A Rag-mannered Rogue

by Hayley A. Solomon

  “Guv!” Joseph looked shocked. “I be missin’ out on all the ’citement! Wot if she shoots yer?”

  “Then doubtless I shall die.”

  “But . . .”

  “No buts, Joseph. I realize my life is your chief source of entertainment, but on this issue I remain firm.”

  “Lawks alive! You might be wishin’ for my ’elp, beggin’ your lor’ship’s pardon!”

  “You apparently regard my . . . eh . . . private life to be as hazardous a mission as my . . . government activities. You may be right. However, I shall risk it, if you please, in peace. Besides, Pebbles is her favorite horse.”

  Joseph brightened. “Well, a rare goer she is, and that be fact! Orl right, guv, I shall do as yer say, but mind yer p’s and q’s and don’t make a botch of it this time! I ’ave a fancy to see the little mistress again, and that be fact! ”

  “I shall endeavor to please you, Joseph.”

  Nicholas barely kept the irony from his tone. Joseph, however, saw nothing amiss in his master’s words, and actually doffed his cap. Then he spoiled the effect by winking, shaking Nick’s immaculate gloves mercilessly, and whistling as he returned to his duties.

  Nick, free of those eagle eyes, sighed. He only wished he could be so sanguine. If Tessie was outrageous enough to dismiss his suit again, he would have to either murder her, kiss her, or abduct her. The trouble was, he really did not know which.

  Miss Hampstead, the object of such musings, needed to clear her head. She had come to love the bustle about the great ivy-clad mansion, and even the comfort of her work, for while she stitched, there was precious little time to pine or muse. She had, of course, several times fallen into some happy daydreams but been rewarded for her pains by a needle pricking into her thumb or pins poking at her fingers. When the countess finally lifted an inquiring brow at such hamhandedness, she had colored and muttered nonsense about needing air and such.

  The countess often obliged by ringing for a footman and having several of the windows open despite some inclement breezes from the east.

  Then Tessie had shivered a little over her work but felt foolish asking for the great glass panes to be shut again. Once, when she was biting back an involuntary tear, the countess took her work from her and threw it—in a shockingly haphazard manner—on the bureau behind them.

  “Come, come, is it so very bad, then, this life? It is very different from being a lady of fashion, perhaps—”

  “No! Oh, no! You have been so kind. I never dreamed being in service could be so pleasant!”

  “Then why are you crying? Yes, scrub at your face as you may, I can see there are tears! I may be as blind as a bat and need my monocle from time to time, but I am not in my dotage! Can you not confide in me?”

  “You are kind to take the trouble . . .”

  “Not as kind as you might think. I have my reasons, Miss Hampstead.”

  Tessie wondered what the reasons could possibly be, but she was too well bred—when not in a fiery rage—to ask.

  “Is it a man? When I was your age, it was always a man!”

  “Oh, he is not just any man!”

  The countess smiled in satisfaction. “But it is a man that troubles you?”

  Tessie blushed, knowing she should rather have held her tongue. The countess was too sharp to continue this particular discussion. But she showed no inclination to drop the topic, scraping great bolts of cloth onto the floor to make space for her ample being.

  “Ma’am, they will be crushed!”

  “Oh, bother the gowns! It is far more fascinating to meddle in other people’s business!”

  Tessie could not help but laugh. It was impossible to be angry with the countess, who she knew was nothing but kindness itself.

  “I don’t suppose you can really meddle, Countess. And my story is not unique enough to be fascinating.”

  “I shall be the judge of that, if you please! Now, tell me at once! Are you in love?”

  Tessie was suddenly shy. “A little.”

  “A little? A little? ” The countess’s voice rose an octave. “Don’t be a nincompoop, girl! One does not fall in love a little!”

  “Well, a lot, then. Terribly. Hopelessly.”

  “Ah, now, that is better! I adore passion, and a smidgen of pathos. Adds spice.”

  Tessie nearly rather tartly mentioned that her life was not designed wholly to add spice to the countess’s day, but she rather nobly refrained. She was fond of the countess.

  “Don’t glare at me as if you’ve swallowed a sour grape! Yes, I know you very likely want to throttle me, but you shan’t. Though you undoubtedly have spirit, you are also very prettily behaved. So just resign yourself and tell me the whole.”

  “The whole?”

  The countess’s voice was firm. “The whole.” She looked up from her great jeweled turban of russet silk.

  “Go away, Delia. Tessie is busy.”

  Miss Hampstead, who had not noticed the door opening, looked up.

  “Lady Ashleigh . . .”

  “Lady Ashleigh is just leaving.” The countess glared at the indignant sister of Lord Nicholas Cathgar. They had the identical blue eyes and arrogant brows. Lady Ashleigh, however, had no scar to mar her handsome features. Tessie felt that wave of familiarity again, but she could not put her finger on it, certainly not now, when she was being trapped into confidences by her fierce—and kindly—employer.

  “Am I?” Lady Ashleigh raised those lovely brows. “Why do I think I would rather not?” Her voice tinkled with laughter. Tessie wondered why, for indeed, the countess was being astonishingly rude to her morning caller.

  “Because you are a meddlesome baggage. Come back later, if you must. Miss Hampstead and I are in urgent discussions.”

  “Regarding gowns? I rather have a fancy to—”

  “Get out!” The countess threw an ink pot at Lady Ashleigh’s head. She ducked rather expertly, but deep indigo stained both the bonnet and the floor. Tessie gasped, but Lady Ashleigh did not seem to take offense, merely discarding her hat as if it were of small moment.

  “Thank God your aim is deteriorating with age. You missed this lovely sprigged muslin. Do you like it, Miss Hampstead? I purchased it in Chiswick. . . .”

  “Go!” her ladyship positively roared.

  “Pardon?” Delia asked innocently. Tessie started to giggle. It was a mad and delightful household she had stumbled upon!

  “Oh, I can take a subtle hint. Yes, yes, I shall take my leave now.” Delia smiled sweetly. At the door she turned and faced the countess once more.

  “By the bye, you owe me a bonnet. A high poked one, I think, with spangles of ribbon . . .”

  But the door was shut in her face.

  Tallows grimaced in annoyance. Three weeks of skulking about the estate, poaching nothing but a jugged hare and a couple of trout, had done nothing for his temper. He now knew where the girl was residing, but not in the least how to kidnap her. The house was swarming with liveried staff, and if that wasn’t enough, there were grooms and milkmaids, and heaven knew what all over the grounds. On the odd occasion—like when she visited that ruin of a church—she left the estate, but it was always with some grim groom in tow, or that modish woman who rode so disgustingly well.

  If he was going to succeed, it would have to be with the girl alone. Two was too many for one person to overpower—and he had already seen what havoc the girl could wreak. More than enough of a handful, that one. Tallows lurked behind the hedges, pulling the odd weed when somebody passed. The only good thing about an estate like this was that there were always gardeners. One more pulling weeds would excite little notice, or so he hoped. He doffed a cap at one of the morning callers. So many there were, and all in fashionable rigs and phaetons. There had to be a way, there had to! His eyes sharpened a little as his gaze rested on something odd. He nodded in satisfaction. He had just the ticket.

  Eighteen

  “Oh, my dear! It sounds just like a fairy tale!”

&nb
sp; Tessie smiled and shook those abundant dark curls so that they fell in a pleasing tangle about her elfin face. “No, indeed. My hero is not handsome enough, I am afraid. You forget the scar.”

  Lady Cathgar had done no such thing. Indeed, the scar had haunted her for almost a year, when her dearest son had refused to go about in society, or to take up his rightful place at Lords. It was still painful for her to think on it, for he had always been such a carefree, openhearted child, that the heavy irony he now adopted as a mantle was . . . difficult. She knew his reaction had been severe because of his reception back into the drawing rooms when the scar was still livid, and the memories of what had caused it vivider still.

  Lady Cathgar had not been present, but it was rumored that several of the young debutantes had fainted from fright, and those who hadn’t had been overcome by his pocketbook rather than by any real sensibility. Thus it was that Nicholas had adopted his customary sarcastic poise, had played hard, had used women shamelessly—his doting mama made no excuse—had become a rakehell but not so debauched that he ever forgot his cause, or his loyalty to king and country.

  Tessie was exactly the miracle the countess had prayed for—honest, brave, and decidedly unmissish. If there was one thing the countess hated above others, it was prudishness, or young ladies given to spasms. If half of the tale she had just heard was true, Tessie was in no danger of falling into either of these categories.

  “Ah . . . the scar. Yes, I had forgotten. Regrettable.”

  “Indeed, not!” Tessie was indignant. “It is noble. I cannot imagine his features without it. It maketh the man. Besides, it has an air. Piratical, I think.”

  “And that is a good thing?”

  “But naturally! He is not an ordinary man, you know.”

  “I begin to think not, since he has engendered such obvious devotion!”

  “He does not love me.” Tessie’s wide, adorable lips drooped. “I can’t say I blame him, for apart from saving his life, I have been nothing but a trial to him! I ordered him about like a tyrant when he was ill, and I disappeared without a word when he had ordered me not to, and I have quarreled with him endlessly. . . .”

  “Oh, do not let that make you too cast down! I quarreled with my husband until the day he died! We loved each other tremendously, you know!”

  “Yes, but he was not forced to offer out of . . . out of . . . charity!”

  “Oh, I doubt your young man did either. Men are strange that way, you know. Pigheaded. Never offer when they are not inclined!”

  “Oh, but they do! Remember Lord. . . . eh . . . the other lord who offered for me? It is mortifying!”

  “Now, don’t get down in the mopes. I have a strange suspicion all will work out perfectly in the end. You have had two respectable offers and refused both. Very admirable, but next time, my dear, I advise you to put aside your scruples and accept.”

  “There won’t be a next time, Countess. And I won’t accept where I don’t love.”

  “Ah, but naturally! Did I suggest such a thing? I must be in my dotage after all. But, my dear, if you do happen to get an offer where your sentiments are involved, I assure you it will be perfectly permissible to succumb to your desires. No one can possibly fault you for such a thing, and if they do, they shall have me to answer to!” She glared balefully around the empty room. Tessie, in spite of her depression of spirits, laughed.

  “Well, I shall promise, for it is highly unlikely I shall ever see my paragon again, let alone receive a third offer to throw in his face. I am sure he finds such a reception tedious.”

  The countess, who knew just how Nicholas found such a reception, nodded sagely. “Tedious” would not have been the term she chose, but “trying,” most certainly.

  Tessie was a perfectly trying person. Noble to a fault, prone to the most exceptional of scrapes, hotheaded, accident prone, and a darling.

  All of these qualities absolutely necessary, of course, to the future Countess of Cathgar. The current countess could not abide simpering ninnyhammers or prudish Miss Prisms. Tessie, unstitching as much as she stitched, would be simply perfection itself.

  The countess meddled with the floral arrangement in front of her. She simply must untangle her son and heir’s amazing mull of things. He must tell Tessie that he loved her, sweep her up in his arms . . . she pulled off a perfectly good stem and turned to her listener.

  “It is his own fault if he encounters such a reception! Tedious, indeed! Really, why, the man could not have stolen a kiss, swept you off your feet, murmured . . . gracious, my dear Miss Hampstead, you are blushing like a beetroot!”

  Which was only to state the truth, of course, for Tessie hardly dared mention that all of the above had occurred in pleasing quantities. Naturally, the countess, eyeing her shrewdly, needed no further telling.

  “Hmmph! I suspect, Miss Hampstead, you might have offered me an expurgated account of your activities!”

  Tessie felt like sinking through the luxurious Axminster carpet, all delicate shades of lilac and pink.

  “My lord was not . . . behindhand in such persuasions, ma’am.”

  “You relieve my mind! I did not think I could have produced such a . . . that is to say, I did not think a gentleman such as you described would have milk and water in his veins. Kiss well, does he?”

  “Countess!” Tessie was crimson. “I beg you to leave off the subject!”

  “Nonsense, we are precisely at the point that the tale grows interesting!” The countess murdered another poor rose.

  “Well, I shall not say another word! All I have left, ma’am, is a few memories. I shall keep them, if you please, private.”

  “Bravo!” There was a clap from the door. “. . . And that should teach you, Mama . . . I mean countess!” Lady Delia Ashleigh tugged at her skirts and entered the drawing room once more.

  “Did I not tell you to take yourself off?”

  “You did, but I could not bear seeing you destroy that magnificent bouquet. You are perfectly visible from the garden.”

  “You mean you were eavesdropping beneath the window!”

  “Well, not eavesdropping precisely . . .”

  “Eavesdropping! Delia, you are shameless!”

  Lady Ashleigh laughed. “Miss Hampstead, my compliments. You are able to rout my . . . that is to say, you glare at the countess to the manner born. She is used, I am afraid, to people kowtowing to her every whim.”

  “You don’t.”

  “No, but then, I frequently have ink pots thrown at me for my troubles. Has he told you he loves you?”

  Tessie groaned. “I suppose the whole of Chiswick has heard my troubles!”

  “No, only me. Now, come on! Has he?”

  “No.” Tessie could manage only the one solitary word. Lady Ashleigh waved her riding crop about in disgust.

  “Imbecile!”

  “No, indeed! He is everything that is fine. . . .”

  “He is a veritable clodpole!”

  “Lady Ashleigh, I will not have you malign the man I love.”

  “So long as you don’t actually shoot me! And he is a clodpole, whatever you may say!”

  Tessie looked from the countess to Lady Delia. Again there was that strange wave of familiarity . . . she wished she could put her finger on it. A carriage rumbled to a halt outside. It was a large barouche, painted red, with the crest of an eagle upon its door. Lady Delia pushed the curtains back to see.

  “Bother! It is Miss Hartleyvale. Can’t we deny her?”

  Lady Ashleigh turned toward Tessie in explanation.

  “She thinks she owns the neighborhood, she being the daughter of the late Baron of Hartleyvale. She has never forgiven Mother her superior breeding or title.”

  Guiltily, Delia realized her mistake. Her hand went up to her mouth, but Tessie, already puzzling certain utterances, was more perceptive than usual.

  “The countess is your mother! Good God, it is true, is it not? Lady Ashleigh is not a mere morning caller as I had assumed.�
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  The countess frowned, then shrugged. “Trying, is it not? But yes, the impertinent little scrubster is mine, I fear. That is why I am so free with my ink pots.”

  “I should have known! There is something so familiar about her! It must be the resemblance to you!”

  Neither lady mentioned the more obvious resemblance. Tessie would find that out in good time, when they had a thing or two to say to the son, brother, and Cathgar heir respectively!

  Miss Hartleyvale was almost completely forgotten until, too late, the butler announced her in tones of righteous pomp.

  “Miss Hartleyvale, your ladyship.”

  Miss Hartleyvale, of indeterminate age, twittered in. She was wearing a morning dress more suited to court than country, though the entire effect was ruined somewhat by a drab kerseymere cape she had thrown over the entire ensemble.

  “Oh, I do hope you don’t mind me dropping in, dreadful to stand on ceremony, I always say . . . why, Lady Ashleigh, I swear you have grown, and how are all your sisters . . . Lady Halgrove, that fine brother of yours . . . ?”

  There followed a veritable stream of nonsensical pleasantries such as was guaranteed to appal the countess. Tessie, however, heard none of them, her mind a complete turmoil of shock. She could swear . . . yes, indeed, she could swear she had heard Miss Hartleyvale refer to the countess by her rank. She might be dreaming, but she vowed she heard quite distinctly the title Cathgar.

  It was not until Delia winked at her, those familiar sapphire eyes agleam, that she understood, at last, the truth.

  How many, she wondered, of those delightful morning callers had actually been Nicholas’s high-spirited sisters? Lady Halgrove probably was, and she would bet her last farthing the others were too. Nick had spoken, had he not, of a dozen sisters or more—she remembered it clearly, though she thought he had been funning.

  Was this the strangest of nightmarish coincidences, or was it some sort of cruel conspiracy? Oh, she felt like such a fool! How they must have been laughing when she divulged the inner secrets of her heart! Tessie blushed crimson. She simply could not bear it.