Miss Pymbroke's Rules

by Rosemary Stevens

  “Help me get everyone out, Randy! I’ll look for anyone upstairs,” Carrisworth called to his friend and barely waited to see if the man was capable of complying with the request.

  He had to push his way through his panicked guests into the hall. On the landing he grabbed a young man and ordered, “Have the Watch notify the Sun Fire Company.”

  Hoping furiously his man of business had paid the premiums so the fire company would not let his house burn to the ground, he turned and raced up the stairs. Thick smoke blanketed the hallway and burned his lungs with each breath he drew. He searched for anyone still in the house.

  He found three amorous couples secluded in bedchambers and alerted them to the peril. Shepherding them downstairs, he noted grimly that the drawing room he had vacated minutes before was engulfed in flames.

  Out on the street a crowd had gathered. “Harkee, even the Quality has their troubles,” a voice said in the darkness.

  With relief he saw the men from the fire company had arrived and were working to control the blaze. Thankfully, everyone had escaped unharmed.

  Lord Carrisworth worked alongside the firemen until at last the fire was out. While he had been struggling with the flames, he had not been able to assimilate the damage done. Now, he entered what was left of the hall and looked with a mixture of shock and horror at the charred black walls. The once magnificent mahogany table, whose polished surface had always held a bowl of fresh flowers, was reduced to a pile of ashes at his feet.

  “Ain’t safe in here, your worship,” a man’s voice warned. “You’re Lord Carrisworth, ain’t you?”

  Staring at what was left of his family townhouse, the marquess nodded. “What of the upstairs?”

  The fireman shook his soot-blackened face sadly. “I’m sorry, milord.” He wiped his brow with a dirty handkerchief. “You’ve got yerself a pretty mess, but the house’ll hold up. I’d figger on six months o’ work, though, to put it back to rights. Can’t tell you how many fires I’ve put out that got started by an overturned candle.”

  Carrisworth’s gaze swung to the man’s face. “An overturned candle?”

  “That’s what it was, milord. An accident, to be sure.” Tugging at his forelock, he prepared to take his leave. “Well, you won’t be needing us any more this night.”

  After the man left. Lord Carrisworth went outside to stand on the stone steps. The crowd had dissipated. He spotted one of his footmen walking with a halting step toward him.

  “My lord! What ’appened?”

  “As you can see, my townhouse has been heavily damaged by fire. When the other servants return, board everything up. Exercise caution, though, I do not want anyone injured. When the house is secure, everyone is to go to Duxbury House. I shall bring you back to Town after the repairs have been made.”

  The footman was young and unsure of himself in front of his master. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he asked, “My lord, when you say, er, everyone is to go to the country, do you mean even Mr. Wetherall?”

  A long-suffering sigh escaped the marquess’s lips. “Devil take it! No, I am sure I do not. Tell Wetherall I shall engage a room at Grillon’s, and that he may meet me there. I daresay he will deliver me a rare trimming for this night’s work.”

  The footman bowed his way back down the steps and hurried around to the rear of the house.

  Carrisworth remained where he was. What a birthday celebration, he reflected wryly. For a moment, he closed his eyes and thought of the paintings of his father and mother and of his ancestors, which hung upstairs. What had become of them? Not that he cared a snap of his fingers for the portrait of his mother. But the others ... probably burned beyond repair, he decided with a twinge of self-disgust.

  The Watch called out the hour—-three o’clock. The night was clear and crisp. The stars shone down as if their brilliance was just for Mayfair.

  Suddenly, a plaintive wail sounded from the direction of the marquess’s feet. “Miaoooow.”

  His lordship opened his eyes, looked down, and swore roundly. Then, he recognized the cat. “Good God, Empress, is that you?”

  “Miaow!”

  “What are you doing wandering around outside at this hour?” He bent down and picked up the animal. Examining the paw Empress had been favoring, Carrisworth muttered, “Lady Iris will have my head if you have hurt yourself during this cursed fire.”

  At the marquess’s touch, the cat gazed at him innocently with wide blue eyes and began purring.

  Unmindful of the picture he presented, his lordship cradled Empress in his arms and started down the steps. Dispensing with the use of a coach, he walked in an easterly direction, turning left when he reached South Audley Street.

  The cat shifted position in his arms, causing a shower of hairs to land on his lordship’s coat. Lord Carrisworth spared a moment imagining Wetherall’s reaction when the valet found cat hairs clinging to what was now his master’s only coat.

  But, there was nothing for it. Lady Iris’s pet must be returned to her at once. The marquess knew his grandmother’s dear cousin often spent wakeful nights, and he did not want her to discover Empress missing at this hour.

  Lady Iris was indeed awake when the marquess arrived on her doorstep. Not wishing to disturb the butler, she answered the door herself. “Carrisworth! Empress! Here’s a pretty kick-up!”

  She swung open the heavy door, her gaze taking in the marquess’s disheveled appearance. Soot stains marred his fine burgundy-colored coat, and his cravat appeared grayish. A streak of black ran across his jaw. Even in all his dirt, though, Lady Iris thought him wickedly handsome.

  Transferring the cat to Lady Iris’s outstretched arms, Carrisworth bowed low. “Lady Iris, I am afraid injury befell this unfortunate creature at my townhouse. Examine her left front paw, if you please.”

  Lady Iris grasped Empress’s paw and gave it a cursory glance. “Seems fine. What the devil happened?”

  “It pains me to say it but my townhouse nearly burned down this evening. An overturned candle, I am told. Luckily, no one was hurt. I was entertaining—it was my birthday, you see.”

  “An overturned candle,” Lady Iris muttered weakly. She shot a disbelieving look at the cat in her arms.

  Empress met her gaze for a guilty moment, then struggled out of her mistress’s arms and scampered away in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Surely, nothing so dramatic was necessary,” Lady Iris shouted after her. Then she turned back to the marquess, who gazed at her quizzically.

  The older lady pulled a woolen shawl tighter about her shoulders and said briskly, “You must stay the night with Hyacinth and me, Carrisworth. I’ll call a maid to make up a room.”

  The marquess stayed her with a hand. “My lady, I would not put you to the trouble. Besides, I have left orders for my man to meet me at Grillon’s.”

  “I forbid it,” Lady Iris declared. “I’ll send a footman with a message for your servant to join you here. You are family and will remain where you are. I’ve a perfectly good bed upstairs.”

  Lord Carrisworth’s eyes twinkled merrily. “Lady Iris,” he drawled with mock severity. “You shock me.”

  “Oh, cut line, you naughty boy,” she reprimanded, pleased with his sense of humor. “Come along up to the drawing room. Bingwood will bring you a glass of port while your room is being prepared.”

  The marquess was too weary to make any further protests and allowed Lady Iris to shepherd him upstairs. It wasn’t every day one lost a home and turned thirty in the bargain.

  In addition, he’d remembered Grillon’s was terrifyingly respectable. He shuddered at the thought of lodging there.

  Yawning, he decided he was better off staying with a couple of kind, old eccentrics. What could possibly happen here?

  * * * *

  The next morning dawned sunny, but cold. The Marquess of Carrisworth awoke at ten, his unshaven face pressed down on an unfamiliar lacy pillow. The events of the previous evening came rushing back, an
d he permitted himself a groan.

  “Just so, my lord,” Mr. Wetherall agreed in frosty accents. He stood by the door, his sparse, elderly frame rigid with censure.

  Please, God, Carrisworth prayed, not a scold before breakfast. He unwound his naked body from the bed. Nightclothes were abhorrent to him.

  Adopting a cheerful manner while the valet helped him into a dressing gown, he said, “I trust you were comfortable last night, Wetherall. I shall have a shave and go downstairs to thank our hostesses. Then we shall see about arranging someone to put the townhouse to rights.”

  Mr. Wetherall produced the shaving supplies, and after the marquess was seated, meticulously began his task. “May I inquire if we shall be sending for Weston before you venture out, my lord? I have brushed your only coat, ridding it of all the animal hair that somehow found its way onto the surface, but if you would permit me to say so, its condition is not in keeping with your lordship’s customary elegance.”

  All this was said while the valet’s left eye twitched convulsively. The marquess knew this signal of disapproval from long experience.

  The Marquess of Carrisworth was not a man to tolerate insolence from his servants. In fact, he could be quite demanding. It was, therefore, ironic that the oldest family retainer, the one he could not dream of pensioning off, would be most prone to speaking his mind to his master.

  The valet paused in his work, holding the razor at what the marquess thought was a menacing angle. “Also, if I may be so bold as to remind your lordship, all of my clothes were ruined in the fire as well.”

  Lord Carrisworth waved a hand impassively. “Naturally, you will have whatever you require. If you are finished, I should like to dress and go downstairs.”

  Mr. Wetherall lowered the razor, but his eye twitched violently. “My lord, perhaps a tray sent up to your bedchamber until a new coat has been procured—

  “Oh, I am not so stiffly on my stiffs with the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth. Family, you know.”

  Thus, some minutes later, the marquess was in the dining room clad in the reprehensible coat and pantaloons from the evening before, helping himself to a generous portion of kidneys, ham, toast, and eggs.

  Lady Iris was the only other person at the table. Lady Hyacinth never left her bed before noon.

  Wise enough to wait until his lordship had put away a large portion of his breakfast. Lady Iris at last deemed it time to march forward with her plans. “How long do you guess it will be before you can inhabit your house, Carrisworth?” she asked in a deceptively casual tone.

  The marquess took a sip of coffee before replying. “The man from the Sun Fire Company estimated several months.”

  “As bad as that, eh?”

  “Yes. But you may be at your ease. I shan’t impose on you that long, Lady Iris. I shall look for lodgings or maybe a house—”

  A large crocodile smile creased Lady Iris’s face, making the star-shaped patch she wore by her mouth rise halfway up her cheek. “Upon my honor! Nothing was ever more providential. The lady next door finds herself in straitened circumstances and wishes to let her house. It will be the very thing. I’ll just fetch my shawl and we’ll call on her immediately before she—that is, before the house gets away.”

  Lord Carrisworth had no opportunity to form a reply before Lady Iris abruptly picked up her cane and left the room. He helped himself to a rasher of bacon and wondered idly what maggot the lady had taken into her head.

  * * * *

  Walking up the steps of the townhouse next door, his lordship felt decidedly sour on the idea of living in such close proximity to Lady Iris.

  His previous meetings with his grandmother’s cousin had been brief and infrequent. Now, he saw she showed an alarming tendency toward being a managing female.

  He avoided the type assiduously. He could just imagine her reaction to his choice of friends—male and female—not to mention his parties. And, leasing a house directly from what he assumed would be another aged lady fallen on hard times, one who would make all sorts of stipulations to their agreement, was not a pleasant thought.

  Some excuse for not taking the house would have to be found.

  The butler who answered the door informed Lady Iris and the marquess that Miss Pymbroke was working in her garden and escorted them through a prettily furnished morning room. Opening the glass doors that led to a walled garden, he bowed and withdrew.

  Lord Carrisworth saw a female dressed in a serviceable gray gown bending over to retrieve a basket brimming with freshly cut roses. A worn chip-straw bonnet hung down her back on a blue ribbon.

  She stood up slowly, turned around, and faced her visitors.

  The startled marquess drew in his breath sharply. “Manna from heaven,” he murmured.

  A single shaft of sunlight beamed down directly onto the lady’s head, giving her a halo. Although her brown hair was ruthlessly scraped back into a severe knot, golden lights danced from its clean, shining surface. Her velvet brown eyes appeared huge in a delicate face notable for its perfect ivory complexion. A straight little nose and a beautifully shaped mouth, a mouth that his lordship thought positively begged for kisses, completed her angelic appearance.

  Lord Carrisworth leaned against the doorframe, crossed one booted foot over the other, and smiled lazily. He would take the house ... and the lady.

  Chapter Two

  Verity stared wordlessly at the tall stranger who stood framed in the doorway.

  His eyes were a dark emerald green, the lids heavy and curved, giving him a languid, sensual look. Thick, glossy black hair shined over a broad forehead. The cut of his coat emphasized his wide shoulders and slim hips.

  “Verity, may I present the Marquess of Carrisworth?” Lady Iris was saying.

  For some reason, Verity felt breathless. The heady scent of the riotous rose bushes around her seemed almost too pungent. Her hands began shaking, and suddenly, she dropped the basket of roses.

  The marquess bowed low and strolled with a nonchalant grace to Verity’s side. He knelt at her feet and gathered the roses back into their holder.

  Finishing his task, Carrisworth straightened to his impressive height. He held one red rose between them, and his long white lingers caressed the flower, while his eyes never left hers for an instant.

  “Miss Pymbroke,” he murmured, his deep voice causing her heart to leap, “you must take care. Something so lovely and fragile should be cherished by an expert hand.”

  The look in his eyes, the subtle message behind his words, the meaning she could only guess at, snapped Verity out of her trance.

  Her mind registered the fact he was inappropriately dressed in evening clothes. Upon closer inspection, she discovered the eyes she had been admiring were shot with red. His firm, full mouth was stretched in a decidedly wolfish grin.

  Oh! Here, surely, was a rake of the first magnitude!

  Everyone knew rakes spent hours practicing their art of seduction. Had not her body just been behaving in a most peculiar way? She congratulated herself for taking his measure so promptly.

  Verity snatched the rose from Carrisworth’s fingers and took a determined step backward. She placed the flower on top of the others in the basket. Her chin came up, as she said coolly, “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

  He raised his dark eyebrows in what she interpreted as surprise at her icy response. There was a maddening hint of arrogant self-confidence about him. Why had Lady Iris brought the handsome viper into her garden?

  Verity wrenched her gaze away quickly lest he somehow detect the effect he was having on her. Turning to Lady Iris, she spoke with a calmness she was far from feeling. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, my lady?”

  Lady Iris looked at the young girl’s flushed face and ignored the question. “Verity, your cheeks are pink from the sun. Come inside, gel, and offer us some tea.”

  Verity picked up the basket of roses. Good manners forced her past the marquess, whose face she noted held an expression of am
usement. She led the party through the doors into the morning room, stripped off her gloves and tossed them, along with her bonnet, onto a nearby table where she placed the basket of flowers.

  Across the room, a middle-aged woman appeared and sat in a chair. She pulled a tremendous amount of knitting out of a large bag and placed it in her lap before noticing the company. “Oh, Verity, I did not know we had guests,” she bleated, her gaze darting nervously over his lordship.

  “How are you this morning, Miss Woolcott?” Lady Iris inquired. “May I present my late cousin’s grandson, the Marquess of Carrisworth?”

  A relation! Heavens, Verity thought, looking with distaste at the shameful way the marquess was bending over Woolsey’s weathered hand. Surely he would not be so brazen as to place a kiss upon it—it appeared he would. Woolsey simpered.

  Verity pursed her lips in disapproval. She sat down on the gold satin sofa close to Woolsey’s chair as if to protect her companion from the marquess.

  Undaunted, Carrisworth had only a moment to wait while Lady Iris seated herself on the chair opposite the sofa, leaving the way clear for him to sit next to Verity. He looked at her, seemingly pleased with himself. “This is a comfortably furnished room,” he drawled, with what Verity thought a strangely proprietary air.

  “I find it so, my lord,” she replied curtly. He would not be allowed to practice his flirtations in her house. She might have to endure his company during this unwanted morning call, but after that, since she never went about in Society, most likely they would not meet again.

  A maid settled a heavy tray on the table in front of her. Trying to disguise her annoyance at the marquess in front of the others, Verity busied herself with the tea things.

  But the marquess was not a man to be ignored. “You may want to consider ordering a fire made up. Miss Pymbroke. Is this room always so chilly?” he inquired blandly enough, but she saw the teasing twinkle in his eyes. He referred to her manner rather than the temperature of the room, the rogue.

  The teacups trembled in their saucers as she passed them to Lady Iris and to Woolsey. Preparing a cup for the marquess, she was suddenly seized with a mad desire to fling the contents into his lap. Mayhaps that would persuade him she was not one to fall into his arms. Verity gritted her teeth.