Viscount Vagabond Read Online Free

asleep—”
    “Ah, you meant to leave in the dead of night.”
    “Yes. No.” She reached up to push back under her dowdy bonnet a wispy curl that had broken loose from its moorings.
    Part of his brain was wondering why she’d made herself so deuced unattractive, while the other part watched, fascinated, as she struggled not to look frightened. Each step in the process of composing herself was evident in her face, and most especially in her large, expressive eyes.
    “What I mean is, this is a very awkward situation. Moreover, I have put you out dreadfully, and therefore it seemed best to go away and leave you in peace. I’m sure you must have a great deal to do.”
    “You might have said goodbye first. It’s usually done in the best circles.”
    “Oh, yes. I’m so sorry. I never meant to be rude.” She picked up the bandbox. “Goodbye, then,” she said. “No, that’s not all. Thank you for all you’ve done. I will repay you—the fifty pounds, I mean. I’ll send it here, shall I?”
    Though Mr. Demowery didn’t know what he’d expected, he was sure it wasn’t this. He was also certain that, even if she were not a child, she might as well be, so frail was she and so utterly naive and so very lost—like some fairy sprite that had wandered too far from its woodland home.
    This fanciful notion irritated him, making him speak more harshly than he intended. “You’ll do no such thing. What you will do is leave hold of those ridiculous boxes and sit yourself down and eat some breakfast.”
    “Sit,” he repeated when she began backing towards the stairs. “If you won’t on your own, I’ll help you.”
    She bit her lip. “Thank you, but I’d much rather you didn’t.” She re-entered, dropped the bandboxes, marched to a chair, and sat down. “I’ve been flung about quite enough,” she added in a low voice, her narrow face mutinous.
    “Beg your pardon, ma’am—Miss Pettigrew, if I remember aright—but you picked an uncommon careless and impatient chap as your rescuer. Right now I’m impatient for my breakfast. It’ll take a while, I’m afraid, because my landlady is the slowest, stupidest slattern alive. While I’m gone, I hope you don’t get any mad notions about sneaking away. You’re in the middle of St. Giles’s. If you don’t know what that means, I suggest you think about Cholly and Jos and imagine several hundred of their most intimate acquaintance upon the streets. That should give you a notion, though a rosy one, of the neighbourhood.”
    Catherine’s host returned some twenty minutes later bearing a tray containing a pot of coffee and plates piled with slabs of bread, butter, and cheese.
    They ate in silence for the most part, Mr. Demowery being preoccupied with assuaging his ravenous hunger, and Miss Pettigrew (nee Pelliston) being unable to form any coherent sentence out of the muddle of worries besetting her. Only when he was certain no crumbs remained did Max turn his attention again to his guest.
    Now that his stomach was full and his head relatively clear, he wondered anew what had come over him last night. She was not at all in his style. He was a tall, powerfully built man and preferred women who weren’t in peril of breaking if he touched them. Full-bosomed Amazons were his type—lusty, willing women who didn’t mind if a man’s head was clouded with liquor and his manners a tad rough and tumble, so long as his purse was a large and open one.
    He was amazed that, after taking one look at this stray, he had not stormed back to Granny Grendle to demand a more reasonable facsimile of a female. Miss Pettigrew appeared woefully undernourished, so much so that he’d thought her smaller than she actually was. In fact, she was so scrawny that he wondered just what had seemed so intriguing last night. This, however, troubled him less than the realisation that he’d come so close to forcing his great, clumsy person upon this young waif.
    He’d never had a taste for the