Kasey Michaels (15 page)

“I know nothing of the sort!” Callie exclaimed, rolling onto the bed so that she could escape the sight of Imogene’s grinning face. She rolled over twice more, until she was able to put her feet down on the opposite side of the bed, which she did, standing up as straight and tall as she could with the too-large dressing gown now wrapped around her, cocoonlike. “And if I did, I would be out of this house this instant, and on my way to find myself another pistol!”

Imogene only shrugged. “Have it your own way, gel,” she acquiesced, doing her best to look downpin, but losing her battle as she reached into her pocket and drew out a paper she then unfolded and held out to Callie. “I had the servant wait for an answer. Here—read your father’s letter.”

Callie eyed the paper as if it might bite her, and wrapped her arms around her stomach. “You read it to me,” she said, her heart beginning to race as she imagined just what the viscountess could have written to her father, and her father’s answer.

Imogene refolded the paper and put it back in her pocket. “There’s no need to read it, as I’ve committed the lines to memory. Let’s see, how does it go? Oh, yes. ‘My dear Viscountess Brockton’—so formal, yet vaguely intimate, don’t you agree? ‘I have just now returned from my trip to find Caledonia missing and your servant waiting to ease my worried heart as to her whereabouts. How can I ever thank you for rescuing my dearest Caledonia and that brainless Lester Plum from their predicament, brought about by their own pigheadedness in attempting to cross a rain-swollen stream in a poor wagon on their way back from their ill-advised jaunt to her aunt’s estate. Caledonia has ever been one for mad adventures, which is undoubtedly what she thought this small journey would be when Lester suggested it. And to have brought them both to London, so that Lester could be treated by your personal physician, is beyond kind. I thank you again for your generosity.’ There. I may have added a word or two, but I think that’s about right.”

“You told him Lester and I had an accident, and that you rescued us?” Callie asked, walking around to the bottom of the bed, her hand on the post. “How inventive. And tell me, how bad is Lester’s injury? Will he live?”

The viscountess only shrugged again. “A broken arm. Just the one wing, nothing worse. But, as I was on my way to London, with no time to lose, and Lester’s arm was well enough in the sling I fashioned from one of my very own petticoats, it seemed easier to continue our journey than to backtrack to return you two truants to your homes. After all, you’d already inconvenienced me enough. I am quite the hero, actually, as my servant also brought me a second missive, written by Lester’s father, lauding me as a near saint. Either that, or Lester’s papa and yours are the two most gullible gentlemen in all of England.”

“Yes, that. The second thing. Gullible,” Callie remarked absently as she let go of the post and began to pace. “Papa was already gone from home when I left, so he finds it reasonable to believe I had run off to be with Lester. Lester was already on his way to London, so
his
papa sees nothing remarkable about Lester’s staying away. Although he is probably grinning from ear to ear to think that his son has landed on his feet so well, finding himself in Portland Place. Yes. Yes. I can see that both Lester’s papa and my own were more than willing to accept any explanation that came to them with a crest pressed into the sealing wax.”

She looked up at the viscountess. “I would be lying if I said I wanted to leave here. I’m having the time of my life, being measured for fine gowns and looking forward to going to the dance at Almack’s. Then there’s the prospect of teasing the earl of Filton with the supposed dowry your son says will besot the earl so that he doesn’t see himself being ruined until it is too late. I am and will be enjoying every moment of all of that. But any notions you might have of marrying me off to your son are fair and far-out, Imogene, do you understand?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I understand perfectly,” the viscountess agreed with obvious insincerity, cocking her head to one side as they both heard a faint scratching at the door. “It will be enough if squiring you about in society brings me to the notice of a few gentlemen of my own age. I mean, if you don’t have the wit to make the most of Simon’s plans, I’m certainly not such a slowtop as to miss
my
opportunity. Now, as that is probably Madame Yolanda, I suggest that we put this subject to rest. I simply wanted you to know that this is not your adventure alone and that you owe me your cooperation. Understood?”

“Absolutely, Imogene,” Callie agreed, wrapping the dressing gown more fully around herself, knowing she hadn’t made her point but also knowing she never would. Not with Imogene. “And I’m sure Lester will likewise agree to forget what he has heard. In fact, he is probably on his knees at this very moment, praying for blessed forgetfulness.”

“Poor spineless creature,” Imogene said, clucking her tongue. “But I am growing oddly attached to the boy. It took all of my considerable personal discipline not to have Roberts run a note round to Weston’s after Lester was fitted for his new wardrobe, asking that he make up a lovely big blue bow we could tie around the boy’s throat.”

“Shame on. you, Imogene. Lester is not a pet,” Callie protested.

But she could not help but smile in embarrassed agreement when, before she flung open the door to admit Madame Yolanda, the viscountess quipped, “Of course he is, gel. He’s your pet And now he’s mine, too. And we are both half in love with the silly creature. Oh, just look, gel—it’s not Madame Yolanda at all. It’s Roberts, carrying boxes that must contain the first of your new wardrobe. Marvelous! You’ll be able to come down to dinner tonight. Won’t Simon be pleased!”

Callie didn’t have the heart to tell her benefactress that she doubted Simon Roxbury would be at all pleased, no matter if she were dressed in breeches or gossamer—or if she came to him stark naked, with a rose between her teeth. He couldn’t care about her one way or the other. If he did, be would have found some way to talk to her in these past days, and he hadn’t. He had simply been content to allow his mother to handle the “creation” of the “instrument” he planned to use against Noel Kinsey.

And that suited Callie straight down to the ground!

At least that’s what she kept telling herself whenever she stood behind the curtains, peering out at Simon as, elegantly clad and looking supremely confident, he strode across the flagway and leapt up into his curricle or his carriage, heading out for a day or evening of pleasure without a thought to her.

I have had such damn’d luck every way.

—Mrs. Alpha Behn

Chapter Seven

W
hat England didn’t need at the moment was rain, which was precisely what it was getting, by the bucketful. Simon felt as if he had spent the better part of the year running between raindrops, leaping over puddles. The remainder of his time he’d spent listening to Silsby lament the poor state of his master’s boots, his master’s evening slippers, his master’s hose, his master’s cloaks and capes, which invariably returned home with damp shoulders and muddy hems.

Of all of it, Silsby’s whining dirges were the worst, which was probably why, as Simon carefully crossed the street heading for White’s, his ears only faintly registered the sound of approaching hoofbeats and carriage wheels. He instead concentrated his gaze on the puddles left over from the morning’s deluge and his mind on wondering why in the name of Heaven anyone would pick up bits of the street and run off with them. What possible use could anyone have for cobblestones?

Then he heard it, the sound of heavy, dull thuds, of voices raised in anger. He hastened to reach the flagway so that he could turn about and look back across the street, and saw the answer to his wonderings as he watched a hail of cobblestones winging their way through the air, to smash against the side of a canary yellow coach.

“Prinny,” Simon muttered beneath his breath as the Prince Regent’s coach went flashing by, a half dozen outriders doing their best to control their startled horses, the coachman employing his whip to urge his team forward as he yelled for everyone to clear the way. “You’d think the man would have the good sense to stay bolted safe inside Carlton House, where his loyal subjects can’t reach him with their small tokens of affection.”

Before the outriders made up from the Prince’s own guard could react, the four or five attackers—displaced mill workers by the looks of them—had dropped the remainder of the cobblestones they had appropriated for the purpose of pelting His Majesty’s coach and were already halfway toward a nearby alleyway, and escape.

“Damn and blast!” Simon shouted as one of the mounted guards wheeled his horse close by him, sending a shower of muddy water over his new pantaloons. “I’ve half a mind to toss a few bloody cobblestones of my own, damn me if I don’t!”

“Experiencing some sort of difficulty, are you, old friend?” Armand Gauthier inquired from behind Simon just as he had raised his fist, shaking it at the last horseman as he followed after the escaping coach. “Prinny ought to give good warning before he goes out and about. That way we could all stay indoors, and avoid being caught in the cross fire. That, or he might rethink spending all his subject’s monies on fripperies like that outlandish carriage. Yellow? Surely an unfortunate choice, wouldn’t you say? Altogether too recognizable.”

Simon, who had been occupied in employing his fine lawn handkerchief in an effort to clean himself of the worst of his muddy insult, looked at his exquisitely clad—and clean—friend, and grumbled, “How did he miss you, that’s what I want to know? You couldn’t have been more than a few feet from where I’m standing. I tell you, Armand, I’ve been cursed with the worst luck today.”

The two men proceeded into White’s, greeting acquaintances as they moved toward the bow window, where Bartholomew Boothe waited. “You know, Simon, now that you mention it, I have noticed that, and not just today,” Armand said as he walked in front of him, leading the way. “And it all seems to have begun that night in Curzon Street, with your abduction at the hands of our dear Miss Johnston.”

Simon didn’t growl, for gentlemen did not do such things, but he came close, glaring at the back of Armand’s coal black head. “She did
not
abduct me,” he gritted out from between clenched teeth as they took up their seats, nodding to Bartholomew. “I allowed myself to be taken.”

“Of course you did,” Armand purred soothingly, so that Simon suddenly understood why there were many of their acquaintance who longed to climb into the ring with his friend at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and pelt the living daylights out of the fellow. Not that anyone dared, save Simon himself, who had once landed Gauthier on his back during an exceptionally good sparring contest.

“Oh, never mind,” Simon said, smiling as he regained some of his good humor, knowing that he was probably making a cake of himself. “I admit it. She was holding a pistol aimed at my nose, and I had no choice but to do as I was told. Although I probably could have bested her, given a few more miles and a glass or two less of champagne dulling my senses. So, Bones,” he went on, smiling at his friend, “how are you today?”

“Drier than you, Simon,” Bartholomew quipped, winking at Armand. “I was watching you from here. Couldn’t believe you didn’t hear Prinny’s coach coming, then watched you vault into the air when you was splashed all over. What say you, Armand? How high did our friend jump? Could we enter him in a contest, lay down odds on how high he could leap against, say, a frog we’d catch in the park? I can think of at least three men who would be willing to take on such a wager.”

“Three? I can think of a dozen!” Armand countered, waggling his expressive eyebrows at Simon. “Two dozen, if you’ll agree to make it three out of five jumps.”

“There are times I believe that you, my loyal and pathetically amusing friends, are all who sustain me,” Simon said with a smile as he accepted a glass of champagne from one of the servants, tipping back his head as he took a deep sip of the cool, bubbly liquid. “Otherwise, I should think I have gone stark, staring mad these past ten days. But, listening to the pair of you, I also realize that I may well be the last remaining sane person in all of England. Or, at the very least, the only person of any sense residing in a certain address in Portland Place,” he added glumly.

“Haven’t seen her yet then, have you?” Bartholomew said, cupping his chin in his hands as he propped his elbows on the tabletop and leaned forward. He was hoping he was right as, true to his nature, he had already wagered fifty pounds with Armand over how long it would take for their friend to break down the door to Caledonia Johnston’s bedchamber, climbing over his mother’s battered and broken body if necessary.

Bartholomew was holding out for Sunday. Armand had picked today as the one that would bring an end to the battle of wills between Simon and his formidable mother. Another twelve hours, and the fifty pounds were as good as Bartholomew’s, and he already had his eye on a fine mare at Tatt’s that he’d buy with his winnings. “Good man, Simon. Good man. I admire your patience. Truly.”

Simon, who had not been privy to any private wagers, but who knew his friends as well as they knew him, looked at each of the two men in turn, his eyelids slitted, and believed he had deduced the truth. “You’re both pathetic,” he stated firmly, finishing off his champagne in a single swallow. “Anyone would think that neither of you has anything better to do with himself than make silly wagers on
my
life.”

“We don’t, Simon,” Armand pointed out, adjusting his lace-trimmed cuffs. “And that’s the pity of it. We’re both here, waiting, champing at the bit, actually, for you to begin your little scheme against Filton. Not that he’s here, of course, but we have to begin sometime, introduce the chit to Society and all of that before the Season runs down. Have I mentioned that I am willing to sacrifice myself by leading her out for her first dance?”

“I may be tricking her into thinking she’s got some real part in my plan to bring Filton down,” Simon said, taking exception to the joking gleam in his friend’s eye and not really understanding why, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll set you loose on her, Armand. She’s years too young and green for you. So you won’t be leading her out for any dances, unless it’s over
my
dead body. Understand?”