Barbara Metzger (20 page)

Wynn was not surprised to hear that the chit planned on being as pigheaded about that decision as about every other suggestion he'd made. He sighed, wondering how long it would take to get her fired off properly. “Until the paragon who meets with your approval happens by, please consider yourself a welcome guest."

"Thank you, for I doubt even your smooth tongue could get Uncle to pay for an establishment of my own. But I do not understand."

"It is just not done, Miss—ah, Rosellen. Young ladies do not live alone without incurring just the kinds of reputations we have been at pains to avoid."

"No, I do not understand why you have been so kind to me."

Wynn glanced to where the maid was pretending an interest in the passing traffic. He could not say that Miss Lockharte's scathing deathbed letter had hurt him or that her sad plight had moved him. He couldn't admit that he wanted this determined little dragoness to like him, not aloud and not to himself. “Perhaps I merely wish to see justice done."

Rosellen wasn't entirely convinced, but the maid's presence kept her from pursuing the altogether too fascinating study of the workings of Wynn Alton's mind. “In that case, could we stop by Bow Street, because I wish to hire a Runner with the purse Uncle gave me."

"Great gods, a respectable female doesn't call at Bow Street, where criminals are constantly paraded through the doors. Why would you wish to hire a Runner, anyway?"

"Why, to start an investigation into the Merrihews’ conduct and to recover my stolen money, of course."

Wynn was almost shouting, and the maid be damned: “Are you still riding that hobbyhorse? Confound it, you have money of your own now, enough for a wardrobe and whatever else you might need. You have the opportunity for a family of your own, or a position if your uncle comes the crab. Why the devil would you want to jeopardize all of that?"

"Perhaps because I, too, wish to see justice done, my lord."

The informal luncheon was a cheerful affair, now that Rosellen's immediate future was decided. Wynn kept urging dishes on her, and Susan kept thinking of places her friend would like to visit, sights she would want to see, shops she absolutely had to patronize. Lady Stanford was happy that she didn't have to go along with them to Astley's Amphitheatre, Ackerman's Repository, or the animal menagerie at the Tower. Red-faced, Lieutenant Stubbing allowed as how he'd be delighted to escort the ladies wherever they wished to go, anything to avoid his lordship's ledgers.

Lord Hume was in a good mood, too, pleased to make Miss Lockharte's acquaintance over the turbot in oyster sauce, after his talk with Wynn. There was no news about his hat, but neither was there an extortion note or a mention in the
on dits
columns of the journals. Hume was beginning to agree with the viscount that the loss of his top hat and his cherished
billet-doux
was a mere misfortune, not a dire calamity.

And Wynn was glad to see how well Rosellen fit in with his household. At least she was no odder than the others. She didn't blush or babble and never spoke of Bow Street, thank goodness. She did seem to be tiring, however, when the meal was ended.

"Don't make plans for this afternoon, Sukey. Miss Lockharte will be resting."

"Nonsense, my lord. I am not at all tired. On the contrary, I am perfectly capable of going with Miss Alton on her errands."

"Nevertheless, you shall stay home resting. I am not about to have you tumbling down the stairs again."

"I did not tumble, my lord, I was—"

"Ill with the influenza, which might recur if you are not careful."

Susan's head was swiveling back and forth between the two. Even Lady Stanford was taking note of her son's solicitude toward their new guest. “I think Miss Lockharte ought to know what's best for her, Stanford,” she said.

"May I live to see the day,” Wynn muttered so only Rosellen could hear.

She carefully folded the napkin from her lap and stood, so that he and the other gentlemen were forced to their feet also. “If you recall our visit to my uncle this morning, my lord, I am not in your employ. Nor am I a child who does not know her own limits. I shall rest when I am tired and not when you order me to. Is that clear? Now, with Lady Stanford's permission, I am going to fetch my bonnet so that your sister does not have to wait for me."

Susan applauded and the dowager called, “Brava, Miss Lockharte.” Then she turned to her son. “I like this girl, Stanford. She's not nearly the mealymouthed chit she looks."

Unfortunately, Rosellen ruined her grand exit by stumbling over a wheel on the viscountess's Bath chair. Wynn caught her just before her head would have hit the corner of the mahogany table. The words on his lips were not at all suitable for his sister's ears, so he left the room and headed for the stairs, Miss Lockharte's insignificant, underfed weight once more in his arms.

Rosellen felt like a grain of sand shouting at the desert. On the other hand, in his lordship's hands, she felt as secure as a sleeping child rocked by the breeze. But she was not a child. She was all too aware of Wynn's hard chest, his strong arms, the spicy male scent of him. No, she did not feel like a child at all, and as he stood over her, after he placed her on the violet-patterned bedspread, that breeze was more of a cyclone blowing through Rosellen's senses. This would never do, she told herself. Why, she didn't even like the man. It was gratitude alone that was making her heart beat faster. Wasn't it?

"Now rest, confound you.” Wynn glared down at her, almost daring Rosellen to move off the bed.

Annoyed at herself for her totally inappropriate response to his simple caring, Rosellen snapped, “Confound yourself! Stop giving me orders, Stanford. I am neither incompetent nor invalidish."

"So you're recovered enough to attend the opera this evening?"

Rosellen had been to the opera once during her brief London sojourn. She'd adored it. She also knew that the evening would not end until long past her usual bedtime. She would fall asleep during
Figaro
if she did not have a nap. “Hmph,” she conceded with an unladylike snort. “But you could consider a person's feelings when you start issuing commands."

Wynn crossed his arms over his chest so that he wouldn't be tempted to shake the infuriating female. “Miss Lockharte, I have done nothing for days but think of your welfare."

He was correct, of course, which made Rosellen even more cross. “I said feelings, not welfare."

"Forgive me for offending you once again, Miss Lockharte, for considering your health more important than your tender sensibilities. Perhaps I'll have a change of heart and consign you to perdition, where I'm sure Old Nick is anxious to smooth your ruffled feathers."

"I am being beastly, aren't I?"

"Mule-headed, viper-tongued, and hornet-tempered. Are those beasts enough?"

Rosellen was relieved to see that he was smiling. “And childishly immature, I suppose. But I have been a straw in the wind for so long, you know, barely permitted an opinion for myself, that it is hard to bend anymore."

"And I am so used to giving commands that it is hard for me to respect your need for independence, now that you have it."

"You are also somewhat arrogant,” Rosellen reminded him as her eyes drifted closed.

Wynn reached over and softly touched her cheek. “Only somewhat? I knew you were growing to like me, Rosellen Lockharte."

While Rosellen rested, Wynn went about his errands. He called at Tripp Hayes's residence, only to find the place shuttered, the knocker off the door. If the fellow wasn't in London and he wasn't in Bognor Regis, where the deuce was he? Tully Hadfield's rooms were already let out to a new tenant, who had no knowledge of the rake's whereabouts. Wynn did better at the Albany, where one of the lads who stood around waiting to run errands or hold horses knew that the Heatherstone twins were out shopping,

"Argufying, they was, over who got to pick the hats and who got to pick the gloves. Then they was drawing cards over who got to drive. I never seen the like. It were better'n a two-headed calf."

A two-headed calf had more sense than Miss Lockharte's abductors, but Wynn set out to find them. A man—or men—did not go around kidnapping innocent females without being called to account. Rosellen had acquitted them of nefarious intent, but Wynn was not so sure. He was about to make certain that there would be no repetition of the bizarre holdup—and no mention of it in public, either, or else. He wasn't certain what the else might be, pistols or swords, but he was not going to let those two nodcocks destroy Miss Lockharte's chances for happiness.

A gentleman could have his gloves made anywhere, but he went to Locke for his hats, so Wynn tried there first. The Heatherstones stood out in the somber establishment like a pair of peacocks. With their red hair, yellow Cossack trousers, and spotted neckerchiefs instead of cravats, they were the Beau's bad dream. Wynn asked them to attend him at a coffeehouse, rather than be seen at his club with the twin Tulips or in public.

"Just the ticket,” one of them said. “We was going to call this afternoon, as soon as we had new hats to wear. Wouldn't do to call on a lady with a bare head, don't you know."

The other nodded vigorously. “Uh, Miss Lockharte
is
staying at Stanford House, ain't she?"

"Yes, with my mother.” Wynn spoke loudly for any listening ears.

"That's all right and tight then. We was going to have to call you out if you put her somewhere shabby, wasn't we, Tom?"

They were going to challenge him? Wynn almost left them in the street, but he wanted some answers. Like what had happened to their old hats.

"Can't keep ‘em on our heads, don't you know, when we don't forget ‘em places. I swear they make ‘em too big."

Wynn was positive that the dandy duo had had nothing to do with Old Humidor's hat. Miss Lockharte was another matter. In the farthest reaches of a smoke-filled coffeehouse, Wynn turned on his most forbidding demeanor, the one he saved for cardsharps, pimps, and mothers of debutantes. He demanded to know the Heatherstones’ intentions toward his houseguest.

"We was hoping you had intentions, is what. Our intention is to join the army."

Heaven help Wellington now, the viscount thought. The war with Napoleon would drag on another ten years with these two on the British side.

The other Heatherstone was talking. Wynn could see that they hadn't come away from the encounter with his groom and driver untouched either. One had a bruise on his cheek. The other had a cut above his eye. He didn't know which twin was which, though, and did not care. “My goal is to see Miss Lockharte creditably established, with no blot on her reputation."

"Our goal, too! That's why we was hoping you'd come up to scratch."

Wynn pounded the table. “Once and for all, I have not dishonored the female and I am not going to marry her.” He chose to ignore the times he'd been alone with her in various bedrooms, the urge he'd had just today to touch her cheek. He had no business wishing to see her eyes light up with laughter, and the Heatherstone twins had no business questioning his motives. “Do you understand?"

The Heatherstones understood that their heads would be pounded next. “Uh, does that mean one of us has to?"

Wynn could get rid of his new charge with one word. He could have her wed to one of these moonlings with a single nod. With Haverhill's dowry she could set up housekeeping, have little red-haired infants at her skirts. He shuddered at the thought. And what if the gossoon groom still wanted to join up? Rosellen might be a widow, which might be a blessing, or she might feel she had to follow the drum. No, she was altogether too delicate for that.

"You might ask her,” he said, magnanimously allowing Rosellen a choice he knew she would not take, not if she wished a marriage of mutual affection and respect. “If it matters, Haverhill has agreed to dower the chit."

"I say, Tim, then you can marry her. The pater would approve."

"Deuce take it, I wanted to go to the Peninsula. Wellington don't take married blokes as aides-de-camp."

He didn't take morons either. Wynn had to smile, imagining Miss Lockharte's reaction to these two fribbles arguing over which one should ask for her hand. “Perhaps it won't come to that. I have hopes of introducing her to other eligible gentlemen, so she might have a choice."

Tim slapped his brother's shoulder with relief. “They always said he was a downy cove."

"No, he just don't want us to marry her, any more'n he'd want his sister to."

So there was a glimmer of intelligence in them after all, Wynn thought. “I have decided that, for the upset you have caused the lady, you will help my mother and sister bring her into fashion, steer her away from unsuitable matches, and otherwise keep your traps shut about her rather spotted past. Is that clear?"

The ice in his stare was clear enough. So was his aim, the Heatherstones knew. They gulped, their Adam's apples bobbing in unison, and nodded. Then they used their neckerchiefs to mop their foreheads when he left.

"High-handed sort, what?” Tom asked.

Tim agreed. “I don't think he'll do for our Miss Lockharte after all. Nasty temper, what?"

"And he gave the cat to that innkeeper. So what'll we do?"

"We know every chap who's on the lookout for a leg-shackle, so we introduce her around, make sure they know about her dowry, see if we can't get her riveted before we go off to Spain. That will satisfy our honor and satisfy Stanford. Meanwhile we can get her that dog she always wanted."

"But she's staying at Stanford's house."

"A big, ugly dog."

On his way home, Wynn stopped into Madame Celeste's and mentioned to that discreet modiste that a friend of his sister's was staying with them. Baron Haverhill's niece, to be exact, and the chit would need a new wardrobe. On the baron's tab, of course. Miss Lockharte would be in as soon as she was rested from her journey to Town and her recent illness, but could Madame begin a gown now, so she would have it to wear to her first ball? Wynn offered to pay extra, to give Susan's school friend a treat. The gown should be loose, so she did not look malnourished, and one sleeve must be cut wide enough to accommodate a splinted, plaster-wrapped wrist. Oh, and the gown had to be silk, and it had to be turquoise, the color of the Caribbean. Madame Celeste wrote down his instructions carefully, trying to hide her knowing grin. Miss Alton's little friend, eh? Celeste was a Frenchwoman. She knew better.