The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  Rufus had given a great, deep woof of joy and charged, jerking his leash from Myles’s hand. The footman had emitted a loud—piercing, really—yelp of surprise and alarm and had thrown up his hands, sending the tray airborne. Food and cutlery had rained down upon them, plates shattering on the black-and-white tile floor.

  Rufus was surprisingly nimble and quick for such a large animal. And smart. He clearly knew he’d lose out if he gobbled the treats at the scene, so he grabbed as many as he could and bolted.

  In retrospect, Nick should have sent someone in pursuit of the dog at once. Myles had started after Rufus, but slipped on a slice of ham and went crashing to the ground. Nick’s other guests were too drunkenly entertained by the drama unfolding before them to catch the dog, and the servants were focused on helping Myles and the hapless footman and cleaning up the mess before someone else hit the floor.

  By the time they’d got everything sorted out and gone looking for Rufus, the dog had consumed—and disgorged—all his plunder, mostly in Nick’s bedroom. The stench was quite remarkable. Nick had had no choice but to decamp while his carpets and bedding were washed and aired.

  So, he’d hatched this plan to bring two of his least responsible friends and their favorite light-skirts to his detested country estate for his most loathed holiday. How better to thumb his nose at everyone than by celebrating the Roman Saturnalia in place of Christmas here?

  Old Pearson, the estate manager, Brooks, the butler, and Mrs. Brooks, the housekeeper, had been suitably appalled when the carriages had pulled up yesterday and he and his disreputable guests had tumbled out.

  And I was unsuitably dismayed at their reaction. Why the hell had that been? I wanted to be outrageous.

  The dismay had lasted only a moment, however. All it had taken to dispel the feeling had been hearing his uncle’s thin, nasally voice echo in his head—just as Nick heard it again now.

  This is not the way a viscount behaves.

  He gritted his teeth. Shut up, Uncle Leon.

  Was he ever going to be free of the man? His father’s older brother had been dead for almost a year now—and Nick had been grown and as independent of him as he could manage for much longer than that—and yet he still heard his uncle’s censorious voice, especially when he came to Oakland. In a blink, Nick was no longer thirty-two, but a boy of eleven, just orphaned, snatched away from the sun and warmth of Italy and dumped into cold, dark England—into Oakland’s cold, dark halls—to face an equally cold, dark man.

  Papa had been so different, always laughing and smiling. He’d been on his Grand Tour when he’d fallen in love with Venice—and with a young Italian woman—and had decided to end his journey there, where he could enjoy the warm sun and blue water and spend his days painting. Nick had grown up speaking English and Italian—though mostly Italian—surrounded by his Italian aunts and uncles and cousins.

  And then the fever had taken his parents.

  It had been horrible; he did not like thinking about it even now. Then, a few months later, Josiah Pennyworth, a tutor passing through Venice, had called at his grandfather’s house to inform them that he’d been engaged by Viscount Oakland to convey Master Nicholas back to England and away from everyone and everything he’d ever known.

  So, Nick had gone from a happy, effusive extended family to a dark, empty house with a stiff, unsmiling old man—though, doing the math later, he realized his uncle must have been only in his forties.

  Which had seemed ancient then.

  Livy was nuzzling his ear now. Her fingers had moved from his sleeve to his fall. “Don’t you want to play, too, Nick?”

  “Mmm.” He should want to play.

  He forced himself to look at Livy and smile. He liked her. She was by far his favorite whore, inventive in bed and agreeable out of it. Maybe if he went through the preliminary motions, his cock would bestir itself.

  It didn’t last night.

  Oh, God.

  He pushed that mortifying memory away and leaned toward her—

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  “Someone’s at the door.” Livy stated the obvious.

  “Brooks will get it.”

  No, he wouldn’t.

  His butler did not approve of orgies. He’d been playing least in sight ever since they’d arrived.

  Perhaps the person would go away.

  Nick smiled at Livy—

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Whoever it was had a strong arm and sounded extremely determined.

  “Who the hell is out on a day like this?” Felix asked. Polly was sitting on the floor now, exposing Felix’s spent cock for all in the room to observe.

  Nick averted his gaze—noting in the process that Bertram had reclaimed his tongue—and looked out the window. The light was failing, and the snow was still coming down heavily. Ah. This obviously wasn’t a social call.

  “I’ll go see.” He stood and headed for the entry, calling over his shoulder as he left, “You might want to put yourself to rights, Felix, in case it’s someone I can’t send directly to the stables.”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The noise was even louder in the entry.

  Good God, the man’s going to pound a hole in the door if he keeps hammering away like this.

  “All right, all right. I hear you.” Nick hurried across the floor, slid the bolt free, and pulled the door open.

  Oh.

  The person standing before him was swathed in a cloak, hood pulled low, but the hand raised to pound on his door again did not belong to a man.

  “It took you long enough,” the woman said as she pushed past him. “One would think a house this size would be better run.”

  It was proof of his surprise that he didn’t try to stop her. Not that he would ever leave a poor, defenseless woman shivering in the snow, of course.

  The woman shook off her hood and met his gaze squarely.

  Perhaps not so defenseless—or at least not at all discomfited at being alone in a strange house with a strange man.

  A small frown of puzzlement or confusion appeared between her brows, but vanished almost at once as if she’d dismissed whatever thought had occurred to her. “The stagecoach has had an accident. You must organize the other servants and set off at once to the rescue.”

  She thinks I’m the butler.

  I did answer the door.

  “There are two women, a young boy, and five or perhaps six men, including the coachman, stranded in the cold.”

  Where have I seen those eyes before?

  They were a remarkable deep blue and large with long, dark thick lashes. Her hair was dark, too. She was quite beautiful.

  I wouldn’t forget such a female. I couldn’t have met her before.

  And yet, those eyes . . .

  “Sir!”

  His attention was recalled to the present by her sharp tone. She was glaring at him.

  “What is the matter with you? Did you not hear me? You need to organize a rescue party at once. I assure you your master would wish you to do so.”

  “My master?” She spoke as if she knew him—or, rather, as if she knew Lord Oakland. Since she didn’t recognize him, she must think his uncle was still alive.

  But that didn’t make any sense either. Word of Leon’s death must have reached even the smallest village by now—he’d been in his grave almost a year. And Nick would be shocked if the old grumbletonian had ever met this woman. She was far too young to have been part of Uncle Leon’s circle—not that he’d had a circle of any sort that Nick knew of.

  But most of all, he’d be shocked if anyone had thought Uncle Leon would bestir himself to help some common travelers.

  No, that wasn’t fair. Leon might have been a sour old man, but he’d not been so heartless as to let anyone freeze to death outside his gates.

  I think.

  “Yes. Lord. Oakland. The. Viscount.” She was now speaking slowly and distinctly as if addressing a halfwit.

  Who is she?

  And then h
er cloak began to wail.

  Zeus, he must be drunk, but he hadn’t thought he’d had that much brandy.

  He watched in stupefaction as she reached inside the cloak’s warm folds and pulled out a baby.

  A very small baby.

  He took a step back.

  She took a step forward. If she hadn’t had her hands full of infant, he was certain she’d have poked him sharply in the chest with an emphatic finger.

  “Are you deaf, sirrah? Didn’t you hear me say there was a young boy involved? People’s lives are in danger!”

  “Er, yes.” Babies made him nervous. Not that he’d had any actual contact with them, but just seeing one made him feel very large and clumsy. This one looked to be hardly longer than his forearm. “How old is your child?”

  She scowled at him. Clearly, she was not a person to suffer fools. “What has that to say to the matter?”

  Her eyes are beautiful even when they are shooting daggers.

  Beautiful and familiar.

  He’d puzzle out who she was eventually.

  Or you could just ask her . . .

  The baby, who had stopped its yowling when it emerged from the cloak, started crying again—a thin, piercing, bloodcurdling sound that caused his brain to freeze with panic.

  “Shh.” The woman cupped its head, pressed it against her chest, and started to perform an odd little swaying, dipping dance. The infant must have found it comforting or at least distracting because, blessedly, it stopped howling.

  He sighed in relief—and the woman’s right brow winged up.

  Is that a glint of calculation in her eyes?

  “She’s hungry. Any moment now she’ll start really screaming.”

  Definitely calculation. She knew exactly what would most strike terror into his heart.

  He tried to wipe his sweaty palms discreetly on his breeches. “Can’t you feed her?”

  The woman smiled—rather evilly, he’d say.

  “No, I can’t. She’s not mine. I brought her with me when I came to get help because she’s too young to be out in the cold for any length of time.” She scowled again. “And we are wasting precious seconds. Her mother and brother—as well as the others—are still in the coach. If you cannot help, sir, tell me where I may find someone who can.”

  Right. He could sort out who she was later. “I’ll get some men and go at once. Where precisely is the stagecoach?”

  She smiled briefly, her expression easing. “Just past the gates. We were on our way to Marbridge when some drunken idiots took the reins and sent us into a ditch, breaking an axle.”

  No using the stagecoach to tow the travelers up to the house, then.

  “Are there any injuries?” That would make things more difficult.

  “No, thank God. The coach stayed upright. Everyone is all right, but cold”—she scowled again—“and getting colder.”

  It was his turn to frown in puzzlement. “But if they aren’t injured, why didn’t they come along with you?”

  That provoked a snort, startling the infant.

  “Shh.” The woman bounced and soothed the baby before replying. “The coachman thinks your master is too cold-hearted to care about people”—she glared at him—“in desperate need. He told me not to bother coming up here for help.”

  Now it was Nick’s turn to snort. Coldhearted described his uncle to a T. The man had been a stiff-necked, supercilious, sanctimonious zealot who sucked the faintest glimmer of fun out of any room he entered. His face would likely have shattered had he smiled.

  But the coachman must know I’m the viscount now. . . .

  Good God, I’ve not become Uncle Leon, have I?

  The woman frowned. “I cannot believe any Englishman—even a peer . . .”

  Even a peer?

  “. . . would turn away children in need, but if you fear your master might, I will be happy to have a word with him”—she speared Nick with her lovely eyes—“after everyone is safe.”

  Should I tell her who I am?

  Too late. His guests, likely wondering what was keeping him, spilled out into the entry.

  “What’s going on, Nick?” Bertram asked.

  The woman sucked her breath in sharply at his name. Her eyes widened with . . . horror? Disappointment?

  Definitely recognition—and beyond the simple acknowledgement that he was the viscount. She knew his Christian name. They must know each other, but then why couldn’t he remember who she was? He didn’t usually forget beautiful women.

  Felix let out a long, low whistle. “Well, look what the snow blew in.”

  The woman scowled at Felix and then addressed the others. “There’s been an accident,” she said. “I was trying to get Lord Oakland—”

  That was definitely said with loathing. What did she have against the peerage?

  “—to mount a rescue. There are several people stranded in the cold, including this baby’s mother and young brother.”

  The infant started squawking again—Nick wouldn’t put it past the woman to have given the child a little poke—to underline the need for haste.

  “The poor mite’s hungry,” Polly said.

  “Yes.” The woman glared at him again. “And will just scream louder and louder until someone rescues her mother.”

  “Right.” Whoever she was, she was correct—it was past time to take action. He looked at the other men. “Bert, Felix, will you come with me? I need to alert the servants to harness the sleigh and prepare for our new guests, and then we can set out.”

  He did his best to repress a shudder at the thought of going out into the cold snow.

  He looked back at the woman. “I’m on my way to the coat room. Do let me take your cloak, Miss . . .”

  She was looking at the baby. “Anderson,” she said.

  Anderson . . .

  Good God!

  Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s a common name.

  But those eyes—

  Now he knew where he’d seen them before. It had been years ago, in a young girl’s face.

  From the time he was eleven until he turned fifteen, he’d avoided the echoing halls of Oakland by going home at school holidays—except Christmas—with his friend, Henry Anderson. The Anderson house had still been in England, of course, so still cold and damp and dark to a boy raised in Venice. But it had also been crowded and noisy and full of activity. Henry had three older brothers and many younger siblings—the next younger one being this woman.

  Caroline . . . Caro! That was her name. She’d been strong and fearless then, too, and had insisted on being included in all their activities. He’d liked her—had come to think of her as just another boy, which back then had been rather a compliment.

  She didn’t look anything like a boy now.

  He slipped her cloak off her shoulders as she juggled the baby. The fabric was heavy enough to be warm, but it wasn’t luxurious by any means, and the cloak’s style and cut—and that of her dress—were serviceable rather than fashionable.

  “Will you hurry along?” she asked as soon as she was free. The sharpness of her tone must have bothered the baby, because it—no, she—started to cry again. “Shh, Grace.” Caro shot him a look before addressing the baby again. “The nice man will get your mother very soon.”

  Well, he’d been given his marching orders, hadn’t he?

  “On my way. Go into the sitting room and get warm by the fire. I’ll send the baby’s mother in as soon as we get back.”

  She gave him a pointed look that promised a rain of hellfire if he didn’t make haste, and then she and the other women disappeared into the sitting room.

  “Come on.” Nick gestured for Felix and Bertram to follow him.

  “Now there’s a very fine piece,” Felix said as they strode down the corridor. “Those eyes. That skin. Those—” He held his hands open at chest level, fingers curved. “The dress is a fright, but I’ll wager a good sum that what’s underneath is well worth the unwrapping.”

  A surprising
ly strong bolt of annoyance shot through Nick. “Watch your tongue.”

  Tongue ...

  Oh, hell, what was the matter with him? It was a bloody figure of speech. He shouldn’t suddenly be thinking of tangling tongues with Caro—if the woman was indeed the Caro Anderson he’d known. She’d likely bite him hard enough to draw blood and then, for good measure, knee him so his voice rose an octave.

  Felix’s—and Bertram’s—brows shot up.

  “Have your eye on her yourself, do you?” Felix shrugged. “Well, then, of course I won’t try to seduce her.”

  “I do not have my eye on her.” At least he wouldn’t admit it. “And neither should you.” He wouldn’t tell them who he thought she was. “She seems to be a respectable female, not available for any sort of dalliance.”

  Felix snorted. “Traveling alone on the stagecoach? I think not.”

  “It does seem unlikely, Nick,” Bertram said.

  Nick frowned, opened his mouth to argue—

  And stopped. He hadn’t seen Caro in over a decade. He knew nothing about this woman.

  “We don’t know she’s alone. She could be the baby’s nanny.” Ah, yes. That must be it. He had a vague memory of Henry telling him, when their paths had crossed several—well, many—years ago, that Caro had gone to London to be a nursemaid.

  The woman certainly seemed to know what she was doing with the baby and was fiercely protective of it.

  What else is she fierce about?

  An extremely salacious image of her blue eyes and smart mouth smiling up at him, hair spread across his pillow, as he—

  Stop it!

  He was years beyond trying to get under the skirts of every woman he met. He’d played the rake for a while, in large part to shock and embarrass his uncle. Not a comfortable or admirable thing to admit, but true. When his uncle had died, the mad urge to fornicate at every opportunity had left him. Mindless swiving didn’t give him any real pleasure, but instead left him feeling oddly empty and dissatisfied.

  “Nannies need a bit of tupping, too,” Felix said. “She’s not a young girl, Nick, and likely not a virgin. Too much fire to her.” He grinned. “I wager she’d scorch my sheets. Don’t be a dog in the manger. If you aren’t interested, let me give her a go.”