Page 16 of Lord Heartless

Carissa was upstairs, checking the bedrooms with Bonnie to see what in the viscount's house should be replaced, what should be repaired. Lord Hartleigh had given her a generous budget, a free rein, and a commission to fulfill. He wanted the house appearing presentable enough, he said, to hold interviews there for prospective foster families. He'd go visit their homes, of course, to make sure the premises were suitable for Sue, but he also wanted to see the strangers with his daughter, in her own surroundings. His solicitor had declared him dicked in the nob, making such a to-do over a simple adoption procedure, but the viscount was adamant. He was also immovable about providing for Pippa's needs as well as Sue's. Carissa was to purchase a child-size desk, a globe, and a chalkboard. The viscount had already purchased a pony.

The pony, a shaggy cream and white Shetland mare, was just the perfect size for a little girl, and of such pleasant temperament that Carissa had no qualms about letting Pippa near it, so long as she herself did not have to visit it in the stables. She had a great many qualms, however, about accepting more of the viscount's generosity.

"She's not for Pippa, Mrs. Kane, so you needn't get on your high horse. The mare I brought over from Hammond House for you to ride is quite the right height."

"If it is not for Pippa and not for me, my lord, who is to ride the pony? Byrd?"

"Oh, Pippa shall have the riding of the pony, and the naming of her, too, I suppose. But you see, I purchased her for Sue. Now, I know you are going to tell me Sue has no use for a pony, but she will in a few years, and Pippa will have the little mare perfectly trained by then, won't you, poppet?"

Pippa had nodded. She would have agreed to anything Lord Hartleigh said. If he wanted her to teach the pony to count, well, she knew up to ten.

"And when Sue is ready for her pony, Pippa should be ready for a real horse, which she will deserve, having done me the favor of exercising the pony while we wait for Sue to grow. There is only one problem, poppet."

A tear had already been forming in Pippa's big brown eyes. Problems usually meant no.

"Yes, a pony needs two hands on the reins to guide it."

The thumb had come out of the little girl's mouth like an arrow shot from a bow. And hadn't gone back in yet, except at night. Carissa was more grateful to the viscount for that than she was for the pony.

He'd insisted on buying Carissa a riding habit, also, so she could accompany them for Pippa's riding lessons. Gentle pony or not, Carissa was not about to let her baby on any horse but Blackie unless she herself rode at Pippa's side. But her old habit, old before Pippa was born, had been hopelessly outmoded, worn at the seat and cuffs, and too tight She'd cut it up to make Pippa a riding outfit, complete with feathered hat. For herself, Carissa had carefully tallied the cost of her new habit in the accounts ledger, for when she could afford to repay his lordship. Even if she sewed the brown velvet herself, her debt was mounting.

The least she could do for now, Carissa had decided, was make his home fit for a king. Or a viscount, at any rate. The narrow stone building could never compete with the grandeur of what he was used to at Hammond House, of course, but the Kensington place could be a gem. It would be, if she had to drag Byrd and the footmen to every furniture showroom and upholstery warehouse in London.

So far, the list of furnishings and such that needed replacing far outnumbered the repairs. As for the list of those items that were good enough for now, it consisted of Blackie—except where Cleo had been using the rocking horse as a scratching post Carissa made a note to place some fabric around the pony's legs, quickly, before his lordship noticed. She also made a note to ask Lord Hartleigh what colors he preferred for his chamber's new drapes. She would not select his bedhangings.

The only reason she'd proceeded with her inspection in the first place was that she knew the set of rooms was empty. Lord Hartleigh had gone to his club, and Byrd had taken the gelding round to the farrier. The sitting room was tidier than she'd expected, since Byrd was haphazard about anything except the horses and his food, but the footmen were conscientious, and so was Bonnie.

Carissa did not see much that was personal, no portraits, no miniatures, no trinkets or knickknacks from his travels. Of course, he had Sue as a memento....

She was not comfortable in Lord Hartleigh's bedroom. His lemony cologne lingered, even amid the musty furnishings. But she was too conscious of all the other women who must have come here to share that enormous bed with him, mingling their scents with his. Joining their bodies. She hoped they'd all gotten stuffed noses and watery eyes from the mildew.

Carissa crossed to the window to inspect the curtains, and to avoid the bed. From the viscount's chamber she could look out at Gibsonia Street, and across to Sir Gilliam's house. Mason was just leaving, headed east up the street. He did not look back—why should he?—and so missed seeing a nondescript sort of fellow leave the alley between two houses and follow him. So far he'd gone to the local pub, but the Runner thought he acted furtive, exactly like a ferret-faced malefactor. The pub was west, down the street.

Why not? Why shouldn't she go look for the will? Most likely Lord Hartleigh was right and Mason had stashed it elsewhere, but what if he wasn't that clever, only cruel? What if the rodent was so confident that he'd tucked it under his mattress, or in a book? No one would dare enter Mason's room without permission, to find it by accident. No one but Carissa.

She wouldn't ask either of the footmen to go with her ... or Bonnie. There was no way to explain their presence at Sir Gilliam's, and she would only be exposing them to danger for nothing. Carissa could say she was looking for something of hers that she'd forgotten in the attics, a sewing basket or some outgrown clothes of Pippa's. Mason's room was just down the hall. If he came home, however, and found her there, not in the attics—she wouldn't think about that.

She was not going to worry about Broderick Parkhurst either. The popinjay was undoubtedly on the strut in Hyde Park at this hour. What he had to peacock about was beyond her comprehension, since by all accounts his last showy hack had shown him the Serpentine. Young Broderick was making a splash in Society, all right.

She did not think he'd dare approach her anyway, not after the last contretemps. Just in case, though, Carissa threaded another long, sharp hatpin through her mobcap.

The decision was obviously made; the rationalizations had come after. Carissa was going after what was promised her, what Sir Gilliam had wanted her to have: a place of her own, an end to uncertainty, not having to be beholden to any man for any thing.

More than the rest, Carissa wanted a home for her daughter, where she could laugh and play and slide down the banisters. One that wouldn't be taken away when their current employer died or married, as Lord Hartleigh was bound to do sooner or later. He adored children, and the novelty of having them around did not seem to be wearing off on him. He'd discover, shortly, Carissa thought, that having a wife would make the begetting of them—and the keeping of them—much simpler. Carissa well knew that no wife of Viscount Hartleigh's was going to live in a paltry pied-a-terre outside of Mayfair. That wife wouldn't want Sue around either, nor a young housekeeper with a child of her own. This was a temporary haven only, then Pippa would be uprooted again. Unless Carissa could find that will.

She left the house before she had time to lose her nerve. And she went out the front door so she did not have to explain her mission to Cook or the others. Head down against the chill wind, she did not see the second shadow that had been hiding in the alley between houses.

The footman at the door of the Parkhurst place was known to her, although not well. He grunted at her story of a missing sewing basket and went back to his solo dice game. He did not offer to assist, but he did not demand she wait for Mason to come home, either, thank goodness.

Mason's room looked as if he'd moved in yesterday, but Carissa knew he'd been there for decades. In contrast to Lord Hartleigh's, which had nothing terribly personal, this stark chamber had nothing. It might have been a room in a hotel, waiting for the next paying customer. Not even a comb rested on the dresser.

In the first drawer she opened, shaving items were laid out as if on display. Everything raced in the same direction, and nothing touched. In the second drawer, every stack was aligned precisely: hose, handkerchiefs, neckcloths. The third contained a white nightshirt and black fabric slippers, nothing else.

Carissa was afraid to disturb the narrow bed, for she'd never get the coverings so tightly tucked. Instead, she opened the clothespress. Two coats, two pairs of trousers and two waistcoats, all black, hung in regimental order. One pair of shoes was on the bottom. One formal wig on a stand stood on the top. She felt the clothes for hidden pockets, and beneath the wig. She checked the drawers for raise bottoms, and lifted the braided rug in case a floorboard was loose. Nothing seemed wedged between the clothespress and the wall, not so much as a hair. The single chair had one cushion, which did not crinkle when she shook it. The Bible on the table next to it had no loose papers, no writing on the flyleaf. And that was it. There was no place else to look. The man lived like a monk.

But Carissa knew Mason was no ascetic, no pious churchgoer. He drank, he swore, he did not attend church with the other servants on Sundays. And nowhere in that nearly new Bible did it say Do unto others as much as you can get away with. Lord Hartleigh was right: Mason had another life somewhere else. No one could live so long in one place without accumulating something, even a letter. Although Mason never seemed to have mail, Carissa had always assumed he'd removed his personal correspondence before she saw the day's delivery. He never took a vacation, either, now that she thought of it, only his days and half days off.

Where was he going then, on his frequent trips away from the house, and what was he doing with his money? Most of all, Carissa wished she knew why he needed so much more—hers.

The footman didn't look up when Carissa walked past him, her hands empty. She told him she couldn't find the sewing box. Perhaps one of the maids had borrowed it and forgotten to restore it to the attics. The footman cared more that his right hand owed his left hand a month's wages.

Broderick was limping up the walkway when she was leaving. His face brightened considerably. “What, did you reconsider m'offer, then, m'dear?"

"If I had reconsidered your offer, you clunch, I'd have had Lord Hartleigh run you through."

Broderick lost what color he had in his sallow complexion, and almost lost his lunch. A duel with the paragon? He'd heard what Lord Heartless had done to rearrange Lord Cosgrove's features. He liked his nose right where it was. He hurried to tell her: “Meant no offense, don't you know. Not hunting on the gentleman's preserves. Isn't done, of course, by Jove. You were visiting with the servants, of course. Foolish me, ha ha."

He was a fool, but that story would not fadge. “I was looking for something I left behind. My mother's sewing box. I thought it was in the attic, but could not find it. If it ever turns up, you might send it over."

"Of course, of course.” Broderick bowed and dashed into the house, lest the jade's new protector take umbrage at the conversation. He had enough trouble without annoying a nonesuch like Hartleigh.

Carissa's plate was full, too. Now she had no hopes of finding the will, no hopes of repaying his lordship, no hopes of avoiding his wicked, winsome ways. Staring at the ground in front of her, Carissa slowly trudged the short distance back to her new place of employment, where her respectability was receding as fast as her dreams. So lost was she in dismal thoughts that matched the dismal day, she again never noticed the figure that observed her from between houses.

The shadow detached itself from the gloom the better to watch her cross the street. When Carissa was one door away from her own, a hand reached out and grabbed her, dragging her into the alley. Positive it was Broderick, letting his wants override his wisdom after all, Carissa pulled the hatpin from her cap and stabbed it through her attacker's hand.

"Bloody hell, darling, is that any way to welcome your long-lost husband?"

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