Page 8 of Lord Heartless

"You mean to say Lord Hartleigh is going to sneak into his own home to purloin his own baby clothes?” Sir Gilliam laughed himself into a coughing fit. Carissa jumped up from her seat next to him to pat his back and hand him a glass of water before Mason could. The butler scowled, making him look more like a weasel than ever.

Sir Gilliam had requested that Carissa join him for dinner that evening, as he did on occasion, to Mason's disapproval. She'd put Philippa to bed in the room they shared, hoping she wouldn't awaken, and donned her one evening frock. It was hopelessly out of fashion and she had sewn it herself, of course, but the dark amber crepe made her feel almost pretty. It wasn't black, at least. Carissa coiled her hair into a crown atop her head, not her usual severe bun, and even let a few wisps of soft brown hair curl around her cheeks.

Sir Gilliam had smiled appreciatively, indicating that she should move her plate closer to his, at the top of the linen-draped table. Mason muttered about females knowing their station, female ewes parading as lambs, and females playing off their tricks, too softly for his employer to hear. Mason, of course, had set Carissa's place at the foot, as far away from the aged knight as possible. Sir Gilliam, however, did not wish to miss a word of her report on the neighborhood's most renowned resident.

With tears of laughter in his eyes, the old banker asked her to begin again. “You mean he nearly required smelling salts? Hartleigh?"

"He turned every shade of green as soon as I asked him to dispose of the baby's soiled linens. In all honesty, his lordship wasn't in prime twig to begin with, but that sent him for the nearest basin—and not to put the diapers in, either."

"And then?"

"And then Sue smiled at him. ‘Twas gas, most likely, but our supposedly hard-hearted lord turned to mush in front of my eyes. Why, if Sue could have asked for the moon, I am sure he'd be thinking of ways to get it for her. The little sweetheart will have him firmly wrapped around her tiny fingers as soon as she figures out how."

"And you are going along with him to Hammond House?"

"With your permission, of course, Sir Gilliam."

He brushed aside her concern for his approval. “I have no objection, my dear. You have this place organized so efficiently, it runs itself without you. But is it necessary for you to accompany his lordship?"

"Heaven knows what he will fetch back, else. Between him and his odd manservant, they wouldn't know a cradle from a coal scuttle. And I will put Philippa to sleep at his house, where Maisie can look out for her. Pippa seems fascinated by the baby, and Maisie seems both conscientious and caring."

That suggestion had been Lord Hartleigh's, when Carissa had objected that she could not leave her daughter alone at Sir Gilliam's, for there would be no one to comfort the child if she awoke in the night. In truth, it was Carissa who was anxious, since she had never been parted from Philippa for more than an hour or so, in the four years since her birth.

Sir Gilliam was not convinced of the wisdom of pillaging Hammond House. “Does the child really need so many things?"

"His lordship is going tomorrow to speak to his solicitor about finding a good home for her. He thinks it might take some time, however, since he has no proof that the child is his to give away. Those distinctive blue eyes do not count in a court of law, I suppose. The fact that Sue was left on Lord Hartleigh's doorstep should be proof enough, but he fears his man of affairs will have to track down Sue's mother or a baptismal record or some such."

"I am sure his lordship's man will know which fist to grease, to see him named legal guardian."

"Yes, but that could take considerable time, time in which Sue deserves a proper place to sleep. She might have been born on the wrong side of the blanket, but she is entitled to as many blankets as she needs."

Sir Gilliam placed his gnarled hand over hers at the table. “Be careful, my dear."

Carissa knew he wasn't thinking about the raid on Hammond House but the rake.

* * * *

Lord Hartleigh decided to stay in that evening. Byrd asked if he was ill, and the dog sniffed at him, as if he were a stranger in the house at night. He was exhausted, for one thing, not that he expected to get much sleep with a crying infant around, and worried about Maisie and the baby, for another. Would the young maid know what to do if Sue took sick? What if, heaven forfend, the babe did indeed fall out of the basket? Lesley knew precisely what to do: run across the street to fetch Mrs. Kane.

The widow had to be the most competent woman in his extensive experience. As he lay between clean, fresh-smelling sheets, Lesley mused how he had never considered competency to be a requirement in a wife. A fellow certainly didn't look for brisk efficiency in a mistress. He could see how life could be more pleasant in the hands of a capable female, however, easier on one's constitution. He was looking forward to the occasional meal at his own board, finding his books all in one place, having his apparel in order.

Why, if the new cook and servants turned out to be halfway acceptable, Lesley thought he might even invite some of his cronies over for dinner and cards one evening. Repay their hospitality, as it were. No, he amended, imagining the widow's pursed lips and pointed chin, dinner only. His acquaintances tended to become too raucous as the hours passed, much too loud for a sleeping baby.

Lesley had his best night's sleep in ages, dreaming about Mrs. Kane. He only checked on the baby three times, when he heard a noise, or pretended he did. The first time Maisie was sitting up in bed, nursing Sue. She was mortified, not because of the baby at her carefully draped breast, the way Mrs. Kane had shown her, but because she'd let the baby's cries disturb his lordship's rest. She'd get faster about the diapering, she promised.

The second time, when no one answered his soft scratch on the door, he tiptoed in. By the light of the oil lamp left burning on a dresser, he could see Maisie fast asleep on the wide bed, with the baby's basket next to her, and pillows mounded on the basket's other side. Sue was in no danger of falling. He leaned over the pillows and touched her angel-soft cheek.

"I will find you a good family, little one, never fear.” The baby reached out and grabbed his finger and raised it to her mouth. She sucked a few times, then went back to sleep. “A very good family."

* * * *

After the child's supper Wednesday night, Carissa prepared to take Philippa across the street, along with her nightclothes, her doll, her favorite blanket, two books, and some gingerbread to share with Maisie. Carissa would also have brought Pippa's pillow, the miniature of her father that Pippa was used to saying her prayers to, and a jug of warmed milk. It was Pippa who dissuaded her, declaring, “Mama, I am not a baby, you know."

"You are my baby.” And what business did she have, Carissa asked herself as she put down extra food for her cat, going off with a notorious womanizer? Why, she'd feel like an intruder, if not a burglar, visiting a house whose front door was firmly closed to her by reason of her position. Lord Hartleigh should have sent her with a note to his housekeeper. Better, he should have had the staff at Hammond House pack up whatever baby things they found and send it all on to him in Kensington, to sort through there. Best of all, the blond-haired rogue should have kept his britches buttoned. But then they wouldn't have Sue, of course.

And Mrs. Kane wouldn't be abandoning her duties at Sir Gilliam's, for which she was guilt-ridden. Neither would she be abandoning her own precious daughter in a strange house with an inexperienced nursery maid, for which Carissa was petrified. Pippa could get eaten by a dog that should have been abandoned to his fate ages ago.

"Gladiator is harmless, I tell you,” Lord Hartleigh said, trying to reassure his nervous co-conspirator, “and Philippa seems to like him."

Carissa looked around the tidied study until she found her daughter. Pippa was sitting quietly alongside the hearth. The fingers of her left hand were in her mouth; Pippa's right hand was in the dog's mouth, feeding that filthy, hulking cur her gingerbread! If that wasn't enough to strike terror in a mother's heart, Pippa switched hands.

Carissa shrieked, causing Byrd to drop the plate he was carrying of the new cook's excellent pastries. Glad was there before the first macaroon touched the floor. Of course, he'd had to knock Pippa over to get to the fallen delicacies and step right across her, too. Mrs. Kane screamed again. The viscount dove to right the child, tripped over the dog, and bumped his head on the mantel. And Pippa laughed.

Lesley glared at the child, Mrs. Kane glared at him, Byrd glared at the widow, and Pippa laughed some more. The dog, of course, ate the rest of the macaroons.

Carissa was wiping Pippa's hands with her handkerchief. “That's enough. I cannot go to Hammond House with you, my lord. You might choose to leave your daughter with a ravening beast, but I do not."

"Mama, you are fussing again."

Now Lesley looked at the child approvingly. “Yes, Mrs. Kane, you are worrying over naught. I for one enjoyed hearing the child laugh, even if it was at my expense. But if it will make you feel better, we can take Glad with us."

Ride in the carriage with the creature? Carissa would rather go to the tooth drawer. “No, this is simply not a good idea. Surely you can locate a cradle without my assistance. I can draw you a picture."

"The dog can ride up with Byrd, ma'am. Unless you are getting cold feet? I thought you were made of sterner stuff, Mrs. Kane."

Somehow she did not wish to appear one of those niminypiminy females, afraid of their shadows. And she wanted this handsome lord to look on her approvingly, also. Without stopping to inspect her motives, Carissa agreed. If she was lucky, perhaps the animal would fall off, or run off. If she was luckier yet, perhaps their route would take them past the Tower menagerie. Gladiator could be tossed to the lions.

The butler at Hammond House should have been guarding the palace gates, he was so stony-faced and toplofty. He looked past the viscount's shoulder to welcome Lord Hartleigh to his own house, ignoring the unaccompanied, unfashionable female with him. “I regret, milord, that Lady Hartleigh and the Misses Spillhammer are not at home. Almack's, milord.” His tone said he regretted having to open the door to anyone not granted vouchers for that pillar of propriety. “Would you care to leave a message?"

"Agatha insisted I hire Wimberly,” Lesley whispered to Carissa. “She thought Hammond House needed a more dignified majordomo than a retired prizefighter."

"I thought Mr. Byrd was a sailor.” Carissa would have laughed at the idea of Lady Hartleigh's morning callers being welcomed by a tattooed butler, but Wimberly was staring down his nose at her cloak. The viscount had removed her worn woolen mantle from Carissa's shoulders and held it out. The butler snapped his fingers for a footman to come remove the plebeian garment from the marble entry.

"No, Wimberly, I did not come to visit with the ladies. Mrs. Kane and I have come to select some things from the attics and the nursery. We'll need a couple of strong footmen to bring the things down, and a carriage to transport it all to Kensington."

"The nursery, milord?"

"Yes, you know, where one places small persons to keep them from staining the upholstery."

"But, milord, you cannot. That is, Lady Hartleigh would wish to—"

"Wimberly, whose house is this?"

"Yours, milord, but—"

"And who owns everything in it?"

"You do, milord, but Lady Hartleigh will have my—"

"And who pays your overinflated salary, Wimberly?"

"How many footmen did you say you required, milord?"

So they started in the attics, with lanterns. Lord Hartleigh had been right: His mother never discarded anything, nor did the three viscountesses previous to her. Luckily most of the trunks and boxes were labeled. While Carissa went through bundles of blankets and linens, all laid out with lavender, Lesley searched for the larger things they needed. He went past sleds and small beds and cricket bats and half-size top hats, until he reached a low-ceilinged section. He found an elevated chair, but that wasn't on Mrs. Kane's list, likely because Sue couldn't sit up yet. He directed the footmen to carry it down, just in case. He couldn't decide between his choice of three cradles, so he took two. He preferred the wicker pram to the heavy wooden one, but thought he'd have a new one made for Sue anyway.

Carissa had unrolled a frayed carpet onto the floor, noting that the attic was cleaner than the viscount's other house had been before the cleaners came. She started opening trunks and placing her selections on the rug, which could be folded over and carried down the stairs. “Some of the bonnets will need to be bleached, and I fear moths have gotten into one or two of the sweaters, but I should be able to mend them. The rattle needs polishing, of course, but I think that is everything, my lord."

The mound was as high as his waist. “Lud, I should hope so. There will be no room for Sue in that little bedroom."

On their way out of the attics, they passed a stack of paintings. The first one was of a beautiful woman in court dress of the previous century. “My mother,” Lord Hartleigh told Carissa. “Right after her marriage. This portrait used to hang in the library, before Agatha got here."

Carissa couldn't blame the viscountess for banishing the painting. What woman wanted to be compared to her husband's exquisite first wife? “Why don't you take it with us? The Kensington house could use something pretty."

Lesley nodded to the footmen. He also pointed to a vase he recalled from his mother's sitting room, an embroidered fire screen, and a footed sewing basket. “Perhaps Maisie could mend the baby's clothes if needed."

"We are going to require another wagon soon if you don't stop."

"But we haven't even inspected the nursery."

"I cannot imagine what's left that an infant could use, especially in the short time Sue will be in London. You did see your solicitor today, didn't you?"

Lesley said something about the man making inquiries but was already on his way to the lower level. Carissa had to trail behind him, hoping the viscount did not intend to give the baby his toy soldiers or some such. He was looking around the schoolroom, directing the footmen to lift this small chair, that pile of picture books. The rocking horse, with its flowing mane and glass eyes, he carried himself.

"It will be years before Sue can ride that thing,” Carissa protested. “And you said yourself how crowded her room will be."

"It's not for Sue. I thought Pippa would like it."

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