enraged Papa and filled even Catherine with exasperation.
Lord Rand must have been mightily relieved to have her off his hands. The thought set off an inner flutter of pain, and her eyes began to sting. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Of all the excellent reasons she had to weep, why must the mere thought of her rescuer be the one to set her off?
Firmly she banished Lord Rand’s image from her mind to concentrate instead on her hostess. The Andover name was so familiar. Was the family connected to hers? That would hardly be surprising, when half England’s, even Europe’s, aristocracy was related to the other. Perhaps, though, the earl’s family had simply been the topic of one of Great Aunt Eustacia’s rambling dissertations on genealogy. The old lady knew her Debrett’s as intimately as she knew her Bible. As Catherine recalled the long monologues in those dim, cluttered rooms, exhaustion crept over her.
Genealogy. “Hadn’t time to discuss genealogy,” he’d told his sister in that abrupt way of his. Actually, it was rather funny, in the circumstances.
What an odd man he was, Catherine thought vaguely as her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. Lost, of course, with his drinking and wenching, like Papa, but young ... and handsome... and so strong. He’d lifted her up as easily as if she’d been one of her bandboxes.
He must have been shocked, when he had sobered himself, to realise what he’d brought home with him. Perhaps that would teach him to exercise moderation in future. With this pious thought, Catherine drifted off to sleep.
“Now who in blazes are you?” Lord Rand demanded, surveying the small, slim man before him.
His lordship had already had two nasty surprises. The first was a butler even taller than himself, whose accents hinted an intimate acquaintance with the bells of St. Mary Le Bow: a Cockney butler named Gidgeon, of all things. The second was a chef who spoke not a word of English, thereby forcing Lord Rand to rake the recesses of his mind for the French he’d determined to bury there forever along with Greek and Latin.
In front of him at present stood a mournful creature who’d been dogging the viscount’s footsteps all the way down the long hall.
“Hill, My Lord,” said the little man sadly.
“Hill,” Lord Rand repeated. “And what do you do?”
“Your secretary, My Lord.”
“What the devil do I want a secretary for? Ain’t there enough here as it is? The bloody place is crawling with servants. I’ll wager there ain’t been such a crowd in one place since Prinny married that fat cousin of his.”
“Yes, My Lord. A tragic business, that,” Hill gloomily agreed.
“You don’t know the half of it,” his lordship grumbled. “Well, what is it you do, exactly?”
“Her ladyship—Lady Andover, that is—indicated that you required assistance in managing your paperwork, My Lord. Now that you are in residence there will be a daily supply of invitations requiring responses.”
“I ain’t going to any of those fusty affairs.”
“Very good, My Lord. You are aware, I trust, that you are engaged to dine this evening with Lord and Lady St. Denys?”
“Tonight? Already? Plague take him. The Old Man don’t give me a minute to catch my breath. How the devil did he know I was back?”
“It is a regrettable fact, My Lord, that servants’ gossip travels at an alarming rate,” said Mr. Hill in dismal tones. “His lordship’s summons arrived an hour ago. I am afraid the invitation is indeed for this evening.”
“Of course it is. They can’t wait to clap the irons on me.” The viscount muttered something unintelligible, then said more distinctly, “Very well. Might as well get it over with.”
Considering the matter closed, he was about to continue on his way, but the secretary seemed to be in melancholy expectation of something more.
“Is that all?” the master asked impatiently.
“Her ladyship also mentioned that there would be numerous matters claiming
Lord Rand must have been mightily relieved to have her off his hands. The thought set off an inner flutter of pain, and her eyes began to sting. Oh, for heaven’s sake! Of all the excellent reasons she had to weep, why must the mere thought of her rescuer be the one to set her off?
Firmly she banished Lord Rand’s image from her mind to concentrate instead on her hostess. The Andover name was so familiar. Was the family connected to hers? That would hardly be surprising, when half England’s, even Europe’s, aristocracy was related to the other. Perhaps, though, the earl’s family had simply been the topic of one of Great Aunt Eustacia’s rambling dissertations on genealogy. The old lady knew her Debrett’s as intimately as she knew her Bible. As Catherine recalled the long monologues in those dim, cluttered rooms, exhaustion crept over her.
Genealogy. “Hadn’t time to discuss genealogy,” he’d told his sister in that abrupt way of his. Actually, it was rather funny, in the circumstances.
What an odd man he was, Catherine thought vaguely as her eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. Lost, of course, with his drinking and wenching, like Papa, but young ... and handsome... and so strong. He’d lifted her up as easily as if she’d been one of her bandboxes.
He must have been shocked, when he had sobered himself, to realise what he’d brought home with him. Perhaps that would teach him to exercise moderation in future. With this pious thought, Catherine drifted off to sleep.
“Now who in blazes are you?” Lord Rand demanded, surveying the small, slim man before him.
His lordship had already had two nasty surprises. The first was a butler even taller than himself, whose accents hinted an intimate acquaintance with the bells of St. Mary Le Bow: a Cockney butler named Gidgeon, of all things. The second was a chef who spoke not a word of English, thereby forcing Lord Rand to rake the recesses of his mind for the French he’d determined to bury there forever along with Greek and Latin.
In front of him at present stood a mournful creature who’d been dogging the viscount’s footsteps all the way down the long hall.
“Hill, My Lord,” said the little man sadly.
“Hill,” Lord Rand repeated. “And what do you do?”
“Your secretary, My Lord.”
“What the devil do I want a secretary for? Ain’t there enough here as it is? The bloody place is crawling with servants. I’ll wager there ain’t been such a crowd in one place since Prinny married that fat cousin of his.”
“Yes, My Lord. A tragic business, that,” Hill gloomily agreed.
“You don’t know the half of it,” his lordship grumbled. “Well, what is it you do, exactly?”
“Her ladyship—Lady Andover, that is—indicated that you required assistance in managing your paperwork, My Lord. Now that you are in residence there will be a daily supply of invitations requiring responses.”
“I ain’t going to any of those fusty affairs.”
“Very good, My Lord. You are aware, I trust, that you are engaged to dine this evening with Lord and Lady St. Denys?”
“Tonight? Already? Plague take him. The Old Man don’t give me a minute to catch my breath. How the devil did he know I was back?”
“It is a regrettable fact, My Lord, that servants’ gossip travels at an alarming rate,” said Mr. Hill in dismal tones. “His lordship’s summons arrived an hour ago. I am afraid the invitation is indeed for this evening.”
“Of course it is. They can’t wait to clap the irons on me.” The viscount muttered something unintelligible, then said more distinctly, “Very well. Might as well get it over with.”
Considering the matter closed, he was about to continue on his way, but the secretary seemed to be in melancholy expectation of something more.
“Is that all?” the master asked impatiently.
“Her ladyship also mentioned that there would be numerous matters claiming
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