"Sergeant?" Wellington was watching him intently. "What say you? Will you carry out my orders, or will you not?"
Ross gave the letters a final glare before drawing himself to attention. "Yes, General," he said, mentally consigning the older man to perdition even as he snapped off a sharp salute. "I will carry out your orders."
One
London,
England 1813
"No, no, no, my lord," Miss Adalaide Terrington exclaimed, prying her pupil's fingers from about the delicate china cup. " 'Tis a cup of tea you are holding, not a mug of ale! Relax your grip, else you will shatter the cup."
"Y-yes, Miss Terrington," the terrified young man stammered, the tortuous knot of his cravat bobbing up and down as he swallowed. "As—as you say, Miss Terrington."
"Very good," Addy said soothingly, fighting the urge to box his ears. She and the newest Earl of Hixworth had been hard at work all morning, and her patience, never strong under the best of circumstances, was wearing dangerously thin. Gritting her teeth, she drew a deep breath and began anew.
"Now," she said, sitting back in her chair and fixing him with her sternest look, "let us pretend you are taking tea with a lady, Lady Devington, let us say, and—"
"Lady Devington?" the dandy squeaked, his pale eyes widening in horror. Too late Addy recalled his puppy crush on the haughty beauty, and before she could recant he clenched his fingers, shattering the tiny teacup and sending bits of china and drops of tepid tea flying.
Addy watched the unfolding catastrophe with glum resignation, mentally congratulating herself for her foresight in not serving the tea at its proper temperature. Scalded pupils seldom gave good references.
"It's all right," she said, reaching for the bell pull. "No, don't cry," she added when his chin began wobbling precariously. "How many times must I tell you, gentlemen do not cry."
"I am sorry, Miss Terrington," he said, blinking back his tears and struggling manfully not to disgrace himself. "I shall endeavor to do better. You—you won't tell anyone, will you?" He cast her a look of earnest appeal.
Behind the lenses of her spectacles, Addy raised her blue eyes heavenward in a mute plea for forbearance. "Of course not, my lord," she said, assuming her most haughty demeanor. "I am your instructress, and as such, I am sworn to secrecy."
"You are too kind, ma'am," he responded, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief. "But the simple truth is I'm no good at this Society taradiddle, no good at all. The very thought of being in the same room as a lady makes me quake with fear, upon my soul, it does."
As this was a confidence she had heard many times in the past, Addy had a soothing reply at the ready. "We all have our fears, Lord Hixworth," she said calmly, "but it falls to us to conquer them. And for your information, I am quite certain many of those young ladies you go in such terror of are every bit as afraid of you as you are of them. After all, you are an earl, and heir to one of the most respectable titles in England."
He looked much struck by that. "I am, aren't I?"
"Indeed," she assured him, ladling on the sauce with a liberal, if not altogether honest, hand. "And you are by far one of the most graceful dancers it has ever been my privilege to partner. You have mastered the quadrille, have you not?"
The earl rubbed his nose and looked thoughtful. "Monsieur Rochelles did say I have a pretty leg," he allowed, a cautious note of optimism creeping into his voice.
"And I heard Mr. Lauretens remark that you sit a horse like an Ajax," Addy agreed, happy to be telling the truth about something, at least. "So you see, sir, you have much to recommend you as un parti par excellence. There isn't the slightest reason for you to fear a mere tea party, is there?"
"No," he said, giving a decisive nod. "No, by Jove, there's not. Thank you, Miss Terrington." And he beamed at her like a proud schoolboy.
An hour later the now delighted earl took his leave, showing off his newfound confidence by kissing Addy's hand. The door had scarce closed behind him before Addy's aunt, Lady Matilda Fareham, who always acted as chaperon during the instruction sessions, glanced up from her knitting.
"Really, child, I do not see how you can abide feeding that dolt's vanity as you do," she chided, a look of disapproval stamped on her lined features. "Have you no shame?"
"Very little, as a matter of fact," Addy replied, unfazed by her aunt's scolding. "And there's no harm in flattering another person when it's all to the good. However rough his manners, Lord Hixworth is possessed of a generous heart. I shall have to make certain to find him an heiress who will appreciate it."
"It is your own heart you should be looking after, if you want my opinion," Lady Fareham said, shaking her knitting at Addy. "You are scarce out of your girlhood, and a beauty as well. You ought to be keeping a string of beaus dangling after you, instead of bear-leading a bunch of cubs through Season after Season."
Addy hid a grin at the overly generous description of herself. "And you dare have the cheek to accuse me of employing false flattery," she said, chuckling as she poured herself a cup of tea. "Come, ma'am, we both know I am five and twenty, possessed of features no more than passingly fair, and am accursed with hair as red as it is unruly."
"Furthermore," she added, before her aunt could sputter a protest, "I am also a sharp-tongued bluestocking, a termagant of the first water, and I am, or so I have heard Reginald claim too many times to number, completely ineligible as a bride."
Lady Fareham thrust out her bottom lip in a pout. "You needn't sound so pleased with yourself," she grumbled.
"Oh, but I am pleased," Addy said, her eyes dancing with satisfaction. "A chit still considered on the Marriage Mart should never experience half the freedom as I do. Nor would she be permitted to instruct gentlemen in the refined arts, however ably chaperoned. Why, before I put on my caps and began spouting Latin at anyone who would listen, there was even unpleasant gossip when I showed Cousin Teddy how to go about. Cousin Teddy, of all people!" She shook her head at the vicious rumor that had had all the cats dining on her reputation two Seasons earlier.
"Perhaps," Lady Fareham conceded truculently, "but I still—"
The sound of a terrible commotion from the front hall drowned out the rest of her observation, and even as Addy was leaping to her feet to investigate, a voice called out excitedly.
"Miss Terrington! Miss Terrington! Come quickly!"
Not knowing what she would find, Addy snatched up the poker from the fireplace and dashed out into the hall to protect the household from whatever was menacing them. She found her staff crowded into the entryway, huddled around a figure lying sprawled on the stoop.
"Who is it?" she asked, crowding closer for a better look.
"I don't know, miss," Williams, the butler, said, kneeling beside the prone man. "A sergeant in the Rifles, I should say, judging from his uniform."
Addy gently elbowed the housekeeper aside and knelt on the other side of the unconscious man. "Is he drunk?" she asked, taking in his travel-stained and somewhat threadbare appearance with a worried gaze.
"I don't know, miss, but I do not believe so," Williams replied, gently turning the man onto his back. "There's no smell of the drink to him, and truth to tell, he doesn't look the sort to get jug-bit."
Addy shot him an incredulous look, wondering if her major-domo had taken temporary leave of his senses. The unconscious man on the ground was as rough and crude as any she had ever seen, and to her gaze he gave every appearance of being precisely the sort to lose himself in a bottle . . . after first losing himself in the arms of the nearest available doxy. Then she looked at his face, and in his harsh and utterly masculine countenance, she could see the truth of Williams's observation.
He was handsome enough, she mused objectively, and his high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and finely shaped blond brows gave mute testimony to an ancestry that was far more aristocratic than his humble rank would seem to indicate. But it was his stern mouth and strong jaw that caught and held her attention, for these were to her
the true indication of his character. Both bespoke a strong will and indomitable spirit, and she found it difficult to believe that a man possessing those traits would drink himself into a stupor. No, there had to be more to it than that, she decided, laying her hand on his lean cheek.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, snatching her fingers back at once. "The poor man is burning with fever!"
Williams scrambled back from the man in horror. "He is diseased? " he gasped, a look of revulsion twisting his usually impassive features.
Her concentration now fully centered on the sergeant, Addy did no more than send him a disapproving scowl. "He is ill, Williams; there is a difference." She glanced up and caught the eye of one of the footmen. "Go at once for Dr. Trevey," she ordered, "and ask him to come as quickly as he is able. The others of you help carry the sergeant into the house."
"Adalaide, you can not mean to bring this—this person into our home," Lady Fareham protested, even as the young footman dashed off to carry out Addy's instructions. "Why, we know nothing of him, not even his name! He could be anyone!"
"Precisely, Aunt," Addy replied, her mind firmly set. "He could be anyone, including one of my beloved brothers. Were one of them to be in such a state, I should hope whoever found them would do all in their power to render them every assistance."
"Well, at least try to learn something of him," her aunt returned, impatiently acknowledging Addy's point. "He could have family nearby, and was trying to reach them when he collapsed."
Since this seemed only logical, Addy began cautiously patting the sergeant's pockets. Inside his uniform jacket she found a letter and drew it out, her eyebrows rising when she saw it was addressed to her. Her eyebrows rose even higher when she turned the letter over and saw the seal pressed into the red wax. Good heavens! she thought in astonishment. Why on earth would Lord Wellington be writing her? She broke the wax seal and unfolded the letter. When she was finished reading, she carefully refolded it and rose to her feet.
"Please put his lordship in my father's old room," she said coolly. "I will be upstairs in a few moments."
"His lordship?" Lady Fareham repeated, stepping aside as the footmen hurried forward. "You mean you have learned who he is?"
"Yes, I have," Addy answered, keeping an eagle eye on the footmen as they struggled into the house with their burden.
"Well?" her aunt demanded when Addy refused to elaborate. "Who is he, then?"
"He is Viscount St. Jerome. I am to turn him into a gentleman," Addy said, and then scurried after the footmen, ignoring her aunt's cries for further intelligence.
Images exploded in Ross's mind, bright and deadly as the flash of cannon fire in battle. He could see his mother's face as she bent down to kiss him, her green eyes, which she had bequeathed him, soft with love and affection. He saw his father's face as he'd last seen it, wasted and thin with illness as he lay dying. Even his uncle's face swam before him, pinched and full of haughty pride as he ordered Ross to join him in London.
There were other faces as well. The faces of the men he had served with, men he had seen die horrifying deaths, and men he had been forced to kill as he'd fought desperately for his life. These last images troubled him most, and he moved his head restlessly as he sought to escape them.
"It's all right," he heard a voice say as a cool cloth was laid on his forehead. "You're in England now. It's all right."
England? Ross frowned fretfully and decided the voice was mistaken. He was in Spain, preparing for the siege at Badajoz. The general had given him orders to . . . to . . . His brows knit in thought as he struggled to capture the elusive memory.
"The fever seems to be breaking," the voice said, sounding pleased. "Perhaps that pest of a doctor knew what he was about after all. I should never have credited it."
"Please, miss, do go along now," another voice spoke anxiously. "It ain't proper, your being here. Her ladyship will screech like a cat do she hear of it."
"Then we shall have to make certain she never hears of it, won't we?" the first voice returned, and Ross grinned at the sharpness of vinegar in her tone. Clearly the lady was a force to be reckoned with, and Ross wondered what she looked like. Perhaps when these accursed wars were ended, he would return to England and see if he could find her. It had been many years since he'd last flirted with a lady . . .
When he next regained consciousness Ross was able to open his eyes, and what he saw had him blinking in astonishment. The room he was in was nearly as fine as the rooms he'd glimpsed at his uncle's house. The walls were covered in rich, green damask, and the furnishings he could see were constructed of delicately crafted mahogany that gleamed in the light of the dancing fire. Ross stared at the flames in confusion, trying to remember how he might have come to such a place.
His last clear memory was being in a filthy dockside taverna, waiting for transportation to England. General Wellesley had arranged a cabin on the first available ship for him and the two officious fools who'd come to collect him.
"The general!" Ross bolted up in bed, only to collapse with a moan as the room did a sickening whirl about him.
"There are no generals here, my lord, and that will teach you not to make any more foolish moves."
The voice Ross remembered from the first time he'd awakened sounded to his right, and he cautiously turned his head to find a young woman sitting beside his bed.
His first thought was that she looked like an elf. She was tiny, an inch or so above five feet, with delicate features and a mass of curly red hair stuffed beneath a starched muslin cap. A pair of gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on her snub nose, and behind the lenses a pair of bright blue eyes regarded him with frank speculation. Ross stared at her for several seconds before blurting out the first words to cross his mind.
"Who the devil are you?"
"I am Miss Adalaide Terrington," she replied, her soft voice surprisingly firm. "The Earl of Wellington has instructed me to prepare you for Society."
Years of hiding every emotion were all that kept Ross from gaping at her like a slack-jawed idiot. Perhaps the illness he was suffering had affected his reasoning, he thought, studying the young woman warily. Wellington had made no mention of an instructor, and he certainly hadn't said anything about that instructor being a female. Then he remembered the final order the general had given him, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"You 're A. Terrington?" he demanded coldly.
"Yes, Adalaide Terrington, as I have already explained," she replied, frowning at him in obvious displeasure. "Are you feeling quite the thing, my lord? Dr. Trevey assured me that the fever shouldn't affect your mental faculties, but one never knows. Perhaps I should send for him and—"
"There's no need to fetch a doctor, Miss Terrington, I am fine," Ross interrupted, shoving his hair off his forehead with a shaking hand. In truth, he felt like bloody hell, but he wasn't so lost to the proprieties as to admit such a thing to a lady; even a lady as appallingly blunt as this one appeared to be. He was also loath to admit he was in anything other than fighting trim. Something told him this one would be quick to take advantage of any weakness.
"That is good," she returned with an approving nod. "For we've much to accomplish, and precious little time in which to accomplish it. We'll begin by ascertaining your current level of knowledge. What is the correct way to address a duke?"
"The devil!" Ross exclaimed, wondering if perhaps she was the one whose mental faculties weren't all that they should be.
"No, it's 'your grace,' actually," she returned calmly. "A duke might well indeed be a devil, especially a few of the royal ones, but one must never address a duke as such. An earl is properly styled as 'my lord,' as is a marquess, and a viscount. A baronet is never addressed as 'my lord,' but is rather called—"
"I don't give a tinker's damn what he's called!" Ross interrupted, more certain than ever that he was in the presence of a Bedlamite. "I'm not learning this rot!"
"Of course you are. How else do you expect to get on
once you take your seat in the House of Lords?"
The calm question and the superior look accompanying it had Ross cursing Wellington anew. On the journey from London the talk was all of the debate before Parliament, and what would happen if Old Nosey, as most of the troops called the general, was to be recalled. Even half dead from the fever raging through him, Ross had attended their words, and the fear and unease he'd heard had made him that much more determined to do all in his power to prevent that from happening. The pox take the general and Miss Terrington, he thought sourly. He was well and truly trapped.
"That is better," she said. It was plain by the smug look on his inquisitor's face that she correctly took his sullen silence for acquiescence. "Now, as I was saying, a baronet is not a lord, but rather is referred to as 'Sir.' Is that clear, or shall I write it down for you?"
" 'Tis clear, and 'tis something I already knew," Ross replied with a disgruntled scowl. "The first thing a common soldier learns is what to call his betters. One mistake, and he could find himself lashed to the whipping post."
That seemed to take her aback. "I see," she said after a few moments. "Well, you needn't fear I shall be quite that severe, my lord. Do you know as well the proper ranking for titles?"
"Aye," Ross said, and proved it by rattling them off for her. His answers must have met with her approval, because she quickly moved on to the next topic.
"Your solicitor came by while you were sleeping, and he was most upset. It seems you gave him and his associate the slip at the docks, and they feared you'd met with some unpleasantness. Taking into account the fact you were suffering the effects of the fever, I must take leave to tell you that such things are simply not done. You're a viscount now, and you've obligations to the title and to those under your protection."
She continued prattling on, setting down an eye-popping list of what she called his duties. Ross listened in mounting resentment, his temper held tightly in check. When she paused for breath, he spoke for the first time.
The Scotsman and the Spinster Page 2
