The Primrose Path (10 page)

It seemed to the viscount that his life was suddenly sliding out of his control. Usually matters proceeded in an orderly fashion, like a well-plotted military campaign. No sloppy execution of orders, no surprises. Corin was the general of his own fate—before now. Now, since encountering Miss Angelina Armstead, he couldn’t tell friend from foe, whether to stand or retreat. Hell’s bells, he didn’t even know where to point his own pistol. His life had been ambushed.

Chapter Eleven

 
He was going to have to beg. That was all there was to it. Corin had made no headway dislodging the buffle-headed female, and he’d only managed to get one dog away from Primrose Cottage for one night. Molly had been reclaimed, his cook lamented, because Miss Arm-stead said they were feeding her too much rich food. The usurpers were firmly entrenched.

Pleading was beneath his dignity and beyond his principles, but Corin could see that prostrating himself at Miss Armstead’s feet was the only chance he had of getting her to take in Mercedes Lavalier. He could not appeal to her patriotic loyalty, for L’Ecrivain’s identity was too dangerous a secret to entrust to a civilian, nor to Lena’s better nature, for her charity seemed to end at the canine kingdom. He could try to bribe her, of course, since keeping all those dogs was an expensive proposition and the proposed hospital could use a higher endowment. He’d try bribery first,
then
he’d beg her to let the Frenchwoman stay at Primrose Cottage.

Since she couldn’t be told her guest was a spy, Lena didn’t even have to know La Lavalier’s real name. That would be safer for both of them if any vengeful Frenchman tracked the Scribe to Kent. The starched-up companion certainly didn’t need to know that the visitor from abroad was a whore. Although knowing the ballerina, which the viscount had last year for two exciting, expensive weeks, her second profession would be obvious at a glance to anyone with the least bit of social expertise. Miss Armstead wasn’t worldly, thank goodness. He’d figure out later how to explain all the officers and diplomats who planned on calling on the escaped spy. He was sure there’d be more gentlemen, once they learned mademoiselle’s real name.

If all else failed, his lordship was prepared to invoke the power of the military, which he did not possess, but the Duke of Fellstone did. ‘Twould be a novel experience, having Miss Armstead do his bidding for once. The deuced female was too independent for his taste. She was prickly and opinionated and disrespectful of his position.

And she was crying.

* * * *

Angelina had been busy while his lordship was away, so busy that she didn’t have time to think about him, not more than thrice an hour. Fashioning a fashionable wardrobe took a lot of her time, and all of Mavis’s efforts. And it was the month for spring cleaning, which at Primrose Cottage meant giving all the dogs baths and haircuts.

In addition, Mr. Averill Browne made frequent calls to consult with Angelina about details of the construction, stopping at the cottage on his way to the Remington place in the mornings, and back to the castle at the end of the day. Angelina invited him to share her breakfast and afternoon tea so the young man did not have to take all of his meals in solitude. Conscious of Lord Knowle’s warnings, she made sure to leave the doors open, or to have Mavis nearby.

She needn’t have bothered. The architect seemed to like the dogs better than he liked her. They reminded him of his boyhood, he said. Mr. Browne often took one or two dogs to the construction site with him in his gig, claiming they gave him a different perspective on the building, a new inspiration. Bunny got to chase rabbits to her heart’s content, and Digger was permitted to help with the excavation instead of being yelled at for uprooting the roses. Averill’s favorite animal, though, was Calliope, a beautiful Irish setter he was hoping to take with him when he went to his next commission. That wouldn’t be soon, Angelina couldn’t help thinking, if Mr. Browne kept romping with the dogs all day. Calliope had long, flowing hair almost the color of Mr. Browne’s own artfully disarranged auburn tresses. The setter was also as deaf as a doorknob, but the architect didn’t care. Lady Sophie had chosen well.

Angelina was also busy interviewing sisters. Her advertisement had been very specific about Mena’s name, date of birth, and coloring. It was amazing how many young women there were like that, liking the chance for the reward. Mr. Truesdale wrote that he was having as little luck, what with the Kirkbridges both dead, their solicitor having passed on, and all of their old servants pensioned off elsewhere. No one he could find knew what had become of the little girl. Most weren’t aware there had ever been an orphaned child at Kirkbridge House.

Why did they have to be so cruel as to keep Lena and Mena apart? It wasn’t the sisters’ fault that their parents had disobliged everyone by wedding. Neither set of grandparents wanted the reminder, but what harm could a letter now and again do? Lena had tried once, as soon as she knew how to write well enough, but her letter had been returned unopened, and she’d been assigned an extra hour of prayers and two more hours of chores. She had tried again from her school after the Armsteads left for Africa, selling her Sunday desserts to frank the letter. That one never even came back. When she wrote from Lady Sophie’s house, she did get a reply, but it was from a solicitor. Their Graces were deceased, he wrote, with no acknowledged grandchildren. She was, therefore, not entitled to any part of the estate. Angelina didn’t want any of their wretched money, which hadn’t brought anyone much happiness that she could see. She wanted to find her sister.

Instead she was finding a great many needy young women. Some she gave their coach fare, some a few coins. Some were grateful for a hot meal. But this last girl claiming to be Philomena Armstead was the worst, bringing tears to Angelina’s eyes. She’d always pictured her sister content, the laughing golden cherub she remembered. Why shouldn’t Mena be happy, taken in by the next thing to royalty? The image had sustained Lena through her own years of abject misery. But the Duke of Kirkbridge hadn’t kept his beautiful little grand-daughter; he’d sent her away to a foster home somewhere within the week. Why, Lady Sophie spent more time than that finding a good home for one of her strays. Then the dastard duke had the nerve to die without leaving a scrap of information behind. Mena might be dead, too, or worse.

* * * *

Corin forgot all of his intentions. His firm resolve dissolved with one salty tear. “What’s wrong, Lena? Did someone hurt you? Harm one of your dogs?” She might be a thorn in his side, but Lena Armstead was
his
thorn, and Corin wasn’t about to let anyone else torment her.

Without inquiring too deeply whence this protective streak, the viscount simply told himself that since she was on his property, Miss Armstead was his to defend. And comfort.

He opened his arms, the most natural thing in the world, and she fit perfectly, dampening his shirt collar.

Some women could look attractive when they cried, dewy-eyed and interestingly pale. Not Miss Armstead. She went all splotchy and swollen, and her nose dripped. Corin thought her adorable. He handed her his handkerchief. “Was it the woman I passed on the way in? Did she insult you?”

Angelina blew her nose and shook her head, too overcome to look up at the viscount. “She wasn’t my sister.”

“Lud, I should hope not! That female was a... That is, she...”

“Was no better than she ought to be,” Angelina supplied, still sniffling.

“She blew me a kiss on her way out.” For a moment he’d feared she was Mercedes Lavalier, arrived before-times, in a blond wig. But the woman today was taller and broader and, no matter the danger, Mercedes would not masquerade as a common whore. She might be a prostitute, but she was anything but common. “What the deuce was a female like that doing here anyway?”

So Angelina twisted his handkerchief into a wad and told him about looking for the sister who’d been lost without a record. “Who knows what happened to her? She could be dead, too, or forced into a life of shame like that unfortunate female.”

“Plaguey things, sisters,” he said, trying to console her. “Always nagging at a fellow. Moody, conniving—and you can’t wallop one like you could a brother. Trust me, you’re better off without.”

“That’s easy for you to say with all your aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews. But I have no one. No one in the whole world to call my family.” And she started weeping again. So Corin started patting her. He got to touch those little curls clinging to her nape; they were as silky as they looked.

Angelina stepped away before Corin could disgrace himself by taking advantage of her unhappiness and vulnerability. “I have to find her,” she said, sniffling. “I just have to, to know that she’s safe. Now that I have funds, I could help her if she needs me.”

“But you said they must have changed her name when your grandparents gave her up for adoption, so how will you know it’s your sister? Surely you don’t expect to recognize her after, what? Fifteen years? Children change too much. Their hair gets lighter or darker, even the color of their eyes can alter with time.”

“I’ll recognize her by our shared memories, the pet names my parents had for us, a million things no stranger would know. Surely Mena would remember something.”

“But what if she doesn’t? You said she was younger. I understand little children often forget memories that are too painful to recall.”

“She’ll remember the happy times with our parents. I do, and I am only a year older. If by chance she does not remember being adopted at all, if the new people never informed her and never told Mena her own name, then I suppose it won’t matter. She wouldn’t answer my advertisement.”

“Advertisement? You put a notice in the paper?” Corin put more distance between them so he’d not be tempted if Lena started to weep again. Sympathy was quickly being replaced by outrage, a much more typical emotion for him when confronted with Miss Armstead’s freakish starts. He almost forgot how nicely she felt in his arms, how her softness against his chest made up for any number of ruined neck cloths. The woman was a blight, was all. “You invited every orphaned female in England to pop in at Primrose Cottage?”

“How else am I supposed to find my sister? The heir to the Kirkbridge dukedom was a distant cousin who doesn’t know anything and cares less. I think he’s afraid both Mena and I will end up being his dependents, for he ordered his new man of affairs not to let me look through the old papers.” She started pulling at the handkerchief, just thinking of the man’s intransigence. “And Mr. Truesdale hasn’t had any luck tracking down any of the old duke’s retired retainers, either.”

“Truesdale? Nigel Truesdale? What the devil has that basket scrambler got to do with anything?”

“He is a connection of Lady Sophie’s in London who is helping me search.”

“Nigel Truesdale is no such thing. He’s my cousin on my mother’s side, no relation to Aunt Sophie at all. Their only connection was that she used to hand him a coin now and again, which he managed to gamble away in minutes.”

“Yes, when Lady Sophie suggested I hire him, she did mention that he used to be a knight of the baize table. Mr. Truesdale has turned over a new leaf, embarked on a new career of handling just such investigations. He knows everyone in the ton.”

“And everyone knows him and his spendthrift ways. That’s why he hasn’t managed to snabble himself an heiress: no rich papa is going to entrust Nigel Truesdale with his fortune, much less his daughter. The only reason he’s still accepted is because of his family connections.”

“Which are considerable. Who better, therefore, to find out what happened so long ago? Some dowager is going to recall some tidbit of gossip, a cardplayer at White’s might have taken a hand with His Grace of Kirkbridge.”

Corin had to admit that Nigel did have the entree everywhere, and he must be making a success out of this new venture for he hadn’t come to his cousin to pull him out of River Tick in ages. Nigel wasn’t a bad sort, Corin supposed, or he wouldn’t be when he stopped being a useless ornament of Society. “You should have waited, then, if Nigel is making inquiries, to see what he turns up. Servants pensioned off so long ago could be anywhere. Publishing an advertisement was an addlepated thing to do. You’ll have every hungry female knocking on your door, every adventuress and out-of-work actress.”

“Any one of whom might be Philomena. That’s why I cannot leave Primrose Cottage. Not because of the dogs—I could and would take them with me wherever I went—and not to be disobliging. But my sister might read the notice. She could be coming here any day.”

And pigs might fly, but Corin didn’t say it because Penn was wheeling in the tea cart. One look at Miss Lena’s ravaged face and his lordship’s disordered neck cloth and the butler assumed the worst. He slammed the tray down on the table, took up a place near the door, and stood glaring at the viscount. “That will be all, Penn,” Corin said, but the butler purposely looked to Lena for directions. She nodded, so Lady Sophie’s loyal retainer was forced to leave. He didn’t have to leave his new mistress alone with a confirmed rake, however. Until Mavis could be rousted out of the sewing room, the dogs would have to chaperon. Penn sent in three to join Ajax near the plate of raspberry tarts.

While Angelina poured the tea with hands that still trembled, the viscount bent to ruffle the ears of a Pekingese that came sniffing at his boots. The small dog didn’t seem interested in chewing the tassels off his new Hessians, so Lord Knowle kept stroking its shiny coat.

Angelina was handing over Corin’s cup. “Oh, don’t pet him on his—”

The dog fell over, legs thrashing, eyes rolling. Angelina jumped up, spilling the hot tea onto Corin’s lap. She stuffed the viscount’s already damp handkerchief into the dog’s mouth and crooned calming words. They didn’t work for his lordship, but in a few minutes the dog stood up and spit out the handkerchief. The Pekingese tottered over to the hearthside, looking confused but none the worse for wear, unlike the viscount and the handkerchief Angelina handed him back.