Authors: Lord Heartless
Barbara Metzger (9 page)
"You must be the kindest man I have ever known,” the widow said through a curtain of tears.
Kind? What a night for firsts. This was the first time that a woman had refused a gift from him, and the first time in his life that anyone had called Lesley Hammond kind. Mrs. Kane must have known some bounders in her time, he thought. If a shabby wooden horse could bring moisture to her eyes, that Phillip Kane had a lot to answer for, leaving her so unprotected and vulnerable. “Then you will let Pippa have the toy?"
She nodded, sniffling into her handkerchief.
"Good,” he said, trying to tease her out of the weepiness, “for who knows what I might require of you next. Hammond House tonight, perhaps the Egyptian Collection tomorrow, to steal Sue a mummy of her own."
Lord Hartleigh insisted on carrying Pippa across the street. The rocking horse and a few other items, books and trifles, he claimed, would be delivered in the morning. Carissa could not argue and chance waking any of the neighbors to see her coming in so late, in such company. The service door was locked, of course. She had expected nothing else from Mason.
"They might have left a candle burning,” Lesley complained as she fumbled in her reticule for her key.
"What, for a mere servant?"
"Your Mason makes Wimberly appear positively amiable. It must be something in the breed of butlers."
"It's not the blood, my lord, it's the power. Men like Mason and Wimberly thrive on feeling superior to those weaker souls beneath them. I have seen enough of their kind to know. Besides, Mason is terrified that I might usurp some of his influence with Sir Gilliam. He is horridly jealous of our relationship."
Whatever that was. Hell, Lesley realized he was jealous too, but he merely shifted the child's slight weight to his other arm, so he might reach for his flint.
Carissa's fingers were suddenly stiff and clumsy as she tried to fit the key to the lock. The carriage ride, the cavernous attics, none seemed as intimate as her own doorstep. She was alone, for all practical purposes, with a practiced rake. All too aware of the viscount's masculinity, his size and easy strength, Carissa knew she did not want such a virile presence in her little sitting room, much less the bedroom she shared with Pippa. He was too large, too handsome, too used to women throwing themselves at him.
Once the kitchen candles were lit, Carissa reined in her own racing emotions. No, her imagination, she told herself. She was being a gudgeon, thinking that Lord Hartleigh might be interested in her. He was charming to everyone, that was all. They were not equals, and he would never trifle with such a dull, decorous female as herself. They were friends. Still, she reached out. “I'll take Pippa from here."
When the child was safely transferred to the widow's arms, never having fluttered an eyelash, the viscount did not step back as Carissa expected. Her pulse thundered as he took a step nearer and lowered his head. Surely he would not try to kiss her, not with Pippa in her arms? Surely she would never stand still and let him? But her feet were not listening to the orders from her brain, which were drowned out by the pounding of her heart.
No, the viscount did not kiss the housekeeper. He merely reached out and tugged the mobcap from her head. That was much, much worse. Brown curls tumbled to her shoulders and down her back, coming out of the bun in a flurry of fallen hairpins. Gold highlights flashed in the candle's glow.
"Ah,” was all he said as he bowed, then left.
Hartleigh came to deliver the rocking horse, as promised, in the morning. And he came via the front door, to aggravate the niffy-naffy butler. Mason tried to bar the entrance. “Deliveries go to the rear,” he insisted. “And so do Mrs. Kane's callers. On Saturdays. Her half day off."
Lesley carefully lowered the wooden horse, polished and brushed to a fare-thee-well, to the floor of Sir Gilliam's hallway and took out his quizzing glass. With enlarged eye and exaggerated sneer, Lord Hartleigh drawled, “You grow wearisome, my good man. I have half a notion to report your insolence to Sir Gilliam.” He stared down at the smaller, thinner, older, and entirely less prepossessing butler, who seemed to shrink, and not merely because he was seen through the wrong end of a magnifying lens.
It was not the viscount's threat that had Mason holding the door wider, nor his arrogance. It was the sight of Byrd's grin, gold teeth, cauliflower ear, and tattooed skull that blighted the bully's bluster. Byrd was looming over the viscount's shoulder, his arms full of the “few trifles” from the shelves of the Hammond House nursery.
"No need to show us the way, Mason. We can locate the lady from here."
"Lady?” Mason sniffed, turning his back to them.
"Want I should pop his cork, Cap'n? Mrs. Kane is more a lady than half the gentry morts in London."
"Three quarters, I make no doubt. But this entry is much too charming to ruin with spilled claret. Flowers, fruit, ferns ... Mrs. Kane's handiwork, I suppose. Next time, Byrdie.” With that promise, the viscount and his man went down the hall toward the kitchen.
Pippa's eyes grew even larger and her thumb fell out of her open mouth when she saw Lord Hartleigh and his gift. “For me?"
The viscount winked at the buxom woman at the stove. “No, it's for Cook, so she'll come make gingerbread for me."
The child looked from Lesley to her mother, then grinned and hurled herself into the viscount's embrace, wrapping her thin arms around his neck and kissing him soundly on the cheek. “Now can I ride the horse?"
Carissa feared she was turning into a watering pot. Pippa was so happy, and her pride had almost denied the child this treat. She watched the viscount lift her daughter to the leather saddle and show her how to hold on. And she listened to Pippa jabbering away about how the horse was black, like her cat, and how it was almost as good as a real pony, and how Sue could ride it too, when she was bigger. Carissa never knew Pippa wanted a pony, never knew she could chatter like a magpie to a virtual stranger.
"How can I ever thank you enough, my lord?” she managed to ask past the lump in her throat.
"That's easy. You can come help us find places for everything we brought back last night."
Byrd had put down his load of packages. “More stuff'n a hundred babies need,” he grumbled. “And that red-haired widgeon had me moving it all morning. Upstairs, downstairs, to the laundry, to the clothesline. What do poor babies do, is what I want to know, without a different blanket for every day of the week?"
"They get the croup, inflammation of the lungs, or pneumonia.” Cook had filled a plate with slices of poppyseed cake and set it in front of Byrd at the kitchen table, recognizing that so large a man was never filled. Carissa nodded for the viscount to help himself while she fetched the tea things.
Tea in the kitchen, with earthenware mugs, was not what he was used to, she was sure, although Lord Hartleigh was smiling, thanking Cook, laughing at Pippa's excitement. What a complicated man, she thought again, as if the puzzle that was the prodigal peer would look any different by the light of day. He lived in a house that was smaller than the stables of his family home. His morals were abysmal, yet his manners were everything pleasing. He was arrogant and overbearing, but melted at a child's smile. He could outstare pompous despots like Wimberly and Mason, yet befriend those far beneath him in status. Truly, Lord Heartless was an enigma.
"Then you'll come?"
She'd been woolgathering. “Come where?"
"Across the street to help Maisie sort through the baby things, Mrs. Kane. And perhaps have a word with the new servants."
"No, I cannot interfere any more than I have done. You have a competent staff now.” She ignored Byrd's blatant snort of disbelief. “Besides, I have to go to the apothecary this afternoon. Sir Gilliam's cough was worse this morning, and I promised Pippa a visit to the duck pond on the walk back."
"Excellent. We'll go with you, Sue and I, if we may. Test out the perambulator, don't you know, and give Maisie a rest. Maybe she can make sense of the piles if Sue is not around. And we'll take Glad. You said he needed the exercise. And that babies need fresh air. I've decided to take your advice, you see, so I do not consider anything you might tell me to be interference."
Carissa didn't like the sound of this at all: Byrd fetching and carrying, Maisie struggling with the laundry, the two men devouring every last slice of cake as if they hadn't breakfasted. And pouring the butter boat over her. Eyes narrowed, she asked, “What happened to the boy Matron sent over to walk the mongrel?"
"A squirrel. Glad went east, the lad went west and refused to come back."
"Then your housekeeper can interview another boy for the position."
Lesley cleared his throat. “The, ah, cook-housekeeper decamped earlier."
"Glad?"
"No, she was a damn—deuced good cook."
"I mean was it the dog that sent her to the right-about?"
"No, but he did eat the new footman's hat. You cannot blame Glad, though. The fool was storing a meat pasty in it."
"So the footman is gone, too?"
"And the new underbutler,” the viscount confessed. “He, ah, had an accident on the way to the necessary last night. ‘Twas dark, he was unfamiliar with the grounds...."
"He fell in one of the dog's holes, didn't he?"
"Yes, and the scullery maid heard Glad baying and thought it was a banshee, and the bootboy turned spotty around dog hair. So, you see, we desperately need your services again."
Byrd nodded his agreement. “The place was running fine, for about a day and a half."
Carissa had to smile. “But what happened to that nice Mrs. Bennett? The housekeeper assured me she didn't mind children or dogs. What did Glad do to her?"
Hartleigh frowned at his manservant. “That was Byrd. He decided to show the staff how he could make his tattooed seagull flap its wings."
Byrd wiggled his eyebrows, causing the spread-winged bird on his bare scalp to move slightly, in imitation of flight.
Carissa shook her head. “And that disturbed Mrs. Bennett?"
"Not that tattoo, Mrs. Kane. The one on his cheek."
"But Mr. Byrd doesn't have a tattoo on his—Oh."
He feathered his corners, he steadied his wheeler. His Belcher neckcloth flapped in the breeze. So did Glad's ears. Ah, if the Four-in-Hand Club could see Viscount Hartleigh now! But Sue squealed, and then her eyes drifted shut as he pushed the pram across the street No race victory was sweeter.
He called at the front door of Sir Gilliam's town house, out of sheer perversity this time. He did offer to wait on the stoop with his carriage and his faithful hound while Mason went to fetch Mrs. Kane. He would have had a long wait but for Pippa being on the watch for him. She skipped along the side of the house toward the viscount and the pram, her mother following with a market basket in her hands.
"I do wish you wouldn't tweak Mason's nose that way, my lord,” Carissa chided after greeting him and tucking the blankets more firmly around the baby.
"But that officious, pointed beak is just begging to be pinched."
"Yes, but it does make him more difficult to live with."
He smiled. “Then you'll come live with us."
"Ah, I see what it is now. You hope to give Sir Gilliam cause to dismiss me so you'll have a reliable housekeeper.” She spoke severely, but he could see a spark of humor in her eyes, now that he knew what to look for, under the abysmal mobcap. “I must inform you that I do not cook."
Lesley wondered what else she did, or didn't do. He was wise enough to keep the question to himself, although he'd thought of little else last night after seeing that glorious hair tumbled around her shoulders. Sobriety and abstinence did that to a fellow, he decided, after one day of both. Giving Mrs. Kane a disgust of him did not suit his current plans, however. Not at all. As he pushed the pram with Mrs. Kane strolling beside him, therefore, he tried to make polite conversation. He was sorely out of practice, it seemed. “How did your husband die?"
To give herself time to recover from the unexpected question, Carissa looked back to check on her daughter. Pippa was marching along, one hand on the horrible hound's collar, one in her mouth. Carissa bit her lip and looked straight ahead again. “I am, ah, not entirely sure. The War Office was not forthcoming with details.” That was an understatement. The War Office had never heard of Phillip Kane.
"Yes, those chaps can be closemouthed. Would you like me to look into it for you? What regiment was he in?"
"I am sorry, my lord, I do not like to discuss my husband. Please understand, it is simply too painful."
After four years? Or was the man such a rotter she did not wish to be reminded of him?
Then it was her turn to try to fill an awkward silence. “Have you made any progress toward finding Sue a foster family?"
That was another sore subject. “Oh, look, we've reached the apothecary already."
Hartleigh greeted the chemist in a friendly manner and purchased some peppermint drops. Then he returned outside while Carissa waited for her order to be filled, offering one of the sticky treats to Pippa, one to Glad. As Carissa watched through the window, shaking her head, the viscount tipped his hat to a fur-clad matron who stopped to admire the infant and nodded to a bewigged barrister hurrying past. He chatted with a young woman with two children in tow and smiled at an aproned abigail come to fetch her mistress's Denmark lotion.
His lordship was not high in the instep at all, she marveled, when it suited him. Or else the infant was having a mellowing influence. He positively beamed when anyone complimented him on the pretty baby. What kind of heartless rake was this?
When they left the apothecary, they passed a butcher shop. The viscount groaned, recognizing the place where Glad preferred to do his own shopping. Lesley could have bought the store thrice over, for the damage reparations he'd paid. He let go the carriage to grab for the dog. The pram continued rolling. Mrs. Kane cried out. So did the driver of a wagon careening around the corner.
