The Viscount's Vow

by Collette Cameron

  There was only one way to find out.

  Follow her.

  Chapter 18

  Stepping from the carriage, Ian gave directions to the drivers, then followed Vangie. Without a qualm or a hint of repentance, he opened the back door, letting himself into a deserted kitchen. Fresh baked bread and pies were cooling on a table, and something savory simmered atop the iron cookstove. He sniffed in appreciation as he pushed the door closed.

  He cocked his head, listening. Following the sound of voices, he strode the length of one corridor then turned down another. The voices became louder. Taking care to tread silently, he glanced into the rooms he passed. High quality, if somewhat older, furnishings graced each of them.

  Why was Vangie dressed in rags then?

  Ah, here they were. He walked along the wall until he stood outside the entrance. The room’s door stood open giving him an almost unobstructed view of the interior. Dressed in the latest fashion with ruby earrings sparkling in her earlobes, a hatchet-faced woman sat in an armchair, berating Vangie.

  “What, did they send you packing? I must say, I thought it would be sooner. I told you, the haute ton wouldn’t tolerate a gypsy tainting their drawing rooms and assemblies.”

  Her face distorted by a sneer, she waved her hand at Vangie, like she was shooing a smelly beggar from her presence.

  “Well, get changed. You’ve weeks’ worth of chores to catch up on.”

  The shrew pointed to a glistening window. “You can start with the windows, inside and out, then polish the silver. Frieda hasn’t had the time, poor dear. Your gadding about London left her with your workload too. It was most inconsiderate of you.”

  “Aunt Eugenia. . .”

  A masculine voice interjected. “You’ll give us none of your jaw, Evangeline. I suppose you’ve returned empty-handed once more. No clothes, fallalls, jewels . . . coin?”

  The uncle? Ian edged a few inches closer. The rail-thin hog grubber was lounging in the settee, picking at a pasty of some kind. Greedy scrounger.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Percival, I’ve brought nothing of value back with me.”

  Ian smirked. Except a husband.

  Glaring daggers at Vangie, the aunt curled her mouth into a pout. “Surely you could have solicited Gideon for some funds. After all, he’s your legal guardian. He has such well-padded pockets, while we must make do with the bare necessities.”

  Ian’s gaze roamed the well-appointed drawing room. Bare necessities? Hardly.

  The aunt huffed out an exaggerated sigh before continuing with her fustian monologue. “We’ve been burdened with your care for over thirteen years.”

  Tapping her long nails on the chair’s arm, Lady Caruthers continued to complain. “The pittance your parents left in trust for you is long gone—”

  “There was a trust? For me?” Vangie stared at her aunt in astonishment.

  She ignored Vangie’s question. “The dolts made no provision for your care, and the work you do around here barely compensates for your food.”

  “Some days I eat but one meal,” Vangie protested. “And there have been days, I’ve not eaten at all, except for fruit or vegetables I’ve scavenged from the garden.”

  Sending Vangie another pained expression her aunt said, “What of your painting and crochet work? Have you any ready to sell? The funds for your time-wasting hobbies don’t appear out of thin air, gel.”

  The pained expression on Vangie’s face deepened. “The Stapleton’s have gifted me with the supplies for those, as you well know.”

  Ian glowered. Bloody harridan. Was the woman completely void of decency? Vangie had endured this for over a decade?

  Standing, Lady Caruthers sliced a haughty glance to her fusty husband, gingerly licking a blob of clotted cream off his bony finger. He grimaced in distaste.

  “Percival, do pay attention,” she snapped, her piercing voice grating like pointed claws along Ian’s nerves.

  Ducking his head, Sir Percival whined, “Of course, my dove,” before daring one last, defiant slurp of his finger.

  Henpecked.

  Ian twisted his mouth, then scowled. And a bloody lecher. Behind his wife’s back he ogled Vangie. She was his niece for God’s sake, the perverse old podger.

  Was Vangie aware? She remained poised, but her face was wan and fraught with tension. She sliced a swift look at her uncle, then immediately glanced away. She shuddered. She knew. Had the reprobate dared touch her? Ian clenched his hands against the urge to throttle him.

  She met her aunt’s glare straight on. “I’m sorry to have been an encumbrance to you for so many years, Aunt Eugenia.”

  Ian detected a sharp shred of sarcasm lacing Vangie’s words.

  She heaved what he determined to be a resigned sigh. “I do have several pieces of crocheted work completed and some cups and plates painted as well.”

  “You do?” Greed lit her ladyship’s face. “Where are they?”

  “In my room.” Vangie turned to leave, but her aunt’s words stopped her before she’d taken a step.

  “Oh, well, as for those, er. . .” Lady Caruthers hedged before plowing on, “they’ve been sold.”

  Vangie whirled around, disbelief etched on her beautiful face. “You went into my chamber and took my belongings . . . and sold them—again?”

  Again? They’d done this before? Indignation rose in him, simmering dangerously near the surface, testing his self-control.

  Sir Percival lurched to his feet, rage contorting his face. “You don’t have any belongings except for those our Christian charity permits you.”

  He advanced until he was but inches from her.

  Though quaking, Vangie stood her ground. Unflinching, she looked him straight in the eye. “Did you sell my mother’s china?”

  Silence greeted her question.

  Sucking in a great draught of air, she whispered. “How could you? Those four cups were all I’d left of her.”

  She tilted her chin proudly. “You had no right.”

  “Hold your tongue, you insolent chit.” He raised his hand.

  The cur would dare to slap her? She threw her arm upward to ward off her uncle’s blow. So, this wasn’t the first time he’d struck her.

  By God, it would be the last. Ian stormed into the room.

  Sir Percival froze. His pig eyes grew huge, and his gaunt face reddened to crimson. No sound emerged from his flapping mouth. Lady Caruthers seemed petrified too, rooted to the floor, staring bug-eyed at Ian.

  “That’s outside of enough!”

  His eyes skewered Sir Percival and dared her ladyship to utter so much as a peep. “If you lay a hand on my wife, it will be the last thing you ever do. I promise you.”

  “Your wife?” Lady Caruthers said in a strangled voice. Her gaze darted between Vangie and him, astonishment causing her beady rodent eyes to bulge.

  “Wife?” squawked Sir Percival. A sly glint entered his calculating gaze.

  Lowering her arm, Vangie retreated until she bumped into Ian. He wrapped an arm around her and spoke quietly into her ear. “Vangie, go gather whatever you need. You’ll not be returning here—ever.”

  After one sharp nod, she edged around him. Then lifting her dress, she tore from the room.

  Vangie glanced up from packing as Ian bent to enter the attic chamber. It didn’t surprise her he’d found his way there. She raised her chin, refusing to be ashamed of her modest room. The roof slanted downward on both sides, and only in the middle could one stand upright. A single pane, curtainless window at one end of the room allowed a trickle of light inside.

  “Aunt and Uncle?”

  “Are graciously keeping Gifford and Malcolm entertained.”

  She raised her brows. “Meaning?”

  Ian’s gaze roamed the room, before meeting hers. “Meaning, I’ve bought them off and threatened them with legal action if they so much as mention your name again.”

  He shook his head. “What was your father thinking, appointing them to be your guard
ians? They spent your trust fund.”

  “Pardon?” She snapped her up head. “They aren’t my guardians. Uncle Gideon and Father’s Romani mother are . . . were.”

  Vangie was married now. She no longer had any guardians.

  Ian’s smile was apologetic. “They altered the documents then—to gain access to your funds.”

  Anger surged through her. Blasted rotters. She would be well rid of them. Sucking in a calming breath, she went about her room, gathering her possessions, scarce though they were. From the corner of her eye, she watched Ian explore the rustic chamber. She cast a loving gaze around it. She’d miss this room, despite its austerity.

  A narrow cot, covered with a faded quilt stitched by her mother’s hands, was nestled under one eve. That she wouldn’t leave behind. She’d turned a wooden crate sideways to form a nightstand. A neat pile of books were stacked within. Pegs protruding from the opposite wall held no more than a half dozen garments.

  One was her brightly colored, multi-layered padma. The full skirt swirled round her ankles like a vibrant, pulsating rainbow when she danced. Beside the padma was an embroidered, full-sleeved, blue blouse with an extraordinary embellished vest draped atop it. Puri Daj had sewn them both.

  “Vangie, did you draw these?”

  Glancing up from tucking a book into one of the crates, she nodded. He was studying one of her sketches of Roma children tacked to the rafters.

  “Yes. I do draw a bit, but I much prefer to paint. Aunt Eugenia insisted I sell anything I painted, though.”

  He gestured at the sketches. “These are good, very good. Have you nothing you’ve painted?”

  Vangie smiled, a sad half-smile. “Only this.”

  She handed him a wooden picture frame. A miniature portrait of a man and woman smiled at him. “My parents.”

  She’d painted the frame with delicate vines, flowers, and birds. “I but painted the frame. The portrait was done before I was born. Aunt Eugenia was going to toss it in the rubbish.”

  He returned the portrait to her. The compassion in his eyes caused hot tears to spring to hers, blurring her vision. She blinked rapidly several times.

  Ian pointed to the portrait. “She allowed you to keep it?”

  Vangie nodded. “Wood is of minimal value. Otherwise, they’d have sold it too. If you look closely, you can see the frame is cracked, though I tried to conceal the crevices by painting vines over them.”

  “It’s still exquisite.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her soft reply didn’t reflect the joy she felt at his praise. While his attention appeared focused on the frame, she could tell he was thinking. His brows formed a vee whenever he was deep in thought. His gaze whisked about the room once more.

  “Vangie,” Ian’s tone was gentle, yet probing. “How is it you wear little more than rags while your aunt and uncle wear expensive, new clothing?”

  She ducked her head, heat sweeping her face. He needn’t voice what was obvious.

  “You’ve been treated worse than a servant, living in this attic room with bare essentials.” He waved his hand in an arc. “The rest of the cottage is furnished rich enough.”

  “Ian—”

  He stood with his hands on his hips and peered around her room in disapproval. “The grounds are well-cared for, and based on the delectably tray of pastries your uncle was sampling, food is not in short supply.”

  Vangie moved to her cot and tucked the portrait in her valise. “Ian—”

  He crossed the narrow room in two strides and gathered her into his comforting embrace. “Sweeting, does your uncle know how you’ve lived?”

  She shook her head against his chest. She’d told no one of her misery, but Uncle Gideon must have suspected, hence the monthly packets. She was certain that in addition to monies for her care, the parcels contained other fanciful whatnots. Aunt and Uncle never spoke of it, and Vangie never saw any improvement in her position.

  Ian placed his finger beneath her chin, tilting her face upward until their eyes met. “You will never go without again. I promise you.”

  She curved her lips into a smile. “Ian, I don’t require much to be happy.”

  Only someone to love me.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She released a short breath, breaking eye contact with him. “To be honest. . .”

  She hesitated, and peeked at him, unsure if she dared voice the truth.

  He arched a brow at her.

  She blurted, “I don’t much care for grand parties and extravagant entertaining. Fancy clothing makes me feel artificial, and I’ve absolutely no use for dozens of pairs of slippers or silly bonnets. And. . .”

  In a rush she finished, “I don’t care if I ever attend another assembly or Season in London.”

  There, she’d said it. He could make what he wanted of those truths.

  Ian laughed, what sounded like a genuine laugh of pure delight. “By God, I’ve been blessed. I, too, can’t abide the trappings and antics of the le bon ton.”

  Vangie grinned. “You don’t like London either?”

  He shook his head. “Can’t abide it.”

  He reached for her valise, then extended his elbow. “I’ll have the drivers collect the rest of your belongings. Let’s go home, my lady.”

  Home. Oh, that sounded lovely.

  Vangie slipped her hand into the vee of his elbow. She hesitated, searching his gray eyes. “Ian, do your stepmother and sister know we’re coming? That I’m coming?”

  A shadow whisked across his face.

  “Ah, as to that—no. I thought to surprise them.”

  Chapter 19

  Awestruck, Vangie was speechless at her first glimpse of Somersfield. A majestic stone archway proclaimed their entrance to Warrick lands. Truly having no idea of Ian’s wealth or the size of his estate, she could only stare stunned. Stately yew trees, standing at attention on either side of the neglected drive, allowed glimpses of once manicured lawns, overgrown formal gardens, and untrimmed mazes.

  She made a mental note to tell Puri Daj of the yews. The trees had many medicinal uses. Vangie smiled, delighted. At one time, Somersfield had been spectacular.

  The coach lumbered down the mile-long, convoluted lane. Her breath caught when the grandiose Baroque style manor house materialized on the horizon.

  “Faith, Ian, it’s enormous, a veritable castle. Are those turrets?” She gawked entranced.

  “Indeed,” he murmured.

  She shot him a glance. His gaze was riveted on the horizon, and a smile curved his lips. Unrestrained pride glimmered in his eyes as he gazed at his ancestral home.

  He loves Somersfield.

  Vangie smiled again and directed her attention to the carriage window once more. At least a hundred beveled windows caught the afternoon sun, brilliantly refracting the golden rays. The building glowed as if it were alive, a living breathing entity. She was overcome with the splendor of the magnificent manor and grounds.

  How was she to be mistress of such a grand estate? Faith, she didn’t know how to manage such a vast household.

  Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she clasped her reticule, pressing her fingers into the woven threads. Her gaze never left the mansion. Did he have any notion how ill-prepared she was for such an overwhelming task? Would he be disillusioned with her yet again?

  Before the equipage rolled to a stop, two livered servants descended the manor’s granite steps. Alighting, Ian handed Vangie down. She was aware of the covert, curious stares sent her way by the footmen. Two yapping white and tan harriers, their white-tipped tails wagging fiercely, lopped across the drive, eager to greet Ian.

  Whining, the dogs bounced about his feet. “Halloo, chaps.”

  He patted each of their heads before the hounds turned their attention to Vangie. The larger of the dogs nuzzled her hand.

  “That’s Horace,” Ian said. “He’s a terrible flirt.”

  Vangie obediently scratched the hound’s ears. The oth
er dog circled her twice, sniffing her skirts before he sat on his haunches and raised one paw, gazing at her with woeful hazel eyes.

  She giggled, and shook it. “How do you do?”

  “Ah, Blake, ever the gentleman.”

  Ian took her by the elbow. “Come along. I have someone I want you to meet.”

  He guided her to the top of the stairs, a wide grin on his handsome face.

  A diminutive, rigidly proper butler, attired in cobalt blue livery manned the doorway. “Welcome home, Lord Warrick.”

  “Thank you, Jasper. May I introduce you to Lady Warrick?”

  Except for a singular twitch of Jasper’s beetle brows, the butler’s face remained expressionless, though his warm brown eyes twinkled merrily. “Indeed, my lord.”

  “My lady, this is Somersfield’s majordomo, and my dear friend, Francis Jasper-Faulkenbury. I’ve called him Jasper since I was in short pants. I couldn’t pronounce Faulkenbury.”

  Ian winked and grinned at the butler. “You don’t mind, do you, Jasper?”

  Humor danced in the butler’s eyes, but his face remained impassive. “Not at all, your lordship.”

  Bowing formally, Jasper intoned, “Welcome to Somersfield, my lady.”

  Vangie smiled. She liked him already.

  “Thank you, Jasper.”

  She tried not to stare at his head. Given he was nearly her height, and he’d just bowed, providing her with a clear view of his oddly styled hair, it was rather difficult not to.

  Her gaze roamed the large, opulent entry. At one end of the foyer was a staircase which divided half-way up, each side leading to a separate wing. Four carved doors, two on each side, graced the entrance. From one of these rushed a distraught woman with a piece of paper clutched in one hand. She was garbed in full mourning attire.

  The Dowager Viscountess Warrick?

  Vangie cast a quick glance at Ian.

  His back was to her as he spoke to Jasper. “Please send for Dr. Farnsworthy. A gunshot wound needs tending,” Ian said.

  “Thank God you have returned, Ian. Charlotte—” The matron paused upon hearing his request. “You are wounded?”