Rules of Engagement (4 page)

"Yes." He couldn't believe he had allowed himself to be lured into such banter, and with such an ugly, disagreeable creature. "You understand what you should do?"

"I will find your orphan and bring the child here. Since I suspect you wish the child to have some fraction of deportment, I will train it—"

He slid off the desk and away from her. "Quickly."

"Yes. Quickly. Then… we shall proceed as you wish."

"You'll acquire the child by the end of the day."

"It is after the noon, my lord. I will settle into my chamber and look over the arrangements of your schoolroom today. Tomorrow I shall find us a child."

Taking Miss Lockhart by the arm, Kerrich briskly escorted her toward the door. "Then everything is settled."

"The major details, at least. I dislike taking your time."

"Good." He needed to go back to the figures on the sheet, which were good, damn it. Better than good, and Queen Victoria was a fool for ever doubting him. "Tell the housekeeper to put you in the bedchamber adjoining the schoolroom. If you find that unsatisfactory, make improvements as you wish. I'll tell the woman your wishes supersede all else."

The governess stopped just short of the door. "The… woman?"

"The housekeeper." He scrambled to remember her name. "Bertha or Betty or some such."

The governess didn't move. "Is she new to your household, then?"

"Relatively. Seven years. Ten. I don't know." What did the blasted governess want? Why didn't she leave?

She readied to speak, and already Kerrich recognized the spark in her eyes. He had somehow displeased her. She would render a tongue-lashing. He would bestow a set-down. And the woman would know her place.

But a tap at the door saved her the much-needed reprimand.

"Enter," he called impatiently.

Moulton—the butler who was so much more than a butler—stepped through and announced, "My lord, Mr. Lewis Athersmith."

His cousin had answered Kerrich's summons at last.

Kerrich and Moulton exchanged satisfied glances; now their plan could proceed.

"I'll be out of your way," Miss Lockhart said with schoolmistresslike briskness.

"Yes." The sight of the whey-faced, pinch-mouthed, purple-clad governess only reminded him of the staggering run of misfortune he had experienced. He didn't understand how any of it had come to be. A mere month ago, everything had been as it should. He had his title, his fortune, his income, his good looks, his health, an upstanding family, a mistress in his bed, debutantes to flirt with, the respect and good will of everyone in the
ton,
the fear of his enemies… all was right with the world.

Then his favorite horse had come up lame, the senior upstairs maid had appeared in his bedchamber stark naked, his mistress had taken umbrage and left in a snit, he'd suffered the catastrophic interview with Queen Victoria, he'd fled to Norfolk imagining that there in the peace and beauty of his country estate he would be able to conceive of a way to appease the queen and her pompous consort.

Only to seek shelter during a rainstorm, and find that infernal contraption in an abandoned hut.

He hadn't even known what it was at first. And him, a banker! Then he had realized, and at the same time he realized his danger. My God, if the villains caught him! He had run from that hut, given instructions that everyone on the estate stay away from the area, and ridden to the train station at top speed. In London, he had gone at once to the correct officials to report the crime and demand they take action—only to discover it was not so easy.

And that was Lewis's fault.

He and Miss Lockhart met his cousin in the entry.

"A new butler, Kerrich?" Lewis watched as Moulton walked away. "I thought you'd never retire old McCutcheon."

"He's off visiting his daughter for the moment," Kerrich lied.

Catching sight of Miss Lockhart, Lewis bowed, his blond hair flopping over his furrowed brow. "I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't see you."

Miss Lockhart curtsied, and Kerrich reflected bitterly that she probably approved of Lewis. Kerrich and Lewis were of an age, but while Kerrich knew without conceit that he had been blessed with most of the good looks, no one who looked at Lewis would think him anything but good. A cleric, perhaps, or a professor. In the Mathewes family, Lewis had received all the sincerity, resolution and intensity.

Who would have thought those very attributes would lead to his downfall?

"My lord, who is this lovely young man?" Miss Lockhart asked, approval in her ringing tone.

"My cousin, Mr. Lewis Athersmith. Lewis, this is… the governess."

"The governess?" Lewis appeared stunned.

"The governess." Let Lewis make of that what he wished.

But the woman pointed her umbrella at Kerrich like a tutor taking a pupil to task. "Lord Kerrich, what is my name?"

"What? What?" He looked hard at her. The light and shadow of the entry sliced at her face. She looked almost menacing and, to his astonishment, her features revealed a trace of beauty. He looked harder. Faded beauty. "You are Miss Lockhart. Why?"

Enunciating clearly, she commanded, "Do not forget my name again."

In astonishment, he stared at her as she curtsied again to Lewis.

Lewis smiled as he returned the obeisance one more time with a little too much enthusiasm. "I look forward to meeting again soon, Miss Lockhart. Any woman who dares take my cousin to task must be a formidable woman."

Miss Lockhart preened. There was no other word for it, and if Kerrich's life hadn't become such a tangle, he would have discharged the female before the farce was truly begun. But he knew full well finding another governess of the proper age and disposition would be well-nigh impossible, and so he ground his teeth as Miss Lockhart approved of Lewis. Approved of him just as everyone in Kerrich's family had always approved; even Kerrich's beloved grandfather had held up Lewis as a shining example for Kerrich to follow.

"I am now in residence here, Mr. Athersmith, and it will be a pleasure to further our acquaintance." She turned to the butler. "Mr. Moulton, I wish to see the housekeeper. At once." And she marched away on the butler's heels.

"She's an odd thing." Lewis turned his attention on his cousin. "But no odder than you. A governess, cousin?"

Kerrich practiced the tale he had made up to cover his sudden and suspicious philanthropy. "I'm adopting a foundling, a lad I met on the street."

Lewis stared at him as if not quite sure of his hearing.

"The boy's courage and manliness captivated me."

"Courage and manliness." Now Lewis looked down with a deprecating smile. "Of course."

Kerrich could see he had put his foot wrong already. As far back as their childhood, he had been the daring one, the charming one, the one who would inherit the money, the estates and the title. Lewis had been the studious one, the one who had graduated from Oxford with honors, the one for whom everyone predicted a shining future.

Yet what the hell kind of behavior was he indulging in? And why? Not that it mattered; as head of the family, Kerrich could not allow their name and honorable reputation to be dragged through the mud. But still he determined to know why.

So with an affection utterly at odds with what he truly felt for his mutton-headed relative, he led the way to the comfortable grouping of chairs around the fireplace. "Sit down, Lewis."

Lewis slowly sank into the chair, his blue eyes cautious.

And
guilty
. Damn it! Why hadn't Kerrich noticed that before?

He answered his own question. Because he hadn't seen Lewis for months. Heaven knows, he hadn't missed him, and it hadn't occurred to him he ought to be scrutinizing Lewis's activities. Lewis was the son of a vicar, for Lord's sake! Lewis was supposed to be honorably employed by Lord Swearn preparing his heir for Oxford, not engaging in criminal activities!

When Kerrich thought about it, he just wanted to shake Lewis until he saw sense, then send him back to the family estate in Norfolk where Grandpapa would shake Lewis until this madness had passed. But somebody had to find out the details of Lewis's offenses, learn the names of his accomplices, and more important, of the master criminal, and handle the matter. That somebody was Kerrich. So he sank into an armchair opposite his cousin and with a serious mien said, "I have a proposition to offer you."

If anything, Lewis became more cautious. "You, cousin?"

"There's trouble at the bank." Kerrich weighed his words with care, choosing them for the optimum effect. "I can't go to anyone but a family member. I need you to come and live with me. Work for me." Lewis began to speak, but Kerrich held up his hand. "Please, hear me out. I know you already have a position"—Lewis had been terminated, but Kerrich pretended not to know that—"and it will not reflect honorably on you to depart at such a time, but I find myself in a dreadful situation, one with dire consequences."

"You, cousin?" A faint smile played around Lewis's mouth.

"I know I can't in good faith ask that you abandon your post for me, but I do depend on your affection for Grandpapa."

Lewis's smirk disappeared. "Why would any problem of yours affect Lord Reynard?"

"Because it is my grandfather's bank. He started it, he worked there even after entrusting the running of it to my father, he trained me after my father's death. I know you hate the figures and the finance, and I know you swore you would never labor therein, but I pray that your affection for Grandpapa will overcome your distaste."

There it was again. Guilt, writ for Kerrich to see. Hadn't Lewis thought how his crime would strike at Lord Reynard's heart? Or was he so lost to all scruples he didn't care?

When Lewis didn't at once respond, Kerrich continued, "I know. You will say Grandpapa isn't your grandfather, but a great-uncle. Yet I think you feel affection for him, and while he would never mention it, you also owe him your education."

Under the weight of the guilt Kerrich piled on, Lewis's resistance caved in. "Yes," he said. "I owe your grandfather everything. If I judge your problem at the bank to be as grievous as you claim, then of course I will help you."

"It could not be any more grievous," Kerrich answered. "As you know, we print our own banknotes for distribution in Norfolk."

Lewis nodded. Probably he didn't dare open his mouth for fear confession would come flying out.

So Kerrich told Lewis what he already knew. "Someone is counterfeiting our banknotes."

The big boy being Lord Kerrich, and his antics yesterday being the silliest bit of posturing she'd ever seen in an adult man. Yes, he was handsome, wealthy, and titled. Yes, his smile could charm the birds out of the trees. No, she didn't care.

No more than she cared about the whistles and tricks the lads used to assault her ears and call attention to themselves. Kerrich's charms were as obvious and wearisome as his cousin's were refined and studious. Kerrich could learn a lot from Mr. Athersmith.

He would not, of course. Pamela remembered observing Kerrich at Kensington Palace and diagnosing him as a vainglorious young man with a high opinion of himself. He hadn't changed. He thought himself above the common run of gentlefolk. She could only hope that someday someone— some woman—would put him in his place. And that she was around to see it.

One of the eight-year-old boys began to sing in a high, sweet voice. He was gifted, and with training could become a great vocalist, but although Kerrich disclaimed interest in his orphan, Pamela suspected she knew what he wanted: a manly boy, one he could slap on the shoulder.

A responsible and well-paid governess should try to give Kerrich what he wanted, so she steadfastly ignored the talented boy, and also girls who sat on the stairway with their faces pressed between the banisters. Too bad, for Pamela had a weakness for the unloved, the outcast, the leftover children. She understood them so well.

"Hey!" One of the larger boys shoved the younger ones aside. "I'm Chilton. I be a good 'un. See?" He rolled up his sleeve and flexed his muscle. "I could carry yer coal and black yer stove better than any o' these other fellows."

"Cannot." Brave and furious, one of the younger boys shoved back. "Ye're bigger, but ye're lazy."

Chilton doubled his fist. "Am not."

Another boy shoved him from the back, and the toughest boys tumbled to the floor in roiling turmoil.

"A feisty bunch, aren't they?" Mrs. Fallowfield, the orphanage director, tried to put a good front on the brawl.

Without a reply, Pamela stepped back to avoid the fracas.

Seeing her disapproval, Mrs. Fallowfield clapped her hands and ineffectually shouted for order. The blowsy woman had no control over the children, but only the desperate or corrupt took a position such as this, and Pamela judged this woman to be both. Certainly she had been more than willing to sell Pamela one of the boys without ever asking what his fate would be. She had only demanded her price.

Pamela's gaze wandered to the outskirts of the crowd. One boy of perhaps ten stayed back from the rest, watching the fracas with hazel eyes too wide for his thin, smudged face. His dirt-brown hair hung just to his shoulders, he wore a smock of some kind and held a broom, and while the fighting knot of boys hid his lower body, Pamela thought him pathetically thin.

Raising her voice above the cacophony, Pamela asked Mrs. Fallowfield, "What about that youth?"

The director looked surprised. "That's not—"

But Chilton had heard, and he staggered erect, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve. "Youth?" Collapsing back onto the floor, he brayed with laughter. His merriment was apparently contagious, for the other boys started sniggering, the girls hooted and stomped their feet, and even Mrs. Fallowfield had trouble controlling her amusement.

The lad looked as if he'd been slapped, and not for the first time.

Apparently Pamela had inadvertently made him a laughingstock. She gestured him over, and as he made his way toward her, she understood.

The lad was a lass. What looked like a smock was actually a rag of a well-worn dress. Her skinny wrists stuck out from the sleeves and the hem had been let down until there was nothing left, and still her stocking-clad ankles were revealed. Why her hair was short, Pamela didn't know, but the cut obviously had brought other misunderstandings, other mockery. The poor girl was near tears, and fighting not to let the others know they had hurt her.

Pamela understood. Well did she remember her early, ugly duckling years when everyone mocked her for her gangly legs and incredible clumsiness. She herself had been the butt of many a joke, as well as the celestial joke of all time—she had grown into a beautiful swan.

She wanted to assure the girl that only too soon the boys would give anything for one smile from her lips, but she couldn't promise beauty or confidence or strength of character. Not growing up in such a loveless, toilsome environment. So Pamela tucked her hands behind her and asked, "What's your name, dear?"

"Elizabeth, ma'am." The girl bobbed a curtsy. "Elizabeth Hunter."

"How old are you, Elizabeth?"

"I have eight years."

Eight? She was eight? For all her pathetic thinness, the girl was tall and promised to get taller. No wonder she slumped her shoulders. Pamela ached to comfort her, and her fingers writhed as she clasped them together to restrain the impulse. "How long have you been at the orphanage, Elizabeth?"

The room was silent now as everyone listened to the exchange.

While Elizabeth was obviously nervous, still she met Pamela's gaze without flinching. "Over a year, ma'am, since my parents died of the fever."

"Ah." Unlike the other children Pamela had met here, this child spoke with a crisp, educated accent, and now she knew why. "Were you sick, too?"

"Yes, ma'am."

That explained the haircut, for everyone knew long hair sapped the strength, and cutting it was a common therapy to cure a fever. Pamela gave a comforting smile. "Well, Elizabeth Hunter, I apologize for thinking you a boy."

Rising from the tangle of boyish arms and legs, Chilton staggered up, running into Pamela on the way, and sneered right into the girl's face. "Yeah, Beth, you're such a milksop you could never be a boy."

"Really?" Quick as a striking snake, Beth grabbed his ear and twisted, bringing the big boy to his knees. "At least I'm not a thief. Give it back."

Pamela watched in bewilderment.

"Ow ow ow." He clawed at Beth's hand.

Beth ignored the pain. "Give it!"

He struck out at her.

She extended her arm all the way, stood out of his reach, and gave his ear another twist.

At last Chilton delved into his pants and brought out Pamela's silver watch.

Rage roared through Pamela. When he had bumped her, he had lifted her watch—the one thing she still owned that had been her father's—from the small pocket sewn into her skirt. The restraining ribbon had been cut, the whole operation done so skillfully she hadn't even noticed.

Beth let Chilton go, but something of Pamela's inarticulate fury must have shown in her expression, for he dropped the watch and scampered backward.

Beth caught the timepiece before it hit the floor, and wiped it on her apron. "If you've got a handkerchief, ma'am, you can place it within the folds until you can properly clean it after being in
his
pants."

Mrs. Fallowfield aimed a blow at Chilton's head as he sidled past. "Ye little reprobate, now Miss Lockhart will think I'm raising ye to be a pickpocket!"

Was Pamela such a buffoon, then? Robbed of a month's wages by a vile footpad, then of her watch by an orphan boy?

"Ma'am?" Beth held the watch extended.

Deliberately, Pamela used her handkerchief to reach out for the watch.

Beth flinched as if expecting a slap.

Pamela stopped and looked around at the silent crowd. They hated Beth. In her speech and her appearance she was different, and now by her actions she'd made them all look like thieves. Would Beth be punished for her good deed? Flicking a glance at the fuming Mrs. Fallowfield, Pamela knew the woman would blame Beth for revealing the crime, not the boy for committing it.

Taking the watch, she slipped it and the handkerchief into her reticule, then stripped off her right glove. With her tongue, she wet her thumb and rubbed the smudge off Beth's chin. Mind made up, she said, "I'll take this one."

Beth's eyes grew round and lustrous.

A flurry of whispers broke out from the orphans.

"That one?" Mrs. Fallowfield couldn't restrain her scorn. "Ye came fer a lad!"

Beth lost that brief luminosity, and she glanced from Mrs. Fallowfield to Pamela.

"I've changed my mind."

Like a thwarted shop assistant, Mrs. Fallowfield didn't give up. "Beth's no good fer ye. She's insolent an'… an' proud. Thinks she's better than anyone else."

"Yes. I can see that," Pamela said brusquely as she opened her pocketbook. "I believe you said three pounds sterling for an orphan under ten years of age."

"Fer a lad!"

Pamela should have known the woman wouldn't easily yield. Spearing her with a glance, she said, "Girls are worth less. So two pounds."

Beth clasped her hands together at her chest, as if hope was taking roost in her affection-starved heart.

Mrs. Fallowfield's mouth flopped open. "Naw," she squawked. "Five pounds. Five fer that little hussy."

Pamela pressed three pounds into Mrs. Fallowfield's hand, and for all the woman's denials her fingers closed eagerly over the coins. "Three pounds, as we agreed." Taking Beth's hand, she led her toward the door.

Mrs. Fallowfield hurried after them. "Ye'll be sorry. Ye'll bring her back in a day complainin' about her."

Beth flung open the outer door as if sweet freedom itself waited in the misty morning air.

As Pamela stepped onto the narrow steps, she smiled her chilliest smile at Mrs. Fallowfield. "Then you would have the undoubted pleasure of telling me 'I told you so.' "