Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  It was damned hard to be helpful.

  But if this Merwyn was such a rotter, the pater’s finer feelings could be counted on. Henry didn’t know anyone who considered himself nobler, more honorable, more right than his father. Merwyn would not want to tangle with the morally perfect Marquess of Harland.

  They munched in silence. Greta ate three of the pieces of toast and Henry didn’t begrudge her one bite.

  He looked at the little clock on the mantel. “Mrs. Grace will be coming soon. Can you talk to her about your troubles?”

  Greta wiped a crumb from her lip. “She h-hates me.”

  “Oh, she hates everyone. Shall I go see if our good vicar is awake yet? He counseled you, didn’t he?”

  Greta turned bright red and nodded. “He—he—oh! He will be so angry with me! I was supposed to forget him and do my duty to my family, but I cannot! I l-l-love him!”

  Oh, dear. So that was the way the land lay. Things would be much thornier than Henry imagined. This was the girl Vincent Walker had gotten drunk over, the girl he’d loved and lost to an arranged marriage. “May I go upstairs and freshen up?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Of course. You know where everything is. Don’t hit your head.”

  Henry would just have to walk round to roust old Vincent out of bed and tell him his long-lost love had come back to Puddling.

  He grinned. Now this was going to be a scandal. And it couldn’t come at a better time.

  Chapter 36

  Once Henry was assured that Lady Bexley—for that was Greta’s name now, and she was, of all things, a countess—was not going to run away on a passing farm wagon, he left her to fetch the vicar. He didn’t even bring a walking stick; there was a bounce in his step he hadn’t felt since his foot was nearly blown off.

  So, Sykes and the Foundation’s governors were going to have a spot of trouble regarding Puddling’s reputation as the premiere place to stash annoying relatives. If rumors had circulated about their schoolteacher and latest Guest, what would they make of their hired clergyman and a married woman?

  Who cared if the pater got a little upset when Henry brought home his bride? He would be in excellent company. How could he rage against Puddling when it was going to rage upon itself? The bloody vicar had been in love with one of the Guests and all of Puddling would be in an uproar. It was scandal with a capital S. Old Vincent, the poor devil, earnest, prosy Vincent was about to land in the soup with the charming, chubby Lady Bexley and all hell would break loose.

  And then Henry stopped and nearly stumbled over a cobblestone. He should not be taking pleasure in this turn of events. Poor Greta was despondent, and Vincent lovelorn. His woman had been forced to marry another (Henry remembered that conversation and the ensuing vomit all too well), and there would be legal and ecclesiastical difficulties.

  The Matrimonial Causes Act had been passed some time ago, but women were still in the soup when it came to divorce. Could Vincent be defrocked? Surely he’d lose his job here as counselor-in-chief. He might be banished to the Outer Hebrides, where his flock would be mostly puffins. Would Greta go with him to live a life of sin and seabird droppings?

  Hell, no. Henry would see to it that the poor girl got her divorce from that debauched devil and that Vincent got just what he deserved.

  But how?

  Damn it, this was the best Service Henry had thought up yet, although he hadn’t the faintest idea how to accomplish it. But eventually Sir Bertram Sykes had to be hoisted on his own petard for his callous treatment of Rachel, and Puddling returned to its solicitous solitude without ensuing scandal.

  Gah. More alliteration.

  He knocked on the vicarage’s black-painted door, peering through the pebbled glass. It was just seven, though Henry felt he’d been up for hours.

  Vincent came to the door himself, dressed, hair brushed, and a slight coffee mustache on his blandly handsome face.

  “Lord Challoner! This is unexpected. Is everything all right?”

  Henry looked up and down the street to see if any of the neighbors were peering through their lace curtains. “Not really, Walker. Let me in, will you? We have to talk.”

  “Have you had breakfast? May I get you something? This is Mrs. Price’s day off, but I can make a very decent cup of coffee, if I may take the liberty of saying so.” He escorted Henry into his tiny, book-strewn study.

  “No time for that. Sit down, Walker. I have something important to say.”

  “Have you had an epiphany?” the man asked eagerly.

  “Oh, yes. And her name is Lady Greta Bexley.”

  Vincent Walker blanched. Henry had seen men before they fainted, and he caught the vicar before he fell face-down on the threadbare Oriental carpet.

  “Gr-Greta?” he gurgled. “My Greta?”

  “The very same. She’s come back to you, Vincent.” It seemed silly to call him Walker when he was cradling the man in his arms.

  “B-but she’s married!”

  “There is that minor detail. We’ll have to figure something out. But there’s no point in lollygagging here. She’s waiting for you at Stonecrop Cottage.”

  If possible, Vincent paled even further. “I can’t go there! You must see I can’t!”

  “No, I’m afraid I don’t see. The girl has walked practically all the way from Stroud when she wasn’t carted about like a basket of vegetables on a farm wagon and is emotionally drained. She needs counseling in the worst way.”

  And kissing, Henry suspected. He sat Vincent down in his desk chair.

  “B-but her husband!”

  “Not here. Not anywhere, as far as I can tell. Certainly never in her bed.”

  There was a telling lull. “What?” Vincent croaked.

  “She is intact, if that matters to you, old thing. The bastard doesn’t love her. Has treated her abominably. Made her feel inferior. Has been cruel.”

  Vincent’s eyes were wide as saucers. “But why? She is the most beautiful, sweetest darling!”

  “Precisely,” Henry agreed. “Much too good for this Bexley boob. How did you let her get away, Vincent?”

  The vicar ran his hand through his hair. Henry thought that was a habit he should soon cease or there wouldn’t be that much of it left. “The—the Foundation would have been ruined if I had given in to my feelings. All those years of success, swept away by imprudence. But you’ve seen her, Challoner. How could I not break my vows to the village and my Lord? I’m only human, but I’ve brought dishonor to Puddling.”

  “Forget Puddling. Go to Greta. She’s waiting for you. I’ll see if I can’t head off Mrs. Grace so you two can have some privacy.”

  Vincent embraced him, nearly knocking Henry off his feet. “I knew there was good in you somewhere! I’ll never forget this!”

  Henry was a little afraid the vicar was about to kiss him. “Go on. Hurry. You don’t want her to change her mind and run off.”

  Not likely—the poor girl was not much of a walker by her own admission, and running was probably out of the question. But Vincent sprinted out the door and down the hill. Henry made for New Street, resolutely passing Rachel’s house. Mrs. Grace’s cottage was a few doors down, flanked by colorful pots of daisies and geraniums. He knocked. It took Mrs. Grace some time to answer her door.

  “Oh!” She looked very surprised to see him. Her face was flushed, and her hair loose and uncovered. Henry had only ever seen her in a cap, and he had to admit she had beautiful, thick silver-streaked hair to match her silver-gray eyes. She was wearing a very fetching pink peignoir set, which was quite at odds with her usual dull housekeeper’s uniform.

  Why, she was rather pretty in an ice maiden kind of way. Tall, buxom, proud. And she might actually be under fifty by a few years. She didn’t look as supercilious as usual—there had been times when she looked at Henry as if she smelled something funny.

  “Sorry to barge in like this, but I want to give you the day off.”

&nb
sp; She shook her head. “You cannot. It’s against the rules. Bad enough I let you down over the weekend. I know I’m running a little late, but I shall be right along.”

  “But I don’t need you today, Mrs. Grace. I’ve already had breakfast—I fixed it all by myself! The house is spotless, I’m feeling better than I have in ages, and you deserve a day to yourself for all your hard work. I know I’ve not been easy to do for. But I’m a new man. The pater is going to be proud.”

  What was that? Henry thought he’d heard a snort somewhere down the dark hall behind his housekeeper. He tried to peer around her but she bobbed to the side, looking suddenly nervous.

  And guilty. By Jove, was Dr. Oakley hiding in her kitchen? Henry liked the idea of older people still having a bit of fun. Good for them. But feeling impish, Henry couldn’t help but tease her.

  “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea before I leave you though.”

  “T-t-tea?”

  “Yes, you know, that brown stuff. Wet. Goes in a cup.”

  “I don’t think I have any.”

  No tea in Mrs. Grace’s house? Unthinkable. Henry would bet her kitchen was well-stocked and alphabetized.

  “Coffee will be fine. I’ve never been inside your cottage, have I? Would you mind if I came in?”

  “Uh, I’m afraid I don’t feel very well. And it’s not fit for company. It’s a—it’s a right mess, especially the kitchen.”

  Also unthinkable. Mrs. Grace could have out-cleaned even the pater’s fastidious staff. Stonecrop Cottage was a pristine showplace—Henry was even folding his bath towels properly at her instigation.

  “All right then—you won’t object to having the day free to recover and tidy up a little when you feel better, will you? I’m so sorry that you are under the weather. If you are no better tomorrow, take another day, won’t you? I can shift for myself, I assure you. Toodle-oo.”

  Her relief was palpable. Something was off. Henry waited a few minutes, then pressed himself against the cottage wall, sidling slowly down the alleyway like a crab. Her cottage was much like Rachel’s, so there would be a kitchen window he could peer into and catch her and Dr. Oakley in their middle-aged rhapsody.

  Well, that was the idea, anyway. But this was a morning for surprises. Henry forgot to breathe when he saw his father, the Marquess of Harland, sitting at Mrs. Grace’s kitchen table in a paisley dressing gown.

  What Henry wouldn’t give for a camera. Alas, he had only his brain with him, which would have to do.

  Chapter 37

  Good for the pater. Really. Henry could not recall his father showing an interest in any woman since his marchioness died. Mrs. Grace was an unexpected choice, but she was a handsome woman and Henry could now see her appeal.

  By God, would he have to call her step-mama? He supposed anything was possible in this day and age. Puddling was a hotbed of romantic folly. Was there something in the air? The water? Henry needed to make Rachel breathe and drink more.

  As far as he knew, the marquess had seen Mrs. Grace exactly twice: the day of Henry’s incarceration and the day of the flooded wedding. How on earth had he wound up in her kitchen in a dressing gown? Was Sir Bertram a matchmaker?

  Henry needed a place to hide out for a while and gather his thoughts. No doubt Vincent and Lady Bexley would appreciate his extended absence. Since he was in the neighborhood, he rapped on the Everetts’ back door. No one came to welcome him inside for coffee and gingerbread. Despite the early hour, Henry thought Rachel was probably at the schoolhouse already; she was all too dedicated. Pete Everett was no doubt sleeping in the front room as a man of his years deserved.

  So he sat in the lush little garden, reconsidering the wisdom of leaving his cane home. Unlacing his specially-fitted boot, Henry rubbed his foot and wondered where the hideous canine menace was. Some watchdog—there had been no warning barks or growls from inside heralding his visit. Perhaps the wretched beast recognized him now and knew Henry was no danger to his family and was snoozing with his master.

  Henry put his boot back on. He couldn’t go home to the love-nest, somewhat afraid of what he’d find. How would Vincent look without his dog-collar?

  Henry didn’t really want to know.

  How could he help Vincent get his happy ending? Perhaps he could purchase a small estate with a cleric’s living attached. Install Vincent and Lady Bexley in the rectory—no, she’d have to be un-Lady Bexley.

  If a marriage wasn’t consummated, could it be annulled? Henry had a suspicion the husband had to be proven incapable, and that boob Bexley was not apt to confess to such a thing, especially if he was cutting a swath through the demi-mondaine and was a renowned cocksman.

  What man would admit he was a wilted flower? Henry himself had gone out of his way to stimulate his flagging manhood when he was too depressed to function properly. Thus Francie and Lysette, when all the while not that much had been going on.

  Very few swaths had been cut.

  He was thoroughly cured now. Sunday proved that, not that he’d ever tell Rachel she was the instrument of his newfound joy. She didn’t want to be responsible for his reformation, and she was right. Change did come from within, and change was zipping through Henry like an electric current.

  But back to one of his problems. Obviously, the best and most efficient solution would be to murder Bexley. Extreme, to say the least. But Henry had done enough killing, and though he liked Vincent well enough, was not going to put his mortal soul into more jeopardy than it was already.

  He chuckled. He was coming unhinged contemplating murder. There had to be an easier way to assist the young lovers.

  He was running through various scenarios—all of them sadly insufficient—when he heard Rufus’s unearthly howl from inside the cottage.

  Henry tried the kitchen door and it swung open. Rufus came barreling down the hallway toward him, whining and tail wagging, an unusual combination.

  Glad to see him? No attempt at a bite? Something was definitely wrong.

  “Mr. Everett?”

  Rufus yipped, turned and raced to the front parlor. Henry followed and found Pete Everett on the floor clutching his chest, his face gray.

  Henry was on his knees at his side at once. “Mr. Everett! Pete! Can you hear me?”

  Rachel’s father nodded. “Hurts.”

  “Where?”

  “Dignity. Heart.”

  Dear God. Henry had no idea where Dr. Oakley lived, but everyone in the village would.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Of course I’ll stay here, you looby. Where will I go?” There was nothing wrong with Everett’s wits, even though each word cost him a breath.

  Henry grabbed a pillow from the bed and tucked it under the man’s head, then tossed a quilt over him. He didn’t dare try to pick Rachel’s father up, not knowing if he’d broken something in his fall.

  Henry dashed up the street and pounded on Mrs. Grace’s door. This time she was even longer opening it, and when she did, her annoyance was plain.

  “I already told you—”

  “Stubble it, Mrs. Grace. Pete Everett has had some kind of attack and needs the doctor. You’ll have to let my father stew in his juices while you fetch him. Get someone to tell Rachel to come home as soon as she can, too.”

  She paled but didn’t deny anything.

  “Hurry! There’s no time to get dressed. I’m going back there right now and see what I can do to help.”

  Henry left her, not looking back. The damned woman had better shake a leg.

  Speaking of legs, his foot was on fire, but that didn’t matter. Henry let himself back into the house. Rufus was guarding his owner, but allowed Henry to approach.

  “I’m going to loosen your nightshirt, sir.”

  “Have at it.” Everett’s words were weak but steady.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Got out of bed to use the privy. When I came back in, I was dizzy. Fel
l.”

  “Are you still in pain?”

  Everett shrugged. Which probably meant yes. He must have hit the floor hard.

  Henry had performed first aid in the field too many times to count, but there was no blood to stanch and no bone to set or anything to stitch up. He was at a loss.

  Rachel loved her father. Henry didn’t want to be responsible for the man’s death. Where was the damned doctor?

  “May I get you water? Do you have pills or anything to take?”

  “Healthy as a horse.” Everett winked so slowly Henry almost missed it. “Water would be good.”

  Henry went into the orderly kitchen and filled a mug full of water. It couldn’t be bad for someone if they were suffering from a heart attack, could it? Pete Everett was old, but that didn’t mean he should die this morning from drinking a glass of water.

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I can try.”

  Henry held the glass as Everett took a shaky sip. When he was done, he clutched Henry’s hand, spilling a few drops on Henry’s sleeve. “You’ll take care of my girl, won’t you? You’ll marry her like you said you wanted.”

  “If she’ll have me. So far, she hasn’t said yes and I’ve asked and asked.”

  “Damn headstrong chit. Just like her mother. Stubborn as the day is long.” Everett coughed and swallowed another mouthful.

  Henry tried to smile. “I’ll bring her round somehow. I don’t want you to worry about anything, Pete. You don’t mind if I call you Pete, do you?”

  “Best of friends, ain’t we? That’s what I told that prig Sykes when he came by yesterday with your father. I’m tired, Lord Challoner. Henry, I guess it is now, since we’re practically related. Don’t let me down, boy—ask her again, and this time make it stick. Let me close my eyes for a little while.”