A Rag-mannered Rogue

by Hayley A. Solomon

  “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 t
he 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.

  Eleven

  It was the second footman’s pleasure to receive Miss Hampstead. Had she not knocked with such imperiousness, he doubted he would have admitted her, for she was far different from the kind of morning caller to which he was accustomed.

  As he later apologetically confided in Amesbury, he did indeed note her inadequate gown and unfashionable boots, not to mention the absence of a chaperone. Amesbury rather quellingly announced he should also have noticed that young ladies do not call on gentlemen, and that the hour was not so sufficiently advanced as to permit morning callers.

  To which, abashed, the second footman had nothing to say. They all waited, now, in anticipation of a roar from Nicholas’s study, where he was busy with accounts. He had been uncommonly moody lately, a fad that was not lost on his long-suffering staff, who permitted only their affection for him to stop a rash of sudden resignations.

  All except the French chef, that is, who’d resigned the day before amid a bitter tirade of bluster and a perfectly incomprehensible dialogue that the rest of the staff preferred untranslated. So what, after all, if he forgot to compliment the lightness of the soufflé, or if he should send back a dish of the finest creme brûlée? But then, of course, there was no accounting for the French.

  Now Miss Hampstead, cold in the third best reception chamber, shivered a little and contemplated her fate. A perfectly lovely ormolu clock ticked loudly upon an escritoire of sycamore marquetry, but Tessie was too nervous to admire either. Rather, she watched the hands of the clock, feeling more and more apprehensive and ill at ease. If she could have found her way through the rabbit warren of rooms without being stopped by a servant, she would probably have simply slipped away. But she knew she was being foolish, so she fingered her pistol in her reticule, bit her nails through her satin-fingered gloves, read and reread Lord Cathgar’s hastily scrawled note of hand, and waited.

  Finally, finally, the door opened. She expected, wide-eyed with sudden fright, the earl himself. It wasn’t. Rather, it was the butler. Tessie noticed at once his perfectly sumptuous livery, emblazoned with all types of braiding. She swallowed but managed to smile at him quite civilly.

  He bowed back, and directed her to follow. Nervously, she patted down her skirts and trailed behind him, past a corridor full of portraits, past a hall decorated in the classical style, with marble statues of Venus and Andromeda. . . past several antechambers and a large breakfast room, hung in azure silks. Then it was up a fluted stairway carved in mahogany, and down yet another corridor, silent, for the soft pile of the carpet cushioned her steps. Here and there she caught a glimpse of a maidservant or a footman, but by and large the house was empty.

  Tessie felt severe misgivings, for it felt like she was being drawn into the lion’s den, and for the life of her she felt there was no escape. It had not occurred to her that Cathgar would receive her anywhere other than in a respectable receiving room. But then, of course, she knew so little about Cathgar. . . .

  “Miss Charity Evans, my lord.” Tessie had used this name so that Cathgar would recognize her and allow her admittance. She felt abashed, though, to still be clinging to the obvious falsehood.

  “Enter.” The butler withdrew, allowing space for Tessie to step forward. She did, clutching at Mr. Devonshire’s papers and trembling in sudden nervous anticipation.

  The room smelled earthy, of pines from the fire and oak from the paneling. Sandalwood, too, and subtle scents of snuff . . . there were great, wide volumes on shelves, and leather-bound books scattered on reeded mahogany tables. Then, of course, there was Nick. He was holding a crystal glass, and its contents shimmered under the light of a thousand candles. Or so, indeed, it seemed to Tessie.

  Of course, he was impeccable in morning coat of jade green, with a whisper of emeralds about his throat, and fine lawn breeches that clung to his calf muscles like glue. . . . Tessie could hardly bear to look. And she, in her horrible olive, clutching dunning papers! Oh, it was too dreadful to even contemplate!

  He said nothing, just stared at her for a long while, until it seemed to her that she was no larger than a mite or a beetle. She did not notice the spark of happiness or the blaze of sudden excitement in those ridiculously blue eyes. She was much too nervous for that, especially as his presence seemed to take up a room rather than the small balcony doorway behind him.

  “Little Miss Nobody, I see.”

  “I wish you would stop calling me that!”

  “And I wish for many things I daresay I cannot have. Or not easily.”

  Tessie noticed the scar above his temple and the silver just flecking the glorious dark hair. Those eyebrows were arched, as usual. And she wondered what they portended.

  Nicholas waited, arms folded, for his little love to speak. He thought, after all the agonies he had endured, it was the least he could do.

  Miss Hampstead said nothing, she just clutched the papers a bit harder and wondered rather futilely whether it was too late to escape.

  At length, Nick, still loath to be the one to break the interesting silence, compromised by ringing a bell. Almost instantly a servant appeared, so Tessie was obliged to conclude the worst—Lord Cathgar had curious servants, and any conversation she might conduct in private would doubtless be overheard.

  The servant, to give him credit, had a wooden face that evinced no such curiosity, but then, that was always the mark of a superior footman. She sighed, not audibly, but sufficient for Nicholas to notice.r />
  “Tea, Rutherford.”

  “Tea, my lord?” Rutherford nearly disgraced himself by spluttering. Tea was not usually his master’s preferred drink.

  “Tea.” The answer was firm. “And some of those little cakes Mrs. Guthrie bakes.”

  “Very good, my lord.” The servant bowed, but his eyes lingered for an instant upon Miss Hampstead. Once again Tessie felt shabby in her makeshift olive.

  “Take a seat, my dear.”

  “I’d rather stand, my lord. This is not a social call.”

  “How very disappointing. And intriguing. You shall not mind if I own myself intrigued?”

  “You must please yourself, my lord.”

  “How very obliging. Possibly, I shall. Certainly, I believe I deserve to after the trick you served me!”

  Nicholas advanced toward her, his intention quite clear. He set his crystal down on the library table, causing Tessie’s heart to beat most erratically. When he was but inches from pulling her into his arms, however, Tessie turned her back, her eyes wild with . . . she knew not what.

  “That was not a trick, my lord! I waited until Joseph returned, just as I said I would.”

  Nick swiveled her toward him. Her gloved hands pushed him back, though her heart still beat most traitorously.

  He captured those silk-soft hands, retreating from their impetuous foray on his waistcoat. Papers crinkled against his starched shirt, his muscled stomach.

  Miss Hampstead pulled then, but his grip was quite fierce. He stepped closer, so Tessie had to look up, to glare at him.

  He laughed, though his eyes grew dark.

  “I thought I said I had other plans for you?”

  “Yes, but those were not my plans, my lord!”

  She felt her hands released.

  “Is your heart engaged elsewhere?”

  “No, but . . .”

  “Then you can have no possible excuse for behaving like a hoyden and not consenting to a proper conclusion.”

  “I was saving your life, my lord.”