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Authors: Hayley A. Solomon

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BOOK: A Rag-mannered Rogue
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But how? She could not apply to Portland, who was debt ridden himself—no point in that. But Cathgar? It was not as if she were asking for charity. The money was hers by right. Just as she did not question poor Lord Alberkirky's claim to
her
principal. That was the way of things, peculiar or not. Truly, Lord Cathgar must be approached. He simply must be. Then, if she were frugal, she might be able to keep the estates rolling over until summer. Until then she would refrain from making any kind of debut into London society.
Well, without funds she could not, of course. And though bloodlines were important, she could not think anyone would wish to take up or sponsor a penniless orphan. The beau monde, then, was probably now permanently out of the question.
That said, there was no reason she could think of not to procure for herself a job. Respectable, of course, not opera dancing or any such thing, but perhaps a milliner's model. She had seen some at Hetty Martin's, and they all looked very fetching in their feathered confections, smiling here, smiling there, encouraging all manner of rash purchases. Yes, she thought she could do something of the sort, if only someone would take her on!
But in the meanwhile there was the wretched business of Lord Cathgar's ten thousand pounds. She scribbled a letter at the serpentine-fronted writing table provided for her comfort. It sounded too stiff, so she began again on more familiar terms. Then, confounded by her own annoying blushes and the manner in which her hand trembled, she threw the letter at the ink pot, causing its contents to spill onto the two blank wafers she had left.
She could have cried in frustration but did not. Instead, she dusted down her gown, shook out her hair, brushed her locks vigorously in the manner of her dresser, twisted the whole of it up in a tight top-not, and marched out of the room, famous reticule and all, prepared for battle.
It did not once occur to her through this whole process that she should leave the matter in the able hands of Mr. Devonshire. She had been doing
that,
after all, for a whole six months or more. The fact that a teeny traitorous voice urged her to see Lord Nicholas Cathgar one last time was most irrelevant.
Most.
She quashed it as firmly as she trod on the red carpets, soft with pile.
She ignored the curious eyes as she made her way down the marble staircase of the Colonnade. A gentleman with eyes far too admiring for his own good made her a low bow. She ignored him, hardly noticing, but she herself, unchaperoned, did not go unnoticed. Indeed, she raised several eyebrows in her plain half mourning as she trailed down the stairs, lost in thought. Fortunately, it was too early for the fashionable to take their promenades, and too late to be trapped by the men of business, who would take breakfast in the front salons. But still, she was noticed.
Calling a hack was less of a problem than giving him directions. As she tucked in her muff—for it was passing cold—she realized with a guilty look at the driver that she had no idea where on earth Nick lived. But if
she
had no idea, it transpired that she was in the minority, for half of London did. It was a short drive to the Mayfair address, much too short to collect her thoughts and her wits. She paid off the driver with scrupulous exactness and looked up at the great edifice that was Cathgar House. It was splendid, ice white with huge colonnades and marble pillars. It was so high, Tessie had to crane her neck back to catch a glimpse of the roof. When she did, great Gothic gargoyles seemed to glare out into the sunshine.
Then there was a bright polished knocker hung from an elaborate paneled oak door. To reach this, she realized, she would have to take at least a dozen steps up highly polished slate. She almost jumped back into the hack, but the horses were already trit-trotting off, and there seemed little else to do but push ahead with her original plan.
Only, in the broad light of cold day, it did not seem much of a plan at all. Tessie tossed her head. Lord Cathgar was simply her debtor. He could not
eat
her, after all. The fact that he could
kiss
her she refused to contemplate. Such thoughts were simply for ninnyhammers.
Eleven
It was the second footman's pleasure to receive Miss Hampstead. Had she not knocked with such imperiousness, he doubted he would have admitted her, for she was far different from the kind of morning caller to which he was accustomed.
As he later apologetically confided in Amesbury, he did indeed note her inadequate gown and unfashionable boots, not to mention the absence of a chaperone. Amesbury rather quellingly announced he should also have noticed that young ladies do not call on gentlemen, and that the hour was not so sufficiently advanced as to permit morning callers.
To which, abashed, the second footman had nothing to say. They all waited, now, in anticipation of a roar from Nicholas's study, where he was busy with accounts. He had been uncommonly moody lately, a fad that was not lost on his long-suffering staff, who permitted only their affection for him to stop a rash of sudden resignations.
All except the French chef, that is, who'd resigned the day before amid a bitter tirade of bluster and a perfectly incomprehensible dialogue that the rest of the staff preferred untranslated. So what, after all, if he forgot to compliment the lightness of the soufflé, or if he should send back a dish of the finest creme brûlée? But then, of course, there was no accounting for the French.
Now Miss Hampstead, cold in the third best reception chamber, shivered a little and contemplated her fate. A perfectly lovely ormolu clock ticked loudly upon an escritoire of sycamore marquetry, but Tessie was too nervous to admire either. Rather, she watched the hands of the clock, feeling more and more apprehensive and ill at ease. If she could have found her way through the rabbit warren of rooms without being stopped by a servant, she would probably have simply slipped away. But she knew she was being foolish, so she fingered her pistol in her reticule, bit her nails through her satin-fingered gloves, read and reread Lord Cathgar's hastily scrawled note of hand, and waited.
Finally, finally, the door opened. She expected, wide-eyed with sudden fright, the earl himself. It wasn't. Rather, it was the butler. Tessie noticed at once his perfectly sumptuous livery, emblazoned with all types of braiding. She swallowed but managed to smile at him quite civilly.
He bowed back, and directed her to follow. Nervously, she patted down her skirts and trailed behind him, past a corridor full of portraits, past a hall decorated in the classical style, with marble statues of Venus and Andromeda. . . past several antechambers and a large breakfast room, hung in azure silks. Then it was up a fluted stairway carved in mahogany, and down yet another corridor, silent, for the soft pile of the carpet cushioned her steps. Here and there she caught a glimpse of a maidservant or a footman, but by and large the house was empty.
Tessie felt severe misgivings, for it felt like she was being drawn into the lion's den, and for the life of her she felt there was no escape. It had not occurred to her that Cathgar would receive her anywhere other than in a respectable receiving room. But then, of course, she knew so little about Cathgar. . . .
“Miss Charity Evans, my lord.” Tessie had used this name so that Cathgar would recognize her and allow her admittance. She felt abashed, though, to still be clinging to the obvious falsehood.
“Enter.” The butler withdrew, allowing space for Tessie to step forward. She did, clutching at Mr. Devonshire's papers and trembling in sudden nervous anticipation.
The room smelled earthy, of pines from the fire and oak from the paneling. Sandalwood, too, and subtle scents of snuff . . . there were great, wide volumes on shelves, and leather-bound books scattered on reeded mahogany tables. Then, of course, there was Nick. He was holding a crystal glass, and its contents shimmered under the light of a thousand candles. Or so, indeed, it seemed to Tessie.
Of course, he was impeccable in morning coat of jade green, with a whisper of emeralds about his throat, and fine lawn breeches that clung to his calf muscles like glue. . . . Tessie could hardly bear to look. And she, in her horrible olive, clutching dunning papers! Oh, it was too dreadful to even contemplate!
He said nothing, just stared at her for a long while, until it seemed to her that she was no larger than a mite or a beetle. She did not notice the spark of happiness or the blaze of sudden excitement in those ridiculously blue eyes. She was much too nervous for that, especially as his presence seemed to take up a room rather than the small balcony doorway behind him.
“Little Miss Nobody, I see.”
“I wish you would stop calling me that!”
“And
I
wish for many things I daresay I cannot have. Or not easily.”
Tessie noticed the scar above his temple and the silver just flecking the glorious dark hair. Those eyebrows were arched, as usual. And she wondered what they portended.
Nicholas waited, arms folded, for his little love to speak. He thought, after all the agonies he had endured, it was the least he could do.
Miss Hampstead said nothing, she just clutched the papers a bit harder and wondered rather futilely whether it was too late to escape.
At length, Nick, still loath to be the one to break the interesting silence, compromised by ringing a bell. Almost instantly a servant appeared, so Tessie was obliged to conclude the worst—Lord Cathgar had curious servants, and any conversation she might conduct in private would doubtless be overheard.
The servant, to give him credit, had a wooden face that evinced no such curiosity, but then, that was
always
the mark of a superior footman. She sighed, not audibly, but sufficient for Nicholas to notice.
“Tea, Rutherford.”
“Tea, my lord?” Rutherford nearly disgraced himself by spluttering. Tea was not usually his master's preferred drink.
“Tea.” The answer was firm. “And some of those little cakes Mrs. Guthrie bakes.”
“Very good, my lord.” The servant bowed, but his eyes lingered for an instant upon Miss Hampstead. Once again Tessie felt shabby in her makeshift olive.
“Take a seat, my dear.”
“I'd rather stand, my lord. This is not a social call.”
“How very disappointing. And intriguing. You shall not mind if I own myself intrigued?”
“You must please yourself, my lord.”
“How very obliging. Possibly, I shall. Certainly, I believe I deserve to after the trick you served me!”
Nicholas advanced toward her, his intention quite clear. He set his crystal down on the library table, causing Tessie's heart to beat most erratically. When he was but inches from pulling her into his arms, however, Tessie turned her back, her eyes wild with . . . she knew not what.
“That was
not
a trick, my lord! I waited until Joseph returned, just as I said I would.”
Nick swiveled her toward him. Her gloved hands pushed him back, though her heart still beat most traitorously.
He captured those silk-soft hands, retreating from their impetuous foray on his waistcoat. Papers crinkled against his starched shirt, his muscled stomach.
Miss Hampstead pulled then, but his grip was quite fierce. He stepped closer, so Tessie had to look up, to glare at him.
He laughed, though his eyes grew dark.
“I thought I said I had other plans for you?”
“Yes, but those were not
my
plans, my lord!”
She felt her hands released.
“Is your heart engaged elsewhere?”
“No, but . . .”
“Then you can have no possible excuse for behaving like a hoyden and not consenting to a proper conclusion.”
“I was saving your life, my lord.”
“True.” His lips quirked. “But in a most hoydenish fashion!”
“That is
my
concern. I trust you are fully recovered?”
“Alas, no! Would you like to inspect my wounds?”
“Certainly not!” Tessie snapped. The temptation confronting her was large, and her temper was frayed. She realized she had to ask Nicholas—yes, she still persisted in thinking of him as that, however deplorably improper—for the ten thousand pounds, or she would lose her nerve.
“Lord Cathgar . . .”
“Nicholas. And it is churlish to refuse to see the outcome of your ministrations.”
“Churlish but ladylike, for a change. You may think me beyond redemption, but I am not, I assure you!”
“I think no such thing. . . . Ah, the tea tray. You are dismissed, Rutherford.”
Rutherford bowed.
“And shut that door!”
The door shut behind them.
“This is not proper, my lord.”
“You should have thought of that before calling on me, unchaperoned, at this hour. One of these days you will get yourself into trouble, my girl.”
“I feel I already
am
in trouble.”
“How true. So you might as well relax, forget your remarkably stuffy notions of propriety given your propensity for scrapes, and sit down.”
“I would rather stand, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. But I shall sit. Though I am undoubtedly restored to my remarkable good looks, I am still rather weak.”
“I am sorry for that. Have you consulted a doctor?” Tessie weakened as Nick hoped she would. He grinned.
“Joseph had a sorry old sawbones in. Sent him packing.”
Tessie's eyes could not help a sudden twinkle. “Then doubtless you are restored to perfect health, and I shall waste no more sympathy on you.”
“Ah, I have committed a strategic error, I see.”
“Indeed.”
Nicholas remained standing. “Are you not going to honor me with your name?”
“I shall, but only because it relates to the business I have with you. You must read nothing into my relenting.”
“I shall not. I shall be extremely obedient.”
Tessie eyed him suspiciously. “I find that hard to believe, my lord!”
Nicholas tried his very best not to grin. So he regarded the teapot for some moments, until Tessie found herself surprised by his silence. He was a hard man to read. And it did not help that he was standing so devilishly close to her, or that his emeralds glittered so brilliantly, so enticingly. . . . She shut her eyes.
“If you do that again, I shall kiss you, I give you fair warning.”
Her eyes opened swifter than she could ever have dreamed possible.
“I shall either slap or shoot you, so be warned yourself.”
“Little minx. I tremble in fear. And you are not carrying your famous reticule.”
“Botheration! I must have left it below stairs.”
“Good, I am safe, then. Or relatively so. I am not mindful of having a bullet wound added to my other pains.”
“You forget I can slap you.”
“Do I? You underestimate my memory. And my ability to retaliate.”
“You would not slap a woman!”
“No, I have other, more subtle weapons.”
Tessie blushed, for he was looking at her most meaningfully, and the color could not help rising to her cheeks. Oh, she had forgotten how infuriating he could be!
“Your name, if you please.”
“It is Theresa Hampstead. Of the Wiltshire branch.”
Nick regarded her musingly. Hampstead . . . there was something he recalled about the name, it rang curious bells, but he was not sure why. He focused on the second part of her speech.
“Did you say the Wiltshire branch?”
Tessie nodded.
“Now,
why
am I not surprised?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Oh, it is nothing, only I bemoan the fact that I have a remarkably omniscient mama . . .”
“What?”
“Hush, you look confused. Have a cupcake.”
“I have not come for cupcakes.”
“More fool you, for they are perfectly delicious and I recall that you have a rather large appetite. . . .”
“Do you not wish to know why I have called on you?”
“No, for I am sure it was for some positively odious reason. You have not allowed me to take even the smallest liberty . . .”
“You are funning. And, for your information, it is for an odious reason that I have called!”
“Now you interest me, Miss . . . Theresa.”
“Tessie.”
“Thank you. Tessie.”
“No! I mean I am not ever called Theresa. My friends call me Tessie.
You
are to call me Miss Hampstead.”
“I am suitably chastened. But I challenge you,
Miss
Hampstead, to deny we are friends. Hush, don't bother to do so, for there is more between us than mere strangers.” He stepped closer, so that his mouth was tantalizingly close to her own. “You feel it, Tessie, I know you do.”
BOOK: A Rag-mannered Rogue
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