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nose all red, and no one came to visit."
Her nose was indeed pinkish and puffy. She was indignant that he
stayed away, an astounding enough discovery. "Did you really miss me?"
he asked, and stepped back from another swipe of her boot.
"Then you weren't out on Hounslow Heath?"
"Of course not, there's a band of robbers out Why you, you dastard!
You thought I was holding up carriages! You thought I would steal for
money! You, you& " She couldn't think of words bad enough.
The viscount held up his hands. "Well, you kept thinking I was a loan
merchant and a rake."
"You were, and you are!" she yelled, trying one last kick. This one
connected quite nicely with his kneecap. She limped into the house while
Willy tipped up the barrel and Wally helped the viscount to it.
"So what'll it be, gov, apple dumplings or rum pudding?" Willy asked,
enjoying himself immensely.
Forrest grimaced. "Humble pie, I suppose."
Only one of the other men snickered. The rest were in sympathy for the
toff who'd been rolled, horse, boots, and saddle, by a slip of a girl. The
brotherhood of man went deeper than class lines.
Wally scratched his head. "You insulted her good this time, gov. She
won't be getting over this one half quick."
One of the other footmen called out, "Aw, some posies're all it'd take.
You can see she's daft for 'im."
"Nah," a groom disagreed, spitting tobacco to the side, "she's got half
the swells in London sendin' her boo-kets. Ain't I delivered a dozen here
myself? It'll take a lot more'n that to win 'er back."
"G'wan, wotta you know? You ain't had a pretty gal smile at you in dog's
years. A little slap and tickle, that's all it takes to get 'em eatin' out o' your
hands like birds."
"You English, what do you know about amour? the French valet from
across the street put in. "It is the sweet words, the pretty compliments a
mademoiselle craves."
"But Mischief ain't like other girls."
"What did you say?" Now the viscount was willing to allow a ragtag
group of servants to discuss his personal life. At least until his knee
stopped throbbing enough for him to walk away without falling on his
face. In his current disheveled state, most of the men did not even
recognize him. "What did you call her?" he demanded.
Willy answered. "You wouldn't want anybody here using her real name,
would you? And we couldn't go calling the bet-recorder 'my lady,' could
we? 'Sides, Mischief seemed to fit."
"You don't have to worry, gov," Wally added, "no one here'll squeak beef
on her neither, not if they know what's good for them."
The other men were quick to swear their mummers were dubbed. A
little gossip in the tap room wasn't worth facing the Minch brothers.
'Sides, Mischief was a real goer, a prime 'un. They wished her the best. If
this rumpled cove with the beard-shadowed face was the best, well, she
wasn't like other fillies.
Only one of the workingmen in the courtyard did not pledge his silence.
This fellow, the same one who snickered before, was edging his way to the
rear gate before the viscount took a closer look at the company. Willy saw
the bloke creeping away and stopped him with a "Hey, where do you think
you're going?"
Wally snagged the little man by the muffler he had wound around his
head and neck. The runt made a dash for the gate, leaving his scarf in
Wally's hands, but Willy tackled him, sat on him, and punched those
rabbity teeth, and a few others, back down his throat. "That was just in
case you thought of talking to anybody about any of this," Willy warned.
"And it looks better, too."
He tossed Randy over the garden wall like a jar of slops, then wiped his
hands.
"Who was that?" Lord Mayne asked.
"Just the driver for that old bat who comes every once in a while. He
won't be bothering no one hereabouts again, that's for sure."
The other men lost interest as soon as the squatty fellow went down.
They were back to discussing the gentry cove's chances with Mischief and
placing bets on the outcome. It was just like White's, Forrest realized, for
speculating on another's privacy and gambling on someone else's
misfortune. As the debate went on as if he weren't there, Forrest also
decided that clothes definitely made the man; he was certainly not getting
his usual respect, here in this disheveled rig.
"Oi still say if she wants 'im, it don't matter what 'e does. And if she
don't want 'im, it still don't matter what 'e does."
"Nah, Missy's got bottom, she'll give a chap a chance to prove hisself.
She won't be fooled by no pretty words 'n trinkets. Man's sincere, she'll
know."
"Pshaw, they ain't mind readers, you looby. Gent's got to prove hisself,
all right. An' the only way a female's ever been convinced is with a ring."
A hush fell over the enclosed space. Those were serious words, fighting
words, church words almost. It was one thing to tease a man when he was
bowed and bloodied, but a life sentence? It was bad luck even to talk
about. Half the men spit over their right shoulders. The French valet
crossed himself. The viscount groaned.
Willy and Wally looked at him and grinned. The viscount did not have
to be a mind reader, either, to know what they were thinking. He groaned
again. Wouldn't Sydney make one hell of a duchess?
22
The Duchess Decides
« ^ »
urrender did not come easily to an ex-navy officer. Faced with
S
overwhelming odds, though, the viscount gave up. He did what any brave
man would when conditions got so far beyond his control; he sent for his
mother. On Bren's behalf.
Now, Lady Mayne may have had the finest network of information
gathering outside the War Office, but she was itching for first-hand
reconnaissance. She heard all about the encroaching females who were
hovering on the edge of scandal, clinging to respectability by her son's
fingers and her own name as social passport. She would have believed any
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