“Yer’ll not git yer maggoty mitts on me agin, yer beetlebrowed bogey!” he shouted as he ran. “Oi’m not goin’ nowheres with the likes of yer!”
Pierre stood up in time to catch Jeremy by the shoulders, effectively halting him in his tracks. “I assume there’s some reasonable explanation for this interruption, my young friend?” he asked, looking over Jeremy’s head to the hallway. “There are, after all, more elegant ways of entering a room.”
Jeremy looked up at Pierre, his eyes wide with fright even as a new determination squared his jaw. “’E’s not gonna snaffle me, is ’e, guv’nor? Yer said yer wuz gonna take me ter Piccadilly. Yer can’t lets ’im take me.”
“I don’t recall expressing any wish to be shed of you,” Pierre responded, “although I must admit that the lapse amazes even me.” He released Jeremy’s shoulders, only to have the boy fall to the carpet and wrap his arms convulsively around Pierre’s knees. “I think it only fair to warn you, brat, that I am known to dislike dramatic displays,” he added, looking down at Jeremy’s fuzzy yellow head.
“There yer be, yer dirty, snivelin’ heathen!”
Pierre looked up to see that there was now a very large, very dirty man standing on his father’s lovely Aubusson carpet. He pointed out as much to the man. “You’re standing on my father’s Aubusson carpet, my good fellow,” he said, his voice smooth as finest velvet. “My gratitude would know no bounds if you would remove your boots from it at once.”
The man halted in his tracks, looked about as if wondering how he had happened to enter the elegant room, then backed up until his boots were once more touching polished wood, two feet away from the carpet.
“I do so admire obedience,” Pierre complimented, nodding in the man’s direction. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Master Holloway—as you appear to have the advantage of knowing the name of our unexpected visitor—would you be so kind as to do the honors?”
Jeremy spoke from the presumed safety of his position, still at Pierre’s feet. He was safe now, he was sure, as the “guv’nor” was all powerful and would let no harm come to him. “Dat’s ’im, the sweep. Dat’s ol’ ’Awkins. ’E’s come ter do yer da’s chimleys an’ spotted me. Slit ’is slimy gizzard, guv’nor! Chop up ’is liver an’ lights an’ feed ’em ter the crows!”
“So bloodthirsty, Master Holloway. I cannot fathom why you and Duvall do not hit it off. You have so much in common.” Pierre’s left eyebrow lifted fractionally as he turned his attention back to the man. “So, you’re Mr. Hawkins?” he remarked silkily. “This young lad has mentioned you more than once, as you’ve made a strong impression on him—most frequently with a fireplace poker, as I recall. I must say I’m surprised. My compliments to you. I hadn’t thought a creature such as you could actually walk upright.”
The sweep master’s huge hands bunched into tight fists, and he took two steps forward, his boots once again on the carpet.
“Tut-tut!” Pierre admonished pleasantly. “The carpet, sir, if you’ll recall.”
Hawkins backed up, although if anyone had asked him why he had done so he would have been hard-pressed to explain. The gentry mort hadn’t been born that could scare Jacky Hawkins. There was just something about this particular one that had made him consider a small retreat preferable to whatever unspoken alternative Pierre Standish might have in mind. His voice rose, to cover his sudden attack of cowardliness. “Dat there boy belongs ter me,” he whined, pointing a grimy finger at Jeremy. “Oi paid fer him right an’ tight. Oi don’t want no trouble, guv’nor. Oi only wants wot’s mine.”
Pierre appeared to be unmoved by Hawkins’s logic. “Master Holloway,” he questioned softly, “much as I have recently developed a most prodigious aversion to assumption, may I assume that you do not wish to reenter Mr. Hawkins’s employ?”
“Oi’d druther ’ave a bleedin’ stick stuffed up m’ nose!” Jeremy lifted his head to demonstrate, with the use of his index finger. “Jist like this!”
Pierre shuddered delicately. “There you have it, Mr. Hawkins, straight from the boy’s, er, mouth. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I believe this young man and I have wearied of this conversation. Please be so good as to close the door behind you as you leave the room and, I believe, this house. Your services are no longer required.”
Hawkins slammed his hamlike fists against his hips as his face turned a violent purple. “Oi ain’t steppin’ one foot nowheres till Oi ’ave that kiddy back right an’ tight. ’E’s mine, Oi says.”
“Yes, you did say, Mr. Hawkins,” Pierre said consideringly. “How fatiguing it is to listen to it a second time, for it now becomes my sad chore to repeat myself by again requesting your immediate departure.”
Hawkins knew he could break Pierre Standish in half, just as if he were a dry stick. He was twice his size, wasn’t he, and no stranger to fighting. So why was he standing there like a stuffed bear, doing nothing? Why, indeed? He took one step onto the carpet.
Pierre’s left eyebrow rose the merest fraction.
“Oi’m out good blunt for that worthless brat!” Hawkins shouted, shaking his fist at Jeremy. But for all his bellowing, he didn’t bring his second foot forward.
“Are you suggesting that I reimburse you, Mr. Hawkins?” Pierre smiled, and Hawkins shivered. “I’m afraid I shall have to disappoint you there, as I do not traffic in human souls, either in the buying or the selling of them.”
“Oi’ll have the law on yer! Yer nuthin’ but a thievin’ low-down bastard!”
“Oh, dear, really?” Pierre leaned down to touch Jeremy’s shoulder. “Excuse me, Master Holloway, but I must implore you to remove your arms, as I believe your convulsive grip has served to put my feet to sleep. Ah, thank you, that’s much better.” He stepped away from the child without moving closer to Hawkins.
“Don’t leave me, guv’nor!” Jeremy screeched, panic-stricken at this seeming desertion by the one man he had grown to trust. “Wot are yer gonna do now?”
Pierre turned back to the boy, smiling widely. “Do, Master Holloway? Why, I would have thought you’d know. I’m going to challenge our Mr. Hawkins to a duel, as any gentleman must do when his honesty and honour have been impugned. First I will slap him, with a glove or handkerchief of course, as I would not wish to soil my hand, and then I shall ask Mr. Hawkins to name his weapon of choice. I favor pistols, or even swords, but as I have not had the chance for more than a few rounds with Gentleman Jackson in these past months, fisticuffs would appeal to me as well. What say you, Mr. Hawkins?”
Pierre looked to where Hawkins had been standing a moment earlier, to see that the room was now empty of anyone save Jeremy and himself.
“How odd,” he remarked, shaking his head. “It would appear, Master Holloway, that your Mr. Hawkins has undergone a change of heart. Pity. A duel would have filled an hour nicely.”
Jeremy hopped to his feet, punching the air as he danced about the room in imitation of some bruiser he had once seen perform an impromptu demonstration of the manly science of fisticuffs on a street corner. “Yer woulda kilt ’im, guv’nor,” he assured Pierre. “Yer woulda shoved yer fives right square in ’is ivories, so dat ’is daylights popped out. It’d ’ave been grand ter see ol’ ’Awkins arsy varsey, ’is applecart spilled, guv’nor. Real grand! Wot a sight fer sore eyes it’d ’ave been!”
“Please remember that a gentleman is never vulgar in victory, Master Holloway, any more than he is ungracious in defeat,” Pierre admonished, patting the boy on the head. “Now run off and see if you can be of some help in the kitchens. Or you might wish for me to ring for Duvall, so that you might have another bath?”
Jeremy ran from the room as fast as his legs would carry him, and Pierre settled once more into a chair, looking toward the mantel clock and wondering where the devil Caroline could be, the incident with Hawkins, which had been at best only a small diversion, already forgotten.
It never occurred to him, that, had Caroline seen his protection of Jeremy, her low opini
on of him would have undergone a considerable change for the better.
THE NEARER THE carriage carried her to Standish Court the more apprehensive Caroline became about her impetuous decision to employ Mrs. Merrydell.
The woman was not at all what she would have had in mind for a chaperone, if indeed she had ever considered the requirements for such a person.
Her references, which the woman had produced from the single piece of luggage that the coachman had picked up from the local inn and insisted Caroline read as they rode along in the carriage, were impeccable; three letters, all signed by titled ladies whose penmanship was only slightly superior to their imaginative spelling.
It was the woman herself who bothered Caroline. She was loud, for one thing, and rather coarse, and had a disconcerting habit of nudging Caroline none too gently in the ribs to emphasize her stories of how she had contrived to successfully “pop off” many an eligible young miss in her time.
Knowing that her own language could at times stray embarrassingly close to the barracks, Caroline tried hard to overcome her objections to Mrs. Merrydell’s speech, but there was a world of difference between a good swear-word when it fit the situation and talking openly about such things as “firm little titties” when the woman described the physical attributes of her last charge.
What had begun as a ploy to infuriate Pierre Standish had rapidly descended into a ticklish situation that was, among other things, fast giving Caroline the headache. Even Susan, who was for the most part a placid sort, was showing signs of wishing to stuff something in Mrs. Merrydell’s mouth in order to shut her up.
As the carriage stopped in front of the main entrance to Standish Court, Caroline soothed herself with the thought that Pierre would have Mrs. Merrydell’s measure in less than a heartbeat, and would immediately show her the door, if only to thwart his unloved Good Deed. He would instinctively know that she had engaged the woman only to inconvenience him and would refuse to allow her to remain as chaperone.
She smiled as the groom lowered the steps and held out his hand to help her down. Pierre would take care of everything. For once she was glad for his interference in her life.
Leading the way, Caroline swept across the foyer after learning Pierre’s whereabouts from the footman, ignoring something he tried to tell her about a rare goings-on just having taken place, and knocked at André’s study door. “Come along, Mrs. Merrydell, and meet your new employer,” she urged as that woman hesitated a moment, assessing a large vase that stood in a corner of the foyer as if considering what price it would bring in the open market.
When no one called for her to enter, Caroline knocked a second time, then opened the door.
“Ah, Miss Addams,” Pierre drawled, rising languidly from his chair. “Please forgive me for not begging you to enter, but I was enjoying the notion that there are still people in this world who ask permission to enter a room. You’ve concluded your visit to the village?”
Caroline stood in the doorway, not understanding what he was referring to and suddenly reluctant to enter. He seemed inordinately happy, and that disturbed her. “I have,” she answered shortly.
“And now you’ve come to show me your purchases. How gratifying. Please, don’t hover in the doorway. Come in, and let me see what you’ve got. There wouldn’t be a surprise for me, would there?”
She tipped her head to one side, as if considering the question. “Wel-l-l, actually,” she began, sliding her hands behind her back and crossing her fingers for luck, “there is one little surprise.”
“Really? I am, of course, breathless to learn more,” Pierre told her, advancing across the room. “Now what, I must ask myself, would Miss Addams consider to be a suitable gift for me?”
“Oooff!” Caroline felt a none-too-gentle poke in the back and staggered three full steps into the room.
“Enough of this shilly-shallying!” Mrs. Merrydell protested, pushing past Caroline to confront Pierre. “This here gel was being attacked in the village, no thanks to you, until I came to her rescue. No chaperone,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s shameful, that’s what it is. But that’s all over now, for Amity Merrydell is here. Are you the one who is in charge? You look mighty young to me. There isn’t anything havey-cavey going on, is there? I’m a good woman, and I won’t be a party to any shifty dealings.”
Pierre, staring past Mrs. Merrydell to Caroline, blinked once, then waited for his Good Deed to speak.
“I—she—that is, I—hired her,” Caroline gulped out, wondering if that bump on her head had proved to shake out her common sense as well as her memory. She must be the victim of a temporary mental aberration! How else could she explain Mrs. Merrydell?
Pierre nodded. “You hired her,” he repeated, his voice calm. “I see.”
And he did see. He saw everything. That was what was so maddening. He always saw everything, drat him anyway. Caroline longed to fly at him and shake him into reacting. “A strange man made advances toward me while I was being fitted for some shoes—lovely shoes, in white, and a black pair, and some riding boots as well, but that’s nothing to the point now, is it?—and Mrs. Merrydell rescued me and, and I hired her as my chaperone.” He’d done it again—he had her babbling like the village idiot!
“How very enterprising of you,” Pierre said coolly, but he was looking at Mrs. Merrydell as he said it. “Please excuse me—Mrs. Merrydell, I believe you said? You must think I am the rudest beast in nature. Won’t you ladies be seated while I ring for some refreshments. You must both still be terribly overset. Only then will I prevail upon you for details of what must have been a truly terrifying ordeal.”
“That’s it?” Caroline asked incredulously, unable and unwilling to believe Pierre was taking her news so well. “That’s all you have to say?”
He tugged on the bell rope, then turned to look at her inquiringly. “What else is there to say? I should have liked to have been there, to protect you, but we were fortunate enough to have found a protector in the so estimable Mrs. Merrydell, who immediately took you under her wing. You seem to have no end of protectors, Miss Addams, which is fortunate for you, as you seem to have an inordinate need for protection.
“Mrs. Merrydell?” he said, looking toward the woman now seated comfortably in his father’s chair. “Do you by chance play the harp? My father and I would so enjoy it if you could instruct Miss Addams in its use. Oh dear, I can see by your expression that you do not. A pity, but there it is. Doubtless you have many other skills. Ah, Hartley, there you are, prompt as usual. Would you be so kind as to procure some refreshments for the ladies? Ladies, just tell Hartley every little thing you require.”
Caroline stomped across the room to stand toe-to-toe with Pierre. “I don’t require anything, you dolt,” she hissed at him from behind clenched teeth. “Why are you doing this? You know full well Mrs. Merrydell is completely unacceptable. I only brought her to upset you. For God’s sake—get rid of her!”
Pierre waved a hand at Mrs. Merrydell, who was busily ordering a meal fit for a smithy who had just completed twelve full hours at his forge, and drawled urbanely, “Why, Caroline, my dear, whatever do you mean? I think Mrs. Merrydell is an admirable choice for a chaperone. Sturdy, firm-minded, and not about to take any nonsense. Just what I would have wished for you myself.”
“I despise you,” Caroline whispered harshly, knowing that he had bested her once again.
Pierre lifted her chin with one long finger and smiled down into her face. “No, darling girl, you don’t. Why that pleases me I am not sure, but I am confident I will work it out in time. Now, be a good little charge and go have some tea. I just remembered that I have somehow promised Master Holloway a chess lesson this afternoon.”
Caroline was staring at him, unable to move. “A—a chess lesson?” she asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” he answered, letting go of her chin. “My kindness astonishes even me. Ladies, your most obedient,” he said, bowing elegantly before leaving Caroline alone in t
he room with a grinning Mrs. Merrydell.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE DOCTOR LEANED over Caroline as he examined the bump on her head. “Ah, good, very good. The swelling has gone down quite nicely, Miss Addams, as I’m sure you are already aware. Physically, I would say you have completely recovered, which is no great surprise for, as I told Mr. Standish after the first examination, you are young and healthy.”
“Young, healthy and anonymous, Doctor Burgess,” Caroline pointed out.
The doctor frowned his concern. “You’ve remembered nothing?”
Glad his examination was over, she patted her hair back in place, “Mere snatches, Doctor Burgess. Nothing that means anything.”
“Snatches? You’ve remembered snatches? What sort of snatches?” Mrs. Merrydell, who had been sitting at her ease in a corner of the bedchamber, hastily hopped to her feet to approach her charge in what could only be termed a challenging manner. “Naughty, secretive girl. You only said you had lost your memory in an accident. You told me nothing of snatches!”
Caroline, who had wearied of Mrs. Merrydell’s constant company within minutes of meeting her and who had—thanks to that perverse Pierre Standish—had to endure the crude woman from morning to night for three full days, ignored this latest outburst and directed her reply to the doctor. “I know that I can ride, paint and dance. Nothing more. Nothing even remotely personal.”
“I see,” said Doctor Burgess, frowning down on her from overtop his spectacles.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Mrs. Merrydell, adding quickly, “That is to say, it’s a start, my dear, a start. You shouldn’t force yourself to remember—should she, Doctor? I mean, it might be injurious—to her spleen, or something.”
Doctor Burgess who, if truth be told, had no real knowledge of Caroline’s particular complaint outside of the meager bits he had gleaned from one of his medical books, hastily agreed with the woman. “That goes without saying, Mrs. Merrydell. We wouldn’t wish to fall victim to a brain fever, would we?”
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