The Merry Viscount

by Sally MacKenzie

  He studied her as she cleared her throat, shifting in her chair as if she were suddenly uncomfortable.

  I hope she hasn’t blamed herself all these years for what happened.

  If anything did happen. All he knew for certain was she had left London under a cloud.

  In any event, she’d clearly made the best of her situation. She was still assertive—her big, blue eyes still threatened to swallow you whole and spit you out in little pieces if you were acting like a fool. But it couldn’t have been easy to go off on her own.

  He smiled to himself. He was quite sure Caro would scoff at easy.

  “It concerns my fellow travelers—well, one traveler in particular. Or I hope only one.”

  Ah. And now they were finally back to the place where this conversation had been supposed to begin. “As I have no idea who was in the stagecoach—and who is now in my house—you will have to be a bit more explicit.”

  Caro frowned briefly and then nodded. “Yes. Well, as I said before, I actually know next to nothing about them. There’s the coachman, of course, and the two men who got on at the Crow”—she scowled—“and sent us into the ditch. They rode outside, so I got only a very brief glimpse of them when they ran up just as the coachman was closing the door and then again after we crashed. And then there’s Mrs. Dixon, of course, and her children. They boarded at the Crow also.”

  Ah, Mrs. Dixon. Now there was a puzzle.

  “Why is she traveling with such a young baby at Christmastime—and in a snowstorm?” He didn’t know anything about children, especially infants, but common sense would counsel—and events as they had unfolded had proven—that it would have been far wiser for her to have stayed safe at home or, if she’d already been on the road, then safe inside the warm, dry Crow.

  Caro’s brows wrinkled. She looked as puzzled as he was. “I don’t know. She told the coachman she had to get to Marbridge before Christmas, but she didn’t give a reason.”

  Another problem. He let out a long breath and took a sip of brandy. “Very well. I assume she’ll tell us once she’s settled—or her son will. He seems an articulate child. If it’s truly something that can’t be delayed, I might be able to send her and her family on in my sleigh, but it’s still snowing, and Marbridge is farther than I would think anyone—especially a woman with a baby and a young son—would wish to travel in an open conveyance.”

  And he was relatively certain it was farther than Walters would wish to drive—or, more to the point, wish the horses to travel. Nick didn’t know Walters well—he hadn’t been on the estate when Nick was growing up—but every head groom Nick had ever known valued horses far more than people.

  Caro nodded. “If she doesn’t, I’ll ask. Perhaps it is a matter we can address here.”

  He knew Caro meant “we” in a general sense, but he was surprised at the pleasure he felt at hearing her say the word.

  Ridiculous. They weren’t and would never be a “we.”

  Why not? You could marry—

  Alarm sprang awake in his chest. It tried to get his heart pounding and his thoughts rushing to the battlements with a supply of evasions and arguments.

  Alarm was unsuccessful. Perhaps it was the fire or the solitude or the brandy, but his heart and thoughts, like cows chewing their cud as walkers passed through their field, placidly watched alarm rush by.

  Ha! Alarm said huffily. Just see. If you aren’t careful, you’ll get caught in parson’s mousetrap.

  Absurd. Being alone with a mature woman who wasn’t a whore, enjoying her company in a completely nonamorous way—

  Well, not completely nonamorous. He wasn’t dead. Of course his heretofore somnolent cock was awake and interested, but in a pleasant, lazy sort of way, since it—and he—knew Caro was not available for dalliance. He would just enjoy the thrum of desire, and perhaps tonight he would be able to entertain Livy properly.

  Thinking idly—very idly—of marriage did not mean he’d be waiting at the altar soon—or ever.

  Though talking to Caro did soothe the pain of seeing that bloody statue and discovering Leon’s black-hearted hypocrisy.

  He’d never before talked about his uncle like that with anyone.

  True, but he’d vowed years ago never to wed. If he married, he might have a son, and he didn’t want to give Leon the satisfaction of continuing his direct line.

  Uncle Leon is dead.

  Nick frowned. Yes, but the principle still held.

  In any event, he thought Caro was just as uninterested in marriage as he. And should he be foolish enough to attempt anything of a lascivious nature, he was quite confident she’d firmly and unequivocally make her displeasure known, even without access to a heavy, lewd statue with which to whack him.

  “We don’t want her fretting,” Caro was saying. “It might affect her milk, and that would be very bad for little Grace.”

  Nick grunted. He had no opinion—nor any knowledge—about nursing mothers.

  But if you married Caro, you might.

  Zeus! What was the matter with him?

  It must be his cock talking.

  Blessedly, Caro moved on from Mrs. Dixon.

  “There’s an older, married couple,” Caro said. “Humphrey and Muriel. I don’t know their family name. They’re on their way to Marbridge for the annual Christmas gathering of Muriel’s sisters.” Her lip curled. “And then there’s the clergyman.”

  Aha! They must have finally reached the problem. People did not usually look quite so disgusted by the clergy, though he’d certainly encountered one or two or three whom he’d not be surprised to see hobnobbing with Uncle Leon in hell.

  She scowled and leaned closer. She really was rather splendid when she was incensed.

  All right, she was rather splendid all the time—she just seemed to be incensed rather regularly.

  “When Mrs. Dixon tried to get on the stagecoach, the scoundrel said there was no room and that she and Edward should sit on the roof or go back into the inn!”

  Shock caused Nick to sit up straighter.

  “It’s true there was only one seat,” Caro was saying, “but Mrs. Dixon isn’t large, and Edward takes up only a sliver of space.”

  “Indeed.” Even Nick, who knew nothing about children, was appalled by the man’s—and a man of the cloth at that—callousness. “Sit on the roof with a boy and a baby? And in a snowstorm?!”

  Caro nodded as if she approved of his reaction. “To be fair, he didn’t know about the baby at that point. Mrs. Dixon had covered Grace with her cloak.” Her brows slanted down. “But I doubt it would have made a difference to him if he had known.”

  The more Nick thought about it, the angrier he got. Edward seemed such a quiet, well-behaved boy. Not that it would be right to put even an unruly youngster on a stagecoach roof, of course, but Nick might be better able to understand the wish to do so. But any man or woman with a heart would swallow that urge.

  And it was Christmastime, for God’s sake. One would think a member of the clergy, especially, would be charitable to children and young mothers in hardship, forced to travel at such a time. Had the man skipped over the Nativity story in his Bible?

  He’d grant he might feel a special degree of sympathy here. It had been Christmastime when Nick—a few years older than Edward was now and freshly orphaned—had had to leave the warmth of Italy and his Italian aunts and uncles and cousins for the icy cold of England and his English uncle.

  “Fortunately,” Caro was saying, “the coachman set the man straight.” She shook her head, frown deepening. “But the clergyman didn’t move over even a whisker to make room for the boy. Edward had to sit on his mother’s lap. That’s why I had Grace. I couldn’t bear to see Mrs. Dixon trying to juggle two children.”

  “Quite right.” What other woman of his acquaintance would have seen the problem, let alone offered to hold a stranger’s infant? Livy or Polly or Fanny might, he supposed, but he couldn’t think of a single Society miss who would.

  Not t
hat he spent much time with Society misses. They gave him hives.

  “So, what do you want me to do about the clergyman? Banish him to the stables? There’s a certain poetic justice in that.”

  Well, perhaps not. In the Bible story, it was the Savior, not the Devil, who’d slept in such humble surroundings. Still, a bit of hay in the clergyman’s drawers might serve as a barnyard version of penitential sackcloth, provoking the man to piety.

  Caro smiled briefly. “I doubt that’s necessary now. He doesn’t have to inconvenience himself to accommodate anyone, though he might drive you mad with his annoying habit of tossing Bible verses into the conversation.”

  That Nick could handle. “I’ll turn him over to my friend Bertram Collins. He considered a life in the church before he came into an inheritance.” Nick grinned. “I’ll wager Bertram knows a verse to undercut any the reverend might offer. The Holy Book can be remarkably contradictory if one has a mind to make it so.”

  Caro grinned back at him, her eyes gleaming with mischief—and he felt a . . . connection. Something he’d not felt for a woman before.

  No, not for. With. Something he’d not felt with a woman. There was a mutuality about this. He wasn’t hunting. She wasn’t luring. They were sharing as equals.

  It was an odd, confusing sensation.

  Or perhaps he’d merely had too much brandy. He looked at his glass.

  No. It was still half full.

  “So,” he said to break the odd rapport, “is there anything else you need me to do?”

  She stared at him blankly—and then shook her head. “Oh, it’s not the clergyman I need your help with—or at least he’s not my main concern.”

  “No?”

  “No. It’s the Weasel I’m most worried about.”

  It was Nick’s turn to stare blankly. “You have a vermin problem?”

  Her eyes widened—and then she laughed. “I don’t mean a real weasel. I mean a human weasel—the last man in the coach. He’s the one I need your help with. He, ah.”

  Her face suddenly flushed. She looked away and took a sip of brandy—her first, he thought.

  “I think . . .” She looked back at him. “That is, I feel certain . . .”

  Bloody hell. This did not sound good. And yet what could be the issue? If Caro didn’t know the fellow’s name, he couldn’t be a previous acquaintance. And it was hard to see what mischief a man could cause in a crowded coach. The only possibility Nick could imagine was that the fellow had let his hands wander, but Caro must have corrected his mistake at once. As a girl, she’d never been shy about putting an idiot male in his place.

  “Stop hemming and hawing and just spit it out,” he said, likely a bit too roughly, but it did the trick.

  “I’m afraid he’ll attack me.”

  Nick’s jaw dropped. He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

  “Uh. That’s . . .” He cleared his throat. “I mean, don’t you think you, er, might be”—he cleared his throat again—“overreacting?”

  “No.” The forceful, uncompromising word was accompanied by a piercing glare. There wasn’t the faintest hint of uncertainty in her eyes.

  “Women have to develop a sixth sense about such things, Nick. From a very early age, we learn to keep our eyes open, to be aware of everyone near us.” She gave him a slight, pained smile. “Like mice, we’re always ready to dart for safety the moment we sense the hawk’s shadow above us.”

  That sounded unpleasant—and a bit hyperbolic, frankly.

  “I usually carry a small knife in my pocket when I’m meeting with tavern keepers. I had to use it in London. The man thought I wished to sell him something other than Widow’s Brew.”

  Well, she had been alone with the fellow. No, that shouldn’t be taken as an invitation, but Nick could see how a man might make such a mistake.

  She must have read his thoughts from his expression, because her color rose. He wouldn’t have been shocked to see steam come from her ears.

  “You don’t believe me, do you? Of course you don’t. Why would you? You’re a man.” She managed to inject the word with an impressive amount of venom.

  He tried to lighten her mood. “I’m glad you noticed.”

  She didn’t take his weak joke well. Her lip curled. “And a peer.”

  She clearly did not care for the nobility, but this time her prejudice was quite unfair. “Was your tavern keeper a member of the nobility?” he asked. “Or is this Weasel?”

  Though he might agree with her low opinion of the peerage.

  Oh, it was true some titled fellows were serious men, dedicated to the good stewardship of their land and people. Some spoke eloquently in the House of Lords and worked to solve the many social and political issues the country was grappling with now that Napoleon had been defeated: famine, high food prices, unemployment, parliamentary reform. But many others were ne’er-do-wells, interested only in their own pleasure, drinking, and whoring, and gambling, and—

  And which one am I?

  Zeus! Where the hell had that thought come from?

  His situation was different. He wasn’t supposed to be the viscount. He wasn’t even supposed to be in England. If the damnable fever hadn’t taken his parents, he’d be happily elsewhere. Perhaps Italy or Greece. Definitely somewhere warm and sunny with—

  No. It wasn’t his parents’ deaths that had exiled him. It was Papa’s. Even if Mama had survived, he was all too certain Uncle Leon would have demanded she ship Nick to England. His bloody uncle would never have let his heir be raised by “foreigners.”

  Familiar anger simmered in his chest. Well, Nick would get his revenge. Uncle Leon might have had the power to drag him away from his home and family, but he’d had no power to force Nick to marry and continue the succession—not while he’d been alive and certainly not from the grave.

  Some fellow hidden among the leaves of the family tree would become the next Viscount Oakland once Nick was put to bed with a shovel. The poor chap was welcome to the bloody title.

  And who’s going to manage the estate in the meantime?

  Good Lord! He’d known coming to Oakland for Christmas had been a mistake. Well, in his defense, he wouldn’t be here if Myles’s dog hadn’t erupted all over his London townhouse.

  The estate was in perfectly good hands now. Pearson did a fine job, far better than Nick could do.

  But he’s not the viscount. He can’t take a seat in the Lords.

  Nick poured himself more brandy. He’d drown these silly, annoying, guilt-inducing notions in short order.

  “No, they weren’t, but it makes no difference,” Caro said. “You are all the same.”

  He frowned. He’d lost the train of her thought. “I beg your pardon?”

  She was scowling at him. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a woman.” She underlined the “no” by jabbing her finger at him. “I could tell I was in danger by the way the Weasel stared at me. The way he brushed against me. The way he tried to get me to sit next to him.”

  Uneasiness threaded through Nick and twisted in his gut. He’d seen behavior much like this. Oh, not in Society’s halls. There were too many fathers and brothers and uncles watching over those girls, and Society misses never went out without a chaperone or a footman dogging their heels. And he’d not seen it even at the other end of the social spectrum, in brothels. If a man made unwanted advances there—or advances he wasn’t prepared to pay for—the madam would toss him out if the girl herself didn’t do it.

  But in the middle—the shopgirls, the governesses, the maids—the women who had only themselves to rely on? Yes, he’d seen men flirt—and rather more than that—with them. He’d thought the girls had been flattered.

  Perhaps he should have paid closer attention.

  “My knife is only good as a surprise, to free myself. It’s useless if I have no safe place to run to. I’m strong, but not strong enough to fight off an angry, determined man.”

  She took a deep breath and then let it out
slowly. “I had to fight a man off once. I’m not sure I would have succeeded if someone hadn’t happened by at the crucial moment.”

  Zeus!

  Caro’s eyes glinted with fire, but there was something about them that looked haunted, too. “The miscreant said that I’d asked for it. That I’d wanted it.” Her voice grew stronger. “I did not ask for it, Nick. I did not want it. There was nothing amorous about the experience. It was an attack. And I’m convinced any pleasure the blackguard got from it was the pleasure of power, of domination. The pleasure of cruelty. The sort of feeling I imagine boys get from torturing a stray animal.”

  Dear God. “I’m sorry.” The words seemed laughably inadequate.

  She pressed her lips together, looked away—and then shrugged as if that physical movement could shed the painful memory.

  “So, perhaps you can understand my concern. Your house is large, Nick. There are too many dark corners and deserted corridors where the Weasel could waylay me.”

  Yes, there were.

  “I’ll banish him to the stables.”

  Caro shook her head. “Even if you did, it wouldn’t solve the problem. To be honest, the rest of the company doesn’t give me much confidence—including your invited male guests.” She raised a brow. “They are here for an orgy.”

  “Er, yes.” Lord, that sounded bad. What had he been thinking?

  To cock a snook at Leon.

  No.

  Well, yes.

  Am I going to let Leon rule me from the grave my entire life?

  Nick frowned and pushed the thought aside.

  “I’m afraid the orgy was rather my idea,” he said, “but I swear it was all in, er, good fun.” How daft did that sound?

  And why the hell was she suddenly smiling in a conspiratorial sort of way?

  She leaned closer. “I know, Nick. And I can help you. My plan will work to both our advantages.”

  His brainless cock perked up. Help with an orgy? Yes, please.

  He was quite, quite certain that was not the sort of help she meant.

  Unfortunately.

  “Excuse me?” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”