Barbara Metzger by Miss Lockharte's Letters Read Free Book Online Page B

everyone? I shouldn't like any more talk, Comfy.” The gossipmongers had been working overtime when Vivian married the aged earl by special license; she did not want another breath of scandal. She liked her position as the eminently respectable and indulged darling of Bath society. The Reverend Mr. Merrihew, in fact, had done her the biggest favor of her life, the cad.
    The earl handed his son over to the wet nurse, then came to stand behind his wife's shoulder. He put on his spectacles to read. “See, she wishes you happiness in your marriage, my love. I wouldn't worry. Send the female fifty pounds and be done with it."
    "What if she really is dead?"
    "Then she can't tell anyone about Algernon, can she?"
     
    Letters? Litter, more like. Invites to places he didn't want to go, bills for purchases he hadn't wanted to make, that's all the post ever brought Lord Haverhill. Now this.
    "Aggravation, aggravation, aggravation,” he mumbled into his morning ale. Even his mistress was getting headaches. “Jamison,” the baron bellowed for his butler. “Get my wife and daughter down here on the instant."
    "But, my lord, it is not yet noon."
    "And half of England has put in an honest day's work.” Not Townsend Haverhill's half, of course, but someone was busy about delivering the post. Blast it to Hell!
    Lady Haverhill fluttered into the breakfast room, took one look at her husband's clenched jaw, empurpled cheeks, and empty mug of ale, and backed out of the morning-room door, trailing scarves and shawls.
    "Madam, you will do me the courtesy of attending me this morning."
    The baroness nodded, shrank into her seat at the opposite end of the table, and reached for her smelling salts.
    "My word, woman, I am not about to carve you up for breakfast!” he shouted, making the baroness cringe deeper into her chair.
    Thunderation, Lord Haverhill swore to himself, his wife was a rabbit and his daughter was a vixen, which made him a jackass.
    Clarice wasn't half pleased to be rousted out of her room before she was entirely satisfied with her ensemble for the day. “What is the problem, Papa? You know I don't like to be disturbed, especially when I'm not ready for morning callers."
    "Morning callers be hanged. This"—he waved a letter in the air with the hand not holding his mug out to be refilled—"is the problem. This morning I received a farewell message from my niece at that school, saying she is sick and likely to die."
    Lady Haverhill gasped and clutched her vinaigrette, while Jamison finished pouring, then beat a hasty retreat, shutting the door behind him, but Clarice merely reached for a slice of toast. “Fiddle. Rosellen always took herself too seriously, Papa. I received a note from her, too, and you may rest assured that I paid it no nevermind."
    "I should rest comfortably knowing that you don't care if your only cousin might be sticking her spoon in the wall?"
    Clarice paused in buttering her bread to look at her father with wide blue eyes. “Why ever should it matter? It's not as if I have to go into black gloves or anything."
    "Good grief, the chit is your own kin."
    "But it's not as though we were close. I never saw her in my life until that Season she embarrassed us all with her turnip manners. You were the one who declared the Lockhartes beneath us for all those years, Father, you know you were, so you cannot fault me now. I don't recall hearing any remorse when Rosellen's mother died."
    The baron gnashed his teeth. The chit had a point, one he was not proud of, but a point nonetheless. “My sister was married. She was the vicar's responsibility. Rosellen is mine. She may be dying, and we may be accountable for her demise."
    Clarice gave a trill of laughter, a sound she was practicing for effect. Now that she wasn't a debutante, titters just wouldn't do; she needed trills. “Oh, Father, how you go on. We haven't seen hide nor hair of the farouche female in two years. I'm sure noble houses cannot be expected to keep