Schooling the Viscount Read online

  But Rachel had not really been thinking of Henry’s well-being this afternoon. She had been selfishly thinking of herself.

  She was not a good person.

  But she was wise enough to know she’d make a terrible viscount’s wife. He’d be better off with one of his actresses. An actress would know how to wear pretty clothes and address members the peerage. One could imagine one was on a stage every day of the week, only the butlers and housemaids would be real. Rachel couldn’t imagine asking anyone to lace her up or dust her knickknacks.

  “Rachel, is that you?”

  She’d have to face him. Would he somehow know? Rachel didn’t want to be a disappointment to her father—he was much too dear to her. He hadn’t liked Henry much in the beginning, but had warmed to him since.

  But no father would like the young man who deflowered his innocent daughter.

  No, be honest. Not innocent. Not innocent at all. Henry had not forced himself upon her. As she recollected, she’d told him to shut up and get on with it.

  And oh my, get on with it he did.

  She shook her head in an attempt to get Henry and his hands and mouth and…the rest of him out of it. “Yes, Dad. Can I bring you anything from the kitchen?”

  It was tidy, as promised. All traces of their roast chicken lunch were packed away and the pine table had been scrubbed.

  “Just you. I’m still full.”

  Rachel brushed her damp skirts down and checked to see if her hairpins were still doing their job. She had washed the best she could and sprinkled on talc in Henry’s bathroom before she had gotten dressed. A hot bath would be heavenly to wash away the traces of her insanity, even though she’d had one just last night.

  Her father was sitting in a sagging ancient chair in a corner of the front parlor. A precarious stack of books was tipping on a table near his elbow, and Rufus was asleep on one of his slippered feet. The dog thumped his tail once, his eyes still closed. Rachel tried not to take his lack of enthusiasm personally.

  “You need more light than this, Dad,” Rachel scolded, lighting a lamp.

  “Still filthy out there, is it? I didn’t even go out in the garden for a sniff today. How do the peonies look? Blown are they, with all this rain?” His peonies were favorites, lush and fragrant, even if they housed a thousand useful ants who didn’t decamp once they’d performed their service.

  “I didn’t really look, but it’s not so bad outside now.” It was still light out, but gloomy. The rain was but a shadow of its earlier self, and the puddles had been easily skippable.

  “How’s your patient?”

  Rachel’s cheeks warmed. “He’s not so bad, either.”

  “Did he enjoy the meal?”

  “He—he was sleeping when I got there, and I didn’t want to disturb him. I did a little straightening up and then I read a magazine waiting for him to wake up. When he did, I told him there was dinner in the kitchen for him and left.”

  “Poor girl. Cleaning after two men today.”

  Rachel kissed him on the cheek. “You don’t make much work for me, Dad.”

  “Aye, your mother trained me well. What are you going to do about him?”

  Rachel sat down and picked up her sewing basket. “About who?” The threads were in a hopeless tangle, and since they were damp, she suspected Rufus had been at it again.

  “Don’t play the fool with me, miss. You’re smarter than your mother and me combined. The young lordling, that’s who.”

  “It’s not for me to do anything about him, Dad. A—a friendship wouldn’t suit. I’d only get into trouble with the governors.”

  “To hell with the governors. They don’t always know best, you know. They’re not infallible. I think we’ve had a few Guests who never should have been here. Challoner’s one of them.”

  Rachel was inclined to agree. What Henry had done was not so very awful considering the horrors of war that he’d lived through. He’d just been larking about in the wrong place.

  “It’s the money, I expect. The village depends upon it,” she said. Families anxious to place their wayward relatives here thought nothing of throwing exorbitant sums at Puddling to solve their problems.

  “What’s the good of having it if there’s nothing to spend it on?”

  Rachel chuckled. “Dad, do you want to go shopping? I’ll take you to Stroud next weekend for the farmers’ market. I’m sure we could get Ham to take us up in his wagon.”

  “Bah. It’s not vegetables I’m after. We could go to London.”

  “London!” Her surprise was so great she startled the dog, who got up, turned around, and lay back down in his same warm spot once he was sure the house wasn’t on fire.

  “Why not? School’s out for a few weeks soon. The end of the week, right? We could stay in a hotel. See the sights.”

  “Dad, you don’t even like London. You’ve always said it’s dirty and filled with degenerates.”

  “Maybe it’s changed. I haven’t been in years. Not since before I married your mother. She’s the one who didn’t like it.”

  That was not how Rachel remembered things, but she wasn’t going to argue with her father.

  “Do you truly feel up to such an undertaking?” she asked doubtfully. Her father was fit for his age, but slowing down considerably.

  “It’s not as though we’d be walking. We’ll take the train.”

  “Let me think about it.” Rachel had never been to London. She’d never been anywhere. The prospect was both exciting and frightening.

  “We could go to museums. I hear there are dinosaur bones somewhere.”

  Rachel smiled. “You don’t have to sweeten the pot any further. I admit, I’m intrigued. What made you think of such a thing?”

  “You’re buried in the country. It’s time you saw a bit of the world. Got some polish.”

  Rachel threaded her needle. “What do I need polish for, Dad?”

  “You never know.”

  Oh, Rachel knew, and knew what her father was trying to do. A week in London would not make her a fit wife for a viscount. Nothing would come of it, though he meant well.

  A trip like that might be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, even if the end result meant she was back in her classroom talking about dinosaurs.

  But Rachel was ever practical. “Can we afford it, Dad?”

  “Don’t you worry about expenses. I have quite a bit put by, you know. Puddling’s been good to us, and we’ve always lived below our means.”

  What if Puddling stopped being good, and they were drummed out for fraternizing with a Guest? In Rachel’s case, it was a good deal more than that. She was a scandal waiting to be revealed, especially after this afternoon.

  Her father opened his book, and Rachel began to smock a baby’s nightgown for the church guild’s charity box. Some poor mite would wear this tiny garment for a few months. She felt a pang, thinking about a warm, soft, powdery baby, then brought herself to reality. Urine-soaked diapers, that odd patch of smelly stuff on the baby’s scalp, the inevitable screaming in umbrage as a pin poked or the porridge was too hot.

  Best to think of babies in their most unpleasant states.

  “What’s that sigh for?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking. I might need to make a new dress if we’re going to London.”

  “You can buy clothes when you get there.”

  “Dad!” Rachel had never worn anything either she or her mother had not made, sitting right here in this parlor.

  “Why not? You only live once. You can go to one of those new-fangled department stores and buy something off the rack.”

  Good heavens. He was serious about this Cinderella-plan for her.

  “Have you been talking to Lord Challoner about this?”

  Her father’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Why, should I have? What’s wrong with a father wanting a treat for his only daughter?”

  Nothing. But something was fishy nonetheless.
/>   Chapter 35

  Henry had been sleeping for a change. Really sleeping. He rolled over. A warm waft of fresh air mixed with grass and roses and sheep blew over him like a welcome blanket from his open window. It was too soon to wake up. He hunkered down and tried to get back into his delicious Rachel-dream.

  He knew her now, every blessed inch. A rainy Sunday would never, ever be the same for him.

  Monday had been sunny and unremarkable and a chore to get through. There had been no Rachel, and Mrs. Grace had turned up full of apologies which Henry waved off. Thank God the woman had not been in the cottage, or else he and Rachel would not have been able to have their interlude.

  Their apparently once-in-a-lifetime interlude. Henry would have something to say about that, if he could only think what.

  He’d wanted to see her in the worst way yesterday. Send her red flowers or chocolates or a desperate letter. But he had to respect her wish for space, even if it galled him.

  He put his mind to his myriad problems, but then he heard the sobbing. What could make Mrs. Grace lose her legendary sangfroid? And what time was it anyhow?

  The sound was coming from the garden below. Henry poked his head out the window. There on his iron bench was a woman beneath an enormous hat, her shoulders convulsing with each wail.

  It was very early in the day for such crying. Henry checked his watch. Not even six o’clock. Mrs. Grace was not due for at least an hour, and if she had ever owned such a fashionable hat his name wasn’t Henry Agamemnon Challoner.

  “I say,” he said, trying not to shout and alarm her, “are you all right?”

  The woman turned and looked up at him. She was a girl really. She couldn’t have been much over twenty years of age. She was very blond, blue-eyed, and ruffled. Ruffled everywhere in a misguided attempt to conceal a rather substantial figure. Her eyes and cheeks were pink from crying. Henry hoped she wasn’t drowning the koi with her salty tears.

  “Oh! Who are you?”

  “Henry Challoner.” He left out the captain and the lord part. The Agamemnon part, too. This poor thing didn’t need to be intimidated any more than she was. “May I offer you assistance?”

  “I d-don’t see how anyone can,” she snuffled. “I am r-ruined.”

  “Nonsense. Tomorrow is always another day. Hang on a moment. I’ll be right down.” Henry rejected the idea of just tossing on his dressing gown; he didn’t want to alarm her further. He’d never gotten dressed so fast in his life except when ambushed in his tent right before he was shot. Running down the stairs, he managed not to hit his head in the process. A morning miracle, that.

  A little breathless when he arrived, he was pleased to see the girl still sitting there, balling up a very wet lace-edged handkerchief. He sat down next to her on the bench and waited while she sniffled and hiccupped.

  He patted her ruffled arm. “Take a deep breath, my dear.”

  “I hoped no one would be here. But the key is missing and I couldn’t get in.”

  “Just as well. As you see, I’m the latest inmate, and I got quite annoyed with people coming in just because they felt like it.” He reached into his pocket and drew the flower pot key out. The original was still missing somewhere between New Street and the churchyard after his unconscious midnight ramble at the hands of the bloodthirsty Everetts.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, her lashes tipped with tears.

  “Oh, I was a bit lost. Did some stupid things. Drank too much and fu, uh, fornic—uh, formed an attachment to unsuitable women. I’m completely reformed. A lovely young lady such as yourself has nothing whatsoever to worry about.”

  “Oh! Don’t be so kind to me! You can’t understand. I have left my husband.” She said it with a mix of horror and satisfaction.

  “No doubt he deserved to be left. Did he hurt you?”

  “N-not the way you think. But he mocked me. Made fun of me all the time. C-criticized my figure.”

  “He sounds like an absolute cur. What is wrong with your figure?”

  “I am f-fat.”

  “Nonsense. You’re a very pretty girl. You’re not increasing, are you?”

  That made her wail all the more. “See? Merwyn is right. I am as big as a house. He will not even t-touch me, not that I want him to. Ever. He is loathsome.” She threw a hand to her pretty pink lips. “Oh! I’m useless. I always say and do the wrong things to perfect strangers.”

  “I am not perfect,” Henry admitted. “Why are you here in my garden?”

  “It was once my garden. I came back to Puddling hoping something could be done about the mess I’m in. And to see…never mind.”

  Henry remembered. Greta something. An heiress who was imprisoned here so she could fit into her wedding gown. Instead of the pub being shut down, it had been the bake shop then.

  “How did you get here?”

  “I took the milk train to Stroud. And then a kindly farmer gave me a lift for most of the way.”

  Henry glanced down. The girl’s feet looked swollen in her boots, and the hem of her dress was dusty. “You walked?”

  “I need the exercise. I walked every day the three months I was here. It was p-part of my plan.”

  “I walk too. Clears the head, doesn’t it?”

  “Not particularly. It just hurts my feet and I can’t catch my breath.”

  Henry spoke carefully. “I think the more one walks, the healthier one becomes.”

  “That’s all very well for you to say!” She glared at him with red-rimmed eyes. “You are fit.”

  “Well, I was in the army for six years. It toughens you up a bit.”

  “Women can’t join the army to lose weight. And I shouldn’t be trusted with a gun. I might shoot Merwyn.”

  “Merwyn! He sounds as if he deserves to be shot. How long have you been married?”

  “Just two months. And he hasn’t once…oh, God.” Fresh tears filled her eyes.

  Henry put an arm around her. “If he hasn’t, as you say, he’s an idiot.”

  “But I’m glad, I assure you!” she shuddered. “He just wanted my money for his amusements. He—he consorts with wicked women. Actresses. And w-worse. And wh-what he makes them do! I have heard things—he told me himself!”

  “Sometimes men are very foolish,” Henry said. Lord knows, he had been. This girl was an innocent, and not apt to understand men’s darker impulses. He’d had some himself when he’d been desperate. Trying to jolt himself with recklessness to feel alive, even if he’d felt very little hope.

  But then he’d come to Puddling and seen Rachel in a shaft of sunlight.

  “He never cared for me at all. Not like—” She shut her mouth.

  Ah. So there had been another swain who lost out in the grand marriage plot. Poor fellow. Greta was a very comfortable armful, and Henry realized, would be quite beautiful when her nose wasn’t dripping. If she was a little plusher than was usual, what was the harm, really? Some men would appreciate her with or without her fortune.

  “I think you need someone to talk to. I take it your parents are unhelpful?”

  “It is only Mama. My father would have known Merwyn for what he was and forbidden the match. He is…he is a fiend. I can’t even…” Her voice trailed away.

  Greta appeared more shaken than would be normal over the average disappointing husband. Was Merwyn some kind of depraved pervert? Henry had never heard of any fiendish Mervyn, but then he hadn’t been home very long.

  “Let me take you inside and make you a cup of tea.”

  She blew her nose into the soggy handkerchief. “Thank you. That would be nice. And perhaps some dry toast if that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Dry toast indeed. He’d feed her up better than that if he could find out where his housekeeper hid the jam. Henry led his uninvited guest into the little parlor. He still didn’t know her name, but Mrs. Grace would know what to do when she came.

  Henry busied himself at the stove. Years
of army life had taught him how to hold body and soul together, and in a relatively short time, he had a pot of tea and four perfectly-toasted pieces of bread with lashings of butter and plum jam. The jar had been stuck in the coal scuttle, saved there for old Vincent’s tea vigils, no doubt, by his devious housekeeper. No jam or fun was on Henry’s plan.

  Greta was standing in front of the narrow bookcase, her gloved fingers caressing the spines of the books Henry thought much too boring to read. Her eyes lit when she saw the tray, but then dropped. She was ashamed of her appetite, and for a second Henry wanted to roar at her mother and her wretched husband.

  “I’m starving,” Henry said brightly. “Please join me.”

  “I shouldn’t.”

  “You can walk it off with me later. I assume you thought you could stay in this cottage?” He snapped into his toast. The jam was pretty damned good.

  “I—I didn’t really think. I didn’t even bring an overnight bag. But I do have money. Just a little. Merwyn and Mama saw to it I have practically nothing a quarter for pin money,” she said with bitterness. She took a delicate bite.

  “Well, there are two bedrooms, and I certainly won’t charge you, if you can stand the company. You can stay until you figure out what you want to do and see whoever you wanted to see.” He’d make sure Mrs. Grace was mollified, no matter how much dosh it took to paper over the impropriety. Greta wouldn’t be here forever.

  At least Henry thought it was all right if she stayed a little while—she’d come all this way, the poor thing. The cottage was his for the month, wasn’t it? The pater was paying top dollar for Henry to be rehabilitated, and helping Greta was one way to prove he was as gallant as the next fellow.

  There would, of course, be no funny business, since Sir Bertram and the pater would cut up stiff if they knew the girl was here. Greta was a married woman, and Henry wanted to be a married man. They’d need a chaperone. Ha! Maybe Rachel could be persuaded to come and share Greta’s room.

  “Have you spoken to a solicitor?”

  “I…no. The family lawyer helped to arrange my marriage. He and Mama are thick as thieves.”

  “Then you’ll need someone else.” Henry didn’t know anyone in the legal profession, but his father had a fleet of solicitors and barristers on retainer. Could Henry ask his father to help? Doubtful. He’d mistake the whole situation, and Henry would wind up in a straitjacket somewhere, even if it ruined the Challoner reputation.