Kat, Incorrigible (4 page)

The man underneath me had kept walking forward even after I kicked his hat off. He hadn’t even paused to look up at me, or to pick up his hat. But when I spoke, he stopped walking and shook himself as if he were shaking off a cloud of gnats.

“I am Frederick Carlyle,” he said in a strange, flat voice. He was still looking straight ahead at the vicarage, so I couldn’t see his face, only the back of his dark blond hair. He was dressed like a gentleman, but from the look of his hair—not to mention the state of his clothing—it had
been some time since he’d seen a valet, or a comb. “Here to study with Miss Angeline Stephenson’s father,” he said.

“With An—you mean with Papa? Mr. Stephenson?”

He still didn’t turn. “Here to study with Miss Angeline Stephenson’s father,” he repeated. “I have brought my first quarter’s payment with me.”

“Ah … good?” I slid down off the tree. It was awkward, since I couldn’t let my skirts ride up in front of him. I landed hard on a sharp stone, stumbled, and barely missed stepping on Mama’s books. I snatched them up and tried to flatten the crumpled pages with one hand. Later I would probably panic about the damage, but right now I was too curious to feel scared.

“How do you know Angeline?” I asked the back of the gentleman’s head.

He swung around, and I saw his face for the first time. It was alight with hope. “Is Miss Angeline truly here? Are you Miss Angeline?”

“No!” I said. “Of course not. I’m just Kat.” I stared at him. He was young—about the same age as Charles, I thought, so probably no more than twenty. Handsome, too, I supposed, if he hadn’t looked so vacant. I frowned, looking at his blank blue eyes. Maybe “vacant” wasn’t the right word, after all. Maybe “entranced” would be more accurate.

Something about that started an ominous tugging in the back of my mind.
Entranced
…
But before I could
think it through, I heard a rattling sound behind me and something worse—familiar voices floating through the still air. I spun around.

“Oh, the devil!”

I had been the one too entranced to think straight. I hadn’t been keeping my lookout.

Stepmama’s gig was on the road just beneath us, less than two minutes’ drive away. Even as I watched, it turned onto the final curve.

The full implications hit me with a thud. I stared down at the books in my hands. Half the pages had been bent in the fall, and the whole middle section of the first diary was crumpled. Even if I put both books back exactly where I’d found them, Angeline would never be fooled. She would know the moment she opened them exactly what had happened.

I wondered if it was too late to run away after all. The boys’ clothes were still in the attic, where I’d left them. Maybe, if everyone else was absorbed in greeting our strange visitor, they wouldn’t even notice I was missing. And this Frederick Carlyle, whoever he might be, certainly seemed to be excited about meeting Angeline, so that should distract her at least a little while, until …

“Is Miss Angeline in that gig?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes,” I said unhappily. “So I really need to go and—no, wait! She’ll be here in just a moment. You don’t need to go chasing after it, Mr. Carlyle—Mr. Carlyle! Stop!”

I threw myself in front of him to hold him back. He
walked straight into my raised arm, heading for the hedge around our garden that overlooked the road, a full fifteen feet below.

“It’s too high!” I said. “You’ll break your legs if you jump that. What’s your hurry, anyway? It’s not as if you’ve ever even met her, so—”

Oh.
Suddenly it all clicked into place. Mama’s magic books tingled in my hands as I regarded them with newfound respect.

“Miss Angeline Stephenson,” Frederick Carlyle murmured. He sounded like a bleating calf being led to the slaughter, but a blissful smile curved his lips.

Now I knew why he had seemed entranced.

“Come inside,” I said soothingly. “Why don’t I bring you a cup of tea? Then you can brush yourself off before you meet Angeline. You want to make a good impression on her, don’t you?”

He frowned, as if it were a difficult concept to grasp. “Miss Angeline is coming here? Inside this house?”

“She is,” I said. “I’ll show you in. I want to be there with you when she arrives.”

I couldn’t hide the books from Angeline, or keep her from finding out that I’d looked at them. But I had something better than secrecy now.

I had the perfect opportunity for blackmail.

Stepmama was the first one into the house.
According to her many, many friends, who clutter up the drawing room every Tuesday afternoon and cluck over her difficulties in life, Stepmama is still a great beauty even at the ancient age of eight-and-thirty (although she pretends to be three years younger whenever she can get away with it). They all agree every week over tea and cakes what a cruel injustice of Fate it was that she could never find a husband in a higher rank of life to support her in the style she deserved.

None of them, of course, ever bring up the fact that, based on all the social rules Stepmama herself taught us, as a spinster of three-and-thirty, she was lucky to be offered marriage by any gentleman, no matter what his
income or social status … which was exactly why she’d accepted Papa the very moment he’d offered, despite all her fine words now.

When Stepmama stepped inside the front hall and found me waiting for her with my hands held carefully behind my back, her whole face pinched up so tight with exasperation that she could have cut paper with it.

“What on earth have you done to your poor gown this time? It’s filthy!”

Angeline came up behind her, holding a pile of parcels, and looked over Stepmama’s shoulder at the dust that covered the front of my gown. Her dark eyes narrowed. It was one of her most dangerous expressions.

Stepmama was still ranting. “Do you never take any thought for the most basic tenets of propriety and ladylike behavior? Or the embarrassment you might bring upon your poor sisters? Only imagine if we had had a caller, what they would think—”

“But we do have a caller,” I said. “He’s in the drawing room right now. He was most anxious to meet Angeline’s family.”

Angeline’s eyes narrowed even more.

Stepmama stared at me. “This is an inappropriate moment for a joke, young lady. If you—”

“I gave him tea,” I said. “Isn’t that what I ought to do with visitors? Especially when they might be eligible suitors? After all, you’re always saying that we’ll all die old maids if we don’t work very hard for ourselves.”

Elissa let out a sound of pain from behind Angeline. “Did you make the tea yourself, Kat?”

“Well, of course I did. You know Mrs. Watkins always visits the market on Monday mornings, so—”

Elissa closed her eyes in an expression of pure agony. “Perhaps I can find some of her biscuits in the cupboard,” she said. “They might take the taste of the tea from his mouth, if I’m quick enough.” She hurried past the others, heading for the kitchen without even taking off her bonnet or pelisse first.

“Well, really,” I said. “I must say—”

“You have already said quite enough.” Stepmama unbuttoned her own pelisse with quick, angry gestures and shoved it at me. “Hang this up and change your gown before you show yourself in the drawing room.”

I had to bring my right hand forward to take the pelisse before it could fall on the floor. Mama’s thick magic books slipped precariously in my left hand. I pressed them hard into my back and edged toward the wall. “He’s already seen my dust. I don’t think—”

“I don’t care. Angeline, follow me as soon as you’ve straightened your hair.”

Chin up, Stepmama sailed toward the drawing room like a fully armed navy battleship heading for an unsuspecting French privateer.

Angeline waited until the drawing room door closed behind Stepmama. Then she shook her head.

“That,” she said, “was very, very foolish.”

I smiled innocently up at her, my fingers straining around the hidden books. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Who is it, really, in the drawing room? A farmer’s boy? The milkman? I’m sure I’ll be terribly amused by whatever joke you’ve prepared for me.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe only I will.”

She nodded at my dusty gown. “Did you find out what you wanted to know when you went nosing around under my bed?”

“You mean in these?” I brought my left hand out from behind my back to show her the magic books. “Oh, I didn’t need to read these to find out what you’ve been up to.”

“No?” She raised one perfect eyebrow, a gesture that usually drove me mad with frustration. I could never imitate her, no matter how hard I tried. “Enlighten me,” Angeline said. “I’m truly curious.”

“Oh, you’ll find out,” I said. “Just step into the drawing room and see who’s waiting for you.”

“Fine. I shall.”

Angeline took off her pelisse. She patted down her dark hair as she gazed into the murky mirror that hung beside the parasol stand. She twitched the puffy shoulders of her gown into place and smiled at me sweetly. “I do hope you’re enjoying this moment very much, darling Kat, because I promise you will pay for it.”

“Just go into the drawing room,” I said.

Then I threw Stepmama’s pelisse onto its hook and
chased after Angeline as, for once, she actually followed my orders.

Inside the drawing room, we found Stepmama glowing with satisfaction. That had to come from the news of Mr. Carlyle’s first-quarter payment, I thought. Only the promise of money ever put such pleasure in her eyes. She was in such a good mood that she barely even grimaced when she saw me still wearing my dirty gown.

“Girls,” she purred. “May I introduce your father’s new student? Can you imagine, he has come all the way from Oxford, on foot, to study with your father! Mr. Carlyle, may I present my husband’s two younger daughters? These are Miss Angeline and Miss—”

She broke off as Frederick Carlyle burst to his feet, shoving aside his full cup of tea so hard it sloshed and spilled all across its saucer.

“Angeline?” he said. “Miss Angeline? Is it really you?”

“I …” Angeline paused, licking her lips nervously. I had never seen my arrogant sister so discomposed. “I am Angeline, yes,” she said. “But sir—”

He shook his head. His dark blue eyes were wide and wondering. “I’ve come so far,” he said. “I would have walked forever.”

In three quick strides he was across the room, knocking elegant little tables aside. Stepmama’s brand-new Wedgwood teapot, delivered all the way from London, went flying to the ground. The sound of its crash, as it shattered, mingled with Stepmama’s moan of pain. Two
vases followed, splashing water and lilies across the carpet as they broke. But the clatter of breaking china never slowed Mr. Carlyle in his path.

He threw himself down on one knee and grasped Angeline’s hand. “Miss Angeline,” he said. “Marry me. Please. I beg you.”

Stepmama’s voice came out as a shriek. “What in heaven’s name—?”

Angeline opened her mouth and closed it again. Color rose in her cheeks until they were a deep, dusky red.

Frederick Carlyle bent his head to kiss her hand passionately. It made a disgusting, wet, sucking sound. I might have gagged if I hadn’t been trying so hard not to laugh.

Elissa opened the door behind us, holding a plateful of Mrs. Watkins’s best biscuits, and froze in openmouthed astonishment.

“My goodness,” I whispered into Angeline’s ear. “It’s almost like … magic!”