Viscount Vagabond (29 page)

Yes, the end would be the same, she knew. There was no way out of this filthy room, and he meant to rape her. She could not dwell on that, because the thought sickened and weakened her. She focused on him. How long could she fight him? He was bigger, stronger, but she was younger. Who would tire first? The longer she held out, the greater chance that her family—someone—would realise something was amiss and try to find her. But how? When? How long?

Then she saw his body tense. Catherine darted towards the pile of broken wood. Just as he threw himself at her, she snatched up a chair leg and swung it at him. He dodged, then lunged again. She quickly sidestepped him and swung her weapon once more, lower this time, aiming for his knees. Had she aimed higher or lower she’d have only struck padding and done little damage, but she aimed true.

She heard a crack as wood struck bone. Pain shot through her wrists from the force of the blow, making her eyes fill with tears, but she didn’t dare let go of the chair leg. In a wet blur she watched Lord Browdie topple to the floor while his howled curses pierced the air.

There was another, more resounding crack. The heavy door shook and shuddered an instant before swinging into the room and crashing against the wall. Lord Rand came crashing in after it, Jack and Jemmy at his heels.

Catherine still held the chair leg. She swung it again reflexively, too blinded with pain and rage to know what she was aiming at. Lord Rand caught her wrists midswing.

“That’s enough, Cat,” he said. “You can’t kill everybody, just because you’re a trifle out of sorts.”

She stared blankly at him for a moment. Then the chair leg dropped from her suddenly nerveless hands and she threw herself against his hard chest.

“Oh, Max,” she cried. “I thought you’d never come.”

Lord Rand must have forgotten who was supposed to be the hero in this scene, because he never looked at Mr. Langdon. He never looked at anybody. His arms closed around Miss Pelliston in a crushing embrace, and he buried his face in her hair.

“Oh, Cat,” he murmured. “My poor, dear, brave girl.” His hands stroked her back, then the back of her neck, while she sobbed against his chest. “It’s all right now, sweetheart,” he comforted softly. “It’s all right, my gallant darling.”

He uttered more tender praise and endearments, and even some gentle teasing, as he told her she might have left him something to do besides clean up the mess she’d made. Fortunately, most of this was unintelligible to all but the young lady. That she understood was evident, because the sobbing gradually eased, though her face remained buried in the viscount’s coat.

Mr. Langdon politely looked away... and caught Lord Browdie attempting to crawl out the door. Jack drew out his pistol and pointed it at the baron’s head. Lord Browdie froze.

Jemmy, for once in his life, was mute. Less courteous than Mr. Langdon, he watched the embracing couple with every evidence of satisfaction. He had not been able to contribute much to the rescue beyond tripping up Mr. Langdon when the viscount kicked in the door. Even though Lord Rand had not looked like he meant to wait for his friend, the boy must have recalled Mr. Blackwood’s advice regarding the gentry’s need for firm guidance.

Catherine, trembling in Max’s arms, had evidently forgotten that the man holding her so possessively belonged to someone else because she remained there quite contentedly even after her tears had ceased. When she did finally remember, there was a brief struggle—the viscount’s memory proving more sluggish—before she managed to break free.

Lord Rand gazed blankly at her for a moment while his handsome face coloured. Then he cleared his throat and turned to Lord Browdie, who was cowering by the door, alternately moaning and muttering imprecations.

“We seem to have a problem of protocol here,” said the viscount, “and of course I want to do the proper thing. What would that be, I wonder? Do I beat you to a bloody pulp? Shall I give Jack leave to pull the trigger? Or, since you’ve lost your way to Bow Street, shall we simply take you there and let the magistrate sort out etiquette? Let me see—kidnapping, violent assault, and attempted rape of a gentlewoman. I wonder if they’ll hang you, send you to the Hulks, or simply transport you for life.”

“Assault?” Browdie screamed indignantly. “I never touched her. I’ll have her up on assault, the murdering jade! And tell some things about her. I’ve got witnesses too.”

“The man is unhinged,” said Mr. Langdon. “We’d better bring him to a lunatic asylum instead. He wants treatment.”

“Do I? Then fetch a doctor. We’ll see how crazy I am. Maybe that doctor’ll want to have a look at you as well eh Missy?” He shot Catherine a murderous look.

Catherine glared right back. “You are a filthy, lying swine,” she snapped. “I wish I had dashed out your brains.”

Mr. Langdon’s jaw dropped, though he did not take his eyes off his captive. Perhaps it occurred to him that the storm had finally moved in to burst about his ears.

“Harlot!” shouted Browdie. “Slut!”

Mr. Langdon hustled Catherine and Jemmy out into the shop. “This is no spectacle for a lady,” he said. Then, his own face reddening, he returned to the back room.

Lord Browdie’s compliments had abruptly ceased meanwhile, because in one graceful movement Lord Rand had yanked him up by his coat lapels and knocked his head against the wall.

“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head, Browdie, if you know what’s good for you.”

When he saw that his interlocutor was more disposed to listen, the viscount added, “There’s nothing I’d like better
than to kill you. But that just might get me hanged, and you aren’t worth swinging for, are you?”

Another crack of skull against plaster was deemed a necessary aid to decision making. This must have helped, because Lord Browdie shook his head.

“I’m so happy we agree,” said Lord Rand amiably. “Since you’re disposed to be reasonable, let me offer you two courses. The first is that you get on the very next ship leaving England. I can recommend North America from personal experience, but you can go where you like, so long as you never come back—except perhaps in a casket.”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” the baron growled.

“The alternative,” the viscount continued, unheeding, “is that I take you to Bow Street and bring the charges I mentioned. You may say what you wish in your behalf—but do rest assured, dear fellow, that if you’re indiscreet and a softhearted magistrate releases you, I’ll find you, wherever you hide, and break every bone in your filthy body. Oh, I should mention there’s a fellow named Cholly who’ll be looking for you as well. He’s disapponted about something-—I think it’s a broken jaw. Coarse fellow, that Cholly. Doesn’t care a bit for gentlemanly codes of honour. Has a way with a broken bottle, I understand.”

Being bested in physical combat by a mere slip of a girl cannot be agreeable to a man’s
amour propre.
Instigated by a combination of too much wine drunk too fast and humiliated rage, the baron had been incautiously belligerent. Lord Rand’s suggestions, along with the occasional physical reminder, had restored Lord Browdie’s reasoning powers. Being a coward, he would have run very far away on his own, if Mr. Langdon had not prevented him.

The baron elected exile, though he did so most ungraciously.

“That’s settled, then,” said the viscount. He abruptly released his hold on the man, who crumpled to the floor.

“Jack, you’d better take Cat—Miss Pelliston—home to Louisa. I want to take our friend to an acquaintance of mine who’ll make sure he keeps his promise.”

“Why don’t you let me go with him?” Jack offered. “It seems there’s something... well, maybe you and Miss Pelliston need to talk—”

Lord Rand’s face hardened. “No. Take her and the boy back and tell Louisa I’ll explain everything later. On no account is she to trouble Catherine. Is that clear? Just tell her to put the girl to bed.”

En route to Andover House, Jemmy was deposited at the dressmaker’s with adjurations not to reveal unpleasant details to Madame. The lad having a discretion beyond his years, all the
modiste
ever learned was that he had been mistaken for another, but had managed to escape. She believed that Lord Browdie and Catherine had simply been delayed at the magistrate’s office by the usual bureaucratic incompetence.

Lord and Lady Andover were told only to wait for Max, who would explain everything. Fortunately, these two had not had time to become unduly alarmed. Catherine customarily lingered two hours or more at the dressmaker’s, and their carriage had returned without her scarcely half an hour ago. If they were alarmed now, they were too tactful to show it. They assured Mr. Langdon they would do as he asked. They would wait up for Max, however late he returned.

Spared an interrogation, Catherine escaped to her room. She found a hot bath, waiting for her, but there was no ease in it, except perhaps for her aching muscles. Even though she was safe, she could not stop trembling. She would never feel safe or right again, would never feel clean again.

Why had she gone with that horrible man? How could she have been so foolhardy? Though Jack had promised that Lord Browdie would never trouble her again, Catherine knew he would. All the rest of her days Lord Browdie would haunt her because he’d told her about Cholly, told her she was soiled, polluted, foul.

She could never marry. She would never know the quiet joy of being cared for, of having children to care for. Still, since it would never be Lord Rand caring for her or his children she might love, it was just as well there would be no one.

She’d convinced herself that she could be happy with Jack, or at least content. Now she realised how selfish that was and how unfair to Jack. She’d seen that when she’d drawn away from Max and caught a glimpse of his friend’s face, so shocked and—oh, she hoped he wasn’t hurt. Jack was so kind and gentle. It wasn’t fair that he should be hurt because she was a fool.

Catherine crawled under the bedclothes and buried her face in the pillow, but the tears she expected wouldn’t come. Her throat raw, she lay curled up in a tight ball, unable to weep.

“My brave girl,” Max had called her—that and so many other tender words—as his strong arms sheltered her. He had been her shelter from the start, hadn’t he? She had trusted him instinctively, from the moment she’d first asked his help. She’d continued to trust him, though she hadn’t realised it because she’d been too busy finding fault with him.

How could she have believed he was her bad angel, when all he ever drew from her was honesty—the truth of her feelings. In response, she’d insulted him repeatedly. Instead of appreciating Lord Rand’s kind, noble heart, she’d fixed instead on trivial misbehaviours, exaggerating them into major character flaws.

How on earth could she have believed he was just like Papa? When had Papa ever been kind or gentle? When had Papa ever tried to comfort or help her or even tease her out of her overnice notions of propriety? When had anyone in her whole life ever made her feel so interesting and feminine and special?

With his teasing and prodding, Viscount Vagabond had uncovered the real Catherine: the short-tempered, passionate, willful, occasionally improper young woman under the stiff schoolmistress’s pose. Along the way, he’d revealed
himself as well, only she had been too stubbornly blind to see who the real Max was and how much she loved him. Oh, she did love him dearly, passionately, and would always love him... hopelessly.

Utterly hopeless. She gasped as despair flooded her heart. The dam gave at last, and she broke into wracking sobs that shook her frame until she wept herself empty. Finally, exhausted, she fell asleep.

Max did not arrive until after midnight. Lord Andover had had an urgent summons from Lord Liverpool meanwhile, and was not yet returned. Thus Max had only his sister to tell his tale to, and because she was his sister, he found himself telling her everything.

She bore the news about the brothel with not a hint of swooning. Rather, she spoke with admiration of Catherine’s courage. “That is one of the things I like so much about her, Max. She is a perfect lady, yet amazingly capable and fearless. Not nearly as fragile as she looks. From the first moment I saw you with her, I rather hoped—”

“I know you’re breeding, Louisa, but even in that condition, sentiment doesn’t become you,” he interrupted hastily. “Anyhow, whatever you hoped, the fact is, I offered twice for her and was rejected in no uncertain terms.”

Louisa sighed. “I can think of a dozen reasons for her to refuse when she would rather accept, but you are determined to be thickheaded.”

“I’m engaged to be married, Louisa,” was the quiet answer. “To Lady Diana Glencove, remember? Maybe
you
also remember that a gentleman can’t jilt a lady. I might as well be thickheaded, don’t you think?”

For a man whose head is not only thick, but hard, two glasses of brandy cannot be sufficient to induce unconsciousnes if he is otherwise inclined. Lord Rand was not so inclined. He did not fall asleep until well after daybreak. Thus he slept soundly until midafternoon, when he was awakened by a pair of rabbits hopping on his chest.

He opened one eye to discover not rabbits, but two small grubby fists. He opened the other eye and discerned that the fists were attached to a pair of short arms, in turn attached to the personage known as Jemmy.

“Get away from me,” his lordship grumbled. “What the devil are you about? Curse me if the boy has any manners at all, and respect for his betters is out of the question.”