Schooling the Viscount Read online

  He didn’t even smoke, one bad habit he was not guilty of.

  But he’d wanted a career in the army, and he’d gotten it. The pater was right to tell him he’d made a mistake, and he’d been too stubborn at nineteen to listen. His father should have locked him in his room to prevent the inevitable consequences. Sent him to Puddling then.

  Instead, he was locked away now in this dwarf’s cottage minus Snow White. Oh, Henry supposed it was all right—the conservatory was a pleasant space, the garden well-planted, most of the furniture in the rest of the house very plush. A pretty padded Puddling prison. He was becoming quite alliterative in his latest captivity now, wasn’t he?

  And if only he followed the damned rules, he’d be sprung in three weeks, possibly less, if he could convince that Walker fellow that he was totally reformed.

  Henry supposed that meant no more kissing schoolteachers, which was a damned shame.

  He’d forgotten the Service business. Apparently Henry had to do something to prove to the Puddling Powers That Be that he knew the errors of his ways, would think of others and was prepared to forsake all pleasure forever. Henry wondered if his reading to orphans scheme would fit the bill.

  He punched his pillow down, still fully dressed. Damn, he wasn’t tired at all. The air in the cottage felt close, and suddenly he couldn’t bear it.

  He would walk. Look at the stars. Breathe in some sheep-scented air. The wool trade may have collapsed hereabouts, but there were still plenty of the little buggers around, their taunting bleats reminding Henry they were free but he was not.

  He lit a small lantern from the dresser in the kitchen, grabbed his cane from the front hall and opened the door. A long narrow pebbled path led down to the street, with a few deep steps at the end to reach the gate and cobbled Honeywell Lane.

  He’d seen the well on his walk to the schoolhouse, a pretty stone thing that still seemed to be in use. There were precious few signs of modernity here, which, Henry supposed, was the point of Puddling. How could you sin when there was no opportunity?

  The house windows were mostly dark, the only sound his footfall and the slap of his stick. Henry hissed a bit at the uneven pavement and its effect on his foot, but he was determined to walk himself into sleep. He knew his way by now, up St. Jude’s Street toward the towering church, right on Vicarage Lane, around Market Street to New Street, back to St. Jude’s, the holy quadrumvirate. His own lane made five, and he knew where it led now: to a dead-end at a stream. He’d been a fool to stumble down it this afternoon—if he hadn’t been driven up in his first-class wheelbarrow, he’d probably still be navigating the hill.

  Henry’s foot yearned for a straightaway, something smooth and paved and flat, but wasn’t going to get it here. The starry skies above twinkled, but he focused on the lane under his feet, minding the dips and divots. All he needed now was a twisted ankle as well as a sore head.

  He wasn’t even sure if he was allowed out at night. Probably not. He was meant to get a solid eight hours’ sleep. Breakfast was at eight sharp, after he shaved, bathed and dressed. Mrs. Grace had refused to feed him in his scruff and dressing gown.

  Henry passed the public baths on the corner. How lucky he was not to share his ablutions with strangers. Although army life had robbed him of the kind of privacy he’d previously enjoyed, and his brief experience as a prisoner of war made him all the more grateful he was demobilized. Stonecrop Cottage was totally up-to-date in the bathing department with hot and cold running water, though he understood the rest of the town was very much behind the times. Since he had his very own dynamo in the shed, he didn’t need to read by candlelight, as a few cottagers seemed to be doing.

  Henry wondered what they were reading. Racy novels? Unlikely. There was a tiny lending library on Vicarage Lane, but Henry had resolutely passed it by each day without stepping inside. He was sure every book would be of an ‘improving’ sort, or chock-full of sermons. No thank you. He was sermonized sufficiently by Mr. Walker every afternoon.

  He turned onto New Street, which was crammed with old buildings. New Street had not been new in a very long time. According to Mr. Walker, who seemed very proud of his parish, a couple of hundred years ago all the cottages had weaving rooms on the top floors, when Puddling had been known far and wide for its cloth. Now it was a secret spot to sequester scandalous scions of society.

  Good God, this alliteration had to stop!

  He was saved from chastising himself further by a small growling dog who sped out of an alley between houses, hackles raised. Henry thought it was best to stop and shine his lantern on the creature in hopes it would be temporarily blinded so he could go on his way. The dog—if that was indeed what it was—Henry had never seen such a misshapen mongrel—was not deterred. Its growl changed to a near-rabid bark which would wake up everyone on the street.

  “Sh. Good doggie. Um, bad doggie.” It was hard to know what tack to take. If anything, the dog barked louder with each syllable.

  A light spilled from the upper story window, and a head popped out. “Rufus! Be quiet! Come!”

  Henry knew that voice. The soothing angel-mermaid voice that led to terrible trouble. Would she drop a flower pot on his head when she discovered who had riled her dog?

  So this is where his schoolteacher lived, a modest attached stone cottage right on the road. Presumably the little alleyway the dog raced out of led to the back garden, where, judging from a frayed rope at his neck, he might have been tethered.

  Rufus had an inordinate interest in Henry’s cane, which he now shook so vigorously between bared teeth that Henry had difficulty holding on to it. What was it with the Everetts and his walking stick? At least the animal hadn’t noticed his trouser cuff. Yet.

  “Who’s down there? Bother. It’s you.”

  “Yes, that sums it up rather nicely. Would you mind very much coming down and unfastening your dog from my person?”

  “Oh, God! Is he biting you?”

  “Not just yet. But I’m sure he can smell the potential delectability of my ankle, even with a pushed-in snout like that.”

  “I knew all that fruitcake would unsettle him,” she said. Whatever fruitcake had to do with Henry’s predicament he wasn’t sure, but Miss Everett disappeared from her window. He held on for dear life as the mongrel attempted to play tug-of-war with his unwilling victim.

  Henry was determined not to topple down in Miss Everett’s presence again if he could help it and held steady. He could always clout Rufus on the head with his lantern if worse came to worst, but he knew instinctively that Miss Everett wouldn’t like it. One didn’t keep a dog like this for its good looks—she must have great affection for him, since Rufus looked put together by a blind man at the dog parts factory. Small head, dangling ears, squashed face, and a body that looked like a sausage on stumps.

  “Down, Rufus,” Henry said tentatively. Rufus turned his bug-eyes on him and glared, not giving up his grip on the cane one inch. Henry diverted his attention to the front door of the cottage, so was startled when Miss Everett appeared from the alley in her dressing gown, her hair a river of black silk down her back.

  “Shh! My father’s sleeping,” she hissed.

  “I doubt that,” Henry whispered back. “Your dog barked his head off.” Even being partially deaf, Henry’s ears were still ringing.

  Miss Everett cocked her head. “He’s just in the front room.”

  “Well, then we should continue our conversation in the back. If your dog will stop attacking my stick.”

  “We do not need to continue anything. Rufus, come.”

  Rufus growled and held fast. Miss Everett tugged on the bit of rope, the dog tugged back, and Henry found himself on his arse.

  Again.

  Would the humiliation ever end? The lantern extinguished itself and clattered away down the road, and they were left in the dark.

  “Oh, dear.” Henry thought he heard a snicker. “Can you get up, or should I fe
tch a wheelbarrow?”

  Impertinent minx. “I’m fine.” Only his consequence was bruised. Henry sprung up from the gutter, his trousers only slightly damp.

  “What are you doing out?” Miss Everett asked waspishly, handing him back his now dogless stick.

  “I didn’t realize I was confined to quarters. It’s a lovely night, and I wanted some fresh country air. Is that a crime hereabouts?”

  “If it isn’t, it should be. The town isn’t safe for strangers to walk around in the dark.”

  It was true there was not a lick of light, or a helpful night watchman with a working lantern. “I’m hardly a stranger. I’ve walked up this road every day now for a week. I could do it blindfolded.”

  “Stop bragging—it’s a very unattractive quality in a man. Good evening, then.” She turned to go, somewhat hunched over as she still held the hideous Rufus by the shortened rope.

  “Wait.”

  Miss Everett paused. “What now, Lord Challoner?”

  Henry really didn’t know what to say, except that he was reluctant to leave the woman frowning at him in the dark. He was even more wide awake now than he’d been to start with, and going home to stew alone was not appealing in the least.

  “I—I think your dog may have bitten me.”

  “You think? I thought you said—”

  “I was confused. Trying to be brave. Everything happened so quickly.”

  “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where did Rufus bite you, my lord?”

  “Um. My leg. It hurts like the devil,” Henry lied. He reached down as if he were rubbing it, found the small knife he kept in his boot and stealthily stabbed though tweed and stocking and skin.

  Clearly, he was mad.

  “I’m not sure where Mrs. Grace might keep bandages and such,” Henry continued, straightening and slipping the knife in his pocket.

  “You’d better come in then.” She sounded doubtful, as she should. There were two curs on the street now. “Around the back way.”

  Henry followed her down the narrow alley and through a wooden gate. The night air was perfumed with flowers from the back garden. It must be lovely and lush in the daylight; Henry could barely get through the bushes. Miss Everett tied Rufus back up to a stake, and Henry observed in the dim starlight there was rather large doghouse for such an unprepossessing animal.

  They entered by way of the kitchen door and Miss Everett lit a lamp on the dresser. The room was small but scrupulously clean. Warm, too. The range was probably the only steady source of heat in the cottage. She put the kettle on and faced him squarely. “Remove your pants, my lord.”

  This was more like it. Henry hoped slashing himself had been worth something, and this exceeded his expectations. But he was still a gentleman deep down. Miss Everett needed to be saved from herself.

  “Did I hear you correctly?”

  “Unless you think you can roll them up over your calf. I shouldn’t like you to lose any circulation while I treat the wound.”

  Blood was flowing to a part of him best left undiscovered. Henry hoped his shirttail would cover it and Miss Everett wouldn’t notice. “Very wise. All right. Do you have nursing experience?”

  Miss Everett sighed. “I teach school, and half the students in my class are little boys.” She picked up a bottle and cloths from a shelf and waved them at him. “Always prepared. Does that answer your question?”

  “Indeed it does,” Henry said, working his buttons free with one hand. The other propped him up on the scrubbed pine table. His leg did hurt in fact. The walk might have been too much for him in his present condition, injured from tip to toe. He wondered if the bandage around his head was on straight.

  Miss Everett’s back was turned as she rummaged through a cupboard. “Sit down, and put this over your lap.” She handed him what appeared to be a tablecloth. Henry could smell starch and sunshine, and had a vision of this young woman hanging laundry in her little back garden. His pants puddled around his ankles, and suddenly he felt venal and stupid.

  “I hope we don’t wake your father,” Henry said truthfully. He felt at a distinct disadvantage wearing table linen.

  “He’s a sound sleeper. Now, this may hurt….”

  Chapter 8

  Rachel examined what could only be called a scratch. She’d seen dog bites, and she doubted very much if Rufus had bitten this man. There was very little blood, and the cut was remarkably straight, almost as if nicked by a knife. What was Lord Challoner playing at?

  He was so full of charm and excuses. Well, she was not about to be charmed.

  “Holy Mother of God!” he cried.

  “The sting will stop soon. You don’t wish your leg to become infected, do you? Dog bites are notorious.”

  “You could hack my leg off and it would be preferable! What is on that cloth?”

  “Just a home remedy. Very effective.” Lord Challoner was gulping manfully, trying to repress the tears in his eyes, and she enjoyed every second. “I wonder if you need stitches.”

  “Of course I don’t need stitches! It’s just the merest injury. Not worth bothering about, really.”

  “You were in an awful hurry to remove your trousers,” Rachel said, slapping a sticking plaster on his calf with considerable vehemence.

  “At your suggestion! I assure you doing so was the furthest thing from my mind!”

  “Hm.” She thought she saw a blush to his cheek in the dim lamplight.

  “What’s all this then?”

  Drat. Her father stood in the doorway in his nightshirt and nightcap. They’d converted their front room to his bedroom when the stairs had become too much for him to mount. That last squeeze and Lord Challoner’s reaction must have roused him.

  “Dad, I’m so sorry we woke you up. Lord Challoner met with an accident on the street and I brought him in.”

  “Lord Challoner, eh? Our newest Guest. Ham told me you were knocked unconscious. I see you’ve recovered.”

  Lord Challoner stood, clutching her mother’s best tablecloth in front of him like a warrior’s shield. “More or less, sir. Thanks to the kind offices of your daughter. She has come to my rescue twice today.”

  “You’re not here in Puddling to get yourself into more trouble, my lad,” Rachel’s father said sternly. He wasn’t one bit cowed by their Guest’s rank. “Rachel, go upstairs to bed. You’re not decent.”

  She glanced down at her thick wool wrapper, which covered her up to her chin. If Lord Challoner had thought to catch a glimpse of anything untoward, he had been doomed.

  On the other hand, she had seen the man’s thighs, knees and calves. He was beautifully muscled, and remarkably brown, as if this area of his body had been exposed to the sun. Were British troops in Africa parading about half-naked like the natives? It was an intriguing thought.

  It was reputed to be so hot there. Infernal. Rachel would like to ask Lord Challoner questions about his experiences, but she wasn’t supposed to be speaking to him.

  Ever.

  Well, she supposed she might read a book. Soldiers liked to come home and write memoirs. Glorify war and their part in it. Somehow, she wasn’t convinced by their words.

  “Dad, Lord Challoner is a gentleman.” Except for the kissing and proposing part.. “You needn’t worry,” Rachel fibbed.

  “So you say. But I’ve read his dossier, as have you.”

  “Then you have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Everett. Everyone here knows my peccadilloes, or think they do. My reputation is really not as black as my father made out.”

  Her father raised his eyebrows. “Nobody incarcerates their relatives here at the rate they pay for the fun of it. You’ve let your family down.”

  Rachel drew a shocked breath. Her father was known for his bluntness, but he might be overstepping.

  The room was very still. Lord Challoner grew white about the mouth, and was clearly struggling with his temper.

  �
��You don’t know me. I have been to war, sir.”

  Pete Everett snorted. “So have I. I saw my share of uprisings in India. And I was in the Crimea. Not an officer like you, of course. You young bucks think you’re the only ones to ever have suffered. The stories I could tell you would make your hair curl. Worse than that damned poem written about it. I’ll admit I spent a few hours in the pub when I came home, but I saw the error of my ways soon enough.”

  “Bully for you.”

  Oh, dear. “I’m sure my father doesn’t mean to insult you,” Rachel said.

  “Doesn’t he? He’s implying that I’m weak. Self-indulgent. I’m just supposed to pull myself together and carry on, aren’t I? As if nothing ever happened. As if I saw nothing. Did nothing. I never took part in any butchery, did I? I’m not as bad as the savages we were meant to conquer. You have a lot in common with my superiors, Mr. Everett. I wish I shared your optimism that life is hunky-dory.”

  Lord Challoner’s bleak expression said even more than his words did. They were supposed to be helping him here in Puddling, not drive him further into despair and more debauchery.

  “It’s very late,” Rachel said hurriedly. “You need your rest.”

  “Do I? If only I could sleep without dreaming, Miss Everett. But I’m denied any diversion here—no sleeping aid, for example. So I’ll just go home and wait for dawn and another fascinating day in Puddling-on-the-Wold to enfold. Who knows what tomorrow may bring? A stray lamb? A cloudless sky? Do tell Mr. Walker I await him with eagerness.”

  Somehow he managed to pull up his trousers without dropping the cloth and exited the cottage with dignity. Rufus barked as he passed through the garden.

  Rachel refolded the tablecloth and returned it to its shelf. “Dad, was that necessary? You seemed…cruel.”

  “Cruel to be kind. I saw the way the man was looking at you.”