Minor Indiscretions

by Barbara Metzger

  The dog loved this game, with all the sights and smells. She woofed for the sheer joy of the thing. Melody kept training the gun just above and ahead of wherever Angie barked, concentrating. The girl knew she was an excellent shot, if she could only lift the heavy weapon, brace herself against the recoil, aim, and shoot in time. She also had to miss the silly dog, naturally. Miss Ashton set her entire mind to the task, blocking out everything but the dog’s baying and the trigger.

  There, Angie’s yapping was frenzied. She must really see or smell something this time, just beyond those trees. Melody had to get nearer. Walking on the damp undergrowth, she raised the rifle, disobeying her own rules about taking a firm stance. Angie kept barking, Melody kept getting closer to those trees. Maybe it was a deer. Heavens, did she want to shoot a deer? Then whatever it was started out from behind the trees. Melody sighted down the barrel and squeezed back on the trigger.

  The viscount came into the clearing where a dog was making a racket just in time to see an unholy apparition taking aim, not ten feet away. He did what any intelligent soldier would do: he dove for the ground.

  Melody was so startled—it was him, wasn’t it?—that she lowered the rifle and took a step back, onto a projecting tree root. Her foot slid, she rocked for balance, the gun went off. The recoil sent Melody flat on her back, the wind knocked out of her.

  While she lay there, too dumbfounded to move, if she could, the viscount pulled himself up and stormed over to her. Befogged, she noted his hair was longer than before, likely to cover the scar, and he was not nearly as tan. He had mud in his boots and down his shirt collar and everywhere in between, and he was in a rage, too, towering over her. His face had improved immeasurably, except for the blood dripping from a crease along his cheek, and so had his vocabulary.

  Corey did not seem to recognize her yet, which was not surprising in her disheveled state, but no matter, Melody thought, ignoring his tirade. He had come. By some wild and wondrous miracle, by some joyous, stupendous gift of fate, he had searched out her direction and come after her!

  And she’d shot him.

  Chapter Eleven

  He never helped her up, that hurt the most. No, it hurt more that he never recognized her, when Melody believed she would know Lord Corey anywhere. He never assisted her to her feet, like a gentleman would have a lady, and he never waited for Melody to recover her wits enough to beg his pardon or offer to clean his clothes or have Nanny look at the wound. Before she could garble out even one word of apology or welcome, Corey was gone. He shouted back one final, inexplicable curse: “I would rather burn in hell first, madam, but I shall return to the Oaks at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning, and by God, Miss Ashton, either you or that gallows-bait mother of yours had deuced well better be there to receive me.”

  Mama was no help. She went into hysterics at the sight of Melody, ashen-faced and mud-covered. All Lady Ashton could howl was, “We’re ruined, we’re ruined.”

  “But, Mama, we were ruined long before I shot him.”

  Then Lady Jessamyn swooned. Possibly she passed out from the amount of purely medicinal spirits she had been imbibing for her nerves, but it was an honest faint. It took the efforts of Melody, Felice, and Nanny to revive her. Of course, Nanny’s advice to prepare a speech for the gibbet did not hurry along the dowager’s recovery.

  “It was only an accident, Mama. I am sure Lord Coe will understand when he has time to reflect. We’ll put on our prettiest gowns and ask cook to prepare a special tea and—”

  “You widgeon,” Lady Ashton sobbed into her handkerchief. “He’s not here for tea! His sister was one of the Dower House sponsors. He’s here about the money!”

  That was indeed the worst hurt: Corey hadn’t come to see Melody at all. He had come to accuse her mother of stealing from orphans. First, Melody felt like crawling under a rock. Then, she wished she had shot the bounder—not fatally, of course—for thinking such things of Mama. Finally, Melody decided she would just have to be as calm and dignified as possible on the morrow, composedly explaining the situation and her efforts to rectify it…. After a good cry tonight.

  *

  Lord Coe arrived in state. The villagers’ talk be damned, he decided, and he was well past worrying over what his servants thought, not after arriving back at the inn looking as if he’d been set on by footpads. No loose tongues would wag once they were back in London either, not if his retainers wished to keep their positions. He acknowledged a touch of arrogance in wishing to intimidate these scurrilous females with his consequence, taking extra pains with his apparel, wearing dove-gray pantaloons and a new coat of blue superfine. His cravat was precise without being pretentious, according to his man, Bates, who was still ailing, but the diamond stickpin left no doubt as to his worth. Viscount Coe sat very much on his dignity, which ached after yesterday’s debacle. That was the other reason his lordship chose the padded squabs of his carriage over Caesar’s saddle. The plaster on his cheek also reminded him of the score to settle.

  The stairs were washed and swept and there was Harry, scrubbed to an inch of his life, waiting to open the carriage door, then direct the coachman to the stables. Harry’s eyes widened appreciatively at the well-matched bays, but he only touched his forelock to the viscount and stood aside.

  Lord Coe’s knock was answered immediately by a well-padded woman in spotless apron who curtsied, introduced herself as Mrs. Tolliver, the cook-housekeeper, and announced that Miss Ashton was expecting his lordship in the library, if he would please to follow her.

  The hall was sparsely furnished, but someone had gathered armloads of wild lilacs, so the house bore their delicate aroma instead of the stale air of an unoccupied dwelling. Mrs. Tolliver stopped at an open door, announced “Viscount Coe, ma’am,” and stood aside for him to enter.

  He took two steps in and halted. No, it couldn’t be. The exquisite woman rising to greet him, with her hair demurely coiled at the nape of her neck and a soft rose crepe gown…

  “Angel!” he shouted.

  Now the dog, locked safely away in the stable all morning, decamped when Harry opened the door. She raced across the unmowed lawn, through the overgrown herb garden, and in by the kitchen door, looking for her mistress. Then ‘Angel!’ someone called, and for one of the few times in her life, the hound answered to her name. With enthusiasm. Which left dirt, dog hair, and grass stains up and down the viscount’s dove-gray pantaloons, along with a generous sprinkling of what is usually found on a stable floor.

  So much for dignity, or Melody’s intentions to soothe the viscount to a conciliatory frame of mind. He was in a royal temper, and not over a mere dog.

  “You? You’re Miss Ashton? Congratulations for making a perfect gull out of me! How could I have believed there was such innocence? You are no more than a lying, cheating bitch!”

  “And how could I ever have thought you were a gentleman?” she yelled back. So much for quiet explanations.

  “What do you know of gentlemen, you jade? I’ll have you know I thought you were too pure to offer a slip on the shoulder!”

  “You what?” Melody’s screech brought Mrs. Tolliver running with a meat cleaver. She looked from her mistress, eyes flashing sparks from behind the desk, toward the viscount, who was still standing, his hands in fists at his side. The cook raised the knife and narrowed her eyes until Coe took the seat opposite Melody’s, the old desk safely between them. When the viscount was settled and nonchalantly picking dog hairs off his jacket, Mrs. Tolliver lowered the weapon “I’ll be back in a minute with the tea things,” she told him. It was a warning, not a promise.

  “You what?” Melody hissed as soon as Mrs. Tolliver was gone, leaving the door partly open.

  “You heard me. I thought you were a lady. One doesn’t make improper offers to females of breeding.”

  “Of all the disgusting, despicable—Why, I wouldn’t accept such an offer if you were the last man on earth!”

  “And I wouldn’t make it if I were! You’d li
kely murder me in my bed while we were—”

  Mrs. Tolliver brought the tea tray then and stayed to fuss with the dish of buttered scones. “One lump or two, my lord?” Melody asked sweetly.

  Her face was flushed, and her hair was coming undone, and her chest was still heaving, and the viscount couldn’t help thinking how she would look in his bed after all. He sipped his tea and choked. The minx had put at least four cubes in his cup. Corey smiled for Mrs. Tolliver’s benefit; he’d drink the sugary brew if it killed him. Yes, life would be interesting with Angel in his care. She might poison him, but he would never be bored.

  “Another biscuit, milord?” Mrs. Tolliver offered.

  “Yes, thank you. Delicious,” he replied, but he was watching Miss Ashton lick crumbs off her lip, and his smile widened. His Angel, whom he had never managed to put out of his mind, was one and the same as the corrupt, conniving Miss Ashton. A fallen angel, indeed! As soon as this other matter was concluded… He replaced his cup on the tray.

  Mrs. Tolliver left with a minatory glance at the nob who seemed to be devouring her mistress with his eyes. “I’ll be just outside the door, miss.” Melody should not have had the scone, for it was stuck in her throat, or maybe that was a sob. She would not, not ever, cry in front of this imperious, sanctimonious lecher. She reclaimed her self-control, straightened her posture, firmed her chin.

  “Now, my lord,” she declared coolly, “now that we have positively ascertained that you have not come to Copley-Whitmore to offer me carte blanche, perhaps you will explain exactly why you are here.”

  “Cut line, ma’am. You know damn well I came for the child.”

  Whatever Melody might have expected, and truly she was beyond anticipating any of this improbable conversation, that was not it.

  “You came to adopt a child?” she asked in disbelief. What would a degenerate seducer want with a child, and how could he think anyone would consider him a fit parent? “Why, pigs would fly before I let you near one of the little ones.”

  He colored at that, but replied, “Give over, do, Miss Ashton. We both know I don’t mean a child, I mean the child you have in your greedy clutches.”

  “Greedy? Why, I’ll have you know how hard I have been trying. I gave up my—”

  One long-fingered hand waved dismissively. “Spare me the histrionics, Miss Ashton. I’ve seen how you live. I have also met your mother here and there over the years: I do not know what rig you have been running, but you will not get another groat from me or my sister. Nor will there be the least hint of scandal touching my family name.”

  “Oh, it’s fine to drag my name through the dirt as bachelor fare, so long as no mud rubs off on you and yours. Is that it, my lord?”

  “No, Miss Ashton, that’s not it at all. Your family has no name to speak of, unless you consider blackmailer and extortionist enviable designations.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Please, Miss Ashton, that wide-eyed innocence won’t wash; I won’t fall for the same faradiddles twice. Now, I am growing weary of these little games, so shall we place our cards on the table? You have in your dubious care a child, a girl, I believe, whose provision my sister has been supporting with, I might add, ample remuneration for your debatable efforts. The point is moot. Such monies were not enough to satisfy you, and you sought to embarrass my family by publishing the child’s existence, unless, of course, your silence was rewarded. Have I stated the problem succinctly enough? Here is an equally simple solution: you will hand over the child without any more roundaboutation, or I shall immediately bring charges against you and your mother for extortion, with your own letters as evidence. I believe blackmail is a deportable offense.”

  Blackmail? Melody sank back in her seat, trying to make sense of his words. That part about extortion had to be an error, a misunderstanding. There was obviously a child, however, whose very being must not be disclosed, or Lord Coe would not be here. The child was plainly a by-blow then, and—Poor Meggie. It had to be the wispy little girl with hair so light she’d reminded Melody of Corey instantly. Meggie’s eyes were more turquoisy, she reflected, and the child’s makeup held nothing of the rugged vitality of this man who sat at ease across from Melody, idly brushing at his waistcoat, waiting for her reply. How very sad it was for little Meggie to be the unfortunate bastard of such an uncaring, heartless libertine. She would have done better as an orphan.

  “Well, Miss Ashton, if you have completed your survey, may I have my answer?”

  “No. That is, the answer is no, my lord. I shall not put a small child into your care. Why, I don’t think you even know her name.”

  His lordship looked away from those intent green eyes. “No, that was not in my information.”

  “It is Margaret. We call her Meggie.”

  “My mother’s name was Margo. Blast it, stop looking at me like that. I did not even know of the chit’s existence till two weeks ago!”

  Worse and worse. “Let me understand. You abandoned your own flesh and blood like an old hat, letting your sister assume responsibility, and now you think you can just come fetch her as if she were a package lost in transit? And you call me names?”

  “Confound it, girl, I am not going to sell my…my ward to white slavers, you know! I planned to send—to take her to my sister’s old governess in Cornwall.”

  “Where she will be mewed up with an old woman instead of here, where she has playmates and people who love her. I think not, Lord Coe. Further, you cannot have considered the journey.” She knew he hadn’t, likely intending to ship a frightened, homesick waif off with servants. “Meggie has a weak chest. Would you know what to do if she started wheezing at night or her lungs became congested?”

  She knew dashed well he didn’t, the little witch, Corey fumed. Oh, there were hired nursemaids and private physicians, and taking the trip in easy stages, which could take weeks. Weeks in a closed carriage with an ailing, tearful child who would most likely be motion sick the entire journey. Gads, what a coil. Still, he was not leaving any of his kin with these vultures. “I can handle it, Miss Ashton,” he blustered. “Just what do you think I am?”

  So she told him. She started with reckless reprobate and went on to debauched womanizer, with stops at self-righteous sapskull and buffle-headed bounder. She was paying him back for all of his hateful accusations and disrespect and a few shattered dreams.

  The viscount responded in kind, to the mayhem this woman had brought into his life, as well as a few disillusions of his own. They were both on their feet shouting. Miss Ashton was pounding the shaky, old desk and ranting about kettle-calling, and his lordship was wringing an imaginary neck between his hands, raving about bedlamites and blood money.

  Mrs. Tolliver slammed a tray of wine bottles and glasses on the desk between them and stood there glowering. “The twins have more decorum than you two,” she muttered. “Lucky for you Nanny’s not here. You’re not too old to have your mouth washed out with soap, either of you. Such talk, Miss Melody!” She crossed her hands over her chest and positioned herself near the door, obviously on guard duty.

  His lordship was restored to better humor by the humbling effect of old retainers, that and Miss Ashton’s mortification at being caught out as a fishwife. She was blushing furiously, starting just above the rose crepe gown’s neckline.

  “So your name is Melody,” he said pleasantly, when he could tear his eyes away. “I wondered. Angel doesn’t seem quite appropriate, under the circumstances.”

  “My name is Miss Ashton,” she snapped back. Corey raised one eyebrow in mild rebuke. He was doing his part to make polite conversation for her employee’s benefit. He lifted his glass. “Melody suits you.”

  “Not at all, my lord.” He wanted polite conversation; he would get polite conversation. “It was a conceit of my father’s, who fancied he heard a nightingale sing on the day of my birth. I must be content he did not name me for the bird.” She sipped her wine. “I myself have no talent in that direction. I was never perm
itted to sing in choir and was always delegated page turner at instrumental recitals. So you see, my lord,” she said triumphantly, “you do not know me at all. Your impressions are quite, quite wrong. As are your accusations. You have tried and convicted me without a hearing. If it were up to you, I would hang.”

  “No, ma’am, hanging’s too good for you.” Then he raised his hand. “But hold, let us not go round Robin’s barn again. I hoped to resolve this matter with the least bother to everyone, but I see it will have to be decided by cooler heads. There is a simple question of who has legal right to the child. I’ll have my man-at-law look into it, and recommend you do the same.” Now victory was his, Corey was sure. The weight of justice almost always came down on the side of money, power, and prestige. “I am confident they will find that no magistrate in his right mind would name a skitter-witted shrew and a schoolroom miss as legal guardians to helpless babes.”

  “And I am equally as certain no one would entrust the care of a guileless child to a—”

  Mrs. Tolliver cleared her throat and jerked her head toward the door. The conversation was over.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mama was wrought. Not distraught or overwrought, just wrought. “Do you mean all this time no one thought I was misusing the donations? And here I’ve fretted myself to flinders over nothing.”

  “Mama, blackmail isn’t nothing.” They were in Lady Ashton’s bedroom, and for a change Melody was limp on the chaise after the morning’s encounter with Lord Coe, while her mother paced in agitation.