Nicola and the Viscount

by Meg Cabot

  The Grouser, frowning, said, "You read entirely too much, my dear. No one will be sticking needles anywhere. Good Lord, how revoltingly imaginative the young can be. And as for starvation, that is entirely your prerogative, of course. But as I did go to the trouble of securing a meal for you, I would be insulted were you not even to sample it. It isn't much, I know, but—"

  Then, going to the door, the Grouser took a tray from the hansom cab driver—if he even was a hansom cab driver, which Nicola was beginning rather to doubt, who was lurking about in the dark hallway. More likely he was a hired henchman of Lord Farelly's.

  "—it should, at least, be edible."

  And the Grouser left upon a low, rickety table in one corner of the attic room a tray, on which rested a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pitcher filled with what Nicola presumed was ale.

  "There," Lord Renshaw said with some satisfaction. "That should do admirably for the moment. And now, as I mentioned before, I had better go and let Lord Farelly know that you remain, er, committed to your cause. He will, I believe, have some business to attend to, given the circumstances."

  And then, leaving the candle so that Nicola had some light with which to see her food, the Grouser withdrew, taking the driver with him.

  Alone again in her cell, Nicola reviewed her options. They weren't many. She could, it appeared, eat her supper. Or she could save it to hurl at the head of the next person who came through the door.

  On the whole, Nicola thought more of the first option, as she was both hungry and thirsty. And who knew how long it would be before someone again turned that key?

  And so Nicola broke off a piece of the bread, and, finding it not too entirely stale, laid across it a piece of the cheese, and ate both. They were, as the Grouser had assured her, not much, but highly edible. She washed this frugal meal down with a few swallows of ale, which was most notable for its not being too bad.

  Then, when she had eaten until she was full, she lay back down upon her cot and commenced to staring at the shadows the dancing candle flame made upon the ceiling.

  "'Heap on more wood,'" Nicola said, to the oak beams. "'The wind is chill. But let it whisde as it will.'"

  Her voice, now that it had known some succor in the form of liquid refreshment, was stronger. She was quoting with some energy, "'And dar'st thou, then, to beard the lion in his den,'" when the key again turned in the lock, and this time not the Grouser, but his son, slipped into Nicola's prison cell.

  She sat up at once to whisper, "Harold, are you here to rescue me?"

  Harold, though he laid a finger to his lips, said, "No, no. I've only come to see how you fare."

  Disappointed, Nicola lay back down and said, moodily, "If you aren't here to set me free, then I have nothing to say to you."

  "Nicola." The Milksop lifted an unsteady chair from a far corner of the little room, placed it by Nicola's cot, then sat upon it. "Please don't be that way. You know if I could, I would help you in a moment"

  "Do I know that, Harold?" Nicola asked him. "No, I don't think I do. I think that you, Harold, are incapable of thinking about anyone but yourself?'

  The Milksop looked almost as hurt as he had the time she had put a garden snake down his trousers.

  "Now, Nicola, that simply isn't true. If it were, would I be here? Not on your life. But you must know, escape is impossible. That horrid Grant is downstairs, quite watching the door."

  "Grant?" Nicola asked. Then she sank back against her hard pallet. "Oh, I suppose you mean the driver."

  "Right. He's a great, strong brute, Nicola. Even if I did manage to sneak you from here, there's only one way out, and he's blocking it."

  "And I don't suppose," Nicola said, "that it would have occurred to you to have gone for help."

  The Milksop looked appalled. "Help? Oh, Nicola. Then everyone would find out—"

  "Find out what?"

  "Well," the Milksop said shamefacedly, "what a monster my father is."

  "Harold," Nicola said. "What difference does it make? I thought you were running away to America."

  "I am," Harold said. "But a thing like that . . . well, it can follow a man, even across an ocean. I honestly can't afford the talk it would cause, Nicola. You understand, don't you?"

  Nicola laughed, though bitterly. "Oh, certainly, Harold. I understand that an up-and-coming designer of men's fashions can't afford to have a lot of loose talk about his father being a murderer of innocent young girls. . . ."

  "Oh, but he doesn't intend to murder you, Nicola," Harold said lightly. "They don't intend to harm you at all. They only mean to make you marry Lord Sebastian—"

  "What?" Nicola cried, sitting up fast, and again narrowly missing smacking her head against the roof beams.

  "That's right," Harold said, looking a little taken aback. "Lord Farelly, it turns out, secured a special license some time ago. He's gone out to fetch a parson. They mean to make you marry the viscount tonight, so that he can sell the abbey, since you won't do it."

  "They can't do that!" Nicola swung her legs from the bed and stood up.

  "I'm afraid they can," Harold said apologetically. "Even though you're underage, my father is your guardian, so all he has to do is give permission for the match. And since, as man and wife, what's yours is his, Lord Sebastian would be well within his rights to sell the abbey, no matter what you say."

  "That's . . . that's . . . that's preposterous!" Nicola shouted, giving the rickety table that held the remnants of her evening meal a kick, so that the leftover ale sloshed over the side of the pitcher that held it. "I won't stand for it, do you hear, Harold? And I won't say 'I do.' I can promise you that!"

  Harold looked concerned. His dark eyebrows constricted in his bland, moonlike face.

  "I don't think this particular parson will care," the Milksop said. "He's a close friend of Father's. The two of them were at school together."

  Nicola let out a strangled scream, and then, much to the alarm of the Milksop, bent down and seized him by the collar of his coat.

  "Now you listen to me, Harold," Nicola said in a hiss, her face just inches from his. "And listen well. You are going to go downstairs, and you are going to make up some kind of excuse—I don't care what—and then you are going to leave here. And then you are going to go to Mayfair, where you are going to tell Lord Sheridan precisely what's happening here. Do you understand me?"

  The Milksop's pouting lips fell open. "B-but, Nicola—"

  "No, Harold," Nicola whispered hoarsely. "Not this time. You are not going to weasel your way out of this one. For once in your life, you are going to prove that you have a backbone. You are going to do the right thing. Otherwise, Harold, if I live through this, I will go to the press, and I will tell them that you were the mastermind behind the entire plot, do you hear me? How do you think your future clients in America are going to like hearing that?"

  The Milksops jowls began to quiver. He looked to Nicola to be on the verge of tears. Indeed, she could see the drops of moisture already gathering at the corners of his piglike eyes.

  "All . . . all right, Nicola," he stammered finally. "I'll . . . I'll do it. Only don't . . . don't go to the press. Please. I beg you."

  Nicola released his coat collar and took a step backward. "I won't," she said. "If you do the right thing."

  "I will," Harold said, climbing shakily to his feet. "I swear I will, Nicky."

  And then, still fighting back tears, the Milksop staggered through the door, closing it softly behind him, and then, almost sheepishly, turning the key in the lock.

  Nicola, hearing this, only stood and stared at the solid portal, her heart drumming an uneven, too-rapid beat within her chest. Because, for the first time, she was frightened. Not for herself. She'd been frightened for herself all day.

  But now she found herself fearing not for her own life, but for the lives of the people she loved. For it seemed to her that at last Lord Farelly had found a way to win, and that meant the end for Nana and Puddy, and the tena
nt farmers, and all the people who depended upon Beckwell Abbey for their livelihoods.

  Unless . . . unless Harold could somehow find a way to be a man. It was, she knew, a very slim chance. Still, it was a chance.

  And in any case, Nicola herself was as prepared as she could ever be, she supposed, for battle.

  "'Charge, Chester, charge,'" she whispered fiercely to the closed door. "'On, Stanley, on! Were the last words of Marmion.'"

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "Ah," said Lord Sebastian, after he'd flung open the door to Nicola's prison and found her seated meekly upon her cot. Leaning in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, he regarded her with no small amount of interest. "The blushing bride."

  "It's bad luck," Nicola informed him, "for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony."

  "Bad luck." Lord Sebastian chuckled, then sauntered casually into the room, having to duck a bit, because he was so tall, in order to avoid the beams overhead. "It would seem so. For the both of us. It isn't exactly my dream, you know, to marry a girl who claims to despise the very ground on which I walk."

  "Well, it isn't exactly my dream," Nicola pointed out, "to marry a man who seems to think everyone should worship the ground on which he walks."

  "Touché," the viscount said with a wry smile. He really was, Nicola couldn't help reflecting, very handsome.

  Too bad he was so well aware of the fact.

  "What do you want, my lord?" Nicola inquired from the bed. "Has your father returned with the minister?"

  "Not yet," Lord Sebastian said amiably enough as he bent to break a piece of bread off the loaf on the table. "I just thought I'd come up here and get a few things straight before, you know, the nuptials actually take place."

  "Really," Nicola said without enthusiasm, "How thoughtful of you."

  "You probably won't think so"—Lord Sebastian popped the piece of bread into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and then commenced to licking his fingers—"when you hear what I've come to say. But here goes, anyway. Number one. I am no more excited about this than you, Miss Sparks, so you can set aside any fears that you might have that I have any intention of the two of us ever living as man and wife."

  "Oh?" Nicola said politely.

  "Right. I intend to keep rooms at my club. You can reside with Mama and Honoria. I'm certain they will enjoy your company a good deal more than I ever could. All that incessant chatter about poetry!" He rolled his expressive blue eyes. "I swear, there were times I thought I might go mad if I had to listen to it any more."

  "How illuminating," Nicola said. "Pray go on."

  "Number two," the viscount continued, "you will afford me the respect and courtesy that a wife should. As your husband, I shall expect my word to be law. You will behave as I instruct you, or you will find yourself locked right back in this room quicker than you can say Jack Robinson."

  "I see," Nicola said.

  "Number three," Lord Sebastian said, ticking off each point on his fingers. "You will, at all times, maintain a neat and appealing appearance. None of this trying to put me off by failing to clean your teeth or wash your hair. You will remember that you are a viscountess, and conduct yourself accordingly."

  "Indeed," Nicola said.

  "Four, you will not squander my money on gewgaws. You will, of course, be afforded an allowance, but you will be expected to keep your spending within a certain budget. Are you getting all this?"

  Nicola nodded reverently. "Yes, my lord."

  Pleased at the apparent change in her attitude, he went on. "Number five. As far as providing me with an heir you will, of course, produce a son within the year."

  "Won't that be difficult," Nicola asked sweetly, "if we are maintaining separate residences?"

  Lord Sebastian frowned. He had evidently not thought of this.

  "We will have to have intimate contact with one another occasionally," he admitted. "Perhaps I will stay at home from my dub on Saturday and Sunday evenings."

  "That sounds a very sensible plan," Nicola said.

  Lord Sebastian smiled at finding her so complacent, and reached for a piece of cheese.

  "I can foresee," he said, chewing, "that so long as you can remember the items I just described, and keep the chatter to a minimum, you and I shall get on capitally, Miss Sparks. For you are, for all your faults of character, quite fetching to look at. Really, I never considered being married to you at all a burden. I rather looked forward to it, in fact. A man likes to have some stability in his life, you see, and having a pretty wife to come home to at the end of a long day at the races or the card table must always be considered a boon. If you can just keep that tongue of yours in check, Nicola, I would say that we have a very good chance at finding marital bliss. Don't you think?"

  Nicola, from her pallet, said meekly, "If you say so, my lord."

  "Well." Lord Sebastian regarded her with some surprise. "I do say so. I declare, Nicola, but you're being awfully obliging. I'd have had Father lock you up long ago if I'd known it was going to have this kind of effect on you. I must say, I really think we have a shot at a decent marriage, don't you?"

  Nicola smiled at him. "As good a shot as anyone, I'm sure, my lord."

  Looking immensely satisfied, Lord Sebastian said, "Well, I'm excessively glad we had this little chat." Then, with a glance at the table, he said, "I thought I saw them bring up a pitcher of ale. What happened to it?"

  Nicola, from the bed, asked, "Oh, would you like a little ale, my lord?"

  "Indeed," Lord Sebastian said. "That cheese has made me parched."

  "Well, then," Nicola said, climbing to her feet. "By all means, my lord, let me serve you, as a good wife should."

  And with that, Nicola swung back her arm, and, with all the force she could muster, brought the pitcher she'd been holding down upon Lord Sebastian's golden head.

  The clay vessel exploded, sending pottery shards and ale flying everywhere. Nicola didn't care. She hardly noticed, in fact. She had eyes only for Lord Sebastian who, not seeming to know what had hit him, stood for a moment looking dazed, ale dripping down from his blond cuds and onto the fine stitching of his silver waistcoat.

  "Hark," Nicola said. "Do you hear wedding bells, my lord?"

  Lord Sebastian nodded dumbly. Then his eyes rolled slowly back into his head, and he slumped heavily to the floor. Nicola stepped neatly out of the way, lest she inadvertently offer up a cushion for his fall, something she in no way wished to do.

  Once Lord Sebastian was stretched, unconscious, upon the floor, Nicola returned to what she'd been doing before he had so rudely interrupted her.

  And that was kicking out the wooden planks that someone had fastened across the tiny window at the far end of her cell.

  She heard, from downstairs, the Grouser call, "Lord Sebastian? Lord Sebastian, is everything all right up there?" He had undoubtedly heard the thump that had been the viscount's head hitting the floor. "Lord Sebastian, your father's here with the parson. Would you be so kind as to bring the girl down, so that we might begin the ceremony?"

  Nicola, with renewed fervor, thrust her foot through the last of the boards barring her path to freedom. Being very old and weather-beaten, they crumbled obligingly.

  "Just a moment," she called, to forestall anyone coming up to look for her. "I just want to . . . to comb my hair!"

  And then, as the cool sea air hit her face, Nicola thrust her head and shoulders through the window . . .

  . . . and found herself looking out of a dormer on a rooftop a good twenty feet in the air. All around her lay shingles and smokestacks reaching up toward the starry night sky. Below her, she could see the street, narrow and all but empty this time of the evening. Not one street away lay the docks, great sailing ships standing tall and proud in their slips, their masts rising high above the rooftops like poplars in the twilit sky.

  For the first time all day, Nicola began to see a glimmer of hope for her future.

  "See here!" Nicola heard the Grouser sh
out from behind her. Too close behind her. He was in her cell! "Where do you think you're going? And what— My God! What have you done to the viscount?"

  There was no more time to sit and admire the view. Nicola had to move, and move fast. It was a tight squeeze when it came to her hips, but she finally managed to wriggle almost all the way through the window.

  Almost all the way because, even as her knees were scraping against the rough wooden shingles, one of her ankles was seized from behind, and held in a grip of iron. For such a spindly thing, Lord Renshaw was surprisingly strong.

  "Come back here!" The Grouser called, tugging for all he was worth on her foot. "Come back!"

  But Nicola had already had too strong a taste of freedom to allow it to slip away from her now. Twisting like a cat, she managed, with a few well-placed kicks, to pry her foot at last from her guardian's hands . . . although she came away minus one of her shoes.

  "You!" The Grouser called, waving the slipper at her through the window as she limped away across the shingles—no easy feat, since many of them were rotten, and had a tendency to slide out from beneath her, skid down the sloping roof, and then fall with a clatter to the street below. "Come back here, you ungrateful chit!"

  But Nicola, having made her way across the treacherous territory, nearly losing her balance several times thanks to loose shingles, finally made it to a brick chimney some yards away. She flung both arms around it, then turned, panting, to regard Lord Renshaw in the purple gloaming.

  "I won't come back," she informed him breathlessly. "And you can't make me."

  "Oh, can't I?" Lord Renshaw shook his head. "You can't stay out there forever, you know, Nicola. Eventually it will start to rain . . . or you'll slip. You'll fall to your death, you stupid girl."

  "I don't care," Nicola retorted. "So long as I don't have to marry the viscount."

  "Marry him!" The Grouser cried. "Why, you'll be lucky if you haven't killed him. Murder's a hanging offense, you know!"

  Nicola reflected that, were she to hang for the viscount's murder, Lord Renshaw would get Beckwell Abbey after all, in the end. But she knew Lord Sebastian wasn't dead. He'd been breathing quite evenly when last she'd looked. Besides, it had only been a day pitcher. He'd wake with a headache, surely, but no shards in his skull. She doubted she'd even managed to scar his beautiful, manly head.