Pierson woke late the next day to find that Hannibal hadn’t even bothered to announce his arrival.
He was stretched out on the coverlet beside the viscount, sound asleep. And taking up a good portion of the bed. Presumptuous wretch!
The viscount went to get up and then remembered the quantity of brandy he’d had the night before and paused to get his bearings.
Usually he consumed that much to forget the horrors of Spain.
Now he’d added Miss Tempest to his list of matters best blotted out.
If he didn’t evict the chit from his memories, he’d be spending more nights like the previous one, pacing about his study, his fingers flexing as he recalled the silk of her hair as he’d brushed it off her chin, unrequited desires leaving him restless.
Demmit! He should have just kissed her and been done with it . . .
That notion got him moving out of his bed, with Hannibal making a discontented mew at being disturbed.
Once again there was a bit of sun piercing an opening in the curtains. How was it that every morning since that chit had arrived he’d been greeted in such an unholy manner? As if nudged awake by Miss Tempest herself. And he’d sworn that he’d closed those drapes tight last night before he’d gone to bed.
He reached for his cane and then stomped about the room, getting his clothes pulled on, for he knew exactly what must be done.
Get that minx out of his life. For good.
Given the determined tilt of her brow and that teary-eyed glance of gratitude she’d shone upon him when he hadn’t sent Mrs. Petchell packing, he’d wager his next quarter’s rents that she’d be back.
Rather like her cat.
He went downstairs and found a splendid breakfast laid out on the sideboard. Taking an appreciative sniff, he conceded that having well-cooked meals certainly was an improvement. But that was the last of Miss Tempest’s changes he would tolerate.
A new cook and two children were enough. But he drew the line there. No more improvements.
And no more thoughts of kissing . . .
Once his breakfast was finished, he gathered up his cane and rang for Tiploft.
“I need my coat and gloves,” he told his astounded butler. “Oh, and tell that lad to toss Miss Tempest’s cat into a sack for me. He’ll find the beast on my bed.”
“Yes, my lord,” Tiploft replied.
“It is time I set this all to rights,” he added.
The wry glance from his butler suggested the viscount could try, and good luck with his endeavor.
Well, Pierson would show him. He was the master of this house and his life.
A sentiment he intended to repeat half an hour later when he was shown into Lord Charleton’s library.
Much to his chagrin, he found not his uncle there but Lord Charleton’s heir, Mr. Alaster Rowland, ensconced on Charleton’s imposing chair and helping himself liberally to the brandy bottle.
No matter that it wasn’t yet noon.
“Tuck,” Pierson said, using the nickname he’d given his former friend when they’d been but lads. “Whatever are you doing here?” He didn’t look Rowland in the eye.
He never did. Not anymore.
“Summoned,” Tuck drawled, propping his long legs up and settling his boots atop the desk. He cradled the now-brimming glass in his hands and smiled, a slight, lazy tip of his lips. “I suppose you were as well, cuz.”
Cuz. He started to argue the matter—for just because his aunt and Tuck’s uncle had married, that didn’t make them . . . Well, no matter.
“No, I was not summoned,” Pierson replied, eyeing the reprobate with disdain. It hadn’t always been so between them—once they’d been as close as brothers. Him and Tuck, and . . .
Pierson stopped there. He didn’t like to think of that third name. So instead, he upended the sack atop Charleton’s desk, right next to where Tuck had his boots propped.
When Hannibal came out, hissing and spitting, Tuck nearly toppled out of Charleton’s chair to avoid being swiped. “Good God, Piers, what the devil is that?”
“If you weren’t already foxed, you could see that it is a cat.”
“So you say,” Tuck replied, warily moving around the desk and taking a stand across the room. “And I am hardly foxed. Only mildly bosky. I’m not such a fool that I don’t know what is going on around here—show up half-seas over and I’ll wake up in the parson’s trap—that’s what would happen.”
It took Pierson a moment to follow the logic of Tuck’s complaints, yet when he did, he had no love for the conclusion.
Not one bit.
The very thought of Miss Tempest being matched to Tuck tightened like a knot inside Pierson’s chest.
And worse was the furious thought that sprang forth with that unholy image.
Over my dead body.
“Do you know what the devil is going on?” Tuck continued, then apparently changed his mind. “What am I doing asking you? Probably don’t even know that Charleton’s gone into the matchmaking business. The word is all over Town. He’s been hoaxed into this mess by some leftover debt of your aunt’s.” The man groaned. “If you’d deign to show your face, you might know these things. Uncle is going to try to snare one of us into this marriage folly—I’d wager my next quarter’s allowance on it.”
“Haven’t you already wagered that away?”
Tuck was always at least two quarters behind with his debts. If not three.
The man paused and then grinned, ever unrepentant and hardly ever slighted. “Suppose I have. No matter. Then again, you said you weren’t summoned. Might want to take that creature and make a dash for the country before Uncle remembers you’re still alive.” Tuck took a long glance at Pierson’s coat and ensemble. “Well, mostly.” He heaved a sigh and went back to warily watching Hannibal.
Thankfully, Charleton made his appearance just then, and Hannibal took the opportunity to streak through the open doorway, making his escape.
“Wretched beast,” the baron muttered as he watched the cat go. “Ah, Alaster, right on time.” Then the baron looked up and noticed the room’s other occupant. “Wakefield?”
The viscount nodded in return. “I know I am intruding upon your meeting, but my business won’t take but a moment.” He shifted uncomfortably. It hurt like the devil to stand about like this, though he’d never admit as much.
Certainly not in front of Tuck.
“Yes, well, come, sit,” Charleton said. “I see you’ve already helped yourself to a libation.” This was directed at his heir.
Tuck tipped his glass, an incorrigible grin on his face. “Yes, well, it seemed fortification might be necessary.”
“Harrumph,” the baron snorted, and made his way to his chair.
As the baron dropped into his place, Pierson took the other chair. Tuck remained standing, taking an insolent stance near the door.
Probably so he could beat a hasty retreat if it came to that.
Pierson turned his back to his old friend and got directly to the point. “Sir, I implore you, keep that chit out of my house and out of my life.”
“Out of your house?” This incredulous statement came blurting out of Tuck, and the other two turned to him.
“Not a word out of you,” Charleton threatened, adding a wag of his finger to emphasize his point.
That seemed to be enough for the reprobate. Tuck turned his attention back to his brandy glass.
Not that Pierson was fooled for a moment. But he wasn’t about to leave just to return later so he could have a private word with Lord Charleton. He’d managed to get this far, so he’d conclude his business and get back to his house.
His castle. His sanctuary. Well away from loafing fools like Alaster Rowland—who only served to remind him of the past—and well away from bothersome chits who prodded him to think only of the lonely days that lay ahead.
“Yes, well, my lord,” the viscount said, sitting up. “You must rein Miss Tempest in. She’s interfering in my life.”
Charleton barked a laugh. “Get in line.” Then after the moment, he glanced across the desk. “Though, I must say, if anything, I commend her—she got you out and over here. When was the last time you came calling?”
Pierson sat back, for he hardly saw how that mattered, but something about his uncle’s hard expression suggested it did. To him. And that took the viscount aback—for he just assumed most people preferred not to see him. Not to be reminded of the ugly toll a war can take.
Besides, his limping about was hardly fashionable.
So as to his social calls, he had only one thing to say. “I hardly see how that matters. I simply prefer to keep my own company.”
“Yes, the bleary eyes, pale features and grimace every time you move confirms as much,” Tuck muttered.
Pierson took a deep breath. The sooner he got this interview over, the quicker he could leave. “Sir,” he continued, shifting his chair so he faced Charleton directly, “if you can just keep her out of my house, I would be most appreciative.”
Charleton glanced up. “Which one?”
Which one? A wary chill ran down his spine. “You mean there is more than one of them?”
“Yes. Two,” Charleton replied. “Louisa and Lavinia.”
There was a low whistle from Tuck. When the other two turned to glare at him, he grinned. “I’ll be as still as the grave.”
“Happy day that,” Pierson muttered.
“Yes, well, which one is causing this misery, my boy?” Charleton asked.
Pierson paused and let a momentary flash of alarm fade a bit. He could hardly say the one with the strawberry-colored lips.
He glanced over his shoulder. Not in front of Tuck.
“Does it matter which one?” he said, with a shrug of indifference. “Ban them both if you must. And that beast of hers—why, he’s practically moved into my house.”
Charleton’s brows quirked. “Hannibal? So you’ve had the pleasure.”
“I don’t know if I’d call it that—” Pierson began before his uncle barked a laugh.
“Better your house than mine,” Charleton said. “While Louisa avows her cat is harmless, one of the maids quit just yesterday. Swore the beast had beset her with an evil eye.”
“Probably didn’t like cleaning up after him,” Pierson noted.
“How’s that?”
“That cat toppled one of my mother’s Italian vases. And left a rather indistinguishable pile on the carpet. Not to mention he has a penchant for bringing in gifts.”
“Gifts?” Tuck asked.
“Dead rats,” Pierson told him, then returned to the more pressing matter at hand. “I just want the chit and her cat out of my house. I’m tired of her unexpected arrivals.”
“Sounds like my sort of gel,” Tuck added gleefully.
“None of that!” Charleton barked at him. “Those girls are Lady Charleton’s goddaughters. Their father is a respected scholar and gentleman. They are innocent young girls, ladies, you devilish pup, and will be treated as such. Lady Charleton’s wishes were explicit in this matter, especially since their mother died when they were young. Isobel promised Lady Tempest they would have . . . Well, she left instructions with Haley that they be . . .”
And as it always did when it came to his wife, Charleton came to a blundering halt and he glanced away, his grief still as fresh as the day Lady Charleton had been lost.
A twinge of something—guilt, perhaps—nudged at Pierson. Not that he’d done anything to help his favorite aunt’s husband. Hadn’t even gone to her funeral.
All he could do was glance away and try to ignore his own shame.
“Yes . . . well . . .” Tuck said into the awkward void. “Where were we? Ah, yes, banning Uncle’s stray misses from your house, wasn’t that it, Piers?”
The viscount gave a tight nod.
Tuck wasn’t done. But then again, he did like to wade in where he wasn’t wanted. “And what grievous offense has this chit managed—besides getting you to lower your demmed drawbridge? That she dared venture into your lair says much for her. Brave one, this gel.”
Pierson turned slightly so he could look Tuck in the eye. “She fired my cook.”
That brought Charleton out of his grief-stricken reverie. “Louisa did what?”
“Fired my cook,” Pierson repeated, only after he silently tested her name. Miss Louisa Tempest.
No, that wouldn’t do. To think of her with such familiarity would only lead to trouble. Miss Tempest she was, and troublesome Miss Tempest she would remain. “After she sent him packing,” Pierson continued, “she felt the need to go find a new one. Foisted some harridan off on me. Monstrous woman. Mrs. Picton. No. Mrs. Pettle.”
He didn’t know why he was complaining. If the meals he’d enjoyed since yesterday were any indication, the woman could cook. But that was beside the point . . .
Tuck came and sat down in the chair next to Pierson, gripping the padded arms. “You don’t mean to say Mrs. Petchell?”
“Yes, that’s it. What of it?”
Tuck sat back, raking his hand through his hair. “Aveley’s Mrs. Petchell?”
“I don’t know whose she was before, but now I’ve got the bother of her. But now that you say that, I do believe Miss Tempest mentioned that Lady Aveley helped her find the woman.”
“Good God, man!” Tuck exclaimed. “Mrs. Petchell! In your kitchen, no less.” He let out a low whistle of disbelief. “I want to see Aveley’s face when he finds out. Nearly divorced his wife over the entire matter. Foolish chit fired the old gel so she could get herself some haughty French fellow.”
Well, Pierson knew that scenario all too well. But still . . .
“What did this Petchell woman do that Aveley’s wife let her go? Poison someone?” he asked, not putting it past the rough woman to tamper with his kippers.
“Poison?” Tuck shook his head. “Oh, no, nothing so drastic. Rather, that spoiled miss Aveley took for a bride thought a French chef would lend their household entertainments a certain cachet—I do say, it’s just one more reason not to marry—these Bath gels come along and take a well-ordered, sensible bachelor house and turn it upside down.”
And even when one hasn’t married them, Pierson fumed silently, thinking of Miss Tempest and the determined set of her strawberry lips.
Nor was Tuck done extolling the virtues of Mrs. Petchell. “Oh, you’ve stolen a march on Aveley, that’s for certain. Mrs. Petchell is extraordinary—she can cook a beefsteak to a turn.” He let out a sigh of envy, as if the plate was before him and he was allowed only a sniff. When he recovered, and he did so quickly, he continued. “You’ll find out soon enough—and you’ll be the envy of London. She turned down half a dozen offers, refused work from some very lofty addresses. Can’t see why she’d come work for you, but that’s to my benefit.”
The man sat back, hands folded over his stomach and his long legs stuck out in front of him.
Pierson didn’t like the sound of that—nor the sight of Tuck making himself at home. “What the devil do you mean?”
“Now you have to invite me to supper. I won’t be deprived, and don’t worry, I hardly ever stand on ceremony. Nothing special—just half a dozen or so dishes and a good steak. Oh, and that port your father always kept. You haven’t drunk it all down, have you?”
Pierson flinched at the implication. His drinking was his own business. “I don’t host suppers.”
Tuck leaned back in his chair. “You do now, cuz,” he said with his usual confidence. “And I don’t see why you are over here complaining about this Miss Tempest to our uncle. That gel managed to get Mrs. Petchell into your kitchen. Mrs. Petchell, of all wonders.” He smiled and met Pierson’s gaze. “What you should be doing is proposing to this paragon.”
“Proposing?” Pierson sputtered as he sat up.
Tuck nodded, almost solemnly. He turned to Charleton. “Is this Miss Tempest a fetching bit of muslin? Might consider the gel myself if she’s pretty. Is she?”
“No!” Pierson shot back, having regained his wits.
“No?” This question came from the baron.
“Not in the least,” Pierson insisted.
“Well, is she or isn’t she?” Tuck asked, his gaze moving from his uncle to Pierson as if he knew something was afoot.
Of course he did. Tuck could find mischief in an empty sack.
And that was the problem. Pierson didn’t know why, but he didn’t want Tuck—or any man with such a reputation—anywhere near Miss Tempest.
“Fetching? No. Not particularly. Rather plain in my estimation. Reminds me of a sparrow,” Pierson replied.
This seemed to deflate Tuck’s interest in her. For now. “Yes, well, you do have an eye. Or at least you did. Your Melliscent was fair enough. And if you say this Miss Tempest isn’t—”
“Not in the least,” the viscount asserted. “Quite plain. And worse, a harridan in the making.” To emphasize his point, he screwed his brows together and frowned at their uncle. “Heaven help you, Charleton, when you foist her off on some unsuspecting rube.” He shuddered for good measure.
For his part, Lord Charleton said nothing, watching their exchange with a bland expression, though if Pierson didn’t know better, he suspected the baron was bemused by the viscount’s dissembling.
Well, there was a fragment of truth in all of it.
The gel was going to be the death of some man—just not him.
And most decidedly, not Tuck.
Plain? Louisa reeled back from the doorway. A harridan in the making?
She didn’t know which one offended her more . . . or why she even cared.
“Louisa Tempest! What are you doing?” Lavinia’s horrified question spun Louisa around.
Good heavens, her sister’s timing couldn’t be worse.
“Ssshh,” she replied, and nodded toward the door.
Her sister frowned. “Come away from there right now,” she whispered, catching Louisa by the crook of her arm and trying to tug her away. “What if someone catches you?”
She’d considered such a consequence when she’d walked past and heard Wakefield’s unmistakable tones coming from inside. But that same voice had lured her closer, just as the possibility of his kiss had before.
She slipped from her sister’s grasp. “But it’s him.” Despite how her pride rankled at being called a harridan, or rather “one in the making,” for some reason she wanted to hear more of Wakefield’s opinions.
Even if he thought her a ruinous match.
Well, she had her own opinions of him. Awful beast of a man.
“Him?” Lavinia repeated, then the dawning light of understanding widened her eyes. “Oh, him.” Lavinia looked from the door to her sister. “Are you certain? Lady Aveley says he never leaves his house. I swear, Louisa, if you have gone and ruined—”
“No, no, it is nothing like that,” Louisa said, even if it had sounded very much like that.
Oh, bother, it sounded exactly like that.
I just want the chit and her cat out of my house. I’m tired of her unexpected arrivals.
Yes, well, at least he’d already levied that charge before Lavinia happened upon the scene.
And apparently the unprecedented arrival of Lord Wakefield changed her sister’s disdain for eavesdropping, for now it was Lavinia with her ear pressed to the door.
“Who’s the other gentleman?” she asked, getting straight to the heart of the matter. Lavinia might not approve of eavesdropping on principle, but that didn’t mean she was unaccomplished in the act.
Louisa shook her head. “I’m not certain. Lord Charleton called him Tuck.”
After a moment of consideration, Lavinia came up with the answer. “That would make him Mr. Rowland, Lord Charleton’s heir. The son of Lord Charleton’s brother. Lady Aveley told me all about him. He’s barely received—a terrible bounder.” She shook her head with dismay, for such a man would never do in Lavinia’s estimation.
Respectability. Loyalty. Sensibility.
Those were the traits her sister wanted in a marriage partner.
Having met Lord Wakefield and listened to this Mr. Rowland, Louisa was starting to believe her sister would be better served by getting a pug than seeking a husband in London.
“Whatever are they going on about?” Lavinia whispered as she strained to hear more.
“Mrs. Petchell,” Louisa supplied, ear back at the crack in the door, and having caught up with the subject being discussed inside. When her sister appeared puzzled, she continued. “The cook. The one Lady Aveley suggested.”
“That might explain this,” she said as she dug into her pocket and produced a note, handing it over to Louisa before manning her position once again.
Louisa glanced down at the note written in a rough, bold hand.
A word with you, Miss Tempest. Immediately.
M. Petchell
Louisa nearly groaned aloud. This didn’t bode well. Not in the least.
“Go on, see what she wants and make sure that everything is managed,” Lavinia whispered, shooing her toward the back stairs. “I’ll take a full accounting for you.” And with that, she pressed her ear back to the door.