Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  “Henry!”

  “Don’t judge. But it is just as I thought. And I must say I’m relieved. I like old Vincent and wouldn’t want to steal his girl.”

  The kettle started to shriek and Rachel wanted to do the same. “Don’t you understand anything?” she asked, shoving a handful of tea leaves in a very pretty china pot. “We have no future. It’s impossible.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t agree. I’ve been in impossible situations, and this isn’t one of them. We will find a way to keep Puddling in good graces and assuage the pater. I haven’t quite worked it out yet, but trust me.”

  Was Henry at all trustworthy? “You swear you did not share Vincent’s flask?”

  “Not so much as a drop. I wasn’t even tempted. To be frank, I don’t think the whisky was of the highest quality. Vincent told me he gives all his money to the poor. Are you going to pour that water into the pot before it gets cold?”

  Rachel grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the kettle’s handle. Her hand shook so much she was sure she’d scald somebody. It was madness to think she could be a viscount’s wife.

  Even if Henry was not impaired from liquor, his mental facilities were still suspect.

  She clanked the kettle back down on the hob as Henry put a spoonful of sugar into his cup. “We found everything last night, you know,” he said. “The sugar. The cakes. A damn good batch of molasses cookies. Mrs. Grace will have to find new hiding spots.”

  “Henry Agamemnon Challoner,” she began.

  He raised a hand. “Please don’t take that tone and lecture me. You’ll spoil our elevenses.”

  “I must. Why, why, why are you so set on marrying me?”

  Chapter 29

  What an excellent question.

  Well, Rachel was a teacher, after all. She probably spent a good portion of her day ferreting out answers from the little buggers in her classroom. Was that called the Socratic method? Henry had forgotten much of his youthful education. Even if a gun were pointed to his head—

  He’d had enough of that in the army, hadn’t he? Nothing would help him remember lessons he hadn’t been listening to in the first place.

  Like literature. This is where he was supposed to wax poetic, quote something fruity and declare undying love, much like that poor sap Vincent did last night over his unnamed inamorata. But Henry had already told Rachel he didn’t believe in love.

  The bigger question—did love believe in him? Was it possible for him to feel settled and happy and whole?

  He cleared his throat. “I wish I had an answer you would like. I just have a feeling about you.” He did, too. She was steady and smart and full of natural passion. It would be a long while before he would forget yesterday afternoon. Her taste, her scent, the ripple of her response—all very heady and gratifying.

  “Not good enough, Henry.” She dropped a lump of sugar in her tea. “Perhaps we can remain friends while you’re here.”

  Friends? Henry didn’t want a friend—he wanted a lover. But he was becoming increasingly aware that Rachel Everett was the most stubborn woman he’d ever met. There was no point to fighting. Making a frontal assault. He’d just have to ambush her like a bloody Boer with a rake.

  “All right. I’ll take what I can get,” Henry said. It seemed they were both becoming experts at not telling the truth.

  She blinked at the ease to which he acceded to her wishes. Had she wanted him to argue? It seemed he was doomed to disappoint her.

  “Good. Fine, then. I’m glad you are being so reasonable.” She stirred her tea with such violence that Henry worried about the fragile cup. “Do you still have the letter for Sir Bertram? I should take it to his house.”

  “Won’t that make him suspicious? You might have forged it.” She may as well have—it might be in his illegible handwriting, but the letter was pure Rachel. “No, I’ll do it. It seems I have nothing better to do today.”

  “But you’re ill! And it’s raining!”

  “Not much. I don’t think I’ll melt—I’m not sweet enough. Really, I am feeling nearly normal, whatever that is. Better than the good vicar, certainly.”

  Henry had had to put Vincent to bed in the spare room last night. This morning, really. The fellow could not hold his liquor at all, and there may even have been some tears and vomit involved over the kitchen table.

  Who was nursing and counseling whom here? If that’s what love did, Henry wanted no part of it.

  “You don’t even know where Sykes House is.”

  “No, but you’ll draw me a map, won’t you? The village isn’t that big. I need to get out into the fresh air. I promise I’ll wear a hat this time. Maybe even carry an umbrella.” He fetched a pad of paper and pencil from a drawer in the sideboard.

  “It’s not in the village, but almost a mile out. I’m not sure you’re allowed to go that far.”

  “Rachel, I believe I’ve already done a few things that are not on my treatment plan. How do I get there?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you. If anyone asks, just say you were exploring.”

  Henry snorted. He’d gotten into quite enough trouble exploring Puddling already.

  “You need to walk through the churchyard and pick up the other end of Vicarage Lane,” Rachel said, knuckling under to his look. “It’s very narrow, no more than a grassy sheep track, not even a lane, really. It peters out at the stone wall. The gate should be unlocked. Go through and up the hill. Sykes House is at the crest. It has an unsurpassed view of the valley.”

  Another hill. Typical. His foot twinged in protest. “How the devil do they get supplies in and out?”

  “That’s the back way in. There’s a road on the other side of the estate. You came into Puddling that way, but you probably weren’t paying attention. You—you weren’t in very good shape when you arrived.”

  Very true. Henry had had a roaring headache and had slept and retched between his father’s rantings. He’d woken up in the coach in front of the Rifle and Roses only to find his father had tied him to his seat like a common criminal.

  Who knew the pater was so good with knots?

  It was only two weeks ago. Hard to believe, when so much had happened.

  “So, there’s an escape route?”

  “It’s Market Street, actually. You know the stone archway and those studded wooden doors across the road?”

  Henry nodded. He’d presumed there was a disused inn courtyard beyond. The wall was much too tall for him to see over.

  “That’s the main road. You’ve been locked in, but we all have keys.”

  “Lovely. How did my father get through yesterday?”

  “People take shifts opening the doors. There’s never much strange traffic in and out.”

  Henry supposed he’d stand around every now and then waiting for a carriage to come through himself if he got the Puddling bonus every year. He set the pencil down where it rolled off the table to the flagstone floor. “I guess I can remember the directions. I won’t be eaten by Sykes’s guard dogs, will I? I suppose I’ll be trespassing.”

  She chewed a lip. “He doesn’t have dogs. Well, his oldest son Tristan did but it died. Really, I should go myself.”

  “Don’t deprive me of my outing. After last night, I could use a holiday.” He’d been a good scout with Walker, poor idiot. Shown empathy for his fellow man. Could Henry work it into his Service somehow? He’d failed to discuss his soldiers’ respite idea, not being able to get a word in edgewise as Walker raved about his thwarted romance.

  He put his palms on the table. “I’ll just go up to my room and fetch the letter, shall I?”

  “No, you sit put. It’s the least I can do.” She disappeared up the stairs.

  Henry nursed his tea, and after a bit he heard the distinct flush of his toilet and the running of the taps. No wonder she was anxious to go up and get the letter.

  And then he heard a much more unwelcome commotion at his front door. The knoc
ker came close to being rapped clean off its hinges.

  “Henry!”

  “Miss Everett!”

  What in hell was the pater doing back, and who had he brought with him? Wasn’t his father supposed to be at some jolly weekend house party? Henry pulled himself up and limped to the front door.

  His father was accompanied by an older gentleman with frightening black eyebrows. Both of them looked choleric in the extreme.

  “Father, what a pleasant surprise! I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  “Never mind the blandishments, boy! Where is she?”

  “Where is who? Or is it whom? Come in out of the rain. I don’t believe I know your companion. May I get you both some tea? We can sit in the conservatory if you like, even if it is a filthy morning.”

  “I don’t have time for tea, my lord,” the stranger said. “I am Sir Bertram Sykes.”

  Bloody hell in a hand basket.

  “One of the governors, aren’t you? My compliments to the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. I feel like a new man and it’s only been two weeks.”

  “Shut up, Henry. I know you’re up to your old tricks. What a fool I’ve been,” the marquess said, “practically putting that girl in your lap.”

  “What girl?” Henry was probably not going to get away with claiming total ignorance, but it was all he could think to do at the moment.

  “The dirty wet one! Sir Bertram tells me there has been talk about you two. We met by chance at the Entwhistles. He has told me the trouble she’s been making in the village. No better than she should be, and I walked right into her trap. She was here all afternoon and probably all night at my insistence! How you both must have laughed.”

  Henry straightened. No better than she should be? He knew he shouldn’t punch his father and Sir Bertram both, but he was very tempted.

  And even wet and dirty, Rachel was divine.

  “I beg your pardon. Do you mean Miss Everdean? I mean Miss Evergreen? I sent her away immediately to fetch the vicar yesterday. What were you thinking, Father? You bullied the poor girl and scared her half to death. My understanding is she only came to see Mrs. Grace for a recipe for one of her father’s favorites and you dragooned her into staying to nurse me. The old man—he’s become a sort of friend—has told me she is an excellent daughter, and a very dedicated teacher, too, but I’m not sure I’d recognize her on the street.”

  Maybe he wouldn’t have to hand the scribbled letter over to Sir Bertram after all. He’d pretty much summarized its contents in one sentence.

  “Be that as it may—” his father began, but Henry plowed ahead.

  “It was Mr. Walker who spent the night here to take care of me. Ask him.”

  Sir Bertram’s fishlike mouth opened. “Walker was here? All night?”

  Henry nodded, praying Rachel would have the sense to stay upstairs and hide in a closet or something. “Yes. All night. I’m afraid we were up very late talking. Past my ten o’clock bedtime. But I do hope you’ll forgive him. We were discussing…Proverbs. He’s a very sound man, Sir Bertram. Very sound. I was almost well enough to go to church with him, but he bade me stay home. You Puddlingites are to be commended for making such an effort regarding my physical and spiritual health. Father, I hate to say it, but you were right to send me here.”

  Henry was laying it on thick. He was fairly sure his father was suspicious, but Sir Bertram puffed out his chest in pleasure, crowding the little space even further.

  “Come, why are we hanging about in the hallway? Let’s go into the parlor. You both drove over all the way from Frampton Mansell? You must have made an early start.” The two men trooped after him, looking none too happy.

  “Left before breakfast,” his father said tersely, arranging himself in the most comfortable chair, as was his wont. Nothing but the best for a marquess. “We were sure there was reason to worry.”

  Henry practically batted his eyes. “Worry about what? It was only a slight fever, Father. I was never in any real danger. But I thank you for your concern.”

  “The girl, Henry.”

  “What g—oh, you mean Miss Evershot. I told you, she fetched Mr. Walker—that is to say, Vincent, as we’ve become soulmates—post haste. You didn’t seriously think—oh, you did, didn’t you? I know I’ve given you reason to doubt me in the past, Father, but I assure you all my hijinks are over. Nothing but respectability ahead, I promise. I might even marry when I meet the right girl.”

  “I told you there was probably nothing to it, Lord Harland,” Sir Bertram said. “Perhaps I’ve jumped to some conclusions regarding our young schoolteacher myself. Rachel Everett knows which side her bread is buttered on.”

  Henry had never really understood that phrase, but let it pass. “Who?”

  “Don’t be obtuse, Henry. There are times when I wondered if you were more injured than the army let on.”

  “We shall, of course, want to interview Vincent Walker to corroborate your son’s story, my lord,” Sir Bertram said unctuously.

  “My son doesn’t lie!” the marquess lied. “But I agree—it will do no harm for me to spend a few days in Puddling to inspect your operations.”

  Henry’s heart sank to his boots. “Will you be staying here at Stonecrop Cottage, Father? It’s nice enough, but not at all what you’re used to. When Mrs. Grace gets back, I’m sure she’ll change the bedding in the guest room.” As Henry recalled, there might possibly be some unpleasant Walkerian fluid on the sheets.

  “She should be home from church services any minute,” Sykes said, looking at his timepiece.

  “Oh, she’s not in church. She never made it home,” Henry said.

  “She told me the wedding reception was yesterday afternoon,” his father blustered. “She assured me she would be here by the evening to relieve Miss Everett of her duties.”

  “But there’s been a flood so she couldn’t. That’s why my good friend Vincent was here.”

  “And he is in church, so you are all alone after all.” Henry’s father looked a trifle guilty.

  Good.

  “I don’t blame you, Father. You couldn’t have predicted the weather, and as you can see, I’m almost perfectly fine. I don’t know what I can give you for lunch, though.”

  Was there any arsenic under the sink? Henry might swallow some himself if he couldn’t figure out a way to smuggle Rachel out of the house. He hoped she wasn’t climbing out a bedroom window right this second and trying to rappel down the Cotswold stone wall.

  “Lord Harland, I would be honored if you would be my guest for the next few days. Sykes House has every amenity, and we are known throughout Gloucestershire for our gardens. That way both you and your son will have privacy and comfort. We usually encourage complete separation between our Guests and their families, you know, but I have no objection to you visiting for a day or two if it will allay your fears for your son and heir. It seems he has made significant progress.”

  Was Henry to get gold stars on his chart next? He’d much rather have kisses from the teacher.

  Chapter 30

  Henry’s face appeared under the scalloped edge of the bedspread. “That was too close for comfort.”

  Rachel could only agree. All those books about hearts beating wildly when faced with danger —she could corroborate the sensation was entirely true now, perhaps not even strong enough. She’d thought her heart would jump right out of her mouth when she dived under Henry’s bed, and her squashed bonnet might not ever recover.

  If the men had come upstairs and discovered her, there would have been no way for her to appear innocent, even if she was fresh from church and fully dressed, ruined hat and all. Henry might charm the birds out of trees, but Sir Bertram and the Marquess of Harland were a tough audience. Finding a woman in Henry’s bedroom would mean only one thing to them.

  According to the little chiming clock in Henry’s bedchamber, it was now well past noon, and Rachel had thought the men would
never leave. It wasn’t until Henry offered to heat up yesterday’s leftover soup that he drove them out into the mist to Sir Bertram’s luncheon table. Henry’s bedroom was over the parlor; she had heard every word, her ear being pressed flat against the wood floor. To give Mrs. Grace credit, there wasn’t a speck of dust. Rachel had forced back a sneeze anyway in her fright.

  Henry snaked a hand under the bed. “Do you need help? I once used to have an old basset hound who crawled under my bed during thunderstorms. Sometimes he got stuck.”

  “Are you saying I’m fat?”

  “Heavens no, you’re just right. And you smell much better than Spot ever did. Anyway, I have no objection to an extra pound or two. It’s what’s inside that counts.”

  That last sentence didn’t sound like any rake that Rachel had ever heard of. Perhaps he was telling the truth that he was a new man.

  “My knees are numb, Rachel. Do you want to stay under there all day?”

  “Of course not.” She flattened herself and slid rather like a worm, avoiding Henry’s hand. He grabbed her anyway and tugged her out. After an awkward attempt to help both of them up, Henry allowed her to steady him.

  That was what he needed—someone at his side to take his side. She’d heard what the marquess had to say below, criticism after criticism. It was a wonder Henry hadn’t strangled the man. It was all she could do to not rap on the floorboards to interrupt the conversation. To live under such constant negativity must be a trial. No wonder Henry had wanted a bit of fun.

  “Well, now what? I think the letter is superfluous, don’t you? I took every opportunity to deny that I knew you. Quite frankly, I felt a bit like Peter.”

  Rachel stared at him.

  “You know. Peter from the Bible.”

  Henry was a man of many surprises. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I don’t like that Sykes person. And now he wants to ingratiate himself with the pater. Just what we need, more vigilance. How will we be able to meet?”