The anonymous Miss Addams

by Kasey Michaels

  “Such a passionate—dare I also mention, lengthy?—speech. You see me prostrate before you, devastated by your eloquent, long-winded vehemence,” Pierre drawled, stifling a yawn.

  “Oh!” she exploded, jumping to her feet. “I can only hope I discover that I am a murderess, so I can kill you with a clear conscience!”

  Watching as she ran back toward the house, leaving one too-large shoe behind on the gravel path in her haste, Pierre raised his hand to absently stroke the small crescent-shaped scar that seemed to caress his left cheekbone. “Such a darling girl,” he mused aloud. “I believe I have been more than justly revenged on my loving father.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “SHE’S WHERE! I don’t believe it! I refuse to believe it!” cried a female voice. “Quickly, fetch me my harts-horn. I feel faint!”

  “Rubbish. You never faint, for all your moaning. You’re strong as an ox,” replied her male companion.

  “Oxen, always oxen! Have you no other animal to use as a comparison? To think that your last tutor told me you showed an active imagination. It’s a good thing I turned him off when I caught him winking at the upstairs maid, or I’d show him an active imagination! And have some pity on your elders. My poor heart could give out at any moment.”

  “It would be a better job to stop worrying about your heart and begin worrying about your neck! About both our necks.”

  “Why? We haven’t done anything, have we? They can’t hang a person for merely talking about murder. Besides, it’s only her word against ours. Oh, why did she have to end up there? Anywhere but Standish Court. André Standish! He’s completely, utterly ruthless. My blood runs cold at the very thought of him. He’s so smooth, so mysterious. He seems to know everything.”

  “It’s not the father who worries me. It’s the son. I heard all about Pierre Standish when I was in London for the Season. He’s like the father, but meaner. Killed his groom, you know—just for saddling the wrong horse. I do wish, though, that my man had his way with a cravat.”

  “But it has been five days since you went chasing off after her, and nothing has happened. I have been worried to death, waiting for you to return, waiting for the constable to come carry me away to some terrible, smelly gaol. Now you come back here, telling me she’s not twenty miles from this wretched hovel you’ve rented, and with André Standish of all people. How could you have hidden in the bushes, watching the son cart her away like that? What are we going to do when they confront us?”

  “Why, we’re going to deny everything, of course. It’s her word against ours, after all, and besides, no one has been murdered—yet. Of course, there’s always the possibility she’ll die, for she was unconscious when Standish lifted her into his coach. God, to think that I had finally run her to ground, just to have her bolt away from me into the roadway as we heard a carriage approach. You cannot know how prodigiously I hated hiding in the hedgerow while Standish all but plucked her out of my hands. Yes, it would serve her right to die from the tumble she took. That would solve the problem quite nicely.”

  “Then we’d be free of her forever! Oh, that’s above everything wonderful. But what if she lives? No, you have to go back to Standish Court. You have to go back, and silence her once and for all.”

  “With Pierre Standish there to guard her? And you said you loved me. But you’re right. She has to die now, or everything is ruined.”

  “Yes, yes, it does present a problem. But we have no choice. Besides, you don’t have to leave straight away. It can wait until tomorrow. Sit down, my dear, you look weary. Other than the fact that you couldn’t apprehend that dreadful girl, was it a nice trip? The countryside is so pleasing this time of year.”

  JEREMY HOLLOWAY RAN halfway down the length of the shiny black and white tiled foyer in his stockinged feet, an oversized knitted cap pulled down over his ears, then skidded the rest of the way on the slippery floor, whistling through the gap between his front teeth as he held his arms wide to maintain his balance. He quickly held his hands out in front of him before he cannoned into the closed doors to the drawing room.

  Grinning from ear to ear in enjoyment of this new amusement, he turned himself about, ready to attack the slippery floor from the other direction, only to feel his shoulders firmly grasped by a pair of strong hands. Looking up—looking a long way up—he saw his new master staring down at him, his left eyebrow arched inquisitively.

  “Good morning, Master Holloway,” Pierre said quietly. “May I be so bold as to assume you are prepared to explain what you’re doing?”

  “’Allo there, guv’nor!” Jeremy chirped brightly, his quick mind working feverishly for an explanation. “Givin’ a bit o’ polish ter the floor, Oi am. ’Artley, yer pantler, asked me ter, yer see, an’ Oi’m jist obligin’ ’im—doin’ ’im a bit of a favor, like. ’E’s been ever so kind ter me, yer understands.”

  “Ah, yes, dearest Hartley. Wasn’t that kind of him—and kind of you. Kind and thoughtful—and utter rubbish. Tell me, Master Holloway. Was it enjoyable?”

  Jeremy swallowed hard on the enormous lump in his throat and rolled his eyes as if attempting to discover the nearest exit. “Jist cuff me good an’ gets it over, guv’nor,” he said at last, as Pierre’s hands still held him firmly in place. “Oi can takes it.”

  “He will do nothing of the sort!” Miss Penance exclaimed militantly from behind Pierre. “Mr. Standish, you will please release that poor child at once. Or have you rescued him from his terrible former life only to beat him yourself?”

  Recognizing opportunity when it appeared, Jeremy immediately burst into noisy tears, wrenching himself free of Pierre and immediately burying his head against his latest savior’s waist. “Oi didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ’onest, miss. The floor wuz jist there—yer knows. So pretty, so shiny. Don’t let ’im beat me, miss, pleez! Ol’ man ’Awkins, ’e beat me all the time.”

  “Don’t you worry, Jeremy. I won’t let him so much as lay a finger on you,” Miss Penance assured him, her arms wrapped tightly around Jeremy’s thin shoulders, her violet eyes glaring at the man she considered to be the bully of the piece. “You’re terrible with children, you know,” she told Pierre condescendingly.

  Pierre, who was always appreciative of outstanding theatrical performances, showed his appreciation now, clapping most politely as he commended softly, “Bravo! Bravo! I tell you both, I am most deeply affected. I don’t know whether to toss roses at your feet or go off into the woods and fall on my sword. What a cad I am, what a cold, unfeeling monster! I should be horsewhipped.”

  “I agree. I might only pray that I can be the one to wield the whip, sirrah!”

  “My word, really? Such a Trojan you are, Miss Penance. Is that blood I see in your eyes?”

  Jeremy pulled his face free from Miss Penance’s smothering embrace to see that the two adults had all but forgotten him as they stared at each other, his female protector with some heat, his male protector with barely suppressed amusement. Clearly his presence was no longer required, and he carefully disengaged his hands from Miss Penance’s waist and ran for the safety of the servant’s quarters, careful both to pick up his still new shoes and to refrain from sliding as he neared the door that led to the kitchens.

  “Now here’s a dilemma,” Pierre said after a space, his gaze never leaving the shining violet glare that still bore into him. “It would appear, Miss Penance, that the object of our latest contretemps has succeeded in eluding both my cruel, animalistic wrath and your fierce, motherly protection. Do we continue to stand here, staring at each other until one of us crumbles under the strain, or do we agree to a cessation of hostilities—only until the next time, of course—so that I might continue toward the breakfast room without fear of feeling a shaft of cold steel plunge between my shoulder blades?”

  Miss Penance, who had already begun to feel rather foolish—not that she for one moment would let that insufferable prig know it!—lowered her chin and stepped back three paces, motioning for Pierre to precede he
r toward the breakfast room. “Hunger alone makes me accompany you, sir,” she told him, then gasped as he took her arm so that they walked together down the hallway to breakfast.

  The room was empty of other occupants when they arrived, Miss Penance quickly disengaging her arm from Pierre’s grasp as she made for the side table that held an enormous array of hot and cold food. After piling eggs and kippers and toast indiscriminately on her plate, she retreated to the far end of the long dining table and sat down, as far away from Pierre Standish and the coffee pot as she could. After all, it was one thing to share a table with the man. It was asking entirely too much to believe she would pour for him as well.

  Putting a forkful of eggs into her mouth—while trying not to notice either the absence of salt or the salt cellar that sat directly in front of Pierre halfway down the table—she lowered her gaze in the hope her long black lashes would disguise the fact that she was staring at him.

  There was no denying it, more’s the pity, he really was a very nicely set-up man. Thin but well muscled, and taller than she by at least a foot, he wore his clothes well, even if he seemed to wear nothing but whitest white and blackest black. Of course, the white of his cravat showed his tanned skin to advantage, while the black of his clothes almost exactly matched the dead-of-night shade of his hair—which didn’t mean that she found him attractive, for she did not.

  Of course she didn’t.

  She lowered her gaze to her plate, somewhat alarmed to see the kippers she had placed there, for she didn’t think she was going to like them. They looked so dead. Pushing them to one side with her fork, she took a deep breath and lifted another forkful of eggs to her mouth.

  “Salt?” Pierre asked just as she closed her mouth around the fork, his voice dripping innocent inquiry.

  “No,” she snapped, adding, “thank you,” only because she knew it was polite to do so. Glaring at him once again—she seemed always to be glaring at him—she stabbed her fork into the food on her plate and took a whopping mouthful of kippers, her eyes immediately widening in shock. “Mmmfff!” she mumbled, knowing that, no matter how unladylike it would be, there was simply no way in the world she was going to swallow the nastiness now filling her mouth.

  Pierre, his face determinedly blank, propped his elbow on the table and with chin in palm, inquired sweetly, “Coffee, Miss Penance?”

  Her teeth firmly clenched, her lips nearly disappearing as she drew them into a thin line, Miss Penance could only glare at him and shake her head—vehemently. “Mmmfff!” she repeated, tears beginning to sting her eyes.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Pierre answered amicably. “Perhaps you’d care for a glass of milk? After all, kippers can be very, um, salty.”

  Her hands digging into the serviette in her lap, she used her tongue to shift the kippers to one side of her mouth, still refusing to chew.

  “Not very talkative, are you, Miss Penance. Miss Penance,” he repeated, sitting back at his ease. “We have to do something about that name, don’t we? I mean, it was all right for a while, but you’ve been with us for three days now, and to tell the truth, it is beginning to weary me. Have you any suggestions for a replacement?”

  The eggs in her stomach—the unsalted eggs in her suddenly unsettled stomach—were threatening to revolt, forcing her to bolt from the room or to dispose of the kippers posthaste, either solution bound to be remarked upon by the still solicitously smiling Pierre Standish.

  “Miss Penance, much as I am enjoying this, enough is enough.” Pierre rose, reaching for the water pitcher and an empty glass. “Here. What’s the matter? Kippers got your tongue?”

  That did it! The serviette found its way to her lips and she rid herself of the kippers just as Pierre waved a glass of water in her face. She grabbed it, too grateful to refuse his help, and downed the cool liquid as fast as she could, not caring about anything except ridding herself of the taste of salted herring. “Oh!” she exclaimed, gasping, once the glass was empty. “That was horrid!”

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Pierre told her, sitting down once more. “I believe it is safe to say that you, Miss Penance, have not acquired it.”

  Using the handkerchief she had unearthed from her pocket to dab at her moist eyes, Miss Penance responded grudgingly, “Apparently not. Thank you. I’ll see that the serviette is laundered.”

  Pierre ignored this last statement, choosing rather to go back to the subject of her name. “I have been giving it some thought,” he began, knowing she would have no choice but to follow where he was leading, “and I have decided to call you Miss Addams—as in Adam and Eve, you understand—but with two D’s, so as to not be too ordinary. Not being particularly partial to the name Eve, however, I shall leave the matter of your first name entirely to you.”

  “Well, isn’t that too bloody generous of you,” the newly christened Miss Addams began furiously. “I’d just as soon you—”

  “Your language, Miss Addams, please! Consider my tender ears.”

  She ignored him, continuing, “I’d just as soon you left the entire matter to me, or to your father, as he has informed me that he is to be my guardian until such time as I remember exactly who I am.”

  “My father, yes. And how is that gentleman? I have not seen him above once since he scolded me for distressing you with the sight of my legs. He warned me that I might have compromised you, but I disabused him of that assumption, considering that you are quite the most uncompromising female I have ever encountered.”

  “Caroline!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Caroline. You’re not deaf. Dumb?—well, that is arguable, I believe. I wish to be called Caroline. Caroline Addams.”

  “Caroline.” Pierre raised his left eyebrow, a mannerism that was becoming increasingly infuriating to Caroline Addams. “That may be an unfortunate choice. Heaven knows it hasn’t done Caroline Lamb a world of good. Are you quite settled on it, then?”

  She crossed her arms at her waist. “Completely and irrevocably,” she declared.

  “There is nothing complete and irrevocable in this life, Miss Addams, except our assurance of one day leaving it.” Pierre looked down at his plate, realizing he had quite lost his appetite. He rose, carefully pushing in his chair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

  “Never!” Caroline answered quickly, knowing she was behaving most childishly, but also knowing that she had been provoked. After all, he was the one who seemed to like her best when cast in the role of shrew. “I shall be happy to see you go, but I shall never excuse you.”

  He stopped, his hand still on the back of the chair, and looked consideringly down the table at her. “You know, Miss Addams,” he said, almost as if he was saying the words as he thought them, “I am almost convinced that you are deliberately provoking me.”

  Caroline’s mouth opened wide as she raised her hands to her cheeks in feigned shock. “No! Whatever would make you think that, Mr. Standish?”

  He ignored her obvious dramatics. “The question then is: why? Perhaps you are fighting some wild attraction for me? Oh dear, that must be it. It was the legs, wasn’t it? Admit it, Miss Addams. I most particularly remember your fascination with my legs. You’re mad with love for me.”

  “I’m what?” she exclaimed, feeling her cheeks beginning to flame. Now he had gone too far. “You’re depraved!”

  “So I’ve been told,” Pierre admitted, turning to go. “But I’ve never before heard the accusation voiced in the way of a complaint. Ah, well, I think I shall go now, to beat my devoted valet heavily about the head and shoulders, in order to regain some of my trampled self-esteem. Good day, Miss Addams. I leave you to enjoy the rest of your delicious meal in peace.”

  “And good riddance to him!” Caroline concluded heatedly as Pierre closed the door behind him. So aggravated was she that she vented her anger by giving her serviette a wicked shake, intending to spread it across her knees once again, only to send the rejected bite of kippers skidding across the parquet
floor.

  A few moments later the sunny breakfast room was entirely empty of human occupation, with only two uneaten plates of rapidly congealing food left behind to show that the room had ever been occupied.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ANDRÉ LOOKED UP from the letter he was penning in the supposed privacy of his study to see his son enter the room, an unusually enigmatic smile on his darkly handsome face. “Have you succeeded in finding something to amuse you, my boy? You look almost pleased. Much as it reveals the weakness of my old age, I must tell you, it’s unnerving to observe you so happy.”

  Pierre settled himself comfortably in an oversized burgundy leather wing chair, draping one long, elegant booted leg over the arm of the chair. “This is not happiness you see upon my face, Father. It is an outward sign of my depravity. I have this on good authority, you understand. Your son is hopelessly, but happily, depraved.”

  The older Standish signed his name to the bottom of the sheet with his usual flourish and carefully laid down his pen before remarking on his son’s nonsense. “You’ve been teasing our little guest again, haven’t you, Pierre? It really is too bad of you. What was it this time? Have you been showing her your legs again?”

  “Nothing so daring. I merely told her I’ve decided on a surname for her. Addams—with two D’s of course, to raise her from the ordinary. She, in her turn, linked Addams with Caroline, a mundane but serviceable appellation, barely worthy of a young lady who might well be a missing heiress. Of course, she might just as easily be a fleeing housemaid, which would make her choice of name smack of a pushy young lady dangerously overreaching herself, but I was not so boorish as to point that out to her.”