Minor Indiscretions

by Barbara Metzger

  The drive was rutted and weed-choked under a canopy of ancient oaks. Last year’s leaves formed a slippery roadbed of muck in places, and this year’s leaves dripped water off Coe’s beaver hat and down his collar. He hated it.

  Caesar, meanwhile, hated sudden noises and small, darting creatures. So when the pig jumped out from the underbrush, and the grubby child darted after it inches from the huge stallion’s nose, Lord Coe suddenly found himself seated in that same leaf-mold sludge. Corey held his breath and checked his ribs, while high-pitched voices chattered out of sight like monkeys in trees, for all the words he could distinguish. Only Lord Coe’s dignity was injured, which the back of his fawn trousers would advertise nicely, thank you. Well, he wasn’t turning back. He remounted and kept Caesar on a much tighter rein, swearing the benighted horse was laughing at him.

  The drive ended, at last, at a large stone house set in an untended clearing. The windows were grimy, the steps hadn’t been swept, and no one came to hold his horse.

  “Hallo, the house!” he called, notifying the butler to send one of his minions. No one came. Corey could not very well leave Caesar standing untended, not with misplaced children and livestock popping up anywhere. “Hell and damnation.”

  “I say, sir, would you like me to hold your horse?” Corey saw two boys dash toward the house. The speaker, a dark-haired, ruddy-faced lad with his knees muddied and his shirt untucked, was already fearlessly rubbing Caesar’s nose. “He’s a prime goer, I’ll bet,” the boy said, adding on another hurried breath, “I’m Harry, that’s Pip.” The other, sandy-haired lad, ducked his head and stood behind his companion.

  Dismounting, Corey reluctantly handed the reins into Harry’s eager, but grimy, hands. “You’re not the groom here, are you?” he asked. No gentleman would let such a ragamuffin near his cattle.

  “Oh no, sir,” Harry replied, never taking his eyes off the stallion, “I’m one of the ba—”

  Pip kicked him and came forward, eyes still on the ground. “We’re b-boys from D-Dower House, sir.” He nodded in the direction of a side path, inadvertently showing the splotched side of his face. Corey inhaled deeply, but his expression did not change from a grim, disapproving glower.

  Just then the child with the pig came tearing around the building and down a path, pigtails flying, petticoats dragging in the mud, tongue running on wheels.

  “What is she, a red Indian, or something?” Corey asked Harry, who seemed to have Caesar under perfect control, despite the screeching whirlwind.

  It was Pip—what kind of name was Pip?—who answered: “She…she’s Czechoslovakian, sir.” He turned his back on Corey.

  That didn’t sound like Czech to Coe, from his days of fighting with the allies, but before he could pursue the thought, Harry shouted out: “Hey you, you better get home and out of those dirty clothes before Miss Mel catches you. She’ll take a stick to you, else.”

  Corey could not believe the manners of these boys. “‘Hey you’?”

  Harry wasn’t fazed. “Don’t know her name,” was all he said, bending to find some fresh grass for Caesar. In fact, Harry didn’t even seem to notice he was addressing a gentleman, much less a peer of the realm. For the first time in his life, Lord Coe’s horse was getting more respect than he was!

  The ramshackle place was even worse than Corey had expected. The children were unmannered, untaught, unwashed—and beaten, if Harry could be believed. The viscount marched determinedly up the path to the house, to be nearly bowled over by the same knee-high dust devil. He looked back at Harry, who merely shrugged as if to say, ‘Women.’ No one answered the door, not even when Corey banged the knocker and shouted. The damned manor was locked up and deserted! He strode back down the path to look accusingly at the boys.

  “Oh,” Harry said, noting with surprise the viscount’s irritation. “You didn’t ask. They’re all at Dower House. This place is for rent. Jupiter, you’re not here to look it over, are you? By all that’s holy, that would be famous! There’s a bang-up stable that just needs some work, and I could—”

  “Hold, bantling. I am here to see Lady Ashton, not lease her house.” Corey noted Harry’s crestfallen expression and added, “But you may walk Caesar here if your friend would be so good as to show me the way to the Dower House.” There was no reason to take his anger at the situation out on the children. After all, they were the real victims. He softened his tone toward the other boy: “Pet names are fine for the nursery, but between men I think proper names are more fitting, don’t you? I am Cordell Coe.”

  Pip brightened instantly, forgetting to look down. “Oh, indeed, sir. I’m Philip. Philip M-Morley, that is.”

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Philip. Perhaps you could tell me—”

  Philip could not tell him anything. He was rooted on the walkway, his mouth hanging open in horror. Corey followed his gaze down the trail and almost choked. The tiny swineherdess had listened to Harry after all, about taking her clothes off and washing up. There she was, giggling on the path, as pink and shiny as one of her pigs—and just as bare.

  Pip wanted to die. Whatever must this fine gentleman think? There was no doubt Mr. Coe was a gentleman, maybe even a lord. Zeus, maybe Pip should have been calling him ‘my lord.’ “M-M—Sir, th-th…” Pip just couldn’t get it out.

  Corey had turned his back on the little nymph, not so much from a sense of honor as an effort to hide his smile from the mortified boy. Somehow there she was, behind them now on the path, still as naked as a jay. The viscount turned his back again, then once more, before finally giving in to delighted chuckles. So there were two of the hell babes. Gads, how they would terrorize the countryside! When he could stop laughing, he patted Philip on the back in a comradely gesture. “Don’t worry, old chap, I had a little sister, too.” Of course, Corey’s sister would never have shown even her ankle in public, and would have been on bread and water for days if she did.

  Pip was comforted, nonetheless, and relaxed enough to say, “Things are usually not this b-bad. Miss Ashton’s out hunting, that’s all.”

  So the person supposed to be supervising these waifs was enjoying herself riding to hounds. Corey had a few choice words to say to that harpy, along with his speech for the blood-sucking mother. In the meantime, this place was better than a farce. His ill-humor was in abeyance, and he was actually looking forward to whatever came next. Pigs, bare-bottomed moppets, abandoned houses, what could follow? Dancing cows and two-headed chickens?

  The viscount was prepared for almost anything—except Felice.

  Chapter Ten

  The door opened at his knock, for a surprise. Carey expected a manservant or at least a maid, not the petite vision throwing him a pert curtsy. She was spring, in a daffodil-yellow gown with grass-green ribbon streamers tied just under full, rounded breasts. A tiny green cap nestled among curls the color of buttercups, and eyes like April mornings twinkled up at him over a rosebud mouth. Viscount Coe could feel the sap rising.

  Philip scuffled his feet in disgust. This stranger was no nonpareil after all; he was just like every other moonstruck clodpole in the neighborhood. His mouth was gaping, and he was more tongue-tied than Pip at his worst. Over Felice! Hero-worship died aborning.

  “I-I’ll just go help Harry with the horse,” the boy said, backing down the path and shaking his head. Wait till he told Harry what a looby the paragon turned out to be.

  Pip’s words broke the spell, and Viscount Coe recalled he was a man of the world, not a green schoolboy. Besides which, he was here on a mission. Business before pleasure, he pledged himself, but what a pleasure it would be. Corey withdrew one of his cards and turned down a corner to show he called in person. “I would like to see Lady Jessamyn Ashton, please.”

  Felice read the card. A viscount, delivered right to her door! And not just any titled nobleman, but one the on dits columns credited with great wealth and great success with the ladies. Felice did not need any stale London dailies to tell her why. T
he square chin, broad shoulders, and devilishly handsome grin told enough of the story. Now Felice merely had to rewrite the ending, which always termed Coe a perpetual bachelor. Not if she could help it!

  “Won’t you come sit down?” she offered, taking his riding crop and hat, and leading the way to a sitting room. Courtesy made him follow; the view from the back made him smile appreciatively. “You must be wondering where all the servants are. I don’t usually answer the door myself, you know.” She gave a tinkling little laugh, looking around for a likely spot to lay his things, as though she never had to worry about such mundane chores. “They are all…given the day off. Yes, that’s it. Lady Ashton is so generous, you know. There was a…a wedding in the village today.” There, now her circumstances wouldn’t look so no-account, and she’d even dropped a hint about weddings!

  “I am sorry to bother you at a time when things are all at sixes and sevens, then,” he replied politely. “And no, I shan’t sit in all my dirt.” Corey could just imagine this china doll’s reaction to muddy stains from the back of his pants. He underestimated Miss Bartleby.

  “Oh, we’re quite informal here, my lord.” She waved a tiny white hand around. The room was shabby, with bits and pieces of ribbons, colored chalks, and picture books everywhere. Felice realized just how shabby and quickly disassociated herself from such pedestrian surroundings. “Oh la, what you must think. These are temporary quarters only, don’t you know, while the Great House”—that sounded better than the Oaks—“is undergoing refurbishing. The noise and the dirt would be too much for dear Lady Jessamyn.”

  If Felice meant to suggest her own delicate sensibilities, she missed the mark, for Corey’s eyes were not quite so dazzled here in better light, where that fresh blush on the beauty’s cheeks appeared a trifle too regular. The trance was wearing thin, under a chiming laugh that was beginning to grate on his nerves like a dinner gong reverberating too long. The boys had said the mansion was for let, not under reconstruction, and if any army of servants had been next or nigh either place for months, he’d eat his hat. Furthermore, who the hell was this pocket Venus, and what was she doing here?

  “If you could just give Lady Ashton my card, Miss—?”

  “Oh dear, how silly of me! I am Felice Bartleby, Lady Ashton’s ward. Actually, I was her sister Judith Morley’s ward, and now that I am grown I suppose I no longer fit that description. Perhaps you have heard of my father, Sir Bostwick Bartleby? No? He is quite well known in the Crown Colonies. As soon as he returns we shall be setting up household in London. Mayfair, of course. I’ll be sure to put your name on our list for balls and such.” His lordship did not take up that gambit, so Felice hurried on: “My, you must think me a sad rattle. It’s just so delightful to find a kindred spirit here in the wilds. I’ll take your card right on up to Lady Ashton and see if I cannot find where that naughty butler of ours hides the refreshments a gentleman like yourself appreciates.” She curtsied daintily and minced out of the room, where she raced down the hall, viciously kicked a ragdoll out of her way, and took the stairs two at a time.

  *

  “How many times do I have to tell you, Melody, my nerves—Oh, it’s you, Felice.” Lady Ashton stopped trying to hide the flask in the bedclothes. Since it was not yet noon, Lady Ashton was not yet risen. “I thought you were walking to the village to see if the new fashion journals had arrived.”

  “Yes, but we have a caller. You have to get up and come talk to him. Wait till you see those shoulders. Weston made the jacket, of course. He’s divine.” Lady Ashton was studying the card. “Inscoe, Inscoe,” she ruminated, tapping the card on her teeth. Jessamyn Ashton knew her Debrett’s better than her Bible, and it took only seconds for her to place Lord Coe’s family. She threw the card from her as if something with ten legs were climbing across it. “Is the constable with him?”

  “No, he’s by himself, and so exquisite. Do hurry!”

  “Thank heavens he hasn’t brought the magistrate down on us. Yet.” She burrowed under the covers. “I won’t see him.”

  “You have to see him. Otherwise he might go away!” Felice ruthlessly pulled back the sheets.

  “Stop that, you ninny. He won’t go anywhere. He’s Erica Wooster’s brother.”

  “He doesn’t seem at all toplofty, and with his reputation he cannot be so particular.”

  “His reputation ain’t to the point, and it’s no worse than that of any other handsome and hot-blooded young buck on the town for a few years. These young rakeshames think all is well and good when their own pleasure is at stake, but let there be a hint of scandal near their womenfolk or their fine old family names, and there is hell to pay. No, I won’t see any nifiy-naffy lordling with his dander up.”

  “But what shall I tell him?” Felice wailed.

  “Tell him…tell him I am too ill to leave my couch; he has to see Melody. What’s that you’re doing with the decanters? You’re not taking the good stuff? Oh, my heart, a pain right here…”

  *

  Felice tripped back into the sitting room with a hastily assembled tray of Lady Ashton’s finest alongside the children’s luncheon dessert. She again urged the viscount to sit and take refreshment, for Lady Jessamyn was indisposed, and Miss Ashton was out and about.

  “I thought she was on a foxhunt.”

  A foxhunt, when they hadn’t kept more than a dray pony in years? Felice thought furiously, frantic to disinterest him in Melody before that marplot reached home. Not that Miss Bartleby could have anything to worry about. She patted a golden curl. If Lord Coe was one of those sporting-mad gentlemen who admired athletic pursuits in a woman, however, she would quickly disabuse him of that notion. “La, Miss Ashton is only out seeing about supper.” There, let him consider Melody the drudge she was becoming.

  Good, maybe someone was taking an interest in the children after all, Corey thought, while his palate reflected on the unlikely combination of well-aged sherry and molasses cookies. “I am relieved.”

  “You are?” Ah, then he was one of those men who believed women were too weak for lively activities and should merely be decorative. There was none weaker nor more decorative than Felice. She lay back on the loveseat and spread her skirts. “Oh, Miss Ashton is a veritable Amazon.”

  There was something about the way the chit posed herself that set alarm bells ringing in a wary bachelor’s head. Coe had recently seen too many predators at Almack’s not to recognize a shark circling for the kill.

  “How thoughtless of me, Miss Bartleby,” he said, rising. “With Lady Ashton indisposed and the, ah, maids given time off I should have realized you were unchaperoned. I wouldn’t think of jeopardizing your good name, so I’ll—”

  “No, you mustn’t leave!” The teeth were definitely showing. “Silly me. Of course, I knew you were a gentleman so I had nothing to fear, and now your scruples prove it. A woman cannot be too careful though, can she? I’ll just go fetch us someone to play dogsberry”—that brittle laugh again—“while you pour yourself another glass.”

  *

  Nanny was doing the wash in big tubs out back. Mrs. Tolliver and Meggie were up to their eyebrows in flour. Felice shuddered. “Looks like you’re it, Ducky.”

  *

  Ducky had found his calling. He crooned and rocked, ate cookies and drooled. He played with the silverware and sang duh-duh-duh to the viscount’s pocket watch. He clapped hands and grinned and enchanted the bemused viscount with sticky hugs. There was no chance for suggestive innuendo, no coy flirtation, no accidental touches—the perfect chaperon. Until, that is, a desperate Felice started sneaking Ducky sips of the wine when she thought the viscount was not looking. When Ducky fell asleep on the sofa, his lordship rose to leave, and no protestations of Felice’s could keep him. He was worried about his horse, Corey explained, and feared he had taken too much of Miss Bartleby’s time as it was. Further, Miss Ashton was sure to be returning soon. Perhaps he would meet up with her on the path.

  Felice held her hand out to be kiss
ed. The viscount shook it, firmly.

  *

  Corey leaned against a tree, laughing at his escape. What a hurly-burly household it was, and if that chit wasn’t destined to be Haymarket ware, his name wasn’t Cordell Coe. But it was, he nodded soberly, and he had a job to do. Naturally he felt like a fool doing it, tromping around the sodden woods looking for a woman he’d never met. His pants were muddied, his boots were ruined, his cravat was spotted with grubby fingerprints, and he swore to conclude his mission before luncheon so he would not have to come back to this raree-show another day.

  He quickly tired of shouting “Miss Ashton,” but he didn’t want to startle her unawares at whatever she was doing—hunting mushrooms, the boys must have meant—so he whistled, feeling even more a jackanapes. At least it wasn’t raining.

  *

  After four days of rain, Melody thought she’d better take Angie hunting before the hound lost whatever meager understanding she possessed about the purpose of the exercise. They had come to terms, more or less. Angie could race around yipping and yapping at anything that caught her fancy, as long as she stayed in view. She could sniff any tree or charge any bush. This took no training whatsoever, being the mutt’s natural, ungoverned tendencies. If anything jumped, ran, or flew out of the shrubbery, Melody could shoot it. If the quarry slithered or crawled, Angie could keep it. The unorthodox method required no stealth or subtlety, just Melody’s skill.

  She had graduated to an old hunting rifle, a cumbersome muzzle-loading affair, which unfortunately had such a recoil that Melody was black and blue from practicing with it. Now she wore her father’s dun-colored hunting jacket from the attics, with its extra padding at the shoulder. It didn’t matter that the jacket had moth holes, or that it reached her knees and the sleeves had to be cuffed; the important thing was that she was protected from more bruises. She wore an old slouch hat low on her head to keep her hair out of her eyes and unentangled in twigs, and the oldest, sturdiest dress she could find, an old black bombazine mourning gown that used to be Aunt Judith’s. Rather than ruin any of her shoes, which were too expensive to replace, Melody wore a pair of scuffed workboots found in the stable. So what if they were too big? Angie didn’t care.