The Primrose Path (11 page)

“Tippy is a good dog,” Lena told him, “as long as you make sure you don’t—”

“Pat him on the back. Yes, I gathered as much.” Corin had also gathered his wits. “Do you know, Lena—Miss Armstead, I have been thinking of your investigation, and it’s the damnedest coincidence. You’re not going to believe this, but I may have found your sister. She’s been living in France....”

Chapter Twelve

Corin just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch Lena’s eyes light up as if someone had put to flame a hundred candles in the room. He couldn’t raise her hopes this way. The peahen really believed she’d find her missing sister, changed name, hidden records, and all, just as she really believed she was making the world a better place by nurturing a dog that fell over if someone pet it.

No, he simply could not lie to Miss Armstead. She’d never believe him, anyway. Mercedes had dark hair and eyes and was older than the lost girl. As for a family resemblance in their temperament and attitude, Corin could sooner have believed Miss Armstead was related to the Pekingese rather than the Frenchwoman.

Angelina’s eyes were already dimmed and narrowed. How could he have found Philomena when he hadn’t known she existed two minutes ago? “It would seem that you know a great many foreigners.” She was sorry she hadn’t consulted Squire Hardwick, the magistrate, about her suspicions concerning Viscount Knowle. She wasn’t sorry she’d spilled tea on him.

His lordship was still dabbing at his inexpressibles with the serviette. “I have traveled extensively.”

“I bet you have,” Angelina said, thinking of his smuggling operation. “Oh, and your French visitor never arrived here. Did he go directly to the castle, then?”

Gingerly accepting the tray of thinly sliced bread and butter Miss Armstead passed him, the viscount faltered: “Not yet. That is, he isn’t coming. Well, he is, but he isn’t a he.”

Angelina raised her eyebrows.

Corin cleared his throat. “The French gentleman who was due to arrive is actually a female. That’s what I meant about your sister. Mademoiselle La—La—” He looked around. La Pain? The Bread? “Lapine. That’s it, I forgot for a moment. Does that ever happen to you, when a name is on the tip of your—never mind. Miss Lapine is coming to this country and needs a place to stay. I thought, that is, I wondered, if she might bide here with you a bit. She could be like a sister to you, until you find your own, of course.”

Angelina choked on the piece of bread she was swallowing. “What? You want me to take in your mistress?”

“Deuce take it, the female is not my mistress! Wherever did you get that ridiculous notion?”

“From your stuttering, for one, and from the fact that you aren’t inviting your guest to your own house. Well, if you won’t foul your own nest, you certainly shall not foul mine.”

“She’s not now and never has—She’s not my mistress!”

“Aha!”

“There is no ‘aha!’ about it. Mademoiselle Lapine cannot stay at my house because it is a bachelor residence. I have no chaperon for her there. It wouldn’t be proper.” Corin believed he’d had this same conversation quite recently. It had ended the same then, too.

“Invite one of your sisters. Mrs. Talbot is always happy to visit the Knoll.”

“Florrie is coming for the house party, but not yet. And I thought mademoiselle would be happier here, in your friendly company.” Friendly? One of Lord Wyte’s stuffed tigers was friendlier than the stiff-backed Miss Armstead.

“She’s a spy, isn’t she?”

Now Corin swallowed wrong. “Florrie? A spy? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“And don’t be condescending, my lord. Mademoiselle, whoever she is, is a French spy. That’s why you don’t want her at the castle, where all the servants can see her.”

He put his cup and plate down where they’d be safe, so he’d have his hands free to throttle the infuriating female across from him. Then he remembered the dogs. He held out a slice of bread and butter. “Good dog, Ajax.”

Angelina tapped her foot. “My lord?”

He was thinking. “A spy? You are letting your imagination run away with you, Miss Armstead. Perhaps you should stop reading those gothic novels my aunt always had around the house.”

“It does not take much imagination, sirrah, to detect something decidedly skimble-skamble about the whole affair. The lady is a spy, isn’t she?”

“Deuce take it, how did you come to that conclusion?”

“Other than that we are at war, living near the coast, and you are up to your eyebrows in hugger-mugger? Even your aunt used to comment on your comings and goings, my lord, how you were never here when the London journals reported you ruralizing in Kent. You, sir, are a smuggler.”

He jumped up, making sure no decrepit dog was under his feet. “What, give good English gold to the French so they can buy weapons to kill Englishmen? The devil, you say.”

“The devil indeed! You want Primrose Cottage to store your booty, and now you want it to store your spies. Bringing French spies into the country is even more reprehensible than bartering gold for wines and lace. It is treason, pure and simple. You could hang!”

“My word, Miss Armstead, is that what you think of me?” He stepped over the paroxysm-prone Pekingese, careful not to touch it with his foot.

Angelina was having trouble believing the worst, while his lordship looked dreadfully hurt and confounded by her accusations. And he had served with the army in the Peninsula before being wounded. Still ... “You made no secret of wanting us gone from Primrose Cottage.”

“I want my family’s property properly united. That doesn’t make me a spy. Deuce take it, I work for the government!” Corin’s disclosure at this point made no difference anyway, because his work in France was done. Safeguarding Mercedes Lavalier was to be his last covert assignment. He wasn’t sure why he’d told Lena now, except that he couldn’t bear her thinking so ill of him. He wanted her to see him in a better light. It worked, for the little dancing yellow flashes came back on in her eyes. A better light, indeed.

“Oh, I wish you had told your aunt. She would have been so proud! Why, she wouldn’t have called you a fr— Oh, dear. More tea?”

Corin shook his head. Aunt Sophie would have called him a fribble if he’d single-handedly defeated the French legions. She had no use for anyone who laughed at her menagerie of misbegotten mongrels. “Anyway, I am helping the War Office, and they wish to interview Mademoiselle Lapine in a private, secure location.”

“She is a spy, I knew it!”

“Blister it, will you forget about spies? The female is a friend to England. That’s all you have to know. She fled her homeland and needs a safe haven for a brief time. May she stay with you?”

Angelina was nibbling on a macaroon. “Why not at the castle? You could make the lady a grand welcome, in appreciation for her service to the country, rather than asking her to stay in a small cottage with few servants and many dogs.”

“The castle is too public, especially with a houseful of guests coming soon. Mer—Maria wouldn’t be safe.”

“But she’d be lost in the crowd. I think that’s a much better solution, my lord.”

Corin brushed at his damp thigh one more time. “Miss, ah, Lapine would not precisely get lost in the crowd. More likely she’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

“Ah, the lady is from the lower orders. I see. But still, your sister can make her welcome, I’m sure. Mrs. Talbot was always more than kind to me when she visited Lady Sophie.”

“Deuce take it, you’re not a servant, and neither is Mer—Maria. And my sister would definitely not make Maria welcome at the castle.” More likely Florrie’d screech down the centuries-old walls. Miss Wyte’s papa would have fits worse than the Pekingese’s, and as for Mama—It was better not to think about Viscountess Knowle sitting down to dine with Mercedes Lavalier.

Angelina was pleased at how adamant the viscount was in denying her lowly position. Perhaps he did see her as more of a lady now that she was wearing another of Mavis’s creations. Then his words sank in. “Your lady friend is not a lady, is she?”

Corin felt his cheeks grow warm. Hellfire, he was blushing like a youth! “Not precisely.”

“One either is a lady or one isn’t, my lord! Either this Maria Lapine is suitable to introduce to your sister and your houseguests or she is not.”

He sighed. “She is not.”

“But she is good enough for the likes of me. Is that it, you black-hearted bounder? You won’t bring her to your own house, but you’d bring some light-skirt here to mine? How dare you!”

He ducked, but nothing was coming. “You’re the one so casual about your reputation,” he replied when he deemed it safe to come out from behind the big dog. “Your jumped-up carpenter told me how gracious you were, inviting him to take his meals here. Breakfast, by George! What do you think the neighborhood will make of that?”

“Exactly what it was, a polite visit between two acquaintances who have a mission in common. Can you say the same for your dealings with Maria Lapine?”

Not without perjuring his soul, he couldn’t, so he ignored the question. “Besides, I never implied that you weren’t as much a lady as my sister. I thought that, with you looking for your sister, and women like the one I passed outside coming by, you could tell anyone curious enough to ask that Maria was another of the claimants.”

“Who happened to stay on for a month? Foolish beyond permission, my lord, to think no one would notice a thing like that or that the servants wouldn’t gossip.”

“Your people are the most loyal, closed-mouth group I’ve ever encountered, whereas the castle will be filled with the guests’ maids and valets and extra servants hired just for the house party. Maria would not be safe.”

“Safe? You mean it’s dangerous besides? Someone is trying to harm your French harlot, and you think nothing of endangering me or your aunt’s employees? Or did you expect old Penn and the rest to defend her?”

“Lud knows you’ve got enough watchdogs to guard Buckingham Palace. But there is no danger,” Corin told her, not precisely lying, for he had every intention of stationing half the militia in the garden to guard the cottage. “I would not put you, the old servants, or the dogs in jeopardy, Lena.”

“That is Miss Armstead, my lord. No one gave you permission to be so familiar.”

“Your pardon, it’s merely habit from hearing my aunt say what a treasure Lena was, what a joy Lena was. The nickname doesn’t suit you, either. Miss Angelina Armstead. You should be called Angel, of course.”

Angelina looked down at her hands so he couldn’t see her blushes. She’d never had such a compliment in her life. Too bad his lordship wanted something from her in return. “There is no reason to pour the butter boat over me, my lord. No amount of flattery is going to convince me to let a bird-of-paradise nest at Primrose Cottage.”

She was wavering, he could tell. “Maria’s not any common bachelor fare, you know. She’s one of the premier demimondaines in Paris.”

“And
that
is supposed to convince me? That she is better paid than the rest of the frail sisterhood?”

“No, that she is an intelligent, elegant woman with exquisite manners and incredible artistic talent. I daresay she could pass for a lady in any court in the world.”

Flattery to herself was one thing, Angelina thought. High praise for a high flier was another. She scowled at Ajax, who went instead to lean against the viscount’s legs.

Trying to stay upright under the dog’s weight, Corin said, “I know I am asking a great deal. Angel—Miss Armstead, and undoubtedly it will put you in an uncomfortable position. But you would be helping your country. And I will make a contribution to the new shelter, so you can feel you are helping the dogs, too. Not bribery,” he added quickly before she could take umbrage, “but repayment for a debt of gratitude.”

“It means that much to you?”

“It means the world, my dear. Why, I’d even take home that dog who hates men if I thought that would convince you to help Maria and help your country.”

“And she is not your mistress?”

“I swear it on my honor.”

“And never has been?”

“I—” He swallowed. Lena would know soon enough. Mercedes was as liable to throw her arms around him as she was to land in his lap, and she’d never been reticent about her career, either. “We were friends, once.”

“Get out.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Very well, I’ll pay the expenses of Aunt Sophie’s shelter for two years, and I’ll take this nice dog here off your hands.” Corin was petting a medium-size, curly-coated terrier who’d rolled over to have his underside scratched. “He seems like a good fellow. What’s his name?”

“Homer. He’s an Airedale, and you cannot have him.”

Corin was learning. “Homer, as in the blind poet? Long-winded?”

“Homer as in pigeon. You can’t have him because he won’t stay with you any more than he’s stayed at the four other homes Lady Sophie found for him.”

“Let me try. You’ve got nothing to lose except one hungry mouth to feed.” Corin was determined to pry at least one dog loose from Lena’s tender clutches. He had to prove to himself that he could do it, and he had to prove to her that he was worthy of one of her pets. “If he doesn’t stay at the castle, I’ll put another hundred pounds toward the construction.”

Angelina nodded. “You may as well take him, then. He needs the exercise, and we need the money. Homer always returns here anyway, maybe because of all his friends. I’ll have Penn find you a leash.” She turned for the door, to summon the butler.

“Wait. Two years’ support of the shelter, half the building cost, and I’ll take Molly, too. Why not? I already have your poetic puppy at the castle. Your architect fellow is endlessly enthusiastic about the noble undertaking, the noble animals.”

“Mr. Browne is devoted to the dogs. Did he ask your permission to keep his setter Calliope at the castle with him? He was awaiting your return to bring her there.”

“What’s another dog or six? Especially if it gives the cawker something to do after supper so I don’t have to converse with him. Chasing sticks ought to be a good diversion for the whelp.”

“Calliope is not a young dog.”