The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  Nick swallowed the sudden, inexplicable fury that threatened to choke him. “She’s a guest under my roof. I’ll not have her insulted.” And if she were indeed Henry’s sister, that was even more reason to protect her.

  Not that he could imagine her needing his protection. She struck him as being quite capable of protecting herself.

  “I’m not going to rape the woman, Nick. I think she’s old enough to know her own mind”—Felix’s lips slid into a grin—“and needs. Frankly, she seemed overly agitated. She likely wants a good plowing to calm her and balance her humors.”

  Felix is an annoying idiot. Why did I invite him here?

  “Polly might not like it if you focus your attentions on this new woman, Felix,” Bertram said.

  Felix laughed. “This is an orgy, Bert. Polly knows she doesn’t have sole claim to me”—he grinned with a bit of swagger—“not that I can’t keep more than one female happy at a time.”

  Once I get back to London, I am cutting this connection.

  Their voices echoing off the hard, tile floor and bare walls must have been loud enough to alert one of the servants that something was afoot—something other than an orgy—because Brooks appeared from the depths of the house just as they started pulling on hobnail boots, coats, hats, and mufflers.

  The butler’s eyes widened. “Milord, you aren’t going out, are you?”

  There would be no other reason for him to be putting on all his blasted outerwear, would there? And yet he understood Brooks’s surprise. It was no secret Nick hated the winter weather.

  “Unfortunately, yes.” One would think after more than twenty years in England, he’d have grown used to the cold and damp, but it still cut him to the bone. “The stagecoach has had an accident, and there are people in need of rescuing. Can you ask Walters to harness the sleigh and take it down to the road to collect the passengers? And tell Mrs. Brooks we’ll have extra people to house and feed—”

  They heard a high, thin, furious wail that could only be coming from the sitting room.

  Poor Brooks so far forgot himself as to widen his eyes. “Milord?”

  “Yes, that’s a baby. Its mother is still with the coach. The, er, nursemaid brought the infant up with her when she came looking for help.” Nick slammed his beaver hat on his head. “We’re going to hike down there now to see what’s what and let them know help is coming. If we can, we’ll guide some of the men back on foot, but we’ll likely need the sleigh to fetch the women and the boy and all the luggage.”

  Brooks nodded. “Yes, milord. I’ll see to it at once.”

  The baby wailed again, spurring them all to action. Brooks hurried off to send some hapless footman to the stables and to alert Mrs. Brooks to prepare for the new arrivals. Nick led the way to the door and threw it open.

  A blast of frigid air and snow hit him in the face.

  God, I hate English winters.

  He gritted his teeth and plunged out into the bloody cold.

  Chapter Three

  That was Nick.

  Caro stood in front of the fire, held Grace firmly to her shoulder, and swayed and dipped. Her little dance quieted the baby again, but if the idiot men didn’t hurry, soon not even a spirited Scotch reel would keep Grace from howling.

  How did I not recognize him at once?

  The answer was obvious. She’d been focused on the emergency not the man. And it had been almost twenty years since she’d last seen him. He’d gone from being an awkward boy to a full-grown man.

  A full-grown, handsome man.

  She frowned. And an irresponsible one, apparently.

  She’d known the moment she’d seen his guests what sort of a party she’d interrupted. The men—including Nick—were disheveled and . . . relaxed. That was the best word she could come up with to describe the casual familiarity of what was clearly not a family group.

  Well, Nick didn’t have any family now, at least not in England.

  But beyond that, years of living in the Home among former prostitutes had made it obvious to Caro what sort of work these women did.

  It’s none of my concern if Nick wishes to fornicate in his country house. Why wouldn’t he? Oakland has never felt like a home to him.

  Except now he was Lord Oakland. It was his duty to care for the estate and its people.

  She felt a heavy sense of . . . what? Disappointment?

  Ridiculous. How Nick chose to live his life was none of her concern. Except . . .

  Her stomach dropped. She did care what sort of man Nick had become.

  She’d read about his escapades over the years, but she’d thought she was doing it simply to keep abreast of an old friend’s life. When she’d seen the report of his uncle’s death, she’d thought—hoped—that assuming the title would give Nick a purpose and a focus he’d lacked.

  Apparently not.

  A cold, hard knot formed in her stomach. She bounced Grace a little faster.

  “She’s so tiny.”

  One of the women hovered near Caro as if she wanted to touch Grace but was afraid to do so. She was young, likely younger than Grace’s mother, and quite plump, her ample breasts on the verge of spilling out of her dress. Her head was a riot of blond ringlets and her eyes—

  Her eyes were gray with yearning.

  “Would you like to hold her?” Though holding a hungry infant wasn’t a very pleasant experience unless you could also feed her.

  The girl shook her head, and her eyes suddenly welled with tears. She pressed her lips tightly together as if that would keep her face from crumpling.

  “It’s all right, Fanny.” One of the other women—the one with red hair, a broad face, and a smattering of freckles—put a comforting hand on Fanny’s arm.

  “Fanny lost a baby in the spring,” the third woman said. She was the shortest and oldest, likely about Caro’s age.

  Fanny swallowed, gulped, and nodded, still unable to speak.

  “I’m so sorry.” Caro had thought, when she was young, especially after—

  She shied away from the memory.

  When she was young, she’d thought miscarriage would be a blessing for an unmarried woman who found herself increasing, but since then she’d learned the matter was far more complicated. Some women were relieved to escape a difficult situation, but others were distraught, and almost all were sad to some degree.

  And now she knew that being an unmarried mother didn’t have to be a curse, especially for women who managed to make their way to the Benevolent Home. Look at Pen. She’d raised her daughter for nine years by herself until August when, in an absurd fairy-tale ending, she’d married Harriet’s father.

  At least Caro hoped the fairy tale was a happy one, and the earl didn’t prove to be a beast at heart.

  She patted Grace and jiggled her some more.

  Well, all right. Caro wasn’t especially proud to admit it, but she’d be just a little happy and a lot relieved if Pen’s marriage did not work out. They’d yet to find a new hop grower, and without a good crop of hops, there’d be no Widow’s Brew.

  “Are you the baby’s nursemaid?” the older woman asked pleasantly. Her expression was friendly, but her eyes were sharp. Shrewd.

  The businesswoman in Caro recognized that look—and she could guess what the woman was hoping to sell her. Surely, she didn’t think she could charm Caro into joining her stable of light-skirts?

  Perhaps she was assuming a motive that wasn’t there. The question was a reasonable one, after all.

  “No. I just offered to hold Grace. It was crowded in the coach, and her mother needed help.”

  “Ah.” The woman’s gaze grew sharper. She smiled. “I’m surprised your husband let you travel alone—or is he still with the stagecoach?”

  Oh, Lord. Please let me be wrong about this. “I’m not married.”

  “I see.” Her smile widened, her voice growing thick with flattery. “You must know your figure, your face—especially those lovely blue eyes—are very striking. Have you ev
er wished to live and work in Town? I could find you a splendid position.”

  Blast, blast, blast. I was right.

  “I already have a position.”

  After spending years living and working with retired Cyprians—the “abandoned women” in the Home’s name referred not just to females who had been abandoned by their families, but also to those who’d abandoned Society’s rules—she felt no moral outrage. A woman alone had to resort to whatever means were at her disposal to make her way in the world. But she also felt no desire to join the ranks of the fashionable impures. She would have to be on death’s doorstep to let a man touch her that way again.

  “But this position would be much, much better. You’d be surrounded by only the best of Society.” The woman’s smile turned sly. “The best gentlemen of Society. With very little effort, you could have wealth and independence beyond your wildest dreams.”

  Caro’s stomach twisted at the memory of what that “effort” entailed.

  “It’s true,” the redheaded girl said. “Livy knows all the swells.”

  Fanny nodded. “I worked as a barmaid afore I fell in with Livy. This is much better.” She grinned. “It’s not really work.”

  The older woman—Livy—smiled. “I know any number of gentlemen—some lords, even—who would be very happy to make your acquaintance.”

  Caro’s stomach twisted again. Fortunately, it was empty or she might have punctuated her refusal quite dramatically.

  “Thank you, but I’m quite content with my current situation. I’m the brewster at the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children in Little Puddledon.”

  All three women blinked. Hearing the Home’s name for the first time often had that effect on people.

  “My name is Caroline Anderson.” The baby squeaked, and Caro bounced her a bit more vigorously. The men had better get back with Grace’s mother very, very soon. She couldn’t distract the poor infant much longer. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Olivia—Livy—Williams,” the older woman said, and then introduced the others. “Fanny Taylor and Polly White.” She smiled slowly, her eyes watchful, still hopeful of a sale. “We’re here for a Christmas orgy.”

  Oh, hell.

  Caro had known this was a scandalous gathering, but she hadn’t realized it was quite that scandalous. Apparently, Nick had fully embraced the life of a degenerate peer.

  “There’s no reason you couldn’t join in. If the snow keeps up, you’ll be stranded here for a while. You might as well get a taste of the life I could offer you. If you like it . . .” Livy raised her brows and shrugged.

  “We get paid very well,” Polly said.

  Livy nodded. “You’d have a very hard time finding work that pays half as well—and with such reasonable hours and delightful, er, companionship.”

  How could Caro get through to the woman? Perhaps if she spoke slowly and distinctly. “I. Really. Am. Not. Interested.”

  And she really, really hoped Nick would get back soon. Surely, enough time had elapsed for him to tramp down to the stagecoach and back. It wasn’t as if he were hiking to Marbridge.

  Livy’s too-shrewd eyes were still studying her. “I think you might be just what Nick needs. He’s seemed a little bored recently—a little, er, limp in the bedroom, if you know what I mean?”

  No! She didn’t want to know anything about Nick and bedrooms. If she weren’t holding a baby, she’d stick her fingers in her ears and hum.

  No need for that. Baby Grace finally lost patience. Her wails of hunger, sharp and insistent, ended all conversation.

  * * *

  Nick pushed open the front door in time to hear Livy’s voice, coming from the sitting room. He caught only a few words—bored, limp, bedroom—but that was enough to cause a hot flush to flood his face and ears and—

  Hell, likely his entire body, including his poor, maligned cock.

  Zeus! Who’s Livy talking to?

  Cold horror quickly replaced mortification.

  Dear God, don’t let it be Caro.

  And then the baby started to wail.

  “Grace!” Grace’s mother, still wearing her coat, pushed past him, hurried across the entry—tracking snow over the tile floor—and disappeared into the sitting room.

  “Grace is hungry,” Grace’s brother said.

  Nick nodded and closed the door, shutting out the arctic air. He and Bert and Felix had found the woman and her son halfway up the drive, fighting their way through the deep snow, following the path Caro had made earlier. Grace’s mother had told them the others were still with the stagecoach, that the coachman had told her to stay, too, but she couldn’t—she knew her baby needed her.

  Why none of the men had felt the smallest spark of chivalry and come with the poor woman and child once it was clear they were setting off was beyond Nick’s understanding. They would all have to come here eventually. The snow, which had got even worse in the short, miserable time he’d been out in it, must have made the roads completely impassible, even for a horseman. Oakland was their only hope of shelter—of survival, to be blunt about it.

  So, he’d sent Felix and Bert on to the coach while he turned back, carrying the boy piggyback and going ahead of the woman, tamping down the snow for her as best he could. He’d seen the sleigh go by just as they reached the front door, so the others would be arriving soon.

  Oh, blast. Now the boy was shivering, his teeth chattering so loudly, Nick could hear them. He’d have to—

  “Lord Oakland!” Caro came striding toward him, the mother’s still-dripping cloak draped over her arm, the mother with the still-screaming baby following behind her. “We need a room with a—ayiee!”

  Caro slipped on a wet tile, got tangled in the cloak, and started to go down.

  Nick lunged and caught her, pulling her tightly up against his chest.

  Mmm. This is nice.

  Caro fit into his arms perfectly. Her mouth was just the right distance from his that he could kiss . . .

  Right. And get himself soundly slapped or, more likely, kneed in the groin.

  He set Caro away just as she pushed against him. Her cheeks were flushed, and she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  Interesting . . .

  Suddenly he didn’t feel at all bored—or limp, for that matter. Though it was a mystery how he could be feeling anything but a pounding headache with the infant shrieking.

  “Mrs. . . .” Caro looked back at the woman. “What is your name, madam?” She had to raise her voice to be heard.

  Ah. So, she’s not the baby’s nursemaid.

  “Emma Dixon,” the woman shouted back.

  Caro nodded and turned to him. “We need a room at once with a roaring fire so Mrs. Dixon can get warm and dry and have some privacy in which to nurse Grace.” She looked at the boy. “And Edward needs to get warm and dry, too.”

  Nick nodded. So, what was he to do? It was so hard to think with the baby wailing.

  The only bedrooms with banked fires and sturdy doors were already assigned. The others were in Holland covers, though he supposed poor Mrs. Brooks and the chambermaids were feverishly working to get them ready. Still, none would have fires going.

  There was only one answer: he’d have to let them use his room.

  “Come along.” He led the way up the stairs, the boy trotting at his side, the mother and Caro following behind with the screaming infant.

  Harboring stranded travelers—especially a woman and her baby—is more in the spirit of the season than an orgy.

  Eh, where had that thought come from? It was true, he supposed, if the holiday being celebrated was Christmas rather than Saturnalia, but housing a hodgepodge of strangers was also far more annoying and less entertaining.

  It’s not annoyance you feel for Caro.

  Yes, but the odd excitement and anticipation—if those were what the feelings roiling his gut were—could easily end up turning to disappointment and painful, ah
, frustration. As far as he knew, Caro was a virtuous woman, uninterested in any sort of dalliance.

  Though there had been those flushed cheeks . . .

  No. Remember, this is Henry Anderson’s sister.

  Not that he’d seen Henry in years. Nick had stopped going home with Henry shortly after he’d turned fifteen and Uncle Leon had forced him to spend every school holiday at Oakland. And Henry had never been part of the rather wild set he ran with in London.

  And then Henry had married young and retired to the country to raise horses and children.

  Nick felt a twinge of regret. He’d liked Henry. I shouldn’t have let our friendship go.

  But people changed. Had different priorities . . .

  And what are my priorities? Raking and carousing and wasting time?

  Guilt slithered through him, as it had more and more often since his uncle’s death.

  That’s just because Pearson has been yammering at me to sit down with him and go over the boring estate books.

  In any event, he had more pressing problems at the moment. He could feel the eyes of the strong-willed woman behind him burning a hole in his back, willing him to move faster.

  It wasn’t just the fact that Caro was Henry’s sister that demanded he treat her with respect. He might be Lord Devil and not the best landowner, but he hadn’t lost all sense of propriety or, well, kindness. She was a woman forced to take shelter in his home. That was enough to guarantee her safety from him or any of his guests.

  Unless she doesn’t wish to be safe.

  Ha! He knew a self-serving rationalization when he thought one.

  Where had she been all these years? He vaguely remembered she’d gone to London....

  Ah, yes. She’d found a position at Dervington’s London house as a nursemaid, hadn’t she? Nick remembered being concerned about her when he’d heard that, as Dervington hadn’t the best reputation, but by the time he’d got around to inquiring about her, she was gone. Under a bit of a cloud, he thought.

  Guilt brushed his soul again.

  “Why are there s-so many empty sp-spots?”

  “What?”

  Edward pointed to the walls, to the large rectangles of darker wallpaper where clearly paintings had once hung. “P-pictures are m-missing.”