Viscount Vagabond Read Online Free Page A

children who walked the streets of London by night and populated its brothels, though he knew of many fine fellows who did. Had six months wallowing through every sort of low life in a last, desperate attempt to enjoy something like freedom finally rotted his character and corrupted his mind?
    Still, he dismally reminded himself, there would be no more such excursions into London’s seamier locales. If he sought feminine company in the future, he’d be obliged to do so in the accepted way. He would go through the tiresome negotiations required to set up some Fashionable Impure as his mistress. Even the assuaging of simple carnal needs would be complicated by some infernally convoluted etiquette. He refused to think about the greater complications he could expect when he acquired a wife—and the passel of heirs his father impatiently awaited.
    Mr. Demowery glowered at the elf—or whatever she was—and was further annoyed at the fear that leapt into her eyes. “Oh, I ain’t going to eat you,” he snapped. “Already had my breakfast.”
    “Yes,” she answered stiffly. “I’m amazed you had the stomach for it. My f—that is, some people are quite unfit for taking any sustenance after a night of overindulgence.”
    She winced—no, actually, she ducked. Dimly he recalled seeing that nervous movement before. He wondered if it were a tic.
    “Oh, I’m so sorry. You were very kind to share your breakfast with me. Thank you.” She stood up. “I should not keep you any longer. I’ve put you out quite enough, I expect.” After a brief hesitation, she put out her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Demowery.”
    Remembering his manners, he rose to accept the proffered handshake. What a small white hand it was, he thought as his own large tanned paw swallowed it up. That realisation also annoyed him, and he was about to hurry her on her way when he glanced at her face. Her expressive hazel eyes gave the lie to the rigid composure of her countenance. Her eyes said distinctly, “I am utterly lost, utterly frantic.”
    Mr. Demowery’s own face assumed an expression of resignation. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where you’re going?”
    “Of course I do. My friend—the friend I had intended to visit—”
    “I can’t imagine what sort of friend would let an ignorant young miss find her own way from a coaching inn through a strange city, but I suppose that’s none of my business. Soil, I ain’t ignorant, and I know that if you were foolish enough to be cozened by that old strumpet, you’ll never make it to this friend of yours on your own. If you’ll give me a few minutes to change into something I haven’t slept in, I’ll take you.”
    “O—that’s very kind of you, but not at all necessary. I can find my way in broad daylight, I’m sure.”
    “Not in this neighbourhood, sweetheart. Night or day is all the same to the rogues about here.”
    She paused. Obviously, she was weighing the perils of the squalid streets against the dangers of accepting his protection. She must have concluded that he was the lesser of two evils, because she soon managed a squeaky thanks, then began an intensive survey of the ragged corner of carpet on which she stood.
    Max Demowery did not consider himself a Beau of Society. The process of shaving and changing was therefore accomplished in short order. A few fierce strokes with his brush were enough to subdue his tangle of golden hair, and with scarcely a glance into the stained mirror he strode out to rejoin his guest.
    Not until they had nearly reached their destination— Miss Collingwood’s Academy for Young Ladies—did the sense of impending doom return to settle upon Mr. Demowery’s brow. A school?
    He stole a glance at the young woman beside him. She looked like a schoolteacher, certainly, and her air and manners, not to mention her speech, bespoke education and good breeding. It was as he had feared: She was respectable and her story had been true and though all that had been