Viscount Vagabond Read Online Free PDF Page A

the most conscientious instructor I have had since I founded this school, and the girls doted upon her. Naturally, I was compelled to discharge him. I have never held with these odd conventions that it is always the woman’s fault. Men are such wicked deceivers. If even Miss Fletcher could be overcome, what hope is there for weaker vessels, I ask you? To be sure, he was a most charming man. Ten years with us and always most correct in his behaviour, though the girls will become infatuated with the music master.”
    Catherine barely heard the headmistress. Miss Fletcher, that paragon of propriety, had run off with the music master? No wonder she hadn’t answered Catherine’s last letter. By the time that epistle reached the school, Miss Pelliston’s former governess had already become Mrs. Brown and departed with her new husband for Ireland.
    “I’m so sorry you have come out of your way for naught,” Miss Collingwood continued. “I feel responsible. I should have counselled Miss Fletcher: marry in haste, repent at leisure.”
    “I’m sure you did all you could,” was the faint reply. “I should have waited until I heard from her... though it was inconceivable that she should not be here. She last wrote me but two months ago and only mentioned Mr. Brown in passing. Still, I was at fault.”
    Greatly at fault, Catherine’s conscience reminded. She had let her hateful passions rule her and was now reaping the reward.
    “No doubt,” Catherine went on, pinning what she hoped was a convincing smile on her face, “Miss Fletcher’s reply is at home awaiting me.”
    After assuring Miss Collingwood that the trip would not be a total loss, and concocting some plausible story about doing a bit more shopping (that explained the bandboxes) with the aunt who’d supposedly travelled with her and was now visiting friends, Catherine took her leave.
    She made her way slowly down the street, not only because she did not know where to go, but because her conscience was plaguing her dreadfully and she must argue with it.
    She would not be in this predicament if she hadn’t run away from home, but she wouldn’t have run away if her papa had only stopped now and then to think what he was doing. However, he never thought—not about her certainly. His cronies, his hounds, his wenching and drinking were much more important.
    Papa should have arranged for her to have a Season. Even Miss Fletcher had believed he would, or she’d never have accepted the post in London three years ago. Instead, he had sent Catherine to live with Great Aunt Eustacia. If that elderly lady had not died a year and a half later, Catherine would be there yet. She would have endured those endless monologues on religion and genealogy day after day until she dwindled into a lonely spinster like Aunt Deborah, who’d been the old lady’s companion for some thirty years before Catherine came.
    She had no illusions about her attractions. Her sole assets were her lineage and her father’s wealth. She knew she had no chance of attracting a husband unless she entered an environment where suitable bachelors abounded. That meant the London Marriage Mart.
    Yet, even after the family’s mourning period, had Papa troubled himself about his daughter’s Season? Of course not, she thought, staring morosely at her trudging feet. He thought only of himself. He went off to Bath and found himself a handsome young widow. Upon his return, he’d announced his own and his daughter’s wedding plans simultaneously.
    Lord Browdie, of all people, was to be her mate. He was more slovenly, crude, and dissolute than Papa. The man was ignorant, moody, and repulsive. Catherine had never expected a Prince Charming—she was no Incomparable herself—but to live the rest of her days with that middle-aged boor! She had borne much in the name of filial obedience, but Lord Browdie was past all enduring.
    Now she knew better. Now she knew what it was to be utterly helpless, utterly without