Minor Indiscretions

by Barbara Metzger

  “Shouldn’t we wait for after the lesson, Miss Ashton?” Corey prompted.

  “This is the lesson,” she replied. “Ready, Pip?” She raised the rifle and called “One.” The toss. Boom “Two.” The toss. Boom.

  Viscount Coe threw his head back and laughed, bowed to Melody, and brushed crumbs off his shirt.

  *

  If the viscount’s intention was to confuse Melody, he succeeded. He did not behave like any London beau she imagined, idle and bored, spending hours over his dress and food. Nor did he seem to seek out low company for carousing or gambling. He acted the gallant flirt for Mama and Felice, the affectionate uncle to the children and, as promised, the warm friend to Melody. She just could not figure out why.

  For the next few days, the viscount was everywhere. He gave the twins and Meggie turns riding in front of him on Caesar and oversaw one of his grooms’ instruction of Harry on a docile mare. He asked Lady Ashton to accompany him on calls to the local gentry, in his carriage, of course, the one with the crest on the door. He played chess with Pip and discussed the boy’s reading; he partook of make-believe teas with the little girls and make-believe teases with Felice. When he came upon Melody and Harry trying to mend the hogs’ pen, again, he took off his jacket and started pounding fence posts. Corey could have called for one of his grooms instead of getting his hands dirty, but he pounded away in the hot sun until those pigs wouldn’t have dared escape. He did not have to take Ducky for a ride or sit on the floor rolling balls with him for hours, and he did not have to accompany Miss Ashton when she went hunting.

  Corey did not even bring along a gun, he showed that much confidence in Melody, but he did have some hints about training Angie, like leaving the impossible mutt home. The viscount wasn’t patronizing at all about the woods lore he could teach Melody from his own experience, claiming he was only passing on the information because he was fond of rabbit stew. Naturally, he had to be invited to supper.

  Lady Ashton was no longer wilted, Meggie was getting tan from following the viscount around all day, Pip was losing his stutter. The Oaks was getting ready for company, and Melody…? Melody was feeling safe and warm and comfortable in his lordship’s presence. At least she no longer turned to blancmange when he brushed close by her, or not often anyway. But why? When a spider cast its web, maybe it was looking for a place to dangle, not just a passing meal. When a noted rake cast his spells, maybe they were innocent, not necessarily insidious. Melody thought they were both likely instincts: the spider just spun, rogues just charmed, because it was in their nature. Well, she could admire a web for its dewdrop-diamond artistry without becoming any libertine’s tasty morsel. But what a tempting trap, if trap it was.

  *

  Was it possible for a spider to build such an intricate, sticky web that it got stuck itself? Corey Inscoe came back to the Oaks every evening tired, dirty, and satisfied, to his own surprise. He played chess with Philip, raised Bates’s salary, and relaxed with a glass of brandy on the library’s leather sofa after everyone else had gone to bed, content to watch the dying fire and idly turn pages of his books. There were no balls, no all-night revelries or card parties, no greedy mistresses—and he did not miss any of it. At least not the greedy part.

  Lord Coe still wanted Melody, uncomfortably more than ever. He had returned to the Oaks determined to use the time to his best advantage: to show Miss Ashton he was not a fribble and gain her trust. Hell, friendship between man and woman was just a temporary detour on the road to seduction, wasn’t it? The only problem was, he liked her.

  The more Corey saw of Miss Ashton, the more he admired her. Not just her beauty, although sometimes the sight of her, even ankle deep in pig wallow, made his breath catch. It wasn’t as though she was exactly pretty; that little mantrap Felice was far more comely in the fashionable sense. But Angel had a freshness, a glow, and that dimple he’d move mountains and pig manure just to make appear. She would not go to fat like that rounded Miss Bartleby either; her shape when Corey had held her and the rifle in his arms offered promises—and another sleepless night if he didn’t concentrate on Scott’s latest epic.

  There was more. He loved her affection for her ragged band and her loyalty to her rag-mannered family. She was honest and open. Why, if she disagreed with him, she would shout or throw things; she wouldn’t sulk or cry or snipe at a fellow for two days after. She was intelligent and well read, interesting, and a good listener. She was not afraid to get her face in the sun or her hands in the garden. And she laughed. Not the simpering sound well-bred ladies were taught to make, but genuine, unaffected laughter. All in all, the poor confused viscount mused, Miss Ashton was everything a man could want—in a friend.

  What a dilemma…and what in heaven’s name was going on in the nether regions of the house? The servants had been dismissed an hour ago because his lordship saw no reason to keep them standing around yawning just to light his way upstairs, so no one should have been in the kitchens. Someone was, from the noise, and not making any secret of it either. Corey stepped to the desk and took his pistol from the top drawer. His soft slippers made no noise as he prowled down the hall.

  “I am sure there is a good reason for this,” he drawled from the kitchen doorway. “But do not stop what you are doing. Let me guess.”

  Melody nearly jumped out of her shoes at the sound of Corey’s voice. Then she turned the color of dough that had been left out too long. Gads, what a hobble this was, finding herself exactly where she should never be, alone with a man—a semidressed man, at that, in his paisley robe—in the middle of the night. Her shaking hands continued their motions of scraping plates of food onto old newspapers, folding the papers, and putting the bundles into paper sacks. She knew her hair was undone, but at least her green cloak covered her and her lawn nightgown from head to toe. That fact gave her enough confidence to say, “Couldn’t you just go back to bed and forget about me?”

  “That’s a contradiction in terms, Angel. I haven’t been able to do it in months.” He grinned when he saw the color rush back to her face but decided to stay where he was for the nonce, casually leaning against the door frame, out of respect for her temper and her aim. “I would have been within my rights to shoot you, you realize,” Corey observed, putting the gun into his pocket. “Although I wonder if a person can be charged with breaking into his or her own house. Somehow I wouldn’t have thought robbery would be your next foray into crime. Then again, most burglars head for the silver and jewels, not the pantry.”

  “Oh, do stop, you wretched man. You know it is no such thing. Mrs. Tolliver left these plates out for me to take.”

  “In the middle of the night? Now why, I wonder. Could it be that Miss Ashton is too proud to borrow food?” His voice grew softer, more coaxing. “You know, Angel, if things are that bad at Dower House, we can still make some kind of arrangement…

  Melody looked from the plate in her hands, veal marsala, to Lord Coe’s paisley silk robe. No, she would salvage whatever dignity remained to her. She raised her chin in that gesture Corey prized, like a grande dame putting down an encroaching caper merchant.

  “Yes?” he prodded, just to remind her he had the upper hand. After all, it was his house, albeit rented, his food, and her cork-brained scheme, whatever it was.

  “Do you know that your French chef is the most haughty, self-important man I have ever known?”

  “And here I thought I was. But no, I don’t believe I had that impression of Antoine. Of course, I seldom converse with the fellow.”

  “Well, he is. You’d think he was the nobleman, not you. He has no concept of money and no respect for others less fortunate.”

  “Was that meant to be an indictment of the entire peerage, or just Antoine?” There was the dimple. Now that it was safe to get nearer, Corey started carrying the empty dishes to the sink.

  “You see? Antoine wouldn’t touch the dirty dishes, either. He has an assistant just to hand him things and clean up after him. But that’s not to
the point. The fact of the matter is, Antoine refuses to serve less than four courses, with removes, at a viscount’s table. Anything less would be beneath him, or you. But you are only one person until your house guests arrive, and most of the food goes to waste since the servants have their own dinner before. And Antoine absolutely refuses to re-serve leftovers. That would be a sacrilege.”

  Corey was grinning by now. “Yes, I see the problem. But why couldn’t one of the footmen bring the food to Dower House so you don’t have to sneak around at night?”

  “Because Mrs. Tolliver asked very nicely the first night, and your precious Antoine refused.”

  “He what? I’ll—”

  “He refused to let his labors, his artistry, his magnificent creations, his leftovers, go to feed the hogs.”

  “Ah yes, the pigs. I should have known. But what shall I do about it?” Corey asked. He was chuckling as he lifted two of the filled bags and her lantern, now that Melody was done. “If I order him to cook less, you’ll have less food for the hogs, and if I order him to give them the remains, he’ll either quit or feed me pig swill.”

  “Not to worry, I am teaching the twins French. Antoine will hand over the food just to get—What are you doing?”

  Corey was raising her hood and holding the door for her. “I am seeing you and your booty safely home.” He wouldn’t listen to her objections, and he wouldn’t go back midway. In fact, Lord Coe walked Melody right to the kitchen door she had left unlocked in the back of Dower House. There he hung the lantern and handed her his two bags of food stuffs, wondering how the pigs would feel about the glazed ham. With his two sacks and her two packages, Melody could not reach to open the door. “My lord?” she whispered.

  “Thief-takers always get a bounty,” he answered, and took his reward, while she had her hands full and her mouth open. Pinwheels, cartwheels, catherine wheel fireworks, Melody’s senses were swirling and smoldering from his kiss, when Corey pushed her inside and closed the door behind her.

  That was not a friendly token of affection at all. No friend’s handshake ever left Corey Inscoe sweating and shaky, nor caused yet another restless night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Why bother going to bed if you know you won’t sleep? Lord Coe threw another log on the library fire and picked up his book of Scott’s ballads. He must have dozed off, dreaming of heroes and wars and crowds screaming, for the noises stayed in his mind when he jerked awake. The fire was still high and banshees were still wailing. It was all of a piece, the viscount figured, taking the gun from the desk again, that the blasted house would be haunted; nothing about the place seemed to fit his notions of reality. The sounds were all too real, however, and coming from the front door. Fiend seize it, what if Angel was back, hysterical and seeking revenge? Let it be a banshee.

  It wasn’t. If there was one other feather-headed female in the world beside Miss Ashton who believed Dower House actually was, is, or should be, an orphanage, Lord Coe had missed the woman by minutes. What she left was tucked in a basket, crying as if the hounds of hell were after it.

  Coe gingerly picked up the infant—no, he picked up the basket—and the wailing stopped. He carried the whole thing back to the library to set it down while he considered his next action, and the shrieks started again. Not a slow learner by any means, the viscount hefted the basket and did his thinking on the move. Not that Corey had a great deal of deciding to do, for there was not a soul in his house who would or could know what to do about a screaming infant. Mrs. Tolliver went home evenings, and Bates would likely reenlist if Coe so much as asked him to hold the blasted thing so the viscount could dress. There was no hope for it, Corey and the baby would have to make their way in the dark, in still damp soft slippers, back along that wretched path, praying Miss Ashton was yet awake. He juggled the basket from arm to arm, trying to shield his candle and avoid jagged stones. Hell and damnation, he never should have left London!

  The light was on in the kitchen, thank goodness. He looked dubiously at the item in the basket, wondering if he dared chance putting it on the ground in order to knock. The thought of facing an abruptly wakened household of screeching, swooning women was less appealing than facing Boney’s cannons again, so he sacrificed his manners and his foot and kicked at the bloody door.

  Melody was still wearing her green cloak when she opened the door, and Corey could see that her eyes were red rimmed from crying. Damn and blast, he thought, it needed only that!

  “Don’t you dare even think about—” Then she took a better look. “What in the world do you have?”

  “Well, it’s not another shipment of pig feed, ma’am. And no, it is not more evidence of my debauchery.” Melody’s bruised lips were enough of that! Corey avoided her eyes as he walked past her into the kitchen. “Some fool woman left it on my doorstep by mistake. Here, you take the little blighter.”

  Melody was even then lifting the infant out of the basket and cooing to it. “Why, what a beautiful baby! And look, Corey, the clothes are fine white lawn and silk embroidery. This isn’t some beggar’s foundling. Maybe someone in the village will know what happened to the poor mother, that she would leave her baby.”

  “But that’s tomorrow. What will you do tonight? I’m warning you, it does nothing but scream if you put it down.”

  “Poor dear is most likely hungry. There is no waking Nanny so late, and Betsy has gone home with Mrs. Tolliver, but don’t worry, I have been around infants all my life. I know what to do. Here.” She moved to hand the child to Corey, who jumped back as though it were live coals in her hands. Melody laughed. “I cannot warm the milk or find the bottles and those leather nipples Nanny used to have unless you take the baby. Or would you rather I put it back in the basket and chance waking Mama or Felice?”

  Corey held his arms out, like a prisoner awaiting shackles. “No, silly, here,” Melody instructed, cradling the babe in his arms against his chest.

  While Miss Ashton bustled about in cabinets, Corey examined the scrap of humanity he held. “You know, she’s not so homely after all, now that she’s stopped squalling. She’s got the prettiest smoky blue eyes.”

  “All babies have that color eyes at first,” Melody called from the pantry. “But why do you suppose the baby is a she?”

  “She’s so light and pink and dainty. Look at those tiny hands.”

  “But all babies start out so sweet and delicate,” Melody explained, coming over to look. “You’re right though, she must be a girl; she’s already smiling at you.”

  “Uh, Angel,” he said, holding the baby out, away from the wet spot down the front of his robe, “I think it’s time we found out for sure.”

  *

  No one in the village knew anything about a baby or a lady in distress, Betsy reported later that morning, but that sharp-nosed constable Mr. Pike was sniffing around about it, and he promised to call at the Oaks that afternoon to take the infant to the county workhouse and foundling home. Not if she could help it, Melody vowed.

  Unfortunately, no one else thought she should keep the baby. Nanny shook her head and kept on knitting. “I’m too old for a young ’un, missy,” she admitted, “and Ducky is already as much as I can handle, and he’ll always need me. Don’t look to your mama neither, for she’s always been too busy being a lady to be any kind of mother. I can’t figure she’ll change now. Tigers don’t change their spots, you know.” Lady Ashton merely asked if Melody had checked the basket carefully for an envelope or a bank note. Without compensation, the waif was just another orphan, and what did Melody think this was, a charity home? Felice, of course, had no time before the viscount’s house party to tend to anything but her wardrobe and her complexion. She would not even hold Baby, for infants were so messy.

  Harry moaned, “Not another girl!” and even Pip tried to show Melody in the books that they had no money for a wet nurse or a milk cow. Mrs. Tolliver had too many chores as it was, and Betsy too many mouths to feed at home, with her Jed out of work now.


  Only Meggie agreed with Melody that the baby should stay with them. She even tried to give the infant her doll. “Because I have Uncle Corey, and Baby has nobody.”

  Mr. Hadley was no help. “No, my dear, I cannot sign the papers for you. It would be a life sentence, and the remnants of your dowry would never see you or the babe above dirt-scratching poverty. What you want is a husband, girl, to give you children of your own! If you take this infant you would never have such a life, for no man would want such an encumbered female. And think of your reputation. All the evil-minded gabble mongers would spread it about that the babe was yours, then you would be subject to every kind of insult known. No, I am sorry, I cannot let you take on another burden. Find a rich man, Melody, then you can be as generous and warm hearted as you please.”

  Melody did not feel warm hearted; she felt absolutely pudding hearted at the thought of facing Lord Coe again after last night, after that kiss. All she had to do, however, was ask him to sign some papers. Unbelievably, he said no.

  “I’m sorry, my lord, perhaps you did not understand. I am not asking you to support the child or anything, just become the guardian, the male guardian, of record.”

  He was pacing around the library in beige whipcord pants and a serge jacket, thinking furiously. If Melody had another child, an infant at that, she would never come to London. Besides, she was too young to have such cares by herself. Damn it, he wanted to make her life easier, not more complicated. “I’m sorry, Angel, I did understand you, and I cannot do it. You’ve been at such pains to bring home to me my responsibilities. I couldn’t just sign a document and walk away. She would be my ward forever! My way of life, my habits and interests, they just do not include babies. I don’t even know what I am to do about Meggie, ah, Margaret.”

  “I haven’t yet said you could take Meggie.”

  “And if you are thinking of offering me Margaret in exchange for the baby, it won’t fadge. You are too young, and you cannot afford the infant.” He stopped his pacing at her protest. “No, don’t tell me about all the girls who are married with two babes before they are sixteen. Half of them are dead before they are twenty, and they have husbands to care for them. You cannot do it alone, and I won’t help you.”