How to Train a Viscount Page 5

  “Would you like me to accompany you?”

  “Nonsense, I am quite capable,” Isla replied.

  Miss Grant gave her a wary glance, but then nodded.

  At times Isla regretted she’d hired an experienced companion, despite Miss Grant’s impeccable qualifications. Miss Grant had been a dowager marchioness’s companion and then a dowager duchess’s companion, before they’d both died, in Cornwall and Mayfair, respectively. Isla had liked everyone to think she was the natural inheritor of such an illustrious companion, but people were not aware of her companion’s pedigree, and sometimes, when declining yet another of Miss Grant’s offers to read aloud The Pilgrim’s Progress to her, she rather wished she’d placed less importance on Miss Grant’s background.

  Isla proceeded after the strange man before Miss Grant could deem her likely to topple onto one of the Turkish carpets and decide to ignore her request.

  The man strode by the window. He turned his head this way and that, as if he thought himself walking down a street in the worst parts of the capital and expected to see a thief rush into him with a knife.

  Isla smirked. The butler and the livery-attired footmen equaled any guards.

  The stranger grabbed a flower from a vase and slipped behind one of the brocade curtains.

  Isla paused and feigned interest in a portrait that hung on the wall. A candelabra sat on a sideboard underneath it, casting a warm glow over the portrait that was entirely unnecessary considering the quality of the painting.

  The man remained behind the brocade curtains.

  What was he doing there?

  She tilted her head slightly, scanning the hem of the curtains.

  His shoes disappeared, and there was a faint tapping on the windows.

  She smiled and pushed the curtains back. “You won’t manage to open these windows in the dark.”

  The man stiffened, and his face didn’t seem entirely dissimilar from that of a frightened rabbit.

  It was almost endearing.

  Isla picked up the candelabra. “The clasp is tricky.”

  “You’ve attempted to break out of here too?” His eyes were wide.

  “I live in the apartment below,” she confessed. “Sometimes I like a breeze.”

  “Oh.”

  She realized a moment later that informing a man with wild eyes who was attempting to escape from a window where she lived was inadvisable.

  It didn’t matter.

  Hopefully soon Wolfe would be back, he would see the solicitor, and Isla would be in her very own home.

  “I feel the same way about this ball,” Isla confided. “It’s dreadful.”

  The man was silent, but he continued to fiddle with the window.

  “I wouldn’t advise exiting it,” Isla said.

  The man stopped fiddling. “Why?”

  She smiled. “The facade is abhorrently smooth, as if the architect had daughters and he did not want easy access to tempt suitors.”

  “Oh. You like architecture?”

  She shrugged. “It’s pretty sometimes.” She grew silent. “I had a friend who was quite fond of architecture. He taught me a lot.”

  “Oh. That’s nice.”

  She nodded.

  It had been nice.

  Hamish and she had always been close. Hamish, Wolfe and Callum and she had all grown up together. Her father had been Hamish’s and Callum’s guardian after their parents had died. Wolfe was her brother and had always been conscious of the need to offer appropriate fraternal guidance, usually the sort that did not permit her to join the boys when they decided to climb trees and bathe in rivers. She’d been engaged to Callum back then, and there’d always been a strange awkwardness between them. Her father had insisted on the betrothal when Callum and she had both been children.

  But Hamish? Hamish hadn’t been her brother and he hadn’t been her fiancé. He’d simply been her friend, and that had been pleasant.

  She shook her head.

  It didn’t matter.

  Hamish had married Callum’s wife’s sister, and now her entire family was off in the Channel Islands being a family without her.

  Isla never saw Hamish now.

  “Are you quite fine?” The man’s voice was filled with concern.

  It was also the longest sentence he’d said so far, and she tried to place his accent, distracted by the pleasant sound of the man’s tenor voice.

  “Where are you from?” she asked.

  The man paled. “I-I should go.”

  He darted his gaze about the room.

  “I suggest you try that window,” she said, pointing. “The exterior wall is still plain, but it has stairs which you might find useful.”

  “Thank you,” he said and strode toward it.

  She watched him slip behind the brocade curtain of that window, and when he didn’t appear after a few minutes she knew she should feel content.

  A man like that wasn’t supposed to be at a festivity like this.

  But apparently, neither was she.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Voices sounded from the corridor, and Adam shifted in his bed. Morning light shone, streaming through the sides of the thick velvet curtains.

  “I’m delighted you’re here, Your Grace.” The butler’s voice carried easily for a man of his age, as if he could just as well have been conducting a much larger operation than a townhouse.

  Though most likely managing townhomes came with townhouses.

  And I’m probably one of them.

  Adam scrambled from his covers and leaped from the bed. It was a pity. He’d never slept in such comfort.

  Undoubtedly, accepting the captain’s offer had been a mistake. But he had needed a place to sleep and he still didn’t have money.

  The voices continued in the hallway, and Adam dressed hastily. His own clothes had been washed and pressed yesterday, something he had not asked for, but which was convenient.

  He hardly wanted to happen upon a duke while wearing the nobleman’s attire.

  He might not know much about English etiquette, but he was certain wearing somebody else’s clothes would be deemed improper. Adam would rather not do anything improper. He wanted to blend into his surroundings.

  Adam escaped through another door. He could meet the duke later, though never would be preferable. Now he had to secure a job.

  “Time to go, Thabisa.”

  Thabisa opened her eyes.

  Adam patted his shoulder, and Thabisa climbed onto it.

  He moved from the house, and Thabisa seemed to laugh, as if taking glee in his hasty movements.

  Soon they were outside.

  Unfortunately, England was cold.

  It was frigid and frightful and terrible.

  He strode through Brighton, a place raindrops seemed eager to visit, given the speed with which they fell. He wove around puddles.

  Brighton was nothing like the Cape Colony. People here seemed to be under the impression they were in a holiday town. They gazed at the English Channel with calf-like eyes, unbothered by the brisk wind or the relentless deluge of rain. Their eyes remained dewy, as if they’d happened upon a luminary who’d taken it upon himself to beset them with compliments.

  The English Channel wasn’t azure like in the Cape Colony. Instead, it was gray, and sometimes green, but always a murky color.

  Adam supposed this was fine, since the sky also seemed to be possessed by two colors: gray and more gray.

  He wrapped Thabisa in his coat and held her toward him. She frowned, irritated at his makeshift swaddle, but he did his best to soothe her.

  He needed to find employment: for both of them.

  The sooner he had a job, the sooner he could leave this place, and the sooner he could find something else that would provide for them.

  Finally, he came to a sign.

  Employment Agency.

  Thank goodness.

  He lined up outside the building, joining a queue.

  He might be getting rained on now, but perhaps later he would have a job.

  For the first time today, hope thrummed through him.

  “Lord Tremont?”

  Adam stiffened. He couldn’t immediately place the voice. The only person who seemed to know him was Captain Fergus, and this man didn’t have the captain’s familiar strong Cornish accent.

  He turned around.

  The man appeared vaguely familiar. He was dressed in a gray overcoat that was most likely a better defense against the rain than Adam’s clothes.

  “I thought it was you, My Lord. I wasn’t certain because of your attire.” The man’s eyes widened. “Or your monkey.”

  Thabisa opened her eyes and gazed at him skeptically.

  Adam wished he could do the same.

  Unfortunately, politeness was demanded, and he forced himself to smile. “Good morning.”

  “You look...different.”

  Adam looked down at his clothes, and his cheeks warmed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have changed into his own clothes. Fashion in the Cape Colony was likely behind Brighton at the best of times. No one at last night’s festivities had worn the white wig and pastel tailcoats that Randall had prided himself in.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” the man asked, though the concern in his words was in no manner visible in his eyes, which seemed full of mirth, even as the rain dappled down upon Adam, drenching his shirt in an indecent manner.

  “Er—”

  The man gave a tight smile.

  And then Adam recognized him.

  This was the footman at Mrs. Hollins’ ball last night.

  Of course, he wasn’t attired in livery this morning. He looked simpler, now he was not carrying a silver platter, though he didn’t appear less condescending.

  “My Lord,” the footman said. “This is an employment line.”

  “Oh?” Adam’s voice squeaked unnecessarily.

  “Indeed, Your Lordship.” The footman pointed to the large sign that hung above. “Evidently, the owner of this employment agency was under the impression the sign would make the fact obvious.”

  “Er—yes,” Adam said, trying to look authoritative and lordly, and not like someone who desperately required a job.

  “I suppose the business simply misjudged the intelligence of the surrounding people,” the footman said in a kindly manner he perhaps used to negate the harshness of his words. “No need to concern yourself, Your Lordship.”

  “Right.” Adam didn’t budge from the line. Perhaps the footman was only passing through.

  “I trust Your Lordship does not require to speak with anyone here,” the footman said.

  “Oh, of course not,” Adam said hastily. “How would I know such people?” He laughed, but it sounded overly forceful and harsh.

  The footman raised his gaze.

  “Are you looking for work?” Adam asked.

  The footman’s face sobered. “I am.”

  “Oh. I-I thought you were employed by Mrs. Hollins.”

  “On a temporary basis, My Lord. Unfortunately, the position became more temporary than I had expected.”

  “Gracious, what happened?”

  The footman assessed him. “It seemed Mrs. Hollins found I lacked the necessary obsequiousness when dealing with the aristocracy.”

  “Oh?”

  “More specifically, when dealing with you.”

  Adam drew back.

  “It seemed Mrs. Hollins felt I was not sufficiently understanding of your aristocratic eccentricity to eat shrimp whole. She also was not impressed when I informed her of my suspicions when you scampered from a window.”

  Oh.

  Adam’s heartbeat quickened. He’d never thought he had a propensity to faint, and he wasn’t going to begin to, but his legs wobbled, even though Adam was strong and his legs hadn’t wobbled since he was toddling about India with his mother following after him.

  “I’m so sorry,” Adam said. “That was not my intention.”

  “Well, I suppose it wasn’t,” the footman admitted. “Just why did you leave through the window?”

  “I had an immediate need for air,” Adam said.

  “You sound like Mrs. Hollins,” the footman grumbled. He tilted his head. “It would be most interesting if you weren’t truly who you say you are, do you not think?”

  “Like a fiction story,” Adam said, forcing his voice to sound cheerful, and only succeeding in having the footman raise his eyebrow again.

  “But this is not fiction,” the footman said. “This is an employment line.”

  “And one I should leave,” Adam said swiftly, and stepped away. “Good bye!”

  The footman blinked, and Adam strolled away hastily, leaving his best opportunity for employment in Brighton behind him.

  He sighed.

  It hadn’t worked.

  He required a new plan.

  The footman was suspicious. He considered confiding in Captain Fergus. The man was affable and helpful, but he didn’t want to tell him he’d been lying to him this entire time. The captain was the reason why Adam was sleeping in one of the Duke of Belmonte’s many bedrooms.

  He couldn’t admit he’d already impersonated an aristocrat, so he would have to continue the charade for longer.

  He bit his lip. There were no other heirs after Randall. If he didn’t claim to be the viscount, the position would revert to the crown.

  Adam had seen what Britain was doing in the Cape Colony, and he’d seen what it had done in India. Britain didn’t need more money: not if it was just going to conquer more countries overseas, not if it was going to oppress more people, not if it was not going to bother to help its own citizens who were forced to stand in employment lines right here.

  An idea occurred to Adam.

  Randall had never mentioned any family. Perhaps Adam could continue to pretend to be the viscount. He had all his paperwork after all.

  But of course, he would never pass the solicitor’s scrutiny.

  The rain dappled downward. It seemed odd such tiny drops could make such a ferocious sound as they slammed against the pavement and the sea. His clothes were drenched, but he wasn’t ready to return to the Duke of Belmonte’s place.

  Not yet.

  He strode by Mrs. Hollins’ apartment, and thought about the woman he’d met last night. She’d been the single source of brightness that evening.

  Perhaps... Perhaps I can ask the woman from last night for etiquette lessons.

  He shook his head, as if to usher the thought away.

  It was one of his more ridiculous thoughts. Adam didn’t tend to ponder the ridiculous. There was normally too much to do to muse over the imaginary.

  But this could be a solution.

  He knew where she lived, and once he met with the solicitor, he would have the funds to pay her well. He could attempt to meet with the solicitor anyway, but he’d gotten so many things wrong already. Perhaps the solicitor would see through him. And then what would he have?

  No doubt one could go to prison for impersonating a nobleman.

  Perhaps it was even a capital crime.

  I’ve already impersonated one.

  He glanced at Thabisa. “Come. We’re going to pay a house call.”

  He strode toward the building where he’d been in last night, marched up the steps, and banged the knocker before he could change his mind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Giles appeared at the door of the parlor. His face was normally placid, steeled from decades of practice at serving her father, but she didn’t miss the flicker of disapproval on his face. “You have a caller, Lady Isla. A gentleman caller. And he’s—er—brought a monkey.”

  “A monkey?” Isla widened her eyes. “I’ve never seen a monkey.”

  “It seems you will have the opportunity to observe one shortly,” Giles said. “Though of course, not in its natural habitat.”

  “Naturally not,” Miss Grant said sternly. “This is nothing like the jungle.”

  “Or the plains,” Isla remarked. “Or forest. I’ve heard monkeys can live there too.”

  “I am not the least bit interested in the abodes of monkeys,” Miss Grant said, returning to her crocheting with interest, even though Isla knew Miss Grant had completed three identical reticules in the past week. “I am certain Brighton is not one of them.”

  Isla tilted her head at the butler. “Who is it?”

  “He’s a viscount,” Giles said. “Lord Tremont.”

  “Nonsense. Lord Tremont is dead,” Isla said.

  “Then it would appear this man is his heir,” Giles said.

  “I’m not receiving callers,” Isla said and returned her attention to her sketch. It was not proper to see people to whom she’d not been introduced.

  “Naturally.” Giles gave a slight bow. “Though, the man was most insistent.”

  She glanced at Miss Grant who was busying herself with some crochet work. Perhaps it wouldn’t be entirely unamusing to have a visitor. And it would be interesting to see a monkey.

  She glanced at Dido. “Wouldn’t you like to see a monkey, Dido?”

  “Dido is a dog,” Miss Grant said. “She doesn’t know what a monkey is.”

  “She will learn soon.” Isla nodded at the butler. “You may send him in.”

  “He didn’t submit a letter of introduction,” Miss Grant said.

  Isla despised the note of skepticism in Miss Grant’s voice. Perhaps it was appropriate to be introduced, but it didn’t matter. Isla’s reputation was already destroyed.

  “I’m certain you will not permit anything untoward to occur,” Isla said.

  “I will do my utmost,” Miss Grant said, her face somber. She halted her crocheting and held the needle, as if intending to direct it at their visitor.

  “In my experience, viscounts do not generally set about harming people,” Isla said.

  “In my experience, viscounts are generally male.”

  Footsteps sounded, and Isla smoothed her dress. She was unaccustomed to callers, and excitement thrummed through her.

  The man entered the room, and the excitement disappeared.

  The butler was wrong: this man was no viscount.

  She’d met him last night. Only then he’d looked somewhat presentable. And he’d been entirely without a monkey.