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Molly’s infatuation with Lord Rand was a household joke, and a grim provocation to Tom, who was equally besotted with the rosy-cheeked abigail.
“Why, all he had to do was look at her or anywhere’s near her an’ she busts out bawling. Didn’t you, then?” he accused his beloved. “An’ wasn’t no help at all, an’ his lordship’s cousin lost now an’ his lordship up all hours looking for her.”
“I’m sure Miss Jones faithfully reported all she could,” said Mr. Blackwood, bestowing a compassionate smile on the maid. “Though it must have been very trying indeed having to answer two gentlemen’s questions at once.”
“Oh, don’t you know it, Mr. Blackwood. Here was my master asking me a hundred things and Mr. Max—his lordship, I mean—frowning and grumbling like I stole her myself. And all I ever did was explain about his lordship being away all that time and tell her what nice hair she had. As even you said yourself, Tom Fetters, and was carrying on so about her eyes as made a body wonder what you was thinking of.”
Blackwood smoothly stepped in to prevent the angry retort forming on Tom’s lips. “Ah, yes,” Lord Rand’s gentleman said, “even ladies of quality do not object to being reminded of their assets from time to time.”
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Molly said frankly. “She looked like she didn’t believe a word of it—as if I was the kind to flatter in hopes of getting something by it,” she added scornfully.
“You strike me,” said Blackwood, “as the soul of honesty. She ought to have believed you.”
“I should say so. Don’t I know that Lady Littlewaite’s paid as much for a set of curls like that as she did for a ball gown? Nor they didn’t match properly neither, but was the best Monsoor Franzwuz could do on short notice, when the other one fell into the turtle soup. Which it never would have done, he says, if she wasn’t always flirting and tossing her head like she was a girl of eighteen instead of a grandmama.”
Blackwood listened carefully, his precise mind examining, selecting, and discarding as Molly continued talking. He had come because he knew Lord Andovefs servants would speak more freely to one of their own kind than to their masters. In their less guarded speech might be a clue to Miss Pelliston’s whereabouts. A remembered word or phrase might offer some inkling of her plans.
Now he sorted out two facts that appeared significant. Miss Pelliston had come to Andover House penniless, and, according to his master, desperate to go home. Molly had talked to her of the buying and selling of hair. This, perhaps, was the clue he wanted.
“Sold her hair?” Max repeated, aghast, when the valet presented his report. “That glorious—” He stopped short, equally horrified at what he’d been about to say. “That’s ridiculous,” he snapped. “If she’d done it, then why ain’t she home? Why didn’t anyone remember her at the coaching inns?”
“A confused mind is a vacillating mind, My Lord. Perhaps she changed her mind about returning. If she managed to acquire money, she may have sought temporary shelter in London.”
“Or maybe someone changed her mind for her,” was the angry response. “Confound the woman! Why couldn’t she stay put? Did you ever hear of such a henwit?”
Blackwood wisely refrained from responding to this. Silently he handed a snowy white length of linen to his employer.
“Damn it, man, I haven’t time to fool with that thing. Takes me half a dozen to do it right, and I’m in no mood to bear those pained looks you give me when I do it wrong, as though I’d just put a ball through your other leg. I’ll wear one of the old ones that don’t feel like such a noose about my neck.”
“With the Bath superfine, My Lord?” the valet stoically enquired.
Lord Rand looked at his coat, then back at the neckcloth the valet held. “I suppose,” he said after a moment, “if we do meet up with the wretched girl, you think the combination will drive her off again.”
“Rather excessive for a young lady’s sensibilities, I do believe, sir.”
“Very well,” said the defeated employer. “The gibbet it is. Only you had better tie it, unless you mean to see your master garrote himself.”
“Bit early in the day for this sort of thing, ain’t it? Sun ain’t even set, said Lord Browdie as his companion led him through the door into a red velvet-draped vestibule.
“Ah, you’re getting old, Browdie. Time was you were ready for a bit of fun morning, noon, and night. Or is it you’re afraid of being disappointed? No fear of that. Granny’s gals’ll tend to you, day or night—and cheaper than the kind you usually spend your money on.”
On no account did Lord Browdie care to be reminded of his age. If his dark red hair had origins more pharmaceutical than natural, that was a secret between his manservant and himself, as were the yards of buckram padding that filled out his chest, shoulders, and calves. These features were no secret to a host of low females of his acquaintance, either, but he regarded their opinions no more than he regarded their sensibilities.
Might as well have a bit of fun, he thought, as he was led to meet his hostess. Damned tiresome business, this. He’d been in London four days and not a trace of his fiancée could he discover.
He had, moreover, met with a great deal of discourtesy.
The frigid crone at the school had disclaimed all knowledge of Miss Pelliston and had been notably unforthcoming regarding the blasted governess. A man-hater, that one. He’d had to bribe a maid to learn what little he now knew— that a young woman answering his description had come calling, but had stayed only a short time.
The maid, who’d been daydreaming out a window instead of attending to her work, had seen the young lady meet up with a tall gentleman, but no, she couldn’t say who that was. The two had met up on the opposite side of the square, and that was too far away to see what the man looked like.
When Catherine turned out not to be where she was supposed to be, Lord Browdie was stymied. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to find her. Thus he spent most of his time in diverse taverns and coffehouses, occasionally remembered to enquire about the girl, and generally convinced himself he was diligently seeking her.
“—and this is Lynnette.”
Lord Browdie looked up from his musings to behold a shapely brunette wearing a great deal of paint, cheap jewelry, and a bizarrely demure peach-colored gown from whose narrow bodice her ample bosom threatened to burst any minute. The woman seemed vaguely familiar.
“Don’t I know you?” he asked a few minutes later as she led him upstairs.
“I don’t think so, sir,” she said, with a naughty grin. “I’d remember a handsome face like yours, I’m sure.”
If Lynnette might have had what she wished, she would have wished for a younger patron who was a tad more considerate. Being ambitious, however, and not overly fastidious, she left wishes to dreamy idealists. She had risen from the Covent Garden alleys to this house. It was not the best sort of house but it wasn’t the worst, either. At any rate, she would not remain longer than necessary. She meant to have an abode of her own, paid for by a wealthy gentleman, as would be the myriad gowns and jewels that normally accompanied such transactions.
Being an astute judge of character, she knew what her customer wanted and proceeded to fulfill his fantasies. Lord Browdie, who was not overly generous, was sufficiently moved by the experience to offer a bit extra compensation. He promised to see her again very soon.
“Thought you looked familiar,” he said as she helped him on with his coat. “Now I know why. You’re the gal of my dreams, ain’t you, my lovely?”
Not until the next afternoon, in a rare interval of sobriety, did Lord Browdie realise that it hadn’t been the female who was familiar, but the gown. The experience of remembering a woman’s frock was so unusual that he actually puzzled over the matter for some minutes. Then his crony, Sir Reginald Aspinwal, appeared, the sober interval abruptly concluded, and Lord Browdie forgot all about frocks.
Catherine had adapted remarkably well to her new life, despite its obvious def
iciencies. No one waited on her, willingly or otherwise. She dined simply in the workroom with either her fellow employees or Jemmy. She had neither fine clothes nor elegant accessories nor even the pin money to buy a single ribbon. On the other hand, she had not to cope with a drunken papa wreaking constant havoc with her attempts to keep the household in order, finding fault with everything she did and didn’t do, and making her feel— despite what reason told her—that she was worthless, unlikable, and ought never to have been born.
The other seamstresses seemed to accept her as one of themselves. Though Madame was inclined to be emotional and easily provoked by demanding customers, she indulged her aggerations in the solitude of her office. She treated her employees kindly, realising that good health and even tempers were as critical to the creation of exquisite finery as were quality fabrics, well-lit work areas, and carefully maintained tools.
Yes, she had been most fortunate to meet up with Jemmy that day, Catherine thought, as she watched the little boy who sat with her at the worktable. At present he was stabbing viciously with his stubby pencil at a grimy piece of foolscap.
If she had not met him, she’d be home now and utterly wretched. She would never marry Lord Browdie. Now, being unable to provide a respectable accounting of her disappearance, she could never marry at all.
Perhaps Aunt Deborah was worried about her. Perhaps even Papa was concerned. If so, their concern was mainly pride. If they’d truly cared about her, she would never have gotten into this fix in the first place. How could they possibly have expected her to give her property and person into the keeping of that odious man?
Good heavens, even her employer showed more compassion—and Jemmy seemed genuinely fond of her. He was so determined to please Miz Kaffy that he would drag out his foolscap and pencil the instant the other seamstresses rose to leave for the day. They were all gone now except Madame, who was in the showroom attempting to rid herself courteously of the inconsiderate customer who was staying well past closing time.
“No, dear,” Catherine said as she gently extracted the pencil from her student’s grasp. “You do not clutch it in your fist as though it were a weapon. You hold it thus, between your fingers.” She demonstrated.
Jemmy complained that the pencil wriggled like a worm.
“You must show it who is master. You are a great, growing boy and this is only a small pencil. Here, I’ll help you.” She inserted the instrument between his grubby fingers and guided them with her own. “There. That is ‘J.’“
