Viscount Vagabond E-Book

Loretta Chase

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 360

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1990

Beschreibung

"One of the finest and most delightful writers in romance." –Mary Jo Putney A charming, traditional Regency romance from New York Times bestselling author, Loretta Chase! "What's gotten into you, dashing about to make a man's poor, tired head spin?... Oh, all right. I'll chase you if you like." He started to get up, changed his mind, and slumped back against the pillow. "Only it's such a bother." Catherine Pelliston has just escaped a forced marriage to an obnoxious friend of her unreliable father; and now she's truly in the soup; kidnapped and helpless in a London brothel! And though she's been rescued by the very inebriated Max Demowery, Viscount Rand, she may be in even greater danger of falling in love with the shockingly outrageous, scandalously improper Viscount Vagabond!

Leseprobe

Viscount Vagabond

Loretta Chase

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Also by Loretta Chase

About the Author

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Viscount Vagabond

Copyright © 1990 by Loretta Chekani

Ebook ISBN: 9781617508578

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

121 W 27th St., Suite 1201, NY 10001, New York.

http://www.nyliterary.com

Chapter 1

Catherine Pelliston had never beheld a naked man before. She had never, in fact, observed a man in any state of undress, unless one counted the draped figures in Great Aunt Eustacia’s collection of classical statuary. Those, however, had been carved stone, not at all like the large, all-too-animate male who was breathing alcoholic fumes into the stuffy room. Even Miss Pelliston’s ramshackle papa, so careless of all else when in the latter stages of inebriation, remained properly—if not neatly—attired in her presence.

The figure floundering near the door, on the other hand, had already torn off his coat and neckcloth and flung them to the floor. At the moment, he seemed to be trying to strangle himself with his shirt.

Miss Pelliston was possessed of an enquiring mind. This must explain why, despite the extreme gravity of her present situation and the natural modesty of a gently bred woman, she gaped in fascination at the broad, muscular shoulders and equally muscular chest now exposed to her view. Her analytical mind automatically began pondering several biological puzzles. Was it usual for the masculine chest to be covered with fine, light hair? If usual, what possible purpose could such growth serve?

As she posed these questions to herself, the object of her analysis yanked his shirt over his head and tossed it into a corner.

“Gad, what a curst business,” he muttered. “Makes a man wish he was a Red Indian. A few hides to throw on and off and none of these infernal buttons.”

Apparently in search of the buttons, he bent to peer owlishly at the waistband of his pantaloons—-and overturned himself in the process. He fell face forward with a loud thud.

“Deuce take it!”

Not at all disconcerted, the stranger struggled clumsily to his feet again. He squinted into the flickering shadows of the room, his gaze flitting confusedly from one object to the next before finally fixing on her.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, staggering with the effort to remain focused on one spot. “Give a chap a hand, will you?”

To bring her mind from abstract theory to disagreeable actuality required a moment. In that brief time the man succeeded in locating a trouser flap button and commenced a mighty struggle with it. The implications of this contest were not lost upon the stunned Miss Pelliston, who promptly found her voice.

“Help you,” she repeated at a somewhat higher than normal pitch. “I should think not. In fact, I am certain it would be best for all concerned if you did not proceed further with—with your present activity. I fear, sir, you are labouring under a gross misapprehension—and no doubt strong drink as well,” she finished primly.

“What the devil did you say?”

To her relief, he stopped what he was doing to stare at her.

Relief swiftly gave way to apprehension as she realised what he was gawking at. The dreadful old harridan who’d abducted her had taken Catherine’s clothes, providing in their place one tawdry, nearly transparent saffron gown with a neckline that drooped below all bounds of propriety. Her cheeks vermilion, Catherine hastily jerked the dingy coverlet up to her chin.

To her dismay, the great, drunken creature burst into laughter. His laugh was deep and resonant, and in other circumstances Catherine might have appreciated its tonal qualities. In the present case, the sound made her blood run cold. His laughter seemed to fill the entire room. He seemed to fill the room. He was so large and overpowering, so male—and so very drunk.

God help me, she thought. Then she recollected that Providence helped those who helped themselves.

Gathering the coverlet more tightly about her as though it were the courage she felt fast ebbing away, she spoke. “In your current state of intoxication, a great many matters are bound to strike you as inexpressibly amusing. Nonetheless, I assure you, sir, that your guffaws are hardly appropriate to the present situation. I am not a—a—what I seem to be. I am here against my will.”

Many people have nervous habits which grow more pronounced in times of agitation. Miss Pelliston tended to become preachy and pedantic when she was agitated. Her papa found this characteristic so unappealing that he had been known to toss the occasional bottle or mug in her direction. Since he was usually three parts disguised in these cases, he never struck her. He didn’t particularly want to strike her. He only wanted her to go away.

Catherine cringed, half expecting something to be thrown at her as soon as the words were out of her mouth. When no object came flying past, she glanced up.

The man smiled—a crooked, drunken smile displaying a set of perfect, white teeth that made him look like a lunatic wolf—and advanced upon her. For a moment he swayed uncertainly over the bed upon which she seemed to be riveted. Then he dropped heavily onto it, raising a cloud of what she hoped was merely dust, and making the frame creak alarmingly.

“Of course you are, darling. They’re always here against their will, to feed their poor starving infants or buy medicine for their aged grandmothers or some such tragedy. But enough of this game. You’re here against your will and I haven’t any, which puts us all square—and friendly, I hope.”

He reached out to dislodge her fingers from the coverlet. She pulled back and leapt from the bed. Unfortunately, he was now sitting on a corner of the coverlet. She could retreat only a few feet unless she chose to relinquish her makeshift cloak.

“Now where did you think you’d go?” he asked, having watched this exercise with some amusement. “What’s gotten into you, dashing about to make a man’s poor, tired head spin? Come, sweetheart.” He patted the mattress. “Let’s be comfortable.”

“Good grief! Don’t you understand?”

“No,” came the cheerful reply. “I didn’t come here to understand—or to talk. You’re making me impatient, and I ain’t even patient to begin with. Oh, all right. I’ll chase you if you like.” He started to get up, changed his mind, and slumped back against the pillow in a half-recumbent position. “Only it’s such a bother.”

Miss Pelliston realised that getting this drunken creature to understand her predicament and provide assistance was an unpromising endeavour at best. On the other hand, she could not afford to wait for another potential rescuer. Even if she got this one to leave—which was more than likely, if he was the impatient sort—what sordid species of humanity could she expect to darken the door next?

Catherine took a deep breath and spoke. “I have been brought here against my will. I was most foully deceived and abducted.”

“Ah, abduction,” said the man, nodding sleepily.

“It’s quite true. Shortly after I disembarked at the coaching inn, a thief made off with my reticule. Mrs. Grendle, who was nearby, appeared to take pity on me. She seemed so kindly and motherly when she offered to take me to my destination that I foolishly accepted. We stopped for tea. I remember nothing that happened after, until I woke up in this very room to find all my belongings gone and that odious woman telling me how she meant to employ me.”

“Oh, yes.” His eyes were closed.

“Will you help me?” Catherine asked.

“What would you have me do, sweeting mine?”

She moved a tad closer to the bed. “Just help me get out of this place. I can’t do it on my own. Heaven knows I’ve tried, but they’ve kept the door locked, and you can see there are no windows. Moreover, before you came she promised unpleasant consequences if I made a fuss.”

One unpleasant consequence was a burly fellow named Cholly, whom Mrs. Grendle had assured her was eager to teach Catherine her new trade if the young lady was unwilling to learn through trial and error on her own. Miss Pelliston preferred not to speak of that. Instead, she watched her visitor’s face. She wondered if he’d gone to sleep, because he didn’t answer or even open his eyes for the longest time.

So long a time was it that she began to wonder if she was going mad. Perhaps she’d never said a word and had only imagined herself speaking, as so often happened in nightmares. Perhaps, she thought, her heart sinking, he believed she was mad. A choking sob welled up in her throat. In the next instant she gasped in surprise as she found herself gazing into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

They were deep blue, the color of the late night summer sky, and framed with thick, dark lashes. Once more her analytical mind began running on its own as she wondered what on earth such a fine-looking young man was doing in this low place. Surely he had no need to pay for his sport. As she thought it, she blushed.

“Just escort you out the door, is that all?” he asked.

Catherine nodded.

“May a chap ask where you propose to go, with no clothes and, I take it, no money?”

Oh, heavens—he might actually help her! The words spilled out in a rush. “Why—why, you could lend me your coat, you see, and take me to the authorities, so we may report this dreadful business. I’m sure they will see justice done, and at least my belongings will be returned and I can go on as I’d intended—to find my, my friend, you know, with whom I was to visit.”

Her sensible plan of proceeding seemed to leave him unimpressed—or perhaps was beyond his limited intellectual capacity—because he looked blank. Just as she was about to repeat the information in simpler terms, he spoke.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. Of course I am.” Noting a suspicious twitch at the corner of his mouth, she drew herself up and continued with more dignity. “This is hardly a joking matter.”

The piercing blue gaze travelled from the fuzzy light brown curls that formed a fairy cloud about her head down to the bare toes that poked out from the frayed border of the coverlet. After another interminable silence, the man got up from the bed, yawned, stretched, and yawned again.

“Oh, very well,” he said.

Mrs. Grendle was a plump woman of uncertain age and below-average stature. The inches Nature had denied her were compensated in part by an enormous mass of rigid curls, dyed apparently with shoe blacking and heaped upon her head like so many unappetizing sausages. Her lips and cheeks were carmine, and when she smiled, as she did now in her effort to understand just what her customer was proposing, the paint on her face cracked, loosening flakes of white powder which fluttered down upon her enormous, creased, and also thickly painted bosom. As she finally comprehended her client’s request, the smile twisted into a ferocious scowl, showering more flakes onto the eroded white mountainside.

“Cholly!” she cried. “Jos!”

Two burly minions came running at the summons.

“Put him out,” the brothel keeper commanded. “He’s mad. He wants to steal one of the girls.”

Cholly and Jos obediently laid their greasy hands on the client’s shirtsleeves. The client looked down in a puzzled way at first one filthy paw, then the other. As his gaze rose to the faces of his assailants, his fist did also. He cracked Cholly on the nose, and Cholly staggered back. The customer then grasped Jos by the neck, lifted him off the floor, and threw him onto a large piece of obscene statuary. Jos and the statue crashed against the wall. The statue crumbled into fragments and Jos sank unconscious to the floor. Cholly, his nose bleeding, advanced once more. The stranger’s fist shot out again with force enough to hurl Cholly back against a door frame. There was a sickening crack, and Cholly also sank to the floor.

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.

Chapter 2

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.

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 establishment 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. Still, 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 from 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?”

Without waiting for an answer, the elderly lady continued, “No, I would expect not. I am sure she had not another thought in this world but of him, and what a pity that is. She was the most conscientious instructor I have had since I founded this school, and the girls doted upon her. Naturally, I was compelled to discharge him. I have never held with these odd conventions that it is always the woman’s fault. Men are such wicked deceivers. If even Miss Fletcher could be overcome, what hope is there for weaker vessels, I ask you? To be sure, he was a most charming man. Ten years with us and always most correct in his behaviour, though the girls will become infatuated with the music master.”

Catherine barely heard the headmistress. Miss Fletcher, that paragon of propriety, had run off with the music master? No wonder she hadn’t answered Catherine’s last letter. By the time that epistle reached the school, Miss Pelliston’s former governess had already become Mrs. Brown and departed with her new husband for Ireland.

“I’m so sorry you have come out of your way for naught,” Miss Collingwood continued. “I feel responsible. I should have counselled Miss Fletcher: marry in haste, repent at leisure.”

“I’m sure you did all you could,” was the faint reply. “I should have waited until I heard from her... though it was inconceivable that she should not be here. She last wrote me but two months ago and only mentioned Mr. Brown in passing. Still, I was at fault.”

Greatly at fault, Catherine’s conscience reminded. She had let her hateful passions rule her and was now reaping the reward.

“No doubt,” Catherine went on, pinning what she hoped was a convincing smile on her face, “Miss Fletcher’s reply is at home awaiting me.”

After assuring Miss Collingwood that the trip would not be a total loss, and concocting some plausible story about doing a bit more shopping (that explained the bandboxes) with the aunt who’d supposedly travelled with her and was now visiting friends, Catherine took her leave.