The Primrose Path (3 page)

Corin muttered an oath under his breath while His Grace sat back and admired his latest smoke ring and the efficiency of his department. “Good men, what? No recalling the message now. Don’t even know where the fellow is, much less how long it will take him to make his way across the Channel. Our smuggling chaps have been told to be on the lookout. That’s all we can do to help him until he gets here. Too risky to send anyone over there.”

“Surely we can get word to him somehow.”

‘Too dangerous. Wouldn’t do to draw attention to him, or to one of ours if the Scribe is taken. Besides, we don’t even know the Scribe’s real name, my boy, he’s that cunning. He’ll get out.”

Not if he had Corin’s luck, he wouldn’t. “Let us hope so. Your Grace. Then, when he arrives, we can redirect him to another area. I have a comfortable, secluded property near Brighton.”

“Where Prinny and his set congregate? Lud, the place may as well be a fishbowl, what? Besides, the Scribe’s not going to arrive here in Town and announce his presence at the Horse Guards, is he? Not if he wants to see the next day’s sunrise. No, he’ll go straight to Kent, to the location we passed on. Also, it’s closer to the coast.”

Corin groaned.

“Don’t worry, lad, it won’t be for long, just till we can get the man back into France with another identity. He’s too valuable to lose, and you know every blasted Frog bloodhound will be after his skin if they find where he’s gone to ground. Violent bunch, those
Securité
blokes.”

“It’s not a matter of the length of time at the cottage—”

“Besides, we can’t forget the man’s a gold mine of information. We need him where everyone appropriate can have access, the foreign secretary, the War Office, the army. Your property is, what, less than a day from Town? Perfect, my boy, perfect. And with the cover of that house party you’re planning for right after the Season, no one will notice one or two government bigwigs among the company. Looking forward to it myself, what?”

Hell and damnation, Corin thought. His future career in politics just stuck its spoon in the wall.

The duke was smiling, thinking of the brief vacation he was going to permit himself. He might even get in some fishing. “No one will think anything amiss with a gentleman disappearing from the company for an hour or two. Shooting, riding, what? Normal country pursuits, like going for walks around the property. Couldn’t be better, my boy. Excellent suggestion you had. I’ll be sure to tell the Secretary.”

Be sure to tell him not to wear leather gloves, Corin thought, but dared not say.

“And inviting Midas Micah Wyte was brilliant, lad, just brilliant. The man travels with an entourage befitting a Turkish pasha. The nabob’s got so many servants and secretaries that my men won’t even make a ripple in the countryside.”

The duke puffed on his cigar. The smoke in the room was so thick now that Corin was feeling queasy, or perhaps it was the thought of Micah, Lord Wyte, coming to Kent, too, with his daughter. Lud, a defector, a deep-pockets nobleman, and a debutante, all tripping over his dead aunt’s dogs.

“Don’t look so downpin, Knowle, the end of the Season’s not far away. Then you’ll be able to get Miss Melissa Wyte all to yourself there in Kent, away from those young pups sitting at her feet here in London, what?”

If His Grace only knew ...

“A few walks in the moonlit gardens, perhaps, or getting lost in the maze? I’m sure I don’t have to give a downy cove like you advice, my boy, but if you stop this dillydallying, you can announce the betrothal while all the company is still assembled. No need to toss another do, what?”

“My betrothal?” Corin choked. It was the smoke, he was certain. “There’s nothing definite yet, Your Grace. How did you hear about that?”

“We
are
an intelligence organization, my boy, or did you forget? Excellent match, Wyte’s daughter. Your blood’s blue enough for both of you, but the chit’ll bring another fortune to the family coffers, what? Not that you need it, of course. Lovely gel, I hear. A real beauty.”

Melissa was a Diamond of the First Water, but Corin wasn’t ready to commit himself. At eight and twenty, he needed a wife to fill his nurseries and ensure the succession, a chatelaine for his houses, and a hostess for his political aspirations. What he didn’t need was a spoiled and demanding rich man’s daughter.

“The visit is by way of an experiment, Your Grace, to see if Miss Wyte likes the countryside and the castle, to see if we’ll suit. As you say, it will be easier to spend time alone out of the city, to get to know each other before we make the irrevocable decision. Miss Wyte might find some other, more eligible,
parti
before the end of the Season, someone with whom she prefers to spend the rest of her life.”

“She’ll have you, my boy. There’s no higher title up for grabs this year, no greater fortune, either. Wyte’s holding out for both, I hear. He may have bought his own title with the India trade money, but he aims to make sure his grandchildren come by theirs the old-fashioned way, in the blood. The chit won’t mind pleasing her papa, either, not if you turn her up sweet the way you handled that French
comtesse
for us. The gel’s Wyte’s only chick, eh? Excellent. Excellent. I wish you luck, my boy.”

His Grace stubbed his cigar out in the silver ashtray on his littered desk. The interview was over. “Oh, and my condolences on your aunt. Send Higby in on your way out, will you?”

* * * *

“You’ve got to find a way, Abercrombie, you just have to! I absolutely have to get that female and the furballs out of Primrose Cottage—instantly!”

All the way to his solicitor’s office, Corin had been thinking of alternative solutions to his French spy dilemma. He couldn’t pass him off as another guest at the house party, not with that high stickler Micah Wyte inspecting him as a prospective son-in-law. Lud, Corin didn’t even know if the Scribe knew which fork to use at dinner.

Whether he did or not, the viscount couldn’t offend the War Office’s ally by disguising him as a servant, not after he’d served Britain so well and at such great personal risk. Besides, the other footmen and the visiting servants were bound to notice, and bound to gossip about the new man. Corin thought about stashing him in the wine cellars or the attics, but that wouldn’t do since so many people, all of them influential, were coming to consult with the heroic bastard.

Some remote gamekeeper’s cottage or shepherd’s hut? No, the local folk couldn’t help noticing such odd comings and goings, to say nothing of a Frenchman in their midst. Did he speak English? Corin didn’t know. Lud, how could he keep him a secret? And if Corin couldn’t keep him secret, how the deuce was he supposed to keep the man alive?

Hell and confound it, the war was going to be over eventually, and when it was, Corin wanted to be a respected member of the ruling class, not just taking his seat in Parliament, but having a say in the welfare of the country. Who would respect the man who got L’Ecrivain murdered? Thunderation!

Abercrombie was his only lifeline, and Abercrombie was letting him drown.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” the solicitor reported, nervously realigning the documents on his desk. “But the will seems to be in order. I doubt you’d be able to prove mental incapacity, collusion, or coercion, not with the bishop’s signature.”

“That’s it, then? There’s nothing I can do?”

Abercrombie straightened the papers one more time. “I did find one clause of note, my lord, which perhaps escaped your notice.”

“Yes?” The viscount was almost off his seat, his sudden movement disturbing Abercrombie’s neatly stacked piles. “What did you find?”

“Ahem. In discussing the tenure of Miss Angelina Armstead, your aunt wrote, ‘Until the last of my beloved pets joins me in Heaven, or finds a good home.’ It would appear that all you have to do is find decent homes for the curs—ones this Miss Armstead cannot fault—then she’d have to leave and the cottage would become your property. Easy as pie.”

Finding a home for a dog that hated men, or for one that loved leather? For three of the yippingest little terriers in creation? And what about Windy? Good grief, who’d ever take Windy? No matter, Corin vowed, he’d do it. He’d find homes for the ones he could, even if he had to bribe his friends and neighbors to take the plaguey pooches, even if he had to pay annuities for their upkeep. Even if he had to put an advertisement in the newspaper, he decided. And he’d just have to adopt the rest, that’s what, take them all back to Knowle Castle with him. Easy as pie.

Chapter Four

The way Corin figured, he had a week, perhaps two, before the Frenchman arrived, not enough time to get all of the mutts adopted and out. No, he’d do better to clear the cottage of the hairy horde at one fell swoop, then work on getting rid of them one by one. That way he could see the last of Miss Angelina Armstead.

On his return to Kent, the viscount stopped first at Primrose Cottage, at the edge of the mile-long drive up to the castle. Deuce take it, the place was practically on his doorstep. So absorbed was he in his cogitations that he didn’t bother to notice that the primroses were starting to show their vibrant colors or that a vase of daffodils stood on the mantel in Aunt Sophie’s front parlor.

He should have worn mourning, he admitted, reminded by the scowls and somber black gown of Miss Angelina Armstead. But, dash it, spring had finally come, and he’d tossed off his greatcoat with its black armband. She might be sending disapproving looks toward his striped waistcoat, but, hell, he didn’t think much of her appearance, either. The companion resembled a scarecrow in that shapeless black bombazine, something put out to frighten the birds and small children. And her nondescript hair was falling out of its bun again as she bent to pour their tea. Granted, she looked better than she had at the reading of the will, for her complexion wasn’t all ruddy and splotchy. In fact, now that he could see her face, Corin decided Miss Armstead wasn’t nearly as old as he’d imagined. Her eyes, no longer red and swollen, were actually quite fine, a soft shade of green, somewhere between a hidden forest glen and a moss-lined trout stream.

The popinjay might as well be comparing her to pond scum, Angelina fumed, the way he was rudely inspecting her, a sneer marring his handsome countenance. Handsome is as handsome does, she reminded herself, and Lady Sophie’s nephew was a cad. She pursed her lips, set down her teacup, and said, “My lord, your plan to adopt the dogs yourself will not be acceptable.”

Yes, she could be a passable-looking woman, Corin decided, with those eyes flashing fire that way. Then her words penetrated his connoisseur’s automatic evaluation. “Why the devil not? I saw a handsome foxhound in the fenced yard as I drove up that would be a fine addition to my kennels. There was a capable-looking sheepdog out there, too; I’m sure one of my tenants could use a good shepherd.”

“And the rest, my lord? What about the others?”

“Are you suggesting I wouldn’t give them a decent home? I have an army of staff and miles of grounds. How could you possibly object?”

“Because you’re never there, my lord. You’ll be back in London by the end of the week, at some house party or hunting trip or off on one of your pleasure jaunts. The dogs will be left in kennel cages like your own hounds, or alone with your servants in that big empty castle.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” Corin wanted to know. “It’s good enough for half the children in England.” Hell, it was how he himself was raised, and all his friends and acquaintances. “We’re talking about dogs, anyway, not infants.”

Angelina didn’t think much of the British aristocracy’s system of child rearing, a prime example of which was sitting across from her, cold, heartless, and despotic. That wasn’t the point. “Leaving children to governesses and nannies and tutors may or may not be the proper way to care for them, but it’s not good enough for Lady Sophie’s pets, my lord.”

“Deuce take it, Miss Armstead, they’re animals!”

“Exactly, and they need companionship, attention, and affection. They were Lady Sophie’s friends, not just a collection of living knickknacks. With her infirmities your aunt could not get around as much or be as active as she wished. The dogs were with her constantly, her joy and her comfort in her isolated life. Can’t you understand that she loved them and they loved her? They need to be around people, yes, but not some hired servants who come and go. I can let them go only to homes where I’m sure they will find that same kind of love, my lord. It would be dishonoring Lady Sophie’s memory to do otherwise.”

Corin was furious that this insignificant drudge had found him wanting. He brushed a crumb of poppy-seed cake off his knee and watched the three little ankle biters charge after it. They had gray bows in their hair today. Bah! The sour-faced spinster had grasped the mutts to her meager, unfulfilled bosom as the children she’d never had. Next thing he knew the woman would have them in little bibs and nappies. She’d never part with them, blast her to perdition. “What do they have now, Miss Arm-stead?” he demanded angrily. “What are you but a paid servant?”

That was unforgivably rude, and Corin felt like an outright dastard to be speaking to any female in such a manner, no matter how buffleheaded she was. Deuce take the woman, now he’d have to beg her pardon.

But Angelina wasn’t giving him the chance to apologize. She rose to her feet, forcing him to stand also lest he appear even more of an unmannered brute. “Yes, my lord, I am a paid servant, one of those who are forced to make their own way in this world without being handed every advantage. I refuse to be ashamed of my status despite your arrogant attitude. Your aunt was my employer, yes, but I loved her as I would my own aunt, and I love her pets. Her other employees are equally as fond of the animals or they wouldn’t all be staying on to see to their well-being. Even Lady Sophie’s abigail is remaining to help with the grooming. So that is what the dogs have now, love that you would never give them with all of your fine houses and hirelings.”

Angelina’s hands were shaking. How could she have spoken so to Lady Sophie’s nephew? She sank back down, as always making sure the chair behind her was empty. Drat the man for making her so angry she forgot herself. It was all his fault. Since she’d already blotted her copybook with his high-and-mighty lordship, Angelina decided she might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb and air another of her grievances. After all, she might work for her wages, but
he
wasn’t the one who wrote the checks. “Lest you think the animals are neglected, my lord, by myself and the other ‘paid servants,’ the local children come in the mornings to help exercise the dogs. They come in exchange for lessons, because their patron, their landlord and resident potentate, hasn’t bothered to hire a new schoolteacher since the last one ran off with Jeb Allen’s daughter.”