A Guardians Angel (6 page)

“I mean to, but I have not had a chance.” She smiled. “Miss Sutton took most of my afternoon yesterday. She has so many questions. She is a dear young woman. Her warm reception helped persuade the other children to welcome me.”

“You sound as if you do not pity these children.”

“Pity?” asked Angela, astonished. “That is the last thing they need.”

“I agree. They need a firm hand—of which I believe you have two—and a warm heart.”

“Of which you are less certain I possess?”

“Thomas professes to being confused about you.” Lord Harrington took her fingers between his broad palms.

Angela would have retorted if she could have formed a thought of something other than the delight of his touch. His fingers were pleasingly warm—as warm as his gentle smile. She noticed, for the first time, a small scar near his right ear. It was no more than a short line, but her fingers itched to touch it, to discover if all his skin was as intriguing as his hands.

She was saved from such foolishness by the shout of “Justin!”

Lord Harrington released her hands and turned to wave.

Angela’s shoulders stiffened when she saw Master Thomas running toward them. He hesitated when he saw her, then nodded condescendingly toward her before turning to the viscount.

“Justin, I am sorry I am so late,” he said, excitement bursting on every word like fireworks on a holiday. “I wanted to check a book in the library. The butterfly we saw yesterday afternoon—” He glanced guiltily at Angela.

“Master Thomas, this is appalling,” she said. “Your guardian has forbidden you from calling at Harrington Grange.”

He hung his head and mumbled, “I know.”

“What you do not know is that I plan to intercede on your behalf with your guardian.”

“You do?” He looked to the viscount to confirm her words.

“That is what she tells me,” Lord Harrington answered.

Angela bit back her exasperation. “Sneaking off to meet Lord Harrington behind your guardian’s back may jeopardize my efforts.”

“I do not need your help!”

“Thomas!” Lord Harrington’s smile vanished. “You may be angry with Miss Needham, but you must never forget your manners with a lady.”

“She is not a lady. She is my sister’s companion.”

“You know what I mean. Apologize.”

Master Thomas grimaced, then muttered, “Sorry, Miss Needham.”

Suspecting she would have to be satisfied with that less-than-sincere apology, Angela nodded, then called to the younger children.

“Must you leave so quickly?” Lord Harrington asked.

“It is apparent that neither you nor Master Thomas believes that I aim to keep my vow to speak to His Grace until I have proven that I have.”

“How do you propose to
prove
that?”

“When His Grace …” She could not promise the duke would rescind his order to the children.

As her gaze was caught by the viscount’s again, she wished she could be honest. She abhorred the regret she had seen in Master Thomas’s eyes, but it hurt doubly strong when she viewed it in Lord Harrington’s. Somehow, the duke’s intentions to protect his wards from more grief was having just the opposite effect. She wished she knew how she might persuade him to change his mind.

Five

The surprising summons came when Angela was attempting—yet again—to write a note to her brother to let him know of her safe arrival in Northumberland. She had tried to pen the note more than a dozen times since she had arrived at Oslington Court, but interruptions had become commonplace. Usually from Miss Esther, who saw her as a playmate in the games that led her on adventures throughout the Court. The little girl, unlike her siblings, could not hide the fact that she missed her parents.

She was also interrupted often by Miss Sutton, who sought her out to discuss the Season she hoped to enjoy in London or to bring her a picture of a frock from the latest edition of
Ackermann’s Repository
. Miss Sutton seemed interested in nothing else.

Master Thomas never came to see her. She had spoken to him only once since she halted him from going with Lord Harrington. He slunk through the rooms, a gloomy shadow. Not that the duke seemed perturbed by the boy’s silence. The duke spent most of each day in his book-room, reading.

That was why she was startled when a footman came with the message that Mr. Weare wished to speak with Miss Needham immediately. Closing her bottle of ink, Angela rose. She had met Master Thomas’s tutor only once, but he had not seemed to be the sort of man to make such demands lightly.

Angela had been astonished to learn that Master Thomas was still being taught at home instead of being sent to school. Miss Sutton had explained that His Grace wanted the children to become acclimated to England before being separated.

“But Master Thomas is so unhappy
here,
” Angela said as she climbed the narrow stairs to the uppermost floor to the nursery. Master Thomas would welcome her compassion as little as he had her interference in his friendship with Lord Harrington.

“Blast him!” Angela muttered as she walked along the upper corridor. When a maid glanced at her—aghast at her unseemly language—Angela hurried to the nursery. She had been brought to Oslington Court to refine Miss Sutton, but the uncomfortable situation was quickly ruining Angela’s manners.

Entering the classroom, Angela did not see Mr. Weare by the two low tables. Miss Esther shared one with her younger brother while Master Thomas worked alone. Miss Sutton continued to study French with the tutor every other day.

“Mr. Weare?” Angela called, hoping the tutor had not gone in search of her. They could spend the afternoon wandering through the halls of Oslington Court and never find each other.

“Just a moment, Miss Needham,” came his scratchy voice from an inner room.

As good as his word, the tutor appeared right after his reply finished echoing along the high ceiling. Mr. Weare had a long nose and the unfortunate complexion left from a youthful bout of smallpox. His black hair was the only color on his features, for his skin was sallow from too little contact with the sun. Dressed in a coat and breeches that strained across his bulk, he was far from a fearsome creature. Yet the children offered him a respect that Mrs. Meyer had been unable to win.

He smiled, but Angela sensed tension in his motions that were as jerky as a hangman’s rope. “I am so pleased you could come quickly, Miss Needham.”

“Your message suggested that what you wish to discuss is a matter of some import.”

“I wish to discuss Master Thomas.”

Angela nodded. When the schoolmaster motioned for her to sit, she chose one of the hard benches. He leaned against his high desk and sighed.

“Mr. Weare,” she said, having sympathy for him, “I know Master Thomas has been sullen since I—” She clamped her lips closed because she had said nothing to anyone about the conversation with Lord Harrington by the gate. Her hope that her silence would convince Master Thomas that he could trust her had failed.

“I know he has developed an antipathy to you that is in direct contrast with his siblings’ opinions. That is why I was curious as to the sudden change in him.”

“There has been no change.”

Again he sighed, his bulky shoulders rising and lowering slowly. “’Tis as I feared. I found it odd that he asked to be excused from working here this afternoon because he planned to join you and the younger children exploring the gardens and the outbuildings.”

“Master Thomas has as little to do with me as possible. I fear we got off to a very poor beginning when I prevented him from doing something he wished to do.”

“You need not explain. Lord Harrington!” He clasped his hands behind the back of his funereal coat. “Damn that man!” His wan cheeks became a more lively shade. “Forgive my fervor, Miss Needham, but I believe the viscount is leading Master Thomas down a very unrosy garden path.”

Angela set herself on her feet. The tutor’s words told her what she should have guessed. Master Thomas must have decided to sneak away to visit his friend. She suspected the prohibition by the duke was only strengthening the bond between the boy and the viscount.

“I could speak to—”

If possible, the tutor’s face grew even more pallid. “I implore you to refrain from bringing this to His Grace’s attention. The duke has made it clear from my arrival at the Court that he has no taste for his neighbor. I believe that is why he has forbidden the children from calling there.”

Angela went to the room’s sole window. Beneath the heavy clouds and across the meadows dotted by puffs of sheep, she could see the roof that belonged to Harrington Grange. “Master Thomas heeds little that I say,” she said without turning. “If I ask him again to obey his guardian, I doubt he will listen any better than he has in the past.”

“You know the viscount, don’t you?”

“I have spoken to him two or three times.” She was glad her back was to the tutor, for she did not trust her face. It might betray how her heart beat faster at the very recollection of those brief conversations.

“Would you consider going to him and asking him to end his relationship with Master Thomas?”

Angela faced Mr. Weare. “I already have asked that.”

“Oh.” His mouth worked as if he were about to weep.

“If you wish, I will speak with him again. I fear it will do no more good than it did before.” She bit her lower lip. Why had she offered to do
that?
She had enough to do with preparing Miss Sutton for her Season.

With a sigh, he bent to sit on a bench. “Thank you, Miss Needham. I would not ask, save that I am desperate for a solution. If Lord Harrington fails to heed you this time, I suspect I shall have no choice but to go to His Grace.” Raising his gaze to meet hers, he said, “I fear
that
will cause even more trouble.”

Angela nodded. “I understand.”

“May I ask one more favor of you?”

“Of course.”

“Please, as soon as you return, let me know how your call goes with him this afternoon.”

“This afternoon?”

He came to his feet. “I thought you understood the urgency, Miss Needham. Master Thomas may be on his way to the viscount’s house even as we speak.”

As she emerged from Oslington Court into the misty afternoon, Angela wondered if she should have suggested waiting a bit before giving chase. Not wanting to alert His Grace to her destination, she had refrained from calling for a carriage. By the time she was halfway across the field to Harrington Grange, the mist had congealed into rain. She should return to the comfort of her rooms and spend the afternoon in pleasant conversation with Miss Sutton. Her duties were only, as Master Thomas had stated in anger, teaching the young woman how to make an entrance into the Polite World.

She paused by the low gate in the stone wall which was almost concealed by rose vines that twisted along and over it. Harrington Grange was not the cottage she had expected from seeing its thatched roof through the trees. It was the breadth of a half-dozen town houses in London, but only three stories high. Dozens of windows glowed with lamps that were fighting back the thickening storm. Outbuildings were gray lumps through the rain.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the latch on the gate. Bother! She could not call upon Lord Harrington when she was trembling like a frightened child or a young miss breaking the rules of Society. Yes, she was calling without a chaperon, but she was here on the duke’s behalf. If Master Thomas was here against his guardian’s wishes, then Lord Harrington must be set to rights about aiding the child in disobeying.

Closing the gate behind her, Angela grimaced as she stepped into a puddle. Her slipper soaked through instantly. She swallowed the curse that ricocheted through her mouth. How she would enjoy putting this all on Lord Harrington’s head!

She walked along the path between rows of flowering shrubs. Why had the viscount allowed his garden to appear so untamed? Mayhap he hoped to entice butterflies—and Master Thomas—into it.

The thought spurred her up the pair of steps to the simple door. She let the brass knocker fall against it, hoping that someone would answer it before she was completely soaked.

The door opened. A lanky woman peered out and gasped, “What are you doing out on such a frightful day? Do come in.”

As she entered, Angela was careful she did not brush the woman, for the black-haired woman’s bones were so sharp, Angela feared she would be cut. The foyer was as unadorned as the door. A single chair waited by the door. Framed paintings were hanging along the wall, shadowed by the dark day.

“You must be Miss Needham,” the woman continued.

Startled, Angela said, “Yes, I am.”

“Thought so. Master Thomas has been talking up a storm about you.” She smiled and winked at Angela, astonishing her more. “I must say that the lad has a good eye for such a young sprig. Not that he looks at the ladies much, being still a lad, but he described you well.” Her smile wavered as she tapped a long, bony finger against her gaunt cheek. “Or mayhap it was his lordship.”

“Is Lord Harrington at home?” Angela asked, hoping her question would put a halt to the woman’s discomforting comments. The idea that the viscount might have discussed her with his household was unsettling when she was already uncomfortable with calling on the viscount uninvited. Then, she reminded herself again that this was no social look-in.

“I am sure he will be glad to speak with you, Miss Needham.” Taking Angela’s wet cloak, she shook water from it gently and hung it on a peg that Angela had not seen by the door. Another set of pegs closer to the floor pushed out the hem of her cloak. “I am Mrs. Graves, his lordship’s housekeeper. Come with me. I believe he is in his book-room. He usually is at this hour.”

Although she would have preferred that the woman speak with the viscount before announcing her, Angela followed. The more quickly she completed her errand, the more quickly she could return to Oslington Court.

Mrs. Graves led her along the uncluttered hallway to an arch that opened into a room that offered an immediate sense of welcome. Several overstuffed chairs were pushed close to the walls and the wide window with dozens of small panes of glass in a rainbow of colors. Beams crisscrossed the ceiling, making it appear lower. A fire lilted to its own silent song on a hearth edged with blue and white tiles. In front of it, his stockinged feet propped on a three-legged stool, Lord Harrington sat. He stared at a piece of paper. With his coat tossed onto another chair, his hair appeared even darker against his high, white collar.