Barbara Metzger (11 page)

But Miss Lockharte was dying and he could not recall meeting her. Perhaps he had shown carelessness in not clarifying his refusal to employ her, but Wynn was not in the habit of explaining his actions to anyone. He hadn't been wrong in the matter, he decided, just in the method. Mushrooms and hangers-on did not deserve his consideration; unfortunate, downtrodden schoolteachers did. According to his sister, at any rate.

Wynn could not correlate his sister's meek, mousy creature with the author of the damning diatribe he'd received. According to the letter, he was a condescending, conceited, cockleheaded coxcomb who had hurt another human being without noticing, which was worse than doing it on purpose and not something to be proud of. Wynn Alton did not want to be that person.

Rosellen knew she wasn't dead. She hurt too much. She also knew she'd never leave this attic room alive. Luckily, she didn't think the Merrihews meant to kill her immediately, not with Miss Manley playing Lady Bountiful once a day with an apple or a biscuit. In fact, if she hadn't fallen practically at Miss Manley's feet, Rosellen suspected, the Merrihews would simply have swept her crumpled body out the door like a dust ball. But with the curious students returning to school, how many “accidents” could one instructor be expected to suffer?

And Rosellen was suffering mightily. Her head was concussed, she supposed, making her see double, with both views spinning nauseatingly. Her arm was splinted and swollen, and every other inch of her was black and blue. She would have taken laudanum gladly, but none was provided. She would have traded her mother's lap desk to be clean again, but no one would fetch the tub and the cans of water. Perhaps she was fortunate in that, Rosellen considered, for the Merrihews might decide to drown her in a hip bath. Unfortunately, she still stank of horse.

At least she was in her own nightgown, out of her soiled, torn uniform. A maid had helped her, a new girl who refused to talk to her on the headmistress's orders. She brought a pitcher of water, a bowl of porridge, and a hardened slice of toast. Cook's culinary efforts had not improved; neither had her temper.

Rosellen's prospects had dwindled from poor to nonexistent. With her right wrist broken, she could neither teach penmanship nor hire herself out as a secretary. She couldn't even write to Uncle Townsend, begging for his nonexistent mercy. What in Heaven's name was to become of her? And did Heaven care anymore?

Rosellen was beyond tears and almost beyond hope.

The rain started just beyond Worthing. Wynn switched to the carriage, tying his chestnut stallion in the back. He should have left Jupiter behind with the groom, who was supposed to be on the lookout for the Heatherstone twins, Baron Haverhill, and Tripp Hayes, none of whom were where they were supposed to be.

Red-haired identical twins would make a stir even in Brighton, where His Royal Flamboyance was a byword. No one had seen the Heatherstone heirs, not at the hotels, not at the gaming parlors, not at the clubs. Wynn had checked the coffeehouses while his driver and groom canvassed the livery stables. There were no rumors of cockfights, mills, or races, nothing to take those hellborn blockheads out of town.

Tripp Hayes was not at his family's estate in Bognor Regis. His mother hadn't seen him, didn't expect him, and couldn't imagine why his friend the viscount thought dear Thorence would leave London during the Season. Wynn couldn't imagine one good reason for his old school chum's valet to lie to him. No honest reason, anyway.

And Baron Haverhill had not driven through Worthing on his way to that girls’ school. The place was too small for the locals not to keep count of every carriage and cart that passed through. Wynn's own arrival had been noted by no less than fourteen persons raking their yards, hanging their wash, sweeping their front stoops.

Deuce take it, there was nothing left to do except visit Susan's friend or her grave. He'd come this far and he had a blasted bouquet of flowers in a bucket.

Wynn could not recall what made Miss Merrihew's Select Academy for Young Females of Distinction the school of choice for the promising buds of the
belle monde.
Miss Merrihew herself was everything the viscount disliked in a person. She was stiff and angular, sharp-faced yet sugar-tongued. She was an insincere, toadying sycophant who thought his presence added to her consequence, while she bullied the servant who answered the door. She eyed the flowers in his hand with an avaricious gleam, then led him into a sumptuous private parlor and tried to ply him with tea and cakes. He refused.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord,” she was saying now, her artificial smile giving the lie to the least hint of regret. “It is too, too gracious of you to inquire, but Miss Lockharte is no longer with us."

"I am sorry for your loss.” Wynn mouthed the proper, polite phrases. Meanwhile, he was hiding an unexpected pang of sorrow for the bright, impassioned flame that had been snuffed out. Miss Lockharte may have been misguided, but she had been no fawning flatterer. And now he would never get to make amends.

"It's no great loss, I can assure you,” Miss Merrihew replied with a sniff. “Miss Lockharte was an insolent, outspoken young person who did not know her place."

That Wynn could well believe. “When did she pass on then?” he asked for his sister's sake.

"Pass on?” the headmistress repeated. “The twit didn't die.” Wynn could have sworn he heard her mutter, “More's the pity,” before she concluded, “I meant she is no longer on the staff here at the Select Academy. She was dismissed for insubordination."

Why should he feel so relieved? He smiled at himself for growing tenderhearted over a totty-headed female. He nodded toward the flowers still in his hand. “I was led to believe she was ailing. My sister was concerned enough to ask me to stop by while I was in Brighton on business."

Miss Merrihew waved a bony hand. “La, a trifling indisposition.” She was not about to discuss a virulent epidemic at her school, in case this gentleman of the first stare knew the parents of prospective students. She was also not about to give credence to anything else he might have heard concerning Miss Lockharte. “I fear the fever did seem to affect her senses, however. Quite addled her brain, in fact, so she became delusional with wild talk of robbers and assassins."

"And you sent her away?"

The woman shrugged pointy shoulders. “What else could I do? I had the welfare of my dear students to consider."

And their papas’ purses, Wynn added to himself. Dash it, now he'd have to track the female down to make sure she was established properly. He stood. “Then if you'd be kind enough to give me her address, I won't be taking any more of your time."

"Nonsense, my lord, you must stay to tea. I absolutely insist on it The wretched girl should be here any minute with the tray. It's raining dreadfully, besides. You cannot wish to leave yet.” Or before Jonas returned. Who knew what an influential nobleman like the viscount could do for her brother's career?

Wynn did not resume his seat. “Too kind. But I'll just get the address and be on my way."

Miss Merrihew gnashed her teeth. That troublemaking twit was not going to spew her lies into this handsome Corinthian's ears. “I am afraid I couldn't give you her direction, my lord."

Couldn't or wouldn't? Wynn wondered. Something did not ring true. He studied one of the roses in his hand. The petals were beginning to brown at the edges. If he didn't get to Miss Lockharte soon, the flowers would be totally wilted. “Miss Merrihew, do you realize that one word from me would see at least twenty of your students withdrawn? Those are the ones I can think of first, of course; there might be more. The Harrington-Wyte chit, the under-secretary's two daughters, the Manley girl..."

"She's upstairs.” The false smile was replaced by a clenched jaw.

Wynn raised an eyebrow.

"There was an accident in Brighton when she was departing. She was brought back here.” Miss Merrihew went to the door, patently ready enough now to see the last of him.

He did not move. “I would see her."

"I am not running a blasted hotel!” Then she recalled the Harrington-Wyte chit, the under-secretary's two daughters ... “That is, I'm sorry, my lord, it is not possible for you to see Miss Lockharte. Her wits became even more addled after the unfortunate incident in the coachyard. She took to ranting and raving and dashing about. She had a slight spill on the stairs, so now we have to keep her confined in her room so she does not injure herself further. We are, ah, awaiting word from her relations about placing her in Bethlehem hospital.” Miss Merrihew smiled again, genuinely this time. What a good idea! She'd have her brother make the arrangements this very afternoon, as soon as she got rid of this nosy nonpareil.

Bedlam? Wynn shook his head. In her letter, the female had seemed determined to be heard, not demented. Besides, a mental institution was no place for a gentlewoman, no matter how low she had fallen. “You'd consign a sick female to an asylum?” he asked, wondering what he could do about it.

"What would you have me do, my lord? I am running a school, not a hospital. I think I have been more than generous in letting her stay on so long when she is not even in my employ."

"I am sure you have been everything that's charitable and considerate, madam,” he said, sure of anything but. “I'd like to see her for myself."

"Impossible,” the woman snapped, entirely out of patience. “No gentlemen are permitted upstairs."

"Surely you cannot think there is anything improper about my visiting Miss Lockharte for a moment, to wish her well and give her my sister's regards and flowers. I will be sure to leave the door open,” he added dryly.

Miss Merrihew crossed her arms over her flat chest, a stance that usually sent students and instructors alike scurrying. “No."

Wynn plucked a rose petal. “Miss Manley.” Another. “Cousin Lucy's eldest. No, the middle daughter."

Miss Merrihew bit her thin lip. Before another petal hit the floor, she hissed, “This way."

She led him through a slightly less sumptuous parlor, then up a flight of stairs. He could hear girlish giggles and see heads disappearing behind doors at their approach, but they went up more stairs. An older female in a gray uniform and spectacles saw them approach the next landing. She screeched and fled back into her room.

Still they climbed. The staircase was winding around, narrower and darker, without carpeting. The railing was rough enough to leave splinters, so Wynn did not use it. Miss Merrihew was panting. They went higher. When they could go no more, Wynn had to duck his head to get under the rafters. His unwilling guide plowed a path through empty trunks, discarded desks, and piles of books to a door with an even lower lintel. Miss Merrihew threw the door open without knocking, then stepped back. “Here, my lord, you wanted to see for yourself. Look."

Wynn bent over and entered the room. No, it was more a closet. Perhaps someone had kept pigeons there once. It smelled like it. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket to hold over his nose while he continued his survey. There was a narrow bed and a washstand that leaned against the wall and hooks hammered into the rafters to hold clothes, he supposed, though none were hanging.

On the floor were a satchel, a crumpled gray rag like the one that other teacher had been wearing, and a lady's lap desk. On the night table were a chipped pitcher, a piece of bread with green showing on the edges, and an apple core. But on the bed, ah, on the bed was an even more dismal sight. Wynn took out his quizzing glass to get a better look, then was sorry he did.

He had never seen a sadder scrap of humanity than the female under a threadbare cover, not in the orphanages he supported or the poorhouses he financed, not even in London's stews when he'd had to travel through them. “Lud,” he said, “I thought you told me she wasn't dead."

Rosellen reluctantly opened her eyes, knowing that the room would start spinning again. What she saw was not encouraging. “I
am
dead,” she groaned. “And here is Beelzebub. Twofold."

Miss Merrihew gasped, whether from Rosellen's impertinence or the climb up the stairs, it wasn't clear, but the viscount only murmured, “Ah, just as sweet-spoken as I imagined from your letter."

"I am sorry, but I am quite out of honeyed phrases, Lord Stanford. And do pardon me for not curtsying."

"At least your mind is in one piece, if you remember me."

Remember him? How did one forget the man who'd ruined one's life, especially when he was the most attractive man in all of England? And the rudest. Now, at the worst moment in her existence, he had to reappear. Rosellen groaned again. Here she was, in her dingy nightgown, with her hair like a squirrel's nest and her face like a baboon's behind—and those were the high points of her appearance. She was at low tide. No, she was the flotsam and jetsam that got left at low tide, shipwrecked, capsized, sunk. There he was, thinking he could walk on water again.

Stanford was as handsome as she recalled. His dark hair was wavy, his nose was straight, his jaw was square with a cleft in it. He was dressed with casual elegance, in buckskin breeches that stretched across well-muscled thighs and a bottle-green coat that must have been molded to his broad shoulders. The only faults Rosellen could see, doubled at that, were the stooped posture he seemed to have acquired and the quizzing glass that made his brown eye enlarged and grotesque.

Of all the arrogant affectations, that was the worst. She didn't mind the scented handkerchief, only wishing she had one, or the diamond in his neckcloth, which could have kept her for a year. She minded the quizzing glass. She was viewing his magnificence twice, while the dastard was magnifying her imperfections tenfold.

"I hate you,” she managed to get out past the lump in her throat. She swallowed hard. The imperious ass might see her in dire straits; she'd be damned before she let him see her in tears.

"Now you understand why I didn't want you to visit the creature, my lord,” Miss Merrihew crowed. “Her wits have obviously gone begging, just as I said. The girl is demented."