on the latch and turned around. All four of them were gaping at him and when he turned to continue on his course—out the front door and into the street—out of the corner of his eye, he spied his reflection in the mirror.
Unshaven. Unkempt. Gaunt. And looking like the corpse he’d thought he’d smelled.
He gave himself a sniff and shuddered. He was the corpse he’d suspected Mrs. Petchell of having sent up.
That, and he hadn’t a stitch on under his wrapper.
“A wash and a shave, I suppose,” he corrected. “Oh, and some clothes.” He’d never get Miss Tempest out of Tuck’s curricle if he looked (and smelled) worse than some Seven Dials cur. “But let’s be quick about it.” Then he turned to Bob. “My curricle. I want it brought around now.”
Setting off up the stairs, his leg reminded him how little he’d done over the past week, but he had better things to worry about now.
Like one very important matter.
He’d gone and lost her.
In his haste to go up the stairs, he missed Mrs. Petchell’s aside to Tiploft.
“Liver and onions. Does it every time.”
Louisa flinched as the door slammed shut. “Lavinia—” she began, but it was of no use. Her sister was already on the stairs, the determined click of her heels as she fled their latest argument.
Over the debacle at Almack’s. And about staying in London. About everything.
In the five days since Lavinia and Louisa had revealed to each other that they had both known the truth about their mother, instead of drawing them closer, they’d become strangers. The terrible secret dividing them.
That Lavinia had known of their mother’s disgrace and still insisted on coming to Town for the Season was, in Louisa’s estimation, unforgivable.
This afternoon’s row had begun not long after Lady Aveley had returned from another round of not-so-successful morning calls. She’d come through the door, her usual sunny expression set in a mask of worried lines.
Which was not unexpected. First, the salver that had initially overflowed had run dry. Then had come their tentative foray back into London society Saturday evening to a simple soirée.
Though it had turned out not to be so simple.
They’d arrived with high hopes that all of Lord Ilford’s bellicose threats had been for naught.
But, unfortunately, this time the man had been good to his word. They’d entered Lady Gourley’s drawing room to a silence that could have chilled every last bottle of champagne in London. No one would speak to them—they were given the cut direct by one and all. Despite Lady Aveley’s best intentions and her good name, not even the memory of dear Lady Charleton could get the ton to move from their ill-judgment of the Tempest sisters.
And as they were leaving, they had heard one matron sniff loudly as they passed and say to her companion, “Scandalous creatures—the both of them. Whatever is Lady Aveley thinking?”
Lavinia had come home in tears.
So this afternoon, when Louisa had once again broached the subject of returning to Kempton, Lavinia wouldn’t hear a word of such heresy.
Leave London in defeat and disgrace? Never!
“That is not what Lady Essex would do,” Lavinia had proclaimed. “Nor will I be undone by gossip. We can overcome all of this—just you wait and see.”
Louisa had nearly pointed out that Lady Essex’s mother had been a model of decorum, but then remembered something about the esteemed lady’s mother being a former opera dancer, which hardly served the moment.
“Just because all your hopes are dashed,” Lavinia had said in a willful moment of spite, before storming out of the house, seeking solace at the lending library around the corner where Lord Charleton held a subscription.
Louisa glanced out the window, where, over the garden wall, she hadn’t seen so much as a curtain move in days. She’d come up with a thousand and one reasons why Lord Wakefield had abandoned her.
And knew the one that was true. He didn’t want her. He never truly had.
According to Bob, “himself” had decamped to his lair and “wasn’t fit company.”
Besides, with Lady Melliscent now available . . . A widow must be much more preferable to the daughter of a . . .
Louisa spun away from the window. Oh, heavens, Mother. How could you? Abandon us like this. Leave us to face your misdeeds?
And Lavinia . . . she’d known all this time and never once . . .
Then again, so had she.
Yet Louisa knew her current woes were her own fault and certainly couldn’t be laid at another’s doorstep.
This was all her own doing. And undoing.
She’d behaved much as her mother had—without a thought to the consequences.
For the simple truth was, every time Wakefield looked at her, touched her, kissed her, she was lost.
How was it that the viscount knew exactly how to tap into her very soul? Tease out that cork that she’d used to tamp down every passion, every secret wish?
One glance and he unbottled her desires.
Bother the man. And his undone house. And all his beastly ways.
Still, what had she done? Driven him deeper into his lair, when he’d only just begun to come out.
So if Wakefield was lost, and their Season was adrift, there was one thing Louisa could do. Taking a deep breath, she gathered up her bonnet, pelisse and gloves, determined to mend fences with Lavinia. It hardly served for them to continue this brangle. To live at odds.
As Lady Essex always said, “One problem at a time.”
Stealing a last glance out the window toward the house over the wall, Louisa set off for the lending library.
Lavinia been going there nearly every day since the debacle at Almack’s—and since her sister only ever read the Miss Darby novels, romantic drivel of the worst order, in Louisa’s opinion, she was starting to have suspicions about her sister’s sudden interest in literature.
As it was, something else gave her pause. A few steps down the block there was a curricle in front of Lord Wakefield’s town house.
And worse, there was the viscount himself trying to get up into it.
Glancing over her shoulder, she considered walking around the block in the opposite direction, but then she considered what Lady Essex would say to such cowardice.
Balderdash! A lady always holds her head up.
So Louisa took a deep breath and continued her course, determined to walk right on past, until, that is, she came alongside him as he was making yet another attempt to climb up into his curricle, and lost both his walking stick and balance in the process.
She stepped forward quickly, putting her arm under his, and held him fast until he found his footing.
He glanced down at her and nearly tumbled again as he recoiled from her. “Miss Tempest? What the devil are you doing there?”
It was hardly the response she expected. A mere “thank you” might have sufficed.
Then again she nearly wished she’d let him fall to the ground, for just wrapping her hand around his elbow, brushing up against him to steady him was too much of a reminder of what it had been like to be in his arms.
To be kissed by him.
To have him tease her until her world unraveled.
Now here he was, gaping at her. “Where did you come from?” he demanded.
Something about his outraged tone needled her. “If it is any of your business, from Lord Charleton’s house.” She went to move around him, but he reached out and caught her by her elbow.
“No. I distinctly saw you get into a carriage and leave with Tuck.”
She glanced down at his fingers still wound around her arm and frowned. “Mr. Rowland? I think not,” she told him, shaking her head. He’d been one of the instruments of their fall from grace and was certainly the last person on earth Louisa would be seen with. Besides, there was a more obvious point. “However could I be in a carriage when I am standing right—”
Then her outrage caught up with what he’d been saying, put all the pieces together.
What had Lavinia said? I can overcome all of this—just you wait and see. . .
And then Wakefield. I distinctly saw you get into a carriage and leave with Tuck. . .
“Oh, good heavens, no!” she gasped, shaking her arm loose from his grasp and looking up and down the street for any sign of her sister.
“But I saw you—” he insisted.
“You didn’t see me,” she told him. “You saw my sister, Lavinia.”
He took a step back. “Oh, good Lord, I forgot. There’s two of you.”
“Yes, and one of us is apparently out riding with Mr. Rowland.” Any thoughts of reaching an accord with her sister were shelved. Along with her fiction of going to the library.
Oh, she was going to kill Lavinia! What was her sister thinking? Riding about with such a knave?
Thank goodness there were still men like Lord Wakefield who was willing to stop . . . willing to go after . . .
Louisa paused as a second revelation crossed through her thoughts and she looked up at the viscount. “Wait, you thought Lavinia was me.”
“Well, yes. I didn’t realize that you—”
“—are a twin,” she said offhandedly, not wanting to move away from her revealing discovery. “You were planning on rescuing me from Mr. Rowland.”
She couldn’t help herself, she smiled at him. All but forgot the indignities of the past five days.
He managed to look exceedingly put out by the suggestion, but Louisa wasn’t fooled, not even when he added a stumbling protest.
“I—I—I was not—”
And a hastily planned rescue from the looks of it. For here he was, his cravat barely tied, his chin scraped of whiskers with more than one nick, and his hair still damp from being scrubbed.
All evidence that he’d come after her in all due haste.
She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her boot to the pavement. Oh, he could protest all he wanted, but the evidence was right before her.
Worse, inside her chest, a tiny hope sparked back to life.
He’d come to rescue me. . .
“Well, I might have been under the impression—” he began, running a hand through his hair.
She cocked a brow upward.
“My uncle’s honor—” he added lamely.
At this she just laughed. Lord Charleton’s honor had hardly been in the forefront of Wakefield’s thinking the other night in the carriage. “And what were you planning to do once you lured me away from Mr. Rowland?”
A whirlwind of possibilities ran through her thoughts. Suggestions, ideas, promises.
Kiss me? Make love to me . . . Unravel me.
“Nothing!” he protested.
Not quite the answer she’d been hoping for, but then again she was cautiously optimistic this rescue was still in the planning stages.
“So you did dash out of your house to come rescue me,” she said with all confidence.
“Not in so many words,” he protested. “That is I—”
Oh, bother the man. As much as she would prefer to stand here and wait for a declaration from this obstinate viscount, she hadn’t the time.
And she knew what needed to be done. And quickly.
Louisa huffed a sigh and walked around the carriage, climbing up and into the driver’s seat, then glanced down at him. “Do you mind if I borrow your carriage so I can go rescue my sister?”
“I do indeed,” he huffed.
“Then you had best get up here and come with me. For I have every intention of borrowing it, whether you approve or not.”
“Then whyever did you ask?”
“I was attempting to be polite,” she told him. “Now am I borrowing it or stealing it?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he said, standing his ground.
But this was Louisa, and of course she would.