Viscount Vagabond by Loretta Chase

account did Lord Browdie care to be reminded of his age. If his dark red hair had origins more pharmaceutical than natural, that was a secret between his manservant and himself, as were the yards of buckram padding that filled out his chest, shoulders, and calves. These features were no secret to a host of low females of his acquaintance, either, but he regarded their opinions no more than he regarded their sensibilities.
    Might as well have a bit of fun, he thought, as he was led to meet his hostess. Damned tiresome business, this. He’d been in London four days and not a trace of his fiancée could he discover.
    He had, moreover, met with a great deal of discourtesy.
    The frigid crone at the school had disclaimed all knowledge of Miss Pelliston and had been notably unforthcoming regarding the blasted governess. A man-hater, that one. He’d had to bribe a maid to learn what little he now knew— that a young woman answering his description had come calling, but had stayed only a short time.
    The maid, who’d been daydreaming out a window instead of attending to her work, had seen the young lady meet up with a tall gentleman, but no, she couldn’t say who that was. The two had met up on the opposite side of the square, and that was too far away to see what the man looked like.
    When Catherine turned out not to be where she was supposed to be, Lord Browdie was stymied. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to find her. Thus he spent most of his time in diverse taverns and coffehouses, occasionally remembered to enquire about the girl, and generally convinced himself he was diligently seeking her.
    “—and this is Lynnette.”
    Lord Browdie looked up from his musings to behold a shapely brunette wearing a great deal of paint, cheap jewelry, and a bizarrely demure peach-colored gown from whose narrow bodice her ample bosom threatened to burst any minute. The woman seemed vaguely familiar.
    “Don’t I know you?” he asked a few minutes later as she led him upstairs.
    “I don’t think so, sir,” she said, with a naughty grin. “I’d remember a handsome face like yours, I’m sure.”
    If Lynnette might have had what she wished, she would have wished for a younger patron who was a tad more considerate. Being ambitious, however, and not overly fastidious, she left wishes to dreamy idealists. She had risen from the Covent Garden alleys to this house. It was not the best sort of house but it wasn’t the worst, either. At any rate, she would not remain longer than necessary. She meant to have an abode of her own, paid for by a wealthy gentleman, as would be the myriad gowns and jewels that normally accompanied such transactions.
    Being an astute judge of character, she knew what her customer wanted and proceeded to fulfill his fantasies. Lord Browdie, who was not overly generous, was sufficiently moved by the experience to offer a bit extra compensation. He promised to see her again very soon.
    “Thought you looked familiar,” he said as she helped him on with his coat. “Now I know why. You’re the gal of my dreams, ain’t you, my lovely?”
    Not until the next afternoon, in a rare interval of sobriety, did Lord Browdie realise that it hadn’t been the female who was familiar, but the gown. The experience of remembering a woman’s frock was so unusual that he actually puzzled over the matter for some minutes. Then his crony, Sir Reginald Aspinwal, appeared, the sober interval abruptly concluded, and Lord Browdie forgot all about frocks.
    Catherine had adapted remarkably well to her new life, despite its obvious deficiencies. No one waited on her, willingly or otherwise. She dined simply in the workroom with either her fellow employees or Jemmy. She had neither fine clothes nor elegant accessories nor even the pin money to buy a single ribbon. On the other hand, she had not to cope with a drunken papa wreaking constant havoc with her attempts to keep the household in order, finding fault with everything she did and