"How very interesting," she said, handing the card to her aunt. "Very well, Williams, please show Mr. Atherton in."
Williams sniffed, a clear sign he disapproved of their guest. He returned a few moments later, an elegantly attired gentleman trailing in his wake. The gentleman made his bows first to Lady Fareham and then to Addy, his manner polished and only a trifle condescending as he took his seat.
"I thank you ladies for being so good as to receive me when we've not been formally introduced," Mr. Atherton said, simpering at them each in turn. "You may make certain I should never have done so were matters not so grave. It is about my cousin."
"Lord St. Jerome?" Addy said, instantly alarmed. It had been less than half an hour since the viscount had taken his hasty leave; surely he couldn't have collapsed so soon?
"Is he all right?" she demanded, cursing herself for not seeking medical assistance for him when she had the chance.
Mr. Atherton's unremarkable features twisted into a sneer. "As to that, I am not certain how to answer," he said with an ugly laugh. "He was hale and hearty the last I saw of him. He was throwing me from my house at the time."
Addy thought it impolite to remind her visitor the house was the legal property of St. Jerome. "I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Atherton," she said, adopting her most brisk manner, "but what do you mean, you've come about your cousin? Explain yourself, if you please."
In response he leaned back in his chair, his dark gray eyes studying her with a boldness that bordered on insolence. "One hears such interesting things these days," he drawled. "It is being bruited about that you've set yourself up as some sort of tutor for gentlemen, and that you are even now instructing my loutish cousin in the refined arts. Is that true?"
"It is true I have offered some gentlemen of my acquaintance the benefit of my expertise, but I am not so toplofty as to consider myself a tutor," Addy responded carefully, deciding she didn't care for the man's mocking tone nor his slighting reference to the viscount. "May I ask how this concerns you?"
He answered her question with one of his own. "And how much do you charge for this. . . expertise, if I may ask?"
Aunt Matilda gave an outraged screech and she leapt to her feet. "Sir! You will leave this house at once!" she shrilled, pointing at the door with a shaking finger. "I will not have my niece insulted by a . . . a rake and a rattle!"
Addy also rose, but it was not indignation or fear that had her hands shaking. It was pure and simple fury.
"No, Aunt, I will answer Mr. Atherton's question, and then we shall have Williams toss him out," she said, her narrowed gaze resting on the man, who remained sprawled in his chair.
"I charge nothing for aiding others, sir," she told him, making no effort to mask the contempt she felt. "I consider it my duty to be of what help I can, although in your cousin's case, my help is hardly needed."
"Indeed?" Atherton replied, the look of cold enmity in his eyes belying his affected drawl. "And why is that?"
"Because he is already three times the gentleman you could ever hope to be," Addy retorted, taking the greatest pleasure in watching the fatuous smile fade from her visitor's lips. "Now leave this house."
"Of course, Miss Terrington," he murmured, rising to his feet with insulting slowness. "And pray forgive me if I have offended. It appears I was operating under a misapprehension. I took you for a woman of intellect who would listen to reason, but it seems you are no more clever than the rest of your sex. Pity. We might have been friends." And with a final, mocking bow, he took his leave.
"Insolent villain!" Aunt Matilda was beside herself with fury. "You ought to have boxed his ears for him, Adalaide, instead of letting him strut out of here like a rooster. The nerve of the wretch! Well"—she sat back down and picked up her teacup—"we shall see what Lord St. Jerome has to say about this! I am sure he can be counted upon to take that scoundrel down a peg or two."
"Which is precisely why we shan't tell him," Addy replied, realizing somewhat belatedly the game the repellent Mr. Atherton had been playing. She'd thought it odd he should seek her out so quickly, but now she understood. The man was out to make a scandal, and she was hanged if she would help him.
"Not tell him?" Her aunt was gaping at her as if she'd taken leave of her senses. "But Adalaide. . . ."
"I mean it, Aunt." Addy gave the older woman her most forbidding stare. "Not one word about this to his lordship or anyone else. Lord Wellington has entrusted me with the task of making the viscount the most eligible man in London, and I can hardly do that if he hangs for his cousin's murder."
"Oh, dear, I hadn't thought of that," Lady Fareham replied, frowning thoughtfully. "But you are right, of course. We can't endanger your mission with a slight case of murder, however well deserved. Still"—her frown deepened as she raised the cup of tea to her lips—"it goes against the grain to let that unpleasant little man skip away unscathed after enduring his insults and innuendoes."
A slow smile curved Addy's lips. "Who said anything about his skipping away unscathed?"
An equally evil smile touched Lady Fareham's lips as she studied Addy's expression. "Like that, is it? Good. Only mind you don't get caught. The scandal will be none the less shocking if 'tis you who ends dangling at the end of the hangman's rope. Bury the bodies deep, that's my creed. Now about Almack's, dearest, are you quite sure you wish to take the viscount there? Poor boy, he's only just back from the Peninsula. Hasn't he suffered enough for king and country?"
Four
Refusing the butler's offer to summon a hack, Ross set out from the Terringtons' afoot. He walked without direction or purpose, his only intent to put as much distance as possible between himself and his demons. A chilly rain was falling, but he paid it little mind. He'd marched and fought in far worse conditions to be troubled by a bit of damp, and in any case, the physical discomfort he was feeling was far preferable to the anguish of his own thoughts.
The elegance of Mayfair gave way to the narrowed streets and cramped buildings of Holborn, and with each street he passed the crowds grew rougher and more dangerous. Distracted as he was, Ross had been too long a soldier not to be aware of his surroundings, and he knew the moment the two men emerged from the alleyway to close ranks behind him. He realized they were looking to rob him, and the possibility had him smiling in grim satisfaction. He'd been feeling the urge to tear something apart, and a nice, bloody brawl held unexpected appeal.
He continued strolling as if oblivious to the two footpads trailing him. In his current black mood he was of a mind to toy with his prey as he'd once toyed with the French; letting them think themselves the victor until he'd guide them into a trap from which there was no escape. Acting the ignorant nob, he led his pursuers up one filthy street and down another, until he wearied of the game. When he reached a street wide enough to offer space to fight and the means to escape should it prove necessary, he came to an abrupt halt.
Glancing about as if to get his bearings, he left himself seemingly open to attack. His pursuers were quick to take advantage, moving forward to box Ross between them. Both carried cudgels, and they tapped them against the palms of their grimy hands.
"Lost, are ye?" The heavier man asked, moving behind Ross while the other stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "We'd be 'appy ter 'elp ye find yer way agin, wouldn't we, Jimms?"
"More 'n 'appy," the man called Jimms confirmed, taking in Ross's elegant attire with obvious derision. "And while we're about it, we'd be 'appy ter relieve ye of that 'eavy purse yer carryin'. Give over, guv, and p'rhaps we'll let ye live."
Ross regarded them in silence. The gold he was carrying meant nothing to him, but that didn't mean he intended handing it over without a fight.
"You've mistaken your targets, lads," he advised them softly. "I'm no plump chicken to be so easily plucked. Leave now, and perhaps I shall let you live."
Jimms looked startled, and then pleased. "Yer choice, mate," he said, moving toward Ross, his cudgel raised.
Ross wai
ted until the small club began its descent before making his move. Instead of trying to dodge the blow he stepped into it, catching Jimms's arm and twisting it until the other man howled in pain. He doubled his other hand into a fist, slamming it into the center of the thief's pudgy belly. Jimms folded with a strangled gasp, and in an instant Ross had scooped up his cudgel and was facing the other man.
"Come on," he invited, twirling the crude staff expertly. "You wanted my gold so badly; come and get it."
The remaining thief wasted little time with words. He dropped the cudgel and pulled out a knife, his dark eyes hot with fury as he faced Ross. "Bloody swell," he snarled, dropping into a fighter's stance. "I'll cut yer 'eart out!"
Ross leapt out of the way, easily avoiding the attack. The fight was short, but decisive. The other man was accustomed to back alley ambushes and taking on prey far weaker than himself, and he proved no match for a warrior of Ross's ability. In less than a minute Ross had disarmed him and was pressing him against the wall of a building, the blade of the thief's knife resting dangerously against the man's own throat.
"Now," Ross drawled, smiling, "the question is do I kill you, or do I let you go? If I release you, you'll only practice your villainy on some other poor sot. Perhaps I should just . . ." He applied the slightest bit of pressure, nicking the man's skin.
"No!" The thief cried, his eyes rolling in terror. "Let me go! We meant no 'arm! Just tryin' to make a livin' is all. Wot's it to ye, eh? Ye've more'n gold enough."
Ross was about to debate the point, when he saw the man's gaze shift over his left shoulder. That was the only warning he needed, and he spun around in time to prevent Jimms from dashing a brick over his head. Instead of striking his skull the blow landed on Ross's shoulder, sending a numbing pain shooting down his arm. He lashed out with his foot, sending the thief crashing to the ground, clutching his privates and retching in agony.
Parrying the attack left his back unguarded, and his opponent struck a brutal blow to Ross's kidneys. The pain drove Ross to his knees, but he kept a firm hold on the knife. He was struggling to draw breath, when he heard a voice cry out.
"Away, lads, away! The Charlie is a'comin'!"
The two thieves made their escape as best they could, pausing only long enough to give Ross a punishing kick before disappearing into a nearby alley. Mindful he was still deep in enemy territory, Ross fought his way to his feet. He'd only partially achieved his goal when a shabbily dressed man knelt beside him.
"All right, sir?" he asked, gazing down at Ross in concern.
"Fine, I thank you," Ross managed through clenched teeth, In truth he was in agony, but he wasn't about to admit as much. Instead he blocked his mind to the pain, accepting the hand the man offered him as he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet.
"In the Army, was you?" his rescuer asked, eying Ross with rueful respect. "You fight like a man what's seen action."
"The Rifles," Ross responded, wincing as he bent to retrieve the hat he'd lost in the struggle. "You?"
"Fifty-second Foot," the man replied. "Or I was." He touched the empty sleeve pinned to the front of his faded uniform. "Salamanca."
Ross nodded in understanding. "We lost many good men that day," he said, remembering the aftermath of the horrific battle.
"You'll get no argument from me," the man agreed, moving away from Ross. "From now on mind where you wander; Spain's a paradise compared to this stew. Good day to you, Captain." He turned to leave.
"Wait." Ross laid a restraining hand on the man's shoulder.
His rescuer whirled around. "If it's money you're offering, you may go to the devil!" he cried, his thin face twisting with pride. "I'm no beggar to be taking a rich man's coin!"
Ross hesitated, uncertain how to continue. He'd been about to offer the other man the entire contents of his purse, but now he could see it would not do. Had their situations been reversed, he knew he would also have tossed anything smacking of charity back in the other man's face; regardless of how empty his pockets might be. He studied the faded chevrons still proudly pinned on the other man's sleeve, and came to a swift decision.
"You may be at ease, Corporal," he said, meeting the man's wary glare. "'Twas not money I was offering, but a position. I am need of another valet, and you look as if you'd be a good man to have about. Interested?"
A dozen different emotions flashed across the corporal's face. "A valet? What would I know about being a gentleman's gentleman?" he sneered, the derision in his voice not quite disguising the disbelieving hope shining in his eyes.
"About as much as I know about being a gentleman, I've no doubt," Ross returned lightly, a sense of peace stealing over him. "But I am learning, Corporal, and so can you."
"But Captain—"
Ross held up a hand. "You mistake my rank," he said, softening his objections with a smile. "Like you I was a real soldier; a sergeant. Now, do you wish the position, or do you not?"
The corporal's jaw dropped in amazement. "You was a sergeant?"
"Aye, Sergeant Ross MacCailan, at your service, sir," Ross said, offering the other man his hand. "And who have I the honor of addressing?"
"Nevil Collier," the corporal responded, accepting Ross's hand in dazed shock. "But I don't understand. How can a gent like you be a common soldier?" He scowled in sudden suspicion. "Not running some rig, are you? If you are, I'll have no part of it. I'm an honest man."
"As am I," Ross assured him. "I am also a gentleman, a viscount, to be precise, although I trust you'll not be holding that against me."
"No, Sergeant—my lord, I mean," Collier said, clearly at a loss. "But I don't see as why you'd be hiring me. It's not as if I can tie a cravat with this." He held up his hand in emphasis.
"There's no need for you to do that, as I already have a man to act in that capacity," Ross answered calmly. "Rather than a valet, what I really need is an aide-decamp, a man I can trust to help guard my back. And if you think 'tis charity I am offering," he added, "you may think again. I was a damned hard sergeant, and I'll likely make a damned hard master. But look at it this way, Collier. If you have enough of me, you can always resign your post without fear of the firing squad."
A cautious grin crept across Collier's face. "Aye," he agreed, "there's always that."
"Then you'll accept?" Ross asked, waiting for his answer. His offer of employment had been made to spare the corporal's pride, but now he was determined that the other man accept. Not just for Collier's sake, he realized, but for his own sake as well.
"Aye," Collier said again, giving a wry chuckle. "I reckon I will. Provided you answer one question."
"And what might that be?"
Collier rocked back on his heels and surveyed Ross with amused skepticism. "How the devil did a sergeant in the bleeding Rifles get to be a viscount?"
The weight Ross had been carrying for the past several days slipped away, and he grinned in response. "That, Corporal, is a very long story," he said, slapping his hand on Collier's shoulder. "Come home and share a pint with me while I'm telling it."
In between fuming over Mr. Atherton's insults and brooding over St. Jerome's precipitous departure, Addy passed a restless night.
This wasn't the first time a pupil had fled her presence, but in the viscount's case she thought there was more to it than the usual fits of pique that had sent the others scrambling. His lordship was far too seasoned a soldier to desert his post without cause, and there had been something in his green eyes that left her feeling decidedly uneasy. It hadn't been fear or even anger she'd glimpsed, but rather a sense of almost raw desperation. Whatever his cause for leaving, it hadn't been for something as innocuous as a previous engagement, and she vowed to get to the bottom of the matter at their next meeting. With so much at stake, she couldn't allow anything to distract her pupil from his mission.
She was brooding over her possible courses of action when she walked into her study and found St. Jerome at his customary place before the fire. She gaped at him a full se
cond before closing the door behind her and rushing to his side.
"My lord, what are you doing here?" she demanded, anxiously scanning him for any sign of illness or injury.
A blond eyebrow lifted in inquiry as he rose to his feet. "And where else would I be, Miss Terrington?" he asked, offering her a low bow. "My presentation is this very night, and as you are always reminding me, we've much to accomplish. Where shall we start?"
Addy's concern dissolved into temper. "You may start, sir, by explaining what you meant by dashing out of here yesterday afternoon!" she snapped, furious with herself for giving the wretch a moment's thought. "Were you still in the Army, you should have been shot for desertion!"
"So I would have," he agreed, his voice giving away nothing. "And for that you have my apology, and my assurance it shall not happen again. Now, if you are done dressing me down, shall we begin?"
Addy glared at him for several seconds before taking her seat. "You might have at least offered token resistance," she grumbled, settling her skirts about her. "There's no fun to be had in storming a citadel that has already surrendered."
"You mistake me, ma'am," he answered, resuming his seat. "I was not surrendering. I was accepting culpability for my sins. I have never surrendered, nor will I ever."
The fact that she admired him for the admission didn't mean Addy intended letting such an arrogant boast slip past unchallenged. She pulled down her spectacles and peered at him over the rims.
"Might I remind your lordship that pride goeth before a fall? I should take care against uttering such boastful words unless you are prepared to eat them."
"Now," she said, not giving him the chance to protest, "let us review. His grace will be performing the introductions this evening, and you're to take your cues from him. If he says he is 'delighted' to present you to a certain gentleman, it will mean that man is an ally of Wellington's, and you may rely upon him for assistance. However, if he allows he is merely 'pleased' to introduce someone, that man has aligned himself with the general's enemies and you're not to waste your time with him. And if he pronounces himself 'charmed—' "
The Scotsman and the Spinster Page 6