Viscount Vagabond (3 page)

Yet the frock and bun matched what he recalled of her conversation. She had sounded like a schoolmistress last night, and that in combination with the personal charms he’d briefly glimpsed had appealed to his sense of humour— or maybe his sense of the absurd was more like it. Such a creature was not at all what one expected to find in an es
tablishment such as Granny Grendle’s.

Max Demowery was no wet-behind-the-ears schoolboy. He’d had considerable experience with the frail sorority in England and abroad, in the course of which he’d heard any number of pathetic tales. He’d not actually believed her story, but had taken her away because she amused him. Purchasing her from the old bawd had seemed a fitting conclusion to his six month orgy of dissipation.

Not until the young woman had declined to reward him as he’d expected had he, drunk as he was, begun to wonder whether her tale was true. Besides, he’d never yet forced himself upon a woman.

That was as far as he’d been able to reason at the time. Today, in the clear, too-bright light of early afternoon, he found a deal more to puzzle and distress him. A common strumpet he could put back upon the streets without a second thought, assuming confidently that she must be able to survive there or she would never have reached the advanced age of one and twenty. Suppose, however, she wasn’t street goods?

Suppose nothing, he told himself as he savagely scoured his face with the towel. If he had a sense of impending doom, that was because he was hungry and out of sorts. He’d give her some money and send her on her way.

He was debating whether to shave now or after breakfast when he heard the door to the hall creak. Flinging away the towel, he hurried out of the room to find the young woman attempting to close the door behind her without dropping her bandboxes.

He ought to have breathed a sigh of relief and cried good riddance, but he caught a glimpse of her face and found himself asking instead, “What the devil do you think you’re doing?”

Her guilty start caused her to drop one of her boxes. “Oh. I was leaving. That is, I should never have abused your hospitality in the first place. I mean, I should never have fallen asleep—”

“Ah, you meant to leave in the dead of night.”

“Yes. No.” She reached up to push back under her dowdy bonnet a wispy curl that had broken loose from its moorings.

Part of his brain was wondering why she’d made herself so deuced unattractive, while the other part watched, fascinated, as she struggled not to look frightened. Each step in the process of composing herself was evident in her face,
and
most especially in her large, expressive eyes.

“What I mean is, this is a very awkward situation. Moreover, I have put you out dreadfully, and therefore it seemed best to go away and leave you in peace. I’m sure you must have a great deal to do.”

“You might have said goodbye first. It’s usually done in the best circles.”

“Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. I never meant to be rude.” She picked up the bandbox. “Goodbye, then,” she said. “No, that’s not all. Thank you for all you’ve done. I will repay you—the fifty pounds, I mean. I’ll send it here, shall I?”

Though Mr. Demowery didn’t know what he’d expected, he was sure it wasn’t this. He was also certain that, even if she were not a child, she might as well be, so frail was she
and
so utterly naive and so very lost—like some fairy sprite that had wandered too far from its woodland home.

This fanciful notion irritated him, making him speak more harshly than he intended. “You’ll do no such thing. What you will do is leave hold of those ridiculous boxes and sit yourself down and eat some breakfast.”

“Sit,”
he repeated when she began backing towards the stairs. “If you won’t on your own, I’ll help you.”

She bit her lip. “Thank you, but I’d much rather you
didn’t.”
She re-entered, dropped the bandboxes, marched to
a
chair, and sat down. “I’ve been flung about quite enough,” she added in a low voice, her narrow face mutinous.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am—Miss Pettigrew, if I remember aright—but you picked an uncommon careless and impatient chap as your rescuer. Right now I’m impatient for my breakfast. It’ll take a while, I’m afraid, because my landlady is the slowest, stupidest slattern alive. While I’m
gone, I hope you don’t get any mad notions about sneaking away. You’re in the middle of St. Giles’s. If you don’t know what that means, I suggest you think about Cholly and Jos and imagine several hundred of their most intimate acquaintance upon the streets. That should give you a notion, though a rosy one, of the neighbourhood.”

Catherine’s host returned some twenty minutes later bearing a tray containing a pot of coffee and plates piled with slabs of bread, butter, and cheese.

They ate in silence for the most part, Mr. Demowery being preoccupied with assuaging his ravenous hunger, and Miss Pettigrew (nee Pelliston) being unable to form any coherent sentence out of the muddle of worries besetting her. Only when he was certain no crumbs remained did Max turn his attention again to his guest.

Now that his stomach was full and his head relatively clear, he wondered anew what had come over him last night. She was not at all in his style. He was a tall, powerfully built man and preferred women who weren’t in peril of breaking if he touched them. Full-bosomed Amazons were his type—lusty, willing women who didn’t mind if a man’s head was clouded with liquor and his manners a tad rough and tumble, so long as his purse was a large and open one.

He was amazed that, after taking one look at this stray, he had not stormed back to Granny Grendle to demand a more reasonable facsimile of a female. Miss Pettigrew appeared woefully undernourished, so much so that he’d thought her smaller than she actually was. In fact, she was so scrawny that he wondered just what had seemed so intriguing last night. This, however, troubled him less than the realisation that he’d come so close to forcing his great, clumsy person upon this young waif.

He’d never had a taste for the children who walked the streets of London by night and populated its brothels, though he knew of many fine fellows who did. Had six months wallowing through every sort of low life in a last,
desperate attempt to enjoy something like freedom finally rotted his character and corrupted his mind?

Still, he dismally reminded himself, there would be no more such excursions into London’s seamier locales. If he sought feminine company in the future, he’d be obliged to do so in the accepted way. He would go through the tiresome negotiations required to set up some Fashionable Impure as
his
mistress. Even the assuaging of simple carnal needs would be complicated by some infernally convoluted etiquette. He refused to think about the greater complications he could expect when he acquired a wife—and the passel of heirs his father impatiently awaited.

Mr. Demowery glowered at the elf—or whatever she was—and was further annoyed at the fear that leapt into her eyes. “Oh, I ain’t going to eat you,” he snapped. “Already had my breakfast.”

“Yes,” she answered stiffly. “I’m amazed you had the stomach for it. My f—that is, some people are quite unfit for taking any sustenance after a night of overindulgence.”

She winced—no, actually, she ducked. Dimly he recalled seeing that nervous movement before. He wondered if it were a tic.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. You were very kind to share your breakfast with me. Thank you.” She stood up. “I should not keep you any longer. I’ve put you out quite enough, I expect.” After a brief hesitation, she put out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Demowery.”

Remembering his manners, he rose to accept the proffered handshake. What a small white hand it was, he thought as his own large tanned paw swallowed it up. That realisation also annoyed him, and he was about to hurry her on her way when he glanced at her face. Her expressive hazel eyes gave the lie to the rigid composure of her countenance. Her eyes said distinctly, “I am utterly lost, utterly frantic.”

Mr. Demowery’s own face assumed an expression of resignation. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where you’re going?”

“Of course I do. My friend—the friend I had intended to visit—”

“I can’t imagine what sort of friend would let an ignorant young miss find her own way from a coaching inn through a strange city, but I suppose that’s none of my business. Soil, I ain’t ignorant, and I know that if you were foolish enough to be cozened by that old strumpet, you’ll never make it to this friend of yours on your own. If you’ll give me a few minutes to change into something I haven’t slept in, I’ll take you.”

“O—that’s very kind of you, but not at all necessary. I can find my way in broad daylight, I’m sure.”

“Not in this neighbourhood, sweetheart. Night or day is all the same to the rogues about here.”

She paused. Obviously, she was weighing the perils of the squalid streets against the dangers of accepting his protection. She must have concluded that he was the lesser of two evils, because she soon managed a squeaky thanks, then began an intensive survey of the ragged corner of carpet on which she stood.

Max Demowery did not consider himself a Beau of Society. The process of shaving and changing was therefore accomplished in short order. A few fierce strokes with his brush were enough to subdue his tangle of golden hair, and with scarcely a glance into the stained mirror he strode out to rejoin his guest.

Not until they had nearly reached their destination— Miss Collingwood’s Academy for Young Ladies—did the sense of impending doom return to settle upon Mr. Demowery’s brow. A school?

He stole a glance at the young woman beside him. She looked like a schoolteacher, certainly, and her air and manners, not to mention her speech, bespoke education and good breeding. It was as he had feared: She was respectable and her story had been true and though all that had been evident by the time they’d left his lodgings, only now did the implications occur to him. Any respectable woman
who’d spent two nights as she had just done was ruined— if, that is, anyone learned of the matter.

He halted abruptly and grabbed Miss Pettigrew’s arm.
^“
I say, you’d better not tell anyone where you’ve been, you know. That is,” he went on, feeling vaguely ashamed as the hazel eyes searched his face, “you may not have considered the consequences.”

“Good grief, do you think I’ve considered aught else? I shall have to tell a falsehood and pray I’m not asked for many details. I shall say I was delayed and pretend that my message to that effect must have gone astray. It must be simple,” she explained, “because I’m not at all adept at lying.”

This being a perfectly sensible conclusion, Mr. Demowery had no reason to be sharp with her, but he answered before he stopped to reason. “Good,” he snapped. “I’m relieved you don’t have any hard feelings. I did, after all, take you to my lodgings in opposition to your expressed wishes. Another woman would have exacted the penalty.”

“I collect you mean she would insist that you marry her,” was the thoughtful response. “Well, that would be most unjust. In the first place, though you arrived at erroneous conclusions about my character, the evidence against me was most compelling. Second, you must have reconsidered, since I am quite—unharmed. Finally,” she continued, as though she were helping him with a problem in geometry, “it is hardly in my best interests to wed a man I met in a house of ill repute, even if I had any notion how to force a man to marry me, which I assure you I have not.”

“No idea at all?” he asked, curious in spite, of himself.

“No, nor is it a skill I should be desirous of cultivating. An adult should not be forced into marriage as a child is forced to eat his peas. Peas are only part of a meal. Marriage is a life’s work.”

“I stand corrected, Miss Pettigrew,” he replied gravely. “In fact, I feel I should be writing your words upon my slate one hundred times.”

She coloured. “I do beg your pardon. You were most kind to consider my situation, and I ought not have lectured.”

Whatever irritation he’d felt was washed away by a new set of emotions, too jumbled to be identified. He brushed away her apology with some smiling comment about being so used to lectures that he grew lonely when deprived of them.

They had reached the square in which Miss Collingwood’s Academy was located.

“Shall I wait for you?” he asked, hoping she’d decline and at the same time inexplicably dismayed at the prospect of never seeing her again.

He had at least a dozen questions he wished she’d answer, such as why and how she’d come to London and where she’d come from and who or what she was, really. Yet, it was better not to know, because knowing was bound to complicate matters.

“Oh, no! That is, you’ve already gone so far out of your way, and there is no need. I’ll be all right now.” She took front him the bandboxes he’d been carrying. “Thank you again,” she said. “That sounds so little, after all you’ve done for me, but I can’t think how else—”

“Never mind. Goodbye, Miss Pettigrew.”

He bowed and walked away. A minute later he stopped and turned in time to see her being admitted into the building. He grew uneasy. “Oh, damnation,” he muttered, then moved down to the corner of the street and leaned against a lamppost to wait.

“Oh, dear,” said Miss Collingwood. “This is most awkward.” Her fluttering, blue-veined hand flew up to fidget with the lace of her cap. “I sent your letter along to Miss Fletcher—that is, Mrs. Brown, now, of course. Did she not write you?”