Viscount Vagabond (2 page)

Mrs. Grendle had not survived in a hard world by fighting lost causes. She studied the wreckage briefly. like any experienced commander, she must have decided that a change of tactic was required because, when she turned to her guest, her painted face was sorrowful.

“Here’s a beastly mess you’ve made, sir, and me a poor helpless female only trying to earn my bread. A sick mother I have as well. Now there’ll be the surgeon’s fees for these two, and that fine statue which my late husband brought all the way from Italy, not replaceable at any price.” She shook her head, setting the sausages atremble. “And when I think of the time and money spent on this ungrateful young person, I could weep.”

“Yes, yes,” the tall customer agreed impatiently. “How much to cover your costs and hurt feelings?” He drew out his purse.

The purse seemed a heavy one.

“Two hundred pounds,” said the bawd, her voice brisk again. “One hundred for the girl and another for expenses.”

Catherine, who’d shrunk into a corner to avoid the flying bodies, now ran forward to clutch her rescuer’s arm. “Oh, no. Good heavens—pay her? Reward her for what she’s done? It’s—it’s obscene.”

“Don’t scold, darlin’,” he answered, pushing her behind him before returning his attention to Mrs. Grendle. “Two hundred pounds is a tad steep, ma’am. That ugly piece of plaster must have driven scores of customers away. It certainly scared the daylights out of me. Those chaps would be wanting an undertaker if I weren’t in such a jolly mood, so there’s more bother I’ve saved you. As to the girl—”

“A fine, healthy girl,” the procuress interrupted.

The man glanced at Catherine, who flushed and clasped his coat more tightly about her.

“She doesn’t look so healthy to me,” he said. “She’s awfully skinny—and I suspect she’s bruised as well.”

“If you wanted a plump armful, why didn’t you say so?”

“Twenty pounds, ma’am.”

“How dare you! She’s cost me that much in food and drink alone. Not to mention her gown. Not to mention she hasn’t earned a farthing.”

“Then I expect you’ll be glad to see the back of her. Thirty pounds, then.”

“Two hundred.”

“On the other hand,” said the client as though he hadn’t heard, “I could just take her away without this tiresome haggling. I imagine you wouldn’t like to bother the Watch about it.”

Mrs. Grendle accepted the sum with much vivid description of her customer’s want of human feeling and diverse anatomical inadequacies. He only grinned as he counted out the money into her hand.

The much-tried madam’s forbearance was further tested when Catherine shrilly demanded the return of two bandboxes.

It took another twenty pounds to jog Mrs. Grendle’s memory on this matter, but at length all the money was paid, the boxes collected, and Catherine, having hastily thrust her naked feet into her half boots, followed her rescuer out into the night.

“Where are we going?” Catherine asked, as she hurried after her gallant knight, who was zigzagging briskly down the filthy street.

“My lodgings.” He threw this over his shoulder.

She stopped short. “But the authorities—I thought we were going to report that odious woman.”

“It’s much too late. Authorities are always cross if you bother them in the middle of the night. Besides, you got your things, didn’t you?” He stopped to glance impatiently at her. “Are you coming or not?”

“I most certainly cannot come to your lodgings. It isn’t proper.”

The young man stood and surveyed her for a moment. The crooked smile broke out upon his face. “Silly girl. Where else do you ‘spect to go dressed in my coat and little else?”

A large tear rolled down the young lady’s thin nose.

“Oh, drat,” he muttered.

Another tear slid down her cheek.

He heaved a sigh. Then he strode towards her, picked her up, flung her over his shoulder, and continued on his way.

“There you are,” he announced as he deposited her in a chair. “Rescued.”

“Yes,” Catherine answered a trifle breathlessly. “Thank you.”

She looked about her. The room was very dingy, dingier than that she’d recently escaped and in a far worse state of disorder. Her rescuer was increasing the disorder as he searched for a drink. The quest apparently required a great deal of thrashing about, the flinging of innocent objects onto the floor, and the opening and crashing shut of what sounded like dozens of drawers and cabinet doors.

At last he found the bottle he sought. With more bangs, bumps, and oaths, he succeeded in opening it, and broke only one glass in the complicated process of pouring the wine. After filling another none-too-clean tumbler for Catherine, he sat down at the opposite end of the cluttered table and proceeded to stare her out of countenance while he drank.

“You seemed nearly sober only a short time ago,” Catherine finally managed to say. “I wish you would try to remain so, because I need your help.”

“Had to be sober then. Business, you know. It wasn’t easy, either, arguing with what looked like half a dozen old tarts at once. Those nasty black things on her head. Damn if I didn’t think I’d cast up my accounts then and there.”

“Which should indicate to you that you’ve had a sufficiency of intoxicating beverages, I would hope,” Catherine retorted disapprovingly.

As soon as she spoke, she winced, expecting a volley of missiles. None came. The blue eyes only widened in befuddlement.

“How you scold, Miss—Miss—why, I’m hanged if we’ve even been introduced.”

He jerked himself to his feet and made a sweeping bow that nearly sent him and the table crashing to the floor. At the very last instant he regained his balance.

“Curst floor won’t stay put,” he muttered. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Introductions. Max, you know. Max Demowery, at your service.” This time he managed his bow with more grace. “And you, ma’am?”

“Catherine. Pe-Pettigrew,” she stammered.

“Catherine,” he repeated. “Cat. Nice. You look rather like a cat my sister once had—leastways when it was a kitten. All fluffy and big eyes. Only the little beast’s eyes were green and yours—” He leaned forward to peer intently into her face, causing Catherine’s heart to thump frantically. “Hazel!” he cried in triumph. “Odd color, but no matter. It’s time we went to bed.”

“To—to bed?” she echoed faintly.

“Y-yes,” he mimicked. “More comfortable, you know.”

She looked about her again. As far as she could ascertain, his shabby lodgings comprised two rooms. There was no bed in this one. Her face grew warm. “Well, then, good night,” she said politely.

Mr. Demowery considered this briefly. “I’m foxed, darlin’, so maybe I’m not hearing straight—but that sounded om’nously like a dismissal.”

“You expressed intentions of retiring.”

“And you ain’t ‘retiring’ with me?”

“Good heavens, I should hope not. I should not be in your lodgings in the first place. It’s most improper.”

“Sweetheart, I can’t
decide,”
he began
slowly, after
he’d
mulled over these remarks as well, “whether you’re insane
or if you’re
horribly ungrateful. Didn’t I just pay fifty quid for you?”

Her face flushed, this time with indignation. “You have preserved me from a fate reputed to be worse than death. I asked you to do so. It’s completely illogical that I should express gratitude by doing exactly what I wished to avoid in the first place.”

As he stood gazing at her, his puzzled expression gave way to a rueful smile. “Very complicated reasoning, mlove. Too complicated for me.” He lifted her out of the chair, and, oblivious to her startled protests or the two small fists pounding on his chest, carried her to the bedroom and dropped her onto the bed.

“I will not cooperate,” she gasped.

“No, of course you won’t. It’s just my luck, ain’t it, this night of all the rest?” He turned and left the room.

Catherine lay upon the mattress, frozen with apprehension. Less than an hour before, her main concern had been escaping a place that could have been one of Dante’s Circles of Hell. Now, evidently, she’d leapt out of the pan into the flames. She’d left home for excellent reasons with a logical plan. Now she could not believe she’d been so naive, so horribly misguided. She had fled what promised to be a life of wretchedness and rushed headlong into what had speedily become the most horrid two—or three or four, she hardly knew—days of her existence.

Despite his drunkenness and apparent penchant for squalor she had believed that her benefactor was not entirely sunk to the depths of depravity. Yet, instead of taking her directly to the authorities, he’d carried her over his shoulder like a sack of corn to his lodgings and clearly expressed intentions of bedding her.

Perhaps he too meant to drug her. Mayhap even now he was preparing some foul concoction and would come back to force it down her throat. Catherine scrambled out of the bed and ran to open the window. It was stuck shut. Furthermore, there were three floors between herself and the ground and no visible means of descent.

Her panicked gaze darted about the room. She dashed to
grab the basin from the washstand. Let him try, she told herself. Just let him try.

And if she did somehow miraculously succeed in overpowering a man nearly twice her size, what then? Where would she go, alone, in the middle of the night in this alien, hostile city? One crisis at a time, she counselled herself, as she crept to the door. She tried to close it quietly, but it would not shut altogether. Frustrated, she looked for a position from which she might take her attacker unawares.

At that moment she heard from the room beyond the terrifying noises by means of which primitive man once warned away the creatures skulking near his cave at night. She crept closer to the door and listened. It was true. Mr. Demowery was snoring.

For all that the sound might have in bygone days frightened away wild beasts, Miss Pelliston found it reassuring. She would wait another quarter hour to be absolutely certain he was asleep for the night. Papa was known to lose consciousness over his dinner—apparently dead to the world—then suddenly start up again minutes later, quarrelling with her as if he’d been awake the whole time.

Catherine was very weary, and the steady rhythm of that snoring made her drowsy. She looked longingly at the bed. She would lie down just for a few minutes and think what to do next. The few minutes stretched into half an hour, at the end of which Miss Pelliston too was fast asleep.

The sun, which had risen many hours earlier, strove in vain to penetrate the grimy window as Clarence Arthur Maximilian Demowery awoke. He was not at all surprised at the great whacking and thundering inside his head, since he had awakened in this state nearly every day of the past six months. He was very much surprised, however, to find himself sprawled face down on a tattered piece of carpet in front of the sooty fireplace. Gingerly, he turned over on his side. A pair of shabby bandboxes blocked his view.

“Now where in blazes did you come from?” he asked. Though he spoke aloud, he was startled to hear a faint moan in reply. Had he moaned? From what seemed a great distance he heard a cough. Then he remembered.

He’d gone to Granny Grendle’s to enjoy one last night of nonrespectablility. There he’d found a curiosity and had brought it—or her, rather—back with him. Though he was not at the moment certain why he’d done so, he was hardly surprised. As a child he’d regularly carried home curiosities of various sorts: insects, reptiles, and rodents, primarily. He wondered how his father would respond to this particular trophy. At eight and twenty, Max was too old and much too large to be spanked. Anyhow, there was no reason to enlighten his father regarding this or any other of the past six months’ adventures.

A second faint moan from the bedroom dragged Mr. Demowery to his feet. Not only his head but his muscles ached, jogging his memory regarding several other details.

He’d gotten into a brawl in a low brothel, after which he’d also parted with fifty pounds for the privilege of hearing a bit of muslin show her gratitude by politely denying him the favours he’d so extravagantly paid for.

He hauled his weary body to the partially open bedroom door and glared at the frail form entangled in the bedclothes. A cloud of light brown hair billowed over the pillow, veiling what seemed to be a very small face, out of which poked a straight, narrow little nose. Gad, he thought in sudden self-disgust—she’s only a child.

At that moment the object of his scrutiny opened her eyes, and his heart sank. They were wide, innocent hazel eyes whose expression changed from child-like wonder to fear in the instant it took her to recall where she was.

“How old
are
you?” he asked abruptly, feeling unaccountably frightened himself and therefore more annoyed.

“One and twenty,” she gasped.

“Hah!” He marched away from the door and threw himself into a chair.

Steadfastly he ignored the sounds that issued from the bedroom—the rustle of bedclothes, the splash of water, more rustling, and some thumps. He pretended not to see her creep out to grab her bandboxes and scurry back to the room again, pushing the stubborn door half-closed behind her.

When she finally emerged, he thrust past her into the bedroom and took an abnormally long time about his own washing up. Was
that
what he’d brought home? Dressed in a sober grey frock, with all that glorious hair yanked back into a vicious little knot, she seemed neither the curious baggage he’d taken her for last night nor the child he’d believed was swaddled in his bedclothes.