Page 15 of Lord Heartless

"You have a what?” If Viscount Hartleigh had yelled any louder, the Applegate sisters next door wouldn't have had to keep their ears pressed against their windows.

"A cat, my lord, a perfectly behaved, perfectly groomed cat.” Carissa kept looking in the corners of the kitchen for her pet. What she found in the corners was better left unmentioned, but she did not spot Cleo.

"Fine, your perfect cat can go live in the stables. I'm certain there are some perfect mice just waiting for it."

Mice? Carissa instantly vowed never to visit the stables. “My cat does not eat vermin, my lord, no more than she eats trash.” Hah! Let him say as much for the hound from hell! “She is an indoor cat."

"Glad will never accept a cat in the house."

"Good, then he can go live in the stables. That's where he belongs anyway."

"And your pet doesn't? What did you do, overfeed the pampered puss so it's too fat to hunt? A cat will eat anything it can catch, Mrs. Kane. Of course, your sadistic little tabby will torture its victim first. At least leftovers don't suffer like birds and baby rabbits and squirrels and—"

"Stop it! I know very well that some cats have to hunt for their livelihood. Cleo is not one of them. She has never been out of the house since the day I found her at the doorstep as a tiny kitten, and she isn't going out now."

"What, never? Not even to ... ?"

"I have a box of soil for her that I clean every day. That way she brings no mud or dirt inside."

"No, only clumps of cat hair."

"Not if I brush her. And dogs shed, too, my lord. Or were those hairs Byrd is always trying to brush off your clothes from an incipient bald spot?"

He immediately raised his hands to the back of his head to make sure the damnable thinning area was still covered. “Deuce take it, I am not going bald. And I am not having a sneaky, slinky feline in my house."

"Cleo is neither of those things, and how dare you condemn her without a fair trial? I'll have you know that because she does not go outside, she never gets fleas or worms. Can you say that for the disaster you call a dog? Cleo does not get into fights with other creatures, and she does not bring home unwanted kittens."

Lesley was enjoying himself hugely. He loved when the widow came alive with feeling, how her eyes flashed and her cheeks flushed and her bosom rose and fell with each angry retort. Her whole life was in tumult, yet the silly, loyal chit could think only of defending a fur-ball. He decided to enjoy himself a while longer: “Glad's never brought home a kitten in his life, wanted or not. I daresay he most likely swallows them whole before he gets here."

Her foot tapping angrily, Carissa told him, “You know what I mean. You ride a gelding."

This wasn't quite as humorous. The viscount unconsciously crossed his legs. “What, are you suggesting I geld poor old Gladiator?"

"He'd be happier."

"Now who is judging without having all the evidence? Trust me, Mrs. Kane, no male creature will be happier without his, ah, freedom."

This was a highly improper conversation, and to be having it with one's employer, and in the first hours of a new position besides, was unheard-of, outrageous, and foolish beyond permission. And Carissa was not backing down. It might cost her this post, but she could not put poor Cleo out with the rats. “Your dirt-ball of a dog is not happy, my lord. He is a hazard. A hazard and a glutton. And the laziest, meanest, most cantankerous animal I have ever seen."

"But he is my dog, and I own the house, lest you forget."

"And Cleo is my cat, and I will not move in without her."

"Well, I won't have any witch's familiar near my daughter. They steal babies’ breaths, in case you didn't know."

"Fie, my lord. That is an old wives’ tale."

"And how do you think they got to be old wives? They listened to such lore because it is founded in truth. The ones who didn't listen likely died young, suffocated by some feline felon."

"Fustian. That bit of nonsense came because cats like to sniff at new scents, is all. Cleo knows to stay away from grasping little fingers, and she never bothered Pippa in all the days of her infancy. They grew up together, for heaven's sake. If it makes you feel better, the nursery door can be kept closed when Maisie is not there watching Sue. Cleo comes, my lord. Glad goes. That is final."

Now, Lesley was prepared to let Mrs. Kane move a menagerie into his home, but he was not going to let her think he'd live under the cat's paw. Literally or figuratively. He did have some backbone, although it seemed to turn to bread dough in this female's presence. “Glad gets to come into my bedroom, my study, and the front parlor,” he insisted. “That's only fair."

It was more than fair, and Carissa knew it. She nodded, but had the last word: “Only if he has a bath first."

Just then Byrd called from the cellar steps, where he'd gone to fetch the coal. “Cap'n, you better come see this. You know that old French cognac you was keeping for special occasions? The bottles what were put down before the embargo?"

"Not the cognac, Byrd. Please tell me nothing has happened to the cognac.” He was on his way to the stairs.

"Something happened. I reckon the mutt chased a cat up on the wine rack. I guess I didn't hear the bottles fall ‘cause of moving the coal around."

"A cat?” Carissa screamed, dashing past the viscount and tearing down the stairs. “Cleo!"

With sinking heart, for both the cat and the cognac, Lesley followed. Three bottles remained in their niches. Four bottles were down. Two were broken. A black cat with white socks was lapping daintily at one. Glad was like a pig at a trough at the other. The cat sneezed. Glad burped. Then they changed places.

"I don't believe it,” Carissa murmured. “And what do you think will happen when the wine is gone?"

"I'd wager they'll both have god-awful headaches,” Byrd offered.

"No, for I believe I'll kill each of them,” Lesley announced, retrieving the unbroken bottles. “But our problem seems to have resolved itself. For now, at any rate. I make you no guarantees that Glad won't change his mind."

If he did, he was liable to have a pawful of claw marks on his nose. Carissa didn't think even Gladiator was that stupid. “If that dog chews my cat, his head will be on your breakfast platter, my lord. And make sure he has a bath or he is not coming near my child, my kitchen, or my clean house."

Her clean house, eh? Lesley thought he liked the sound of that. Byrd didn't. After his coffee and muffins, he asked the viscount just who was working for whom. “For it's hard to figure anymore, what with the gentry mort giving all the orders. Now she's sending for that cook from the sir's house,” he complained. “And that's another blasted female here, besides them two and the nipper and the nursemaid. I ain't never served on a ship what had a single one of them, and now the place is crawling with women. It's enough to make a grown man cry, Cap'n. And a cat, b'God. A black cat besides, even if Mrs. Kane pointed out its white mustache and feet. So it ain't a hundred percent bad luck. It's the closest thing to it. And we didn't need no more bad luck, Cap'n, not with babies landing on the doorstep and all. Maybe if I stop down by the docks tonight, I'll meet up with the press gangs. Now, that'd be lucky, by comparison."

"Stubble it, Byrdie,” his lordship ordered. “And pass the soap."

* * * *

Cook was delighted to be fetched back from her sister's house. The brother-in-law, it seemed, had discovered religion. Now he was a Reformer, with no cursing, and no tippling either, allowed in his home. Not even a sip here and there, Cook complained. Instead of being a mean fool, now he was a mean, preachy fool, who meant to see that everyone was as miserable as he was.

Besides, Cook told Carissa as she unpacked her aprons, it would be a treat to cook for gentlemen who appreciated fine foods. Sir Gilliam had barely picked at his dinners, after Cook worked all day at them, and the harebrained heir was usually too deep in his cups to notice what was in front of him. Cook could feed him the cat's dinner and he'd be none the wiser.

Warned about the dog, Cook did not turn a hair. She was bigger and smarter and tougher than any mismatched mongrel. “He couldn't be worse than that Mason, always snooping around, niching a jar of jam or a tablespoon of tea, for his private stock. ‘Sides, once the mutt gets the idea of who feeds him, he'll be trying to turn me up sweet, just you watch, dearie. Like every other male what knows which side his bread is buttered on."

Cook also reasoned that if he was fed well enough, the dog wouldn't go scavenging, bothering the neighbors. His thieving wouldn't bother her, for she wasn't one for leaving foodstuffs out where creatures and casual visitors to her kitchen could just help themselves. She'd put locks on the pantry, if that's what was needed. No, the dog was no problem.

That heathen Byrd, however, was another kettle of fish.

"You show me any more of your tattoos and I'll show you my fry pan, alongside that ugly head of yours."

"Ugly? Why, you wouldn't know ugly lessen you looked in the mirror.” Byrd raised huge, beefy fists. “And I ain't one of your sissified swells, you old bat. You hit me with the frying pan and I hit back."

"You raise one hand to me, birdbrain, and I'll get me the meat-ax."

It was love at first fight.

As Carissa knew it would, Cook's expertise in the kitchen soon won Byrd over, especially when they discovered they each liked a wee bit of spirits now and again. And a good game of backgammon. Besides, Byrd was under orders to make sure this set of servants stayed on. All of them. In a few days two footmen from Sir Gilliam's house arrived, seeking positions, so Byrd didn't feel as outnumbered. The men related how Mason was even more tyrannical than ever, while doing less of the work.

"You'd think he was the master, the way the old sod gives orders and throws tantrums,” the younger servant said, sporting a bruised jaw.

Arranging quarters for all the newcomers was a challenge. The menservants were bedded in the room above the stable, in the mews. Byrd refused to give up his room off the kitchen, which should have been Cook's or the housekeeper's. He needed to keep an eye on the comings and goings, the old sailor declared. And he needed to be able to blow a cloud without bringing the house—and Cook's wrath—down around his ears. So Cook had the attic room, sharing with Bonnie, who refused to stay with Broderick and Mason without Cook or Carissa to protect her. Mrs. Kane was to have the other guest bedroom, next to what was now the nursery suite. Unfortunately, it was also across the hall from his lordship's apartment.

"Very well,” she agreed, tight-lipped, “and we can bring in a pallet for Pippa."

"I thought she'd be happier in the nursery.” Lord Hartleigh was leaning against the door of the pink chamber. The room was most likely intended for the mistress of the house, he supposed, and that suited him just fine. Now that it had been cleaned and aired, the soft tones suited Mrs. Kane's coloring, too. Cats, yes, but he would not back down on this.

"But she has never been apart from me,” Carissa insisted.

"And it's more than time. The child is not a baby anymore, Mrs. Kane. You have to let her grow up a bit. Besides, we can do over the dressing room next to the nursery so Pippa will have a room of her own. She'll have lots of area for play, and Maisie can watch her more easily."

Carissa had unhappily followed him down the hall to the adjoining suite. Pippa was already riding Blackie in the center of the large, airy sitting room, which was filled with books and toys and games, even a dollhouse his lordship had unearthed somewhere. In the next room, the bedchamber, Sue's crib was to one side, so filled with more dolls and toys that the child had to sleep in the cradle next to Maisie's bed. Sue's basket had been claimed by Cleo.

"This room is large enough for me to have a cot also.” It really wasn't, not with the rocking chair, the dressers filled with baby clothes, and the little desk brought in for Maisie's schoolwork.

"Yes, but that is unnecessary. Besides, your later hours might disturb the children or Maisie."

"Later hours?” Scorpions and spiders?

Lesley smiled. “Why, yes. I understand that you used to take dinner with Sir Gilliam on occasion. Surely you cannot deny me that same courtesy? We will need to speak about the children, the household, that type of thing."

"Of course.” Dinner with him? Was she to be the dessert? She might as well give up now, Carissa thought. She was doomed. Lord Hartleigh was impossibly handsome, incredibly charming, and inflammatory to her senses. “I would be honored, my lord."

"That's another thing. I am deuced tired of all this my-lording. I would much prefer you call me Lesley, or if that is too familiar, Hartleigh. Hart will do. And I shall call you—What the deuce is your name, anyway?"

"No."

"No? I knew your family was a slew of shabsters, leaving you to fend for yourself, but to give their daughter such a name...?"

"Do not be foolish, my lord. I mean no, such familiarity is not pleasing."

"Well, all the bowing and scraping isn't pleasing to me, madam.” He stood up to his commanding height and glared down at her, a stance calculated to intimidate. “Recall, if you will, who pays the piper here."

Carissa put her hands on her hips. “Recall, if you will, my lord, who decides how much starch goes in your unmentionables and how often asparagus appears on your table."

He hated asparagus.

"You do not play fair, Mrs. Kane,” he conceded. “At least tell me what the blasted name is."

"It is Carissa,” she told him, hurriedly adding, “it's Greek for ‘loving.’”

"It sounds like a caress. No wonder you aren't free with it to strangers.” It suited her, though, he thought.

"Yes, well, my family called me Carrie.” And so did Phillip. She hated it.

"No, no, Carissa is perfect—when we are better acquainted, of course."

"When hell freezes over, my lord."

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