Minor Indiscretions (8 page)

"You take that deathtrap vehicle out of the carriage house, and I won't be responsible," the doctor announced when he came to the inn to do what he could for the viscount's nose. "One rut, one miscue to those fractious brutes you young blades drive, and one of those cracked ribs goes right through your lung. Then where are you? Lying in a road somewhere, gasping for air like a beached perch. And what did you say happened to your nose, anyway? You fell? Addlepated young fool, I told you to keep quiet. Lucky you didn't do yourself an injury right here, in Mrs. Barstow's best parlor."

Lucky? If the cantankerous old sawbones thought a broken nose was no injury, he should just get a taste of what it felt like. Coe had a mind to—

"Too bad I couldn't get here yesterday when it happened. Mrs. Reilly, don't you know. For real this time, by Jupiter, great big bruiser of a boy, it was. Already set a bit, your beak, that is. I'll have to break it again, of course, unless you want to be sniffing at your right ear the rest of your days. This might pain you some."

If Corey didn't flatten the physician right then, it was because he was too busy picturing a slim, graceful neck between his hands.

So he stayed on in West Fenton for his ribs' sake, not eager for anyone to see him in his present condition anyway. Hostesses would faint, the fellows at the clubs would be merciless in their ribbing, without even knowing about the little girl who'd dealt the last blow, and his town house staff would wrap him in cotton wool. Corey thought for a moment of lying low as soon as he could travel to the little house in Kensington he kept for his convenients. He was not paying his current mistress Yvette for her conversation, however, and not being up to the obvious exercise, he might as well stay put.

Corey sent for his man Bates, his ex-batman from army days, now a dapper gentleman's gentleman, who took his stature from serving a pink of the ton. Lord Coe also notified his secretary to refuse invitations, forward important mail, and handle everything else. The viscount's affairs were well in hand, as they had to be, with him gone so long fighting old Boney. He trusted his bailiffs and his bankers and Mr. Tyler, who had been secretary to his father before him.

The first week Corey took laudanum for the pain; the second, Bates was hiding his master's boots to keep the viscount from overdoing. By the third week Coe was visiting Albert, playing cards in the taproom with the worshipful locals, and making a nuisance of himself in the stables, wanting to exercise the horses. Mostly, he went for walks and reflected on his life. Time and boredom will do that to a man.

The war was over, his part of it anyway, and maybe he
was
taking too many risks with his life. Maybe he should think about leaving more to posterity than a new driving record to Brighton. The viscountcy was secure, at least, in a sober cousin and his large, hopeful brood. Coe's personal wealth, the considerable unentailed property, would go to his beloved sister and her future children. Erica, Lady Wooster, was now a childless widow living in Bath, but she was only twenty-four, and that could change. Now that Corey had time to think about it, his heritage demanded more of him. He would just have to change his way of life—or find Erica a new husband.

London was a little thin of company when he finally got there, the Season not formally underway. The clubs seemed to have the same gouty gents sitting under a pall of smoke, the same glitter-eyed gamblers feverishly dicing away their patrimonies, and the same hard-edged tulips shredding reputations over cognac. The parks were full of dandies on the strut and hey-go-mad bucks on bonecrushers. Erica's first marriage was a joyless one, Corey thought regretfully, still feeling guilty for his part in arranging it. She deserved better.

With this thought in mind, or so he told himself, Viscount Coe went to Almack's. The beau monde's Marriage Mart worked both ways, he reasoned, and a gentleman on the lookout to become a tenant for life would more likely be found here than at, say, the Coconut Club or the Cyprian's Ball. If, while he reconnoitered the field of bachelors, the viscount's eye happened to glance to the rows of white lace decked debutantes, that was merely by accident.

As Lord Coe temporized for a stunned Lady Jersey, he was just popping by in case an old friend was up from the country. The elusive, reckless Lord Coe at Almack's surveying this year's crop of fledglings? What a tale to pass around! Reading her mind, Corey tugged at his neckcloth, an elegant creation it had taken him and Bates an hour to tie. It may be de rigueur to arrive at Almack's before eleven, and in knee smalls at that, and even to flirt with Lady Jersey, but dashed if he'd let the lady patronesses pass him off to every whey-faced chit and her eager mama. He was not about to give rise to hopeful expectations in any grasping woman's breast.

He had one dance with Princess Esterhazy before excusing himself. "I see that my, ah, friend is not here, so I'll just be going on. Another engagement, don't you know."

That wouldn't stop the rumors, not when his lordship kept scanning the sidelines.

She wasn't there, his green-eyed sprite, not that he would admit looking for her. She said she would not have a Season, but such a beauty deserved gowns and jewels and elegant waltzes—in his arms. After he strangled her, of course. He touched the bridge of his nose where there was and might always be a new bump, and smiled, causing one dumpling of a deb to nearly swoon with joy. The viscount did not notice.

This was absurd, he chided himself, looking for Angel amid such
milk-and-water misses! Looking for her at all was foolish beyond permission.
That's why he had purposely not asked Barstow for her direction, debating with
himself whether Mrs. Barstow would have given it. Why, his behavior toward an
untouched maiden was already reprehensible, and he was no closer to jumping into
parson's mousetrap over a pair of green eyes and a captivating dimple than he
was to… to asking that plump little chit over there for a dance. The wealthiest, most attractive, most alluring bachelor in many a year scowled and stomped out of Almack's. Miss Weathersfield fled in tears to the retiring room, while all the young sprigs of fashion wondered how they could get such interesting deviations in their proboscises.

At least Yvette could not be tarnished by his rake-shame reputation, Coe thought as he walked off his ill-humor on the long trek to Kensington. Hell, she'd helped him earn it, along with many of her sisters. Now it was time she earned that charming little bijou and the pony cart and the diamond necklace.

Yvette earned the matching bracelet, leaving Corey spent. Too bad she could not satisfy his mind as well as his body, but Yvette's talents did not include beguiling conversation. There was no friendly banter, no natural tenderness, or warm good humor. For the first time ever, Coe was bothered by bought affection. He went home early.

A few tedious weeks later, the best Viscount Coe had managed for entertainment was a green-eyed replacement for Yvette, some heavy wagers, and the idea of a house party at his property outside Bath, to liven up his sister's days. The best prospect he could come up with for a new brother-in-law was Lord Pendleton, and even Corey was hesitant about foisting the prosy bore on Erica for a fortnight. Then Erica wrote him a troubled letter, asking if he could help with a delicate matter. Her words spoke of adventure, danger, and intrigue, a menace to his dear sister's happiness, and a threat to the family name. What could be better?

It rained for four days. The viscount put up at Hazelton, a town about an hour from his goal, according to his maps. He had decided to keep this distance, not wanting his destination made public. He knew what a stir a nobleman and his retinue could make in a small village, which was precisely what he wished to avoid in such a delicate family matter. He could not simply travel by horseback, for he needed the closed carriage, which meant a coachman, footmen, and postilions. A groom was necessary to look after his stallion, Caesar, tied behind. The viscount's man, Bates, refused to be left behind, saying: "Just look what happened last time, milord." So Hazelton it was.

It kept raining, however, and the only inn in town was damp. Corey's ribs ached, damn the quack in West Fenton. His man, Bates, came down with a cold, and the groom reported one of the carriage horses was off its feed. Blast this whole mission!

He set out finally on a high-strung gray stallion that hadn't been exercised in too long a time, down muddy roadways and up mired country lanes. He got lost twice and almost unseated once, to the detriment of his temper. At last he spotted a gravel drive, as per his directions, flanked by two stone columns with acorns carved in them. Original, he thought sarcastically, prepared to find nothing pleasing about this place. He was not disappointed.

The drive was rutted and weed choked under a canopy of ancient oaks. Last year's leaves formed a slippery roadbed of muck in places, and this year's leaves dripped water off Coe's beaver hat and down his collar. He hated it.

Caesar, meanwhile, hated sudden noises and small, darting creatures. So when the pig jumped out from the underbrush, and the grubby child darted after it inches from the huge stallion's nose, Lord Coe suddenly found himself seated in that same leaf-mold sludge. Corey held his breath and checked his ribs, while high-pitched voices chattered out of sight like monkeys in trees, for all the words he could distinguish. Only Lord Coe's dignity was injured, which the back of his fawn trousers would advertise nicely, thank you. Well, he wasn't turning back. He remounted and kept Caesar on a much tighter rein, swearing the benighted horse was laughing at him.

The drive ended, at last, at a large stone house set in an untended clearing. The windows were grimy, the steps hadn't been swept, and no one came to hold his horse.

"Hallo, the house!" he called, notifying the butler to send one of his minions. No one came. Corey could not very well leave Caesar standing untended, not with misplaced children and livestock popping up anywhere. "Hell and damnation."

"I say, sir, would you like me to hold your horse?"

Corey saw two boys dash toward the house. The speaker, a dark-haired, ruddy-faced lad with his knees muddied and his shirt untucked, was already fearlessly rubbing Caesar's nose. "He's a prime goer, I'll bet," the boy said, adding on another hurried breath, "I'm Harry, that's Pip." The other, sandy-haired lad, ducked his head and stood behind his companion.

Dismounting, Corey reluctantly handed the reins into Harry's eager, but grimy, hands. "You're not the groom here, are you?" he asked. No gentleman would let such a ragamuffin near his cattle.

"Oh no, sir," Harry replied, never taking his eyes off the stallion, "I'm one of the ba—"

Pip kicked him and came forward, eyes still on the ground. "We're b-boys from D-Dower House, sir." He nodded in the direction of a side path, inadvertently showing the splotched side of his face. Corey inhaled deeply, but his expression did not change from a grim, disapproving glower.

Just then the child with the pig came tearing around the building and down a path, pigtails flying, petticoats dragging in the mud, tongue running on wheels.

"What is she, a red Indian, or something?" Corey asked Harry, who seemed to have Caesar under perfect control, despite the screeching whirlwind.

It was Pip—what kind of name was Pip?—who answered: "She… she's Czechoslovakian, sir." He turned his back on Corey.

That didn't sound like Czech to Coe, from his days of fighting with the allies, but before he could pursue the thought, Harry shouted out: "Hey you, you better get home and out of those dirty clothes before Miss Mel catches you. She'll take a stick to you, else."

Corey could not believe the manners of these boys. " 'Hey you' ?"

Harry wasn't fazed. "Don't know her name," was all he said, bending to find some fresh grass for Caesar. In fact, Harry didn't even seem to notice he was addressing a gentleman, much less a peer of the realm. For the first time in his life, Lord Coe's horse was getting more respect than he was!

The ramshackle place was even worse than Corey had expected. The children were unmannered, untaught, unwashed—and beaten, if Harry could be believed. The viscount marched determinedly up the path to the house, to be nearly bowled over by the same knee-high dust devil. He looked back at Harry, who merely shrugged as if to say, 'Women.'

No one answered the door, not even when Corey banged the knocker and shouted. The damned manor was locked up and deserted! He strode back down the path to look accusingly at the boys.

"Oh," Harry said, noting with surprise the viscount's irritation. "You didn't ask. They're all at Dower House. This place is for rent. Jupiter, you're not here to look it over, are you? By all that's holy, that would be famous! There's a bang-up stable that just needs some work, and I could—"

"Hold, bantling. I am here to see Lady Ashton, not lease her house." Corey noted Harry's crestfallen expression and added, "But you may walk Caesar here if your friend would be so good as to show me the way to the Dower House." There was no reason to take his anger at the situation out on the children. After all, they were the real victims. He softened his tone toward the other boy: "Pet names are fine for the nursery, but between men I think proper names are more fitting, don't you? I am Cordell Coe."

Pip brightened instantly, forgetting to look down. "Oh, indeed, sir. I'm Philip. Philip M-Morley, that is."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Philip. Perhaps you could tell me—"

Philip could not tell him anything. He was rooted on the walkway, his mouth hanging open in horror. Corey followed his gaze down the trail and almost choked. The tiny swineherdess had listened to Harry after all, about taking her clothes off and washing up. There she was, giggling on the path, as pink and shiny as one of her pigs—and just as bare.

Pip wanted to die. Whatever must this fine gentleman think? There was no doubt Mr. Coe was a gentleman, maybe even a lord. Zeus, maybe Pip should have been calling him 'my lord.' "M-M—Sir, th-th…" Pip just couldn't get it out.