Free Viscount Vagabond by Loretta Chase

today, that is. Why, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I come into the drawing room and seen him sitting there, chatting with her ladyship just as easy as if he’d been here every day, and her ladyship no more amazed than if he had been.”
    Having doggedly brushed Catherine’s hair the required two hundred strokes—Catherine had kept count as a means of steadying her nerves—the abigail stood back to admire the results. “What splendid hair you have, Miss. I declare when I first saw it I was sure I was in for a long night of it—curly hair do tangle so—but yours is soft as a baby’s. Such a handsome colour too. There’s folks’d pay a pretty penny for it.”
    Miss Pelliston had been contemplating, in spite of herself, Lord Rand’s tribulations. Now she came abruptly to attention. “Pay?” she asked. “Not money, surely? Or did you simply mean that some would be envious?”
    “Brown hair is common enough, but not light and soft and curly as yours. Oh, I’d expect plenty would like to have it, Miss.”
    “You mean for wigs? But surely those have been out of fashion for years.”
    “That don’t mean a hairpiece don’t come in handy for some folks. Monsoor Franzwuz, what does her ladyship’s hair, could tell you stories about that. Nor I don’t mean her,” the maid hastily explained. “Every bit of what’s on her head is her own, and no curlpapers, neither. Now then, Miss, shall I bring you a nice warm cup of milk?”
    This Catherine politely declined.
    “Really, I think you should, Miss. Tom says you never touched your dinner hardly and if you’ll pardon my saying so, you’ll be all hair and eyes if you keep on at this rate.”
    Touched by this concern, Catherine acquiesced, though when the milk arrived she found it difficult to swallow enough to satisfy the well-meaning Abigail. Miss Pelliston was too excited about the alternative that had suddenly presented itself to care about nourishment, and the prospect of becoming all hair and eyes did not alarm her in the least.
    “Well, Edgar,” said the countess as her husband settled himself among the pillows and took his book from the nightstand, “what do you recommend we do about her?”
    “Burn that dress,” he replied. “It frightened me out of my wits. And do something about her hair. That knot is a crime against nature.”
    “Then you believe we should take her in?”
    “Have to,” said his lordship as he opened his book. “Pelliston’s chit.”
    Her ladyship, who’d also snuggled comfortably against her pillows, bolted upright. “What? Who?”
    “How many times have I told you, Louisa, not to make sudden movements? You’ve made me lose my place.”
    “Stop teasing, you wretched man. Are you telling me you know her?”
    “Not personally. I believe her mama was my mother’s second or third cousin.” He returned his attention to the Bard.
    “Edgar!”
    “Yes, my precious?”
    Lady Andover jerked the book from her husband’s hands. “If you do not explain this instant, I shall tear the curst thing to pieces.”
    The earl breathed a sigh. “Ten years, and I have never been able to teach you patience. Still, what’s a mere decade to centuries of impatient Demowerys? I see you intend to beat me over the head with poor Will’s work if I cannot satisfy your all-consuming curiosity.” He gazed sadly at the bedclothes.
    “Well, then?”
    “I met her some months before that blissful day when we two were united—”
    “Edgar!”
    “Ten years ago. Our families have never been close, but Pelliston is known for his hounds and I meant to make a gift of a pair to your papa.”
    “And you recognised her after all these years?”
    “She closely resembles her mama, especially in the eyes—most unusual, very like Eleanor’s.”
    “No wonder you never questioned her. I expected to see you work your subtle arts upon her, extracting information without her ever realising. Still, I’m surprised she didn’t recognise