Читать книгу An Honourable Thief - Anne Gracie - Страница 10

“Miss Singleton.”

Kit jumped and hurriedly turned. There was still the odd occasion where, if distracted, it slipped her mind that she was now Miss Singleton.

A tall dark-haired gentleman stood at her elbow, frowning thoughtfully down at her. The impressive-looking man she had noticed earlier. Heavens! Up close he was even more impressive. Bigger. Darker. Colder. Examining her with a curious mixture of frigid intensity and detachment.

Kit’s heart started beating rapidly. She swallowed.

The grey eyes met her gaze coldly. A frisson of déjà-vu passed through her.

Who was he? Why was he staring at her in that way? Did he know her from somewhere?

“Will you honour me with a dance, Miss Singleton?”

It was not a request, but a demand, snapped out in an arrogant, care-for-nobody tone. Kit did not care for it. She lifted her chin and rewarded the gentleman with a frosty look and a disdainfully raised eyebrow. She was not supposed to talk to anyone she had not been introduced to.

“Yes, of course she will,” Aunt Rose responded for her. Rose must have introduced them, Kit realised belatedly, but she hadn’t caught it. Rose smiled, nodded approvingly at Kit and drifted off towards the card room.

Kit silently held out her card. His dark head bent as he scrawled his name on it, and she peered surreptitiously to try to catch the name, without success. His hands were large, square, long-fingered and well-shaped. Oddly, they were scarred and nicked in a number of places. London gentlemen took great care of their hands; some had skin almost as soft as Kit’s—softer, in fact, for she’d had occasion to work hard at times.

Interesting. This man seemed to flaunt his imperfections…no, not quite flaunt, he seemed indifferent to them. Or was it people’s opinion of him he was indifferent to?

She leaned back a little and allowed her gaze to run over him.

Up close he still retained that aura of aloneness. He made no small talk. He simply claimed her for a dance. He was either a little shy in the company of women, or very arrogant.

His eyes flicked up suddenly, as if aware of her scrutiny. He held her gaze a long, hard moment, then he dropped his gaze back to the card. Kit fought a blush. Whatever else he was, he was not shy of women.

His eyes were grey, though of such a grey as to be almost blue, although that could have been caused by the dark blue coat superbly cut to mould across his equally superb shoulders.

Kit had not seen such shoulders on a London gentleman before. Like the mandarin class of China, the pashas of Turkey, and the highest castes of India and Java, the members of the ton strove to appear as if they had never had to lift anything heavier than a spoon—and a gold or silver spoon, at that.

Fashionable London might believe a gentleman should not have the build of a stevedore, but Kit could find no fault with it. London gentlemen padded their shoulders to achieve the correct shape, but if she was given the choice between muscles or padding…Unfashionable it might be, but such shoulders could rather tempt a girl to…to think thoughts she had no business thinking, she told herself severely.

He had not the look of a man who’d had an easy life, not like many she’d met in the salons of the ton. He was not old—perhaps thirty or so—but lines of experience were graven into his face, and his mouth was set in an implacable unsmiling line. It was rather a nice mouth, set under a long aquiline nose and a square, stubborn-looking chin.

Kit wondered again what he would look like if he smiled.

His manner intrigued her. There was a faintly ruthless air about him, and the thought crossed her mind that he might be the sort of man Rose Singleton had warned her was dangerous to a young girl’s sensibilities. Certainly he was most attractive, if not precisely handsome. And yet he was making no effort to ingratiate himself or to fascinate her. Kit was fairly sure that a rake would try both, else how would he succeed in his rakishness?

He had made no effort to charm her. His manner was more…She searched for a word to describe it and, to her surprise, came up with the word businesslike. Yes, his manner towards her was businesslike. How very odd.

A thought suddenly occurred to her. Was he doing the rounds of the Marriage Mart in search of a wife? Some men did approach marriage as a business…

Kit swallowed and firmly repressed the thought. She was not here, like the other girls, to find a husband. She was here to fulfil her promise to Papa, her vow to retrieve the family honour. She was not interested in so much as looking at any man, unless it furthered her plan.

Still, this man was most impressive, most intriguing. And she certainly looked forward to dancing with him. She had spent the evening dancing with effete aristocrats and an occasional elderly friend of Rose Singleton’s—this man was like no man she had ever met before.

He looked up, frowned, thrust her card back into her hand and strode off, very much with the air of a man who had done his duty. She glanced down. His thick black writing dominated her dance card, claiming not just one dance but two. The second one, the waltz, was the supper dance. So, he wished to take her in to supper, did he?

It was all most intriguing. She still had not the faintest idea who he was. What was his name? His name stood out against the others pencilled on the white card. A heavy black scrawl. She frowned at it. It looked uncannily like the word devil. How very melodramatic.

She watched his retreat across the ballroom with narrowed eyes. He still looked, to her eyes, out of place in a ballroom, but she wasn’t quite sure why. His attire was severe but extremely elegant and obviously expensive, from his dark blue, long-tailed coat to his black knee-breeches.

Fastened in among the snowy fold of his cravat was a cunningly wrought gold tie pin; an exquisitely crafted bird, resting in what looked like a nest of flames, its ruby eye glinting. It was a phoenix, the fabled bird of ancient Egypt, who was destroyed by fire. But then a new bird rose, fully fledged, from the ashes of the old.

A most unusual piece. She wondered whether he had chosen the pin for the significance of the design, or merely because it was pretty. He didn’t look the sort to be attracted by the merely pretty.

Who was the man? Why did he feel somehow familiar to her? And why, out of all the young girls arrayed in white, had he asked her to dance? For she had seen him ask no one else.

If he had approached her with an eye to a possible bride, he was surely unique, for he’d barely glanced at her, except for that one icy, searing glance. Kit knew from her past experience that whatever the culture, men generally showed a great deal of interest in the physical attributes of the women they took to wife. In some places she had lived, even the woman’s teeth were inspected as a matter of course—not that Kit would stand for being inspected like a horse at market! But a little interest would not have gone astray.

Kit watched as he inclined his head ironically to someone on the other side of the room. She followed the direction of his gaze. An elegant woman in an exquisite lilac silk gown glared at him, stamped her foot and turned her back on him. Kit recognised the woman: Lady Norwood, the mother of Lord Norwood.

Kit wrinkled her brow in perplexion as Lady Norwood, exuding indignation with every step, stamped away to join her cronies, leaving the tall dark man to saunter away into the crowd. What on earth was all that about?

Lady Norwood was a widow, notorious, according to Rose, for keeping company with rakes and ne’er-do-wells. Was the tall man one of her companions? Had they had a falling out?

Rake or ne’er-do-well? He did not seem to fit either description. He seemed more like a big dark arrogant watch-dog; a little fierce, a little harsh, a little cold. But watchdogs guarded things. And people. Who or what was he guarding?

And why was Lady Norwood so angry with him?

She was not quite sure how she felt, but there was no doubt about one thing; she felt more alive than ever. The simple evening of pleasure before her had suddenly turned into a most intriguing event.

“Devenish, old fellow. Didn’t think to find you in Town. Thought you preferred rustification—know I do.”

The blunt, loud voice came from just behind Kit. She turned her head but could not observe the speaker. She was resting between dances, sipping a glass of sweet ratafia, while her partner went to fetch her an ice. Her seat was next to a pillar draped with netting and twined with drooping greenery; on the other side of the pillar, two men stood talking.

“Shockin’ly dull affair, ain’t it? If I’d realised there was going to be so many of the infantry invited, I wouldn’t have come. Lord! When did marriage-bait get to be so young—tell me that, Dev?”

The other man laughed wryly. “I’m afraid it is not the debutantes who are getting younger, Marsden, but—”

Marsden! Her father had mentioned a Marsden…Kit wriggled closer, eavesdropping unashamedly.

“Devil take you, don’t say it, man! Bad enough to realise I’ve been fifteen years leg-shackled—fifteen years—can you credit it?” Marsden sighed audibly. “Reason I’m come to the Metropolis—promised the lady wife I’d escort her, celebrate the event in London—celebration! At one of Fanny Parsons’s balls—commiseration more like!” He added coaxingly, “I say, old man, you wouldn’t care to slip out for a while and pop in to White’s for a rubber of whist?”

His companion laughed. “A tempting thought—but no, I cannot. I am engaged for the next waltz.”

“Good Gad! Who with?” asked Marsden bluntly. “Never took you for a caper merchant, Dev.” There was a short pause. “Never say you’re going to dance with one of those fillies in white—don’t do it, man! Don’t get yourself leg-shackled!”

His companion snorted. “Were I in the market for a wife—which I am not—I would not put myself down for a waltz with a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation.”

Kit listened to the two men laughing and frowned. Many of her fellow ingenues were a little dull but it was not their fault. It must be very difficult to be one moment in the schoolroom and the next expected to entertain sophisticated men of the world.

“Then what possessed you to ask one o’ these chits to dance? And a waltz, too. You’ll set the match-makin’ mamas in a devil of flutter you know, and—”

“Calm yourself, Marsden. I am here on a matter concerning my half-brother’s boy.”

“Young Norwood? You mean he is—? Oh, well, that’s all right then. Probably suit him, marriage. Chasin’ a fortune, no doubt, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

Kit stiffened. Norwood! If Norwood was his heir, then who was this Devenish she had been listening to? She pressed closer into the flowers and peered around the column. It was her tall watchdog! Not Devil, but Devenish—of course! She should have realised it sooner.

Then it dawned on her. His name was down in her card for the next waltz. She was the chit with more hair than conversation! Kit unclenched her teeth and took a sip of her ratafia. It tasted flat and oversweet. She set the glass aside with something of a snap. It was one thing to masquerade as a naïve young girl—it was another to be called a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation! She stiffened further as she caught the tail end of a sentence.

“…I’m still the boy’s trustee for a few more years, so if he is considering marriage, it’s wise to look her over.”

Look her over! As if she was a horse or something! If he tried to inspect her teeth, she’d bite him!

“It won’t take me long to ascertain what I need from the girl…”

Oh, won’t it, indeed! Kit thought rebelliously. So Lord Norwood was chasing a fortune, was he? And his mother was sending the family watchdog to inspect Kit Singleton—ha! Well, they were certainly barking up the wrong tree if they thought Kit Singleton would bring anyone a fortune. She could set them straight in a moment on that!

But she wouldn’t! That description of her rankled. She had an irresistible desire to teach the Watchdog a lesson about judging books by their covers. If Mr Devenish had decided Kit Singleton was a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation, then who was Kit Singleton to contradict him?

She felt a pleasurable frisson at the prospect of their dance. It would be quite soon.

“So, Miss Singleton, are you enjoying your come-out?” Mr Devenish swung her around masterfully.

Kit kept her eyes demurely lowered. He was by far the best dancer she had ever danced with and his shoulders more than lived up to their promise—the sensation of twirling in his arms was delicious.

It was very clear, however, that he was unused to conversing with very young ladies; he had made no attempt to charm her and his version of polite small talk was rather like being questioned by customs officers at the border. And as the dance continued, his tone, to Kit’s immense pleasure, was progressing rapidly towards that of one addressing a simpleton.

“Your come-out, Miss Singleton,” he rapped out again with a faint touch of impatience. “Are you enjoying it?”

She murmured something indistinguishable to his waistcoat, managing, just, to keep a straight face. As a chit with more hair than wit, she was making him work very hard for his conversation. She’d barely responded to his questions, and such responses she had uttered were given in a shy whisper.

Her tactics quite forced Mr Devenish to bend his head continuously towards her simple but elegant coiffure. Thus, he was well able to compare the amount of hair she had with the meagre wisps of conversation which had drifted up to him from the region of his waistcoat. And her hair was very short—she’d cut it all off in the heat of Batavia. Still, definitely more hair than wit…

“Did you say you were enjoying it, or not? I didn’t quite catch your response.”

“Oh, yeth,” murmured Kit. She was not certain where the lisp came from, but it seemed perfect for the character she had adopted, the simpleton he thought her. She had not yet looked him in the eye. Innocent debutantes were often bashful and shy. Miss Kit Singleton was the shyest and most bashful imaginable.

It was working beautifully. Mr Devenish had very good, if brusque, manners, but there was a growing note of asperity to his questions.

“You have not been in London long. I understand you arrived recently from New South Wales?”

So far she had offered him no fewer than seven “yeths” in a row. She expanded her conversational repertoire dramatically. “Oh, New Thouth Waleth ith a long way from here,” she murmured to his phoenix tie-pin. He really was very tall.

“And was your father an officer there?”

Kit managed a quiver and a sob without losing her step. “My papa ith…ith…dead.”

Above her head, Devenish rolled his eyes and danced grimly on, silently cursing the length of these wretched Viennese dances. It was worse than he had expected—getting information out of this little dullard was like getting blood out of a stone. Lord knew what his nephew saw in her. A man needed more in a wife than a pretty face or a fortune.

Not that she was all that pretty—oh, she was well enough; small, dark-haired, which was the fashion just now, and passable enough features—a straight little nose, a curiously squared-off chin and slender arching dark brows set over a pair of very speaking blue eyes. Yes, the eyes were her best feature…so very blue…

But Lord! If he had to look at that vapid smile and listen to those simpering “yeths” over the breakfast table every morning, he would strangle the woman inside a month! Less. He would infinitely prefer that he never had to speak to her again.

But he had promised her another interminable waltz, he recalled gloomily. And then supper. At least there might be crab patties at supper to compensate. He was very fond of crab patties.

“Well, Hugo?” Amelia glided up to him, a beaded silk scarf trailing behind her in elegant disarray. “What do you think? Have you learned all about the diamond mine in New South Wales? I hope you didn’t tell her you were Thomas’s uncle!”

He glowered at her from under dark eyebrows. Five minutes’ conversation with the Singleton chit had caused him more frustration and annoyance than he had experienced in a long time. But he was not going to give in so easily. He was loath to admit he had discovered almost nothing about the wretched girl.

Yet.

Hugo Devenish was not a man who would let himself be defeated by a pretty widgeon. Defeated? He blinked in surprise, and caught himself up. An odd word to use.

Amelia tugged his sleeve impatiently. “Hugo! What did you tell her? If she discovers your tradesman’s blood…”

He withdrew his arm and smoothed the crumpled fabric in irritation. “The girl is a dead bore.”

“But—”

“In fact, much more of Miss Singleton’s company would drive me to Bedlam. Thomas must be desperate indeed to consider wedding such a dreary little simpleton, rich or not.”

Amelia looked at him in surprise. “Simpleton? I do not think she is simple, Hugo.”

He shrugged. “Well, either she is simple-minded, or so shy that it cannot make any difference.” He rolled his eyes. “And that lisp! Infuriating.”

“What lisp?” said Amelia, confused. “Are you certain you have the right girl, Hugo? Miss Singleton has no lisp. And I’ve never thought her shy.”

Hugo frowned down at his cousin. “No lisp? Are you deaf? All I got out of the wretched girl was a dozen ‘yeths’—addressed to my waistcoat.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Did she indeed? How very intriguing.” A faint worldly smile curved her discreetly painted lips. “Hugo, you’ve flustered the poor little creature. How very, very interesting. She has never once lisped in my hearing, and Thomas has certainly never mentioned it—and I do believe he would have.” She frowned suddenly. “So…Miss Singleton is not immune to the charms of an older man, then—”

“Older man!” snapped Hugo. “I am barely two and thirty, Amelia, as you very well know! And you, sister-in-law, have the advantage of me by more than ten years.”

“Nonsense, it is barely seven!” retorted Amelia instantly. “I am not yet turned fort—no, I cannot even say it. It was most ungallant of you to raise such an unpleasant subject.” She waved away his objections. “The point is, Hugo, that I know how overwhelming a man of your age and experience can seem to a chit just out of the schoolroom.”

Hugo opened his mouth to argue, but Amelia continued, “She must have a tendre for you, else why would she lisp and behave shyly? Take it from me, she is not shy with anyone else. Quiet, pretty-behaved, yes. But I’ve found her perfectly ready to converse and not a hint of shyness. No, if she is developing a tendre for you, it is yet another reason why you must certainly stay away from her.”

“Oh, do not be ridiculous! How the devil can I investigate her background if I cannot go near her? You and Thomas would soon find yourselves in the suds if her fortune was not as large as it is reputed to be.”

“We will find ourselves in the suds if the girl decides she prefers you to Thomas, too!” responded Amelia crossly. “Stop it Hugo! There is no need to roll your eyes at me in that disagreeable manner. I am merely stating a fact.”

“Rubbish! Believe me, there is no danger of me succumbing to her simple-minded charms.”

“The girl is no more simple-minded than you or I!” Amelia stamped her foot. “She is young, yes, and innocent, but she is not the least bit stupid or shy.”

“But—”

“And she does not stutter—”

“Lisp.”

“Lisp, then.” Amelia hurried on, her eyes narrowed with ambition. “But she’s clearly smitten by your masculine charms, Hugo, and thus all our problems are compounded. I knew you would ruin everything! You must leave this girl, and take yourself back to your rural wastes and your horrid ships. Thomas and I will see to securing this fortune ourselves. I’ll not stand by to see you dazzle the girl with your elegance, your worldly address and your—”

“Steal my nephew’s bride from under his nose?” interrupted Hugo with asperity. “Apart from being ridiculous, I have no intention—”

“She is not his bride yet; they are not even betrothed. And—”

“Oh, well, if she’s not even betrothed,” he said provocatively. “Oh, don’t look like that! I have no interest in the girl, or her purported riches. I merely wish to investigate her background—as Thomas’s trustee! And that is all! Put those ridiculous suspicions from your mind! I have no need of a fortune, let alone a diamond mine of unproven provenance. And there is not the slightest danger of my succumbing to the charms of the younger Miss Singleton. Far from it! I am more like to strangle the girl!”

Kit frowned as she adjusted a curl in the mirror of one of the withdrawing rooms set aside for ladies. It was a puzzle as to why Mr Devenish was so interested in her. All those questions about her father. And New South Wales.

Perhaps Lady Norwood and Mr Devenish thought Kit a fortune hunter, out to snabble a lord for a husband.

She would have to allay their suspicions. It would be disastrous to her plans if Mr Devenish investigated her background too deeply and discovered that Miss Catherine Singleton was in fact Miss Kit Smith, actually christened Kathleen, and not a member of an aristocratic family at all. And that her father had been thrown out of New South Wales and a number of other places for cheating at cards. And worse.

If that came out, there would be a frightful scandal, and poor Rose Singleton would be the one to suffer for it. Kit would not permit such a thing to happen, not if she could prevent it. Whatever she had done in the past, Rose was an innocent, a kind and generous-hearted innocent, and Kit would not allow such a sweet-natured woman to suffer on her behalf.

She would have to speak to Thomas as soon as possible and make it clear she had no interest in him. And if he did not listen this time she would be more firm; once Thomas was out of the picture, Mr Devenish would have no reason to enquire into her background.

Foiling Mr Devenish’s brusque, penetrating enquiries was much like fencing with rapiers—exhilarating but dangerous. To see much more of him would be dangerous not only to her plans, but to her peace of mind, she suspected.

So she would allow herself one more encounter with the big dark watchdog and then—

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Kit’s thought were interrupted as a young girl came blundering into the withdrawing room and crashed into her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

The girl, who was very young and very pretty, stared a moment at Kit, then burst into tears, clearly overwrought.

Kit seated the young girl on a padded velvet bench and set herself to calming her. She had noticed her at a number of social events; like Kit, the girl was only just out.

“Miss…Miss Lutens, is it not?”

The girl nodded tearfully. “And you are Miss Singleton. I met you last week at Mrs Russell’s recital. How do you do?” she sobbed, politely holding out her hand.

Kit smiled at such well-drilled manners. She patted the girl’s hand and took out a handkerchief. “Tell me what is distressing you?” she said after Miss Lutens had calmed a little.

“Oh, I cannot,” she wept. “It is too mortifying, too foolish of me. I am just…” She wiped her eyes with Kit’s handkerchief.

“Come now, splash some cold water on your face and you will feel better. Would you like me to fetch your mama?”

“Oh, no!” gasped Miss Lutens in distress. “Mama would be so cross.”

Kit stared. It had been her impression that girls always turned to their mothers in distress.

“It is nothing. I am being silly, that is all. It is just that Sir Bar—no! No, take no notice. It is nothing.”

Sir Bar— Kit frowned. She recalled seeing this girl in the company of a certain Sir Bartlemy Bowles. Quite frequently, of late.

“Has Sir Bartlemy Bowles been bothering you?” she asked bluntly.

Miss Lutens gasped. “How did you know?”

“I saw him with you earlier. My aunt warned me about him. He is reputed to have the hands of an octopus, is that not so?”

Miss Lutens blinked.

“Too many hands, too much touching,” explained Kit.

“Oh!” Miss Lutens gasped, blushing. “Yes, exactly! And clammy!” She wrung her hands together in distress. “I simply cannot bear it.”

“Tell your mother,” recommended Kit. “She’ll soon send the clammy-handed old roué about his business. From what my aunt says, he’s notorious for pestering young girls. And though he is rich, he’s also married, so there is no need to worry that your mama plans to wed you to the horrid old slug.”

Miss Lutens giggled at the description, but shook her head. “No, that is the trouble, for I did mention it once, and Mama did not believe that Sir Bartlemy could be so ungallant. She told me not to be so silly.”

Her hands twisted the damp handkerchief into a rope. “He used to be a beau of hers, you understand, before she married Papa, and I think she still has a tendre for him.” She bit her lip. “I think…Mama thinks he is paying me so much attention for her sake…”

“Ahh,” said Kit, understanding her dilemma at last. “Well, then, you must get rid of the fellow yourself.”

Miss Lutens stared at her with large brown eyes. “Get rid of him? But how?”

“Be firm, be bold,” said Kit decisively. “Tell him to keep his hands to himself.”

Miss Lutens’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Oh! I am not sure I could…And what if he does not?”

“Then slap him! Good and hard.”

“Oh, I could not possibly slap him!” gasped Miss Lutens. “It would make a scandal, me slapping a man of his rank and years. I truly could not!”

Kit frowned. Miss Lutens had a point. “Well, try being firm and speaking to him about it, and if that does not work, let me know. I shall think of something. We women have to put up with enough in life without having to endure furtive caresses from a slug!”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” Miss Lutens beamed. “Oh, I am so pleased to have met you. I was not looking forward to this ball, you know, with Sir Bartlemy escorting Mama and me, but now I have made a friend and I am so happy!” She clasped Kit’s hand in an eager grip.

Kit smiled, her heart sinking. It was not part of her plans to make friends. If she allowed people to get too close to her, they would see through her deception. Already with Miss Lutens she had not behaved as an unworldly innocent would—she had dropped her role to rescue an innocent child from a nasty groping octopus.

It was a foolish move. But Kit could not help herself. She had learned very young to protect herself from unwanted attentions—she’d had to with the life she’d lived.

Kit hesitated. She’d been watching the other young girls with envy in her heart, envying them their doting parents and protective chaperones and wondering wistfully what her life might have been like if Papa had doted on her like these parents did on their daughters.

But now she realised that their very protectiveness had made these girls quite vulnerable to the unscrupulous attentions of persons like Sir Bartlemy Bowles. Without her mother’s support, Miss Lutens was like an oyster without a shell; soft, exposed and utterly unable to protect herself.

But Kit did not have had the benefit of a protected up-bringing; she had more than a few tricks up her sleeve. She resolved to help Miss Lutens.

“You need not simply put up with things, you know. You can take action on your own behalf.”

“How?” said Miss Lutens, eagerly.

“You must do something to give Sir Bartlemy a disgust of you.”

“But what? And what would my mama say?”

“It will be too late for your mama to prevent it. And if you are clever and subtle enough, then you won’t have to be in her bad books for long.” She gave Miss Lutens a significant look and added with a faint smile, “Much can be forgiven of a young girl who is nervous about making her come-out.”

Miss Lutens looked at her blankly. Kit winked. “Do not worry about it. Do I understand that Sir Bartlemy has already had two dances?”

Miss Lutens nodded.

“Good, then you shall not have to dance with him again tonight. Shall you be at Almack’s on Wednesday?”

Miss Lutens nodded. “Yes, Mama has procured the vouchers.”

“I shall also be there and no doubt we shall see Sir Bartlemy too.”

“Yes,” said Miss Lutens dolefully. “He is very fond of Almack’s.”

“Then I shall show you what I mean on Wednesday,” said Kit. “And when you come, bring your sharpest hatpin, just in case.”

Miss Lutens’s eyes widened. “My…my hatpin? But, but I shall not be wearing a hat at Almack’s, you know.”

Kit wondered what it would be like to be so innocent, so sheltered, so trusting of the world. Vulnerable, she told herself firmly.

“Yes, it is not for a hat. You must keep it in your reticule, but poke the end into a cork, so it does not prick you. And then, if you are bothered by such nasty creatures as, let us say, octopuses, you may take it out and…” She mimed the thrusting of a pin and winked. “Very useful things, hatpins.”

Miss Lutens gasped, put a hand over her mouth and giggled.

“That’s right,” said Kit cheerily, “and even if you do not use it, it will make you feel much more confident, knowing you have your hatpin on hand. In the meantime, take heart. There are plenty of nice, handsome young men who will take one look at you and fall instantly in love. Your mama will soon be so busy keeping track of all your suitors, she will have no time for clammy old horrors like Sir Bartlemy.”

Miss Lutens blushed and giggled again.

“That’s better,” said Kit bracingly. “Now, let us return to the ballroom,” she said. “Our partners will be awaiting us.”

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Singleton,” said Lord Norwood stiffly as he escorted Kit back to where her aunt was seated. He was a little annoyed from having been treated with cool lack of interest all through the country dance.

“You are welcome, sir,” responded Kit coolly. “I do enjoy country dances, though they can sometimes leave one a trifle breathless.”

Lord Norwood frowned. There was not the faintest hint of breathlessness about Miss Kit Singleton. Lord Norwood, on the other hand, was hot and still puffing slightly.

“Hmm, yes,” said Thomas with determined civility. “Ah, here is my—er, Mr Devenish awaiting you. I believe he is next on your card.” He nodded brusquely at Mr Devenish, bowed very correctly to Kit and left.

Mr Devenish had clearly heard Kit’s last comment. “Perhaps you do not wish to dance, Miss Singleton.” He bowed politely and suggested in a bored voice, “No doubt you are a trifle weary and would prefer to sit the next dance out.”

“Oh, yeth, of course, if you wish it,” Kit agreed instantly, then added sympathetically, “I forgot how it was with elder—um, mature gentlemen. My poor old papa used to find dancing very tiring, too—ethpecially the waltz—such a long dance, ith it not, and tho energetic.”

The strains of a Viennese waltz filled the air. She smiled sunnily up at him and looked brightly around the room. “Now, where shall we find a comfortable chair tho you may retht your poor feet?”

Mr Devenish’s lips thinned. An arctic look came into his eyes but he did not reply. Taking her waist in a firm, not to say ferocious grip, he whirled her across the room in a dazzling display of virtuosity and youthful masculine energy, twirling her and twirling her until she was quite dizzy with pleasure and delight.

Kit had danced the waltz several times before, but now, suddenly, she realised why it had been regarded as so scandalous and had taken such a long time to be accepted in polite society.

When danced like this, caught up hard in the grip of a strong, masterful man, twirling in his arms until you lost all awareness of anything except the music and the man, the experience was utterly intoxicating.

Kit simply gave herself up to the magic of the dance. And the man. The world blurred around her in a glittering rainbow, the music spun through her brain in a melody of magic, and all that anchored her to the ground was the hard, strong body of a tall dark man.

After a few moments he looked down at her as if surprised. His grip tightened, his cold grey eyes seemed to bore into her soul and Kit felt herself staring up at him like a mouse mesmerised by a cobra. They danced on, staring into each other’s eyes.

Kit felt suddenly breathless; a breathlessness that had nothing to do with the movement of the dance. She longed to simply let herself go, to float wherever he wished to take her, to dance off into a new dawn. The temptation was irresistible.

But she could not. She’d made a promise. It was her honour at stake, as well as her papa’s.

She blinked to free herself of Mr Devenish’s spell and closed her eyes, shutting out the thought that here was a man the like of which she’d never come across before…

Abruptly he loosened his grip and she stumbled slightly. He caught her up smoothly and she realised he was very strong. He was the sort of man who would never let a girl fall. The sort of man a woman could depend on.

But Kit could depend only on herself. It had always been so. It was the only possible way. She had to break this spell.

“Oh, dear, it ith a long dance, ith it not? Are you getting tired, Mr Devenish?” she murmured, a young Katherine Parr to his aged King Henry.

Insulted, he snapped, “Do you reverse?” and before she had a chance to reply he was twirling her in reverse around the circumference of the ballroom with great, if furious, vigour.

Again it was utterly intoxicating and Kit had to battle her own senses to retain a safe distance from him.

The supper, despite the gloomy predictions of some, turned out to be surprisingly good—a triumph of Fanny Parsons over her husband’s penny-pinching ways. She had provided a substantial spread: turtle soup, a number of pies—pigeon, pork, veal and ham—oyster fritters, lobster salad, eels in aspic, sliced roast duck, tiny quails in pastry baskets, dishes of tender green peas, braised capons, a mountain of shaved ham, bread and butter, fruits, jellies, fruit custards, trifles, pastries glittering with a frosting of sugar, and ices in several flavours.

There were even, to Mr Devenish’s satisfaction, crab patties. He placed several on his and his partner’s plate.

“So, Miss Singleton,” he said as they ate, “I believe you have lived a good deal of your life in…New South Wales, was it?”

Kit smiled at him, still exhilarated from the dance. “Oh, no,” she said serenely, and popped an oyster fritter into her mouth, thus making further conversation impossible for a few moments.

Mr Devenish frowned. “But I thought you came from New South Wales.”

Kit chewed her oyster fritter slowly and thoroughly. Mr Devenish gave up for the moment and devoured a crab patty. “I understood your father had, er, some business in New South Wales?”

Kit smiled. “Papa always had many different interests, yeth.”

Mr Devenish noted the way the lisp came and went. Could it truly be a sign of nervousness, as Amelia had suggested? The thought was a little unnerving, especially after the waltz they had shared.

Something had happened during that waltz…she had seemed somehow differ—No! He was not going to think about the implications of that dance. The breathless young sprite he had twirled in his arms had reverted to the idiot widgeon.

He was here to investigate her. On his nephew’s behalf.

“Your father was a landowner, no doubt? I do believe land grants—to the right people, of course—are easily come by in the Colonies.”

“Do you?” said Kit politely and chewed meditatively on a mouthful of green peas.

“That is my understanding, yes,” Mr Devenish persisted. “Did your father operate a farm? I believe wool is said to be doing well there. Did he own a lot of sheep?”

Kit giggled inanely and shook her head, but inside, she was appalled. He was very well informed about a fledgling penal colony that almost no one in London knew anything of, she thought. He may well have visited the colony—that could explain the fleeting sense of familiarity she felt in his company. She had best be very careful. It would not do to be recognised as a card-cheat’s daughter.

Mr Devenish decided to take a different angle. “I have heard that vast areas of new country have been opened up since they found a way through some mountain range, is that right?”

Kit nodded emphatically. “Oh, yeth.”

Mr Devenish leaned forward.

“I had not heard it myself, of courth, but gentlemen are invariably right, are you not?” she added, and nibbled daintily on a slice of chicken breast. What was it he was trying to get her to reveal? Knowledge of New South Wales? Her father’s business?

Mr Devenish gritted his teeth and helped himself to another crab patty. “Do you not know what—er, um.” Under those innocently questioning eyes he stuttered to a halt. Then grimly, he tried again. “So, your father did not discuss business affairs at all with you,” he said bluntly, shuddering inwardly at his lack of subtlety.

“Oh, no,” she said firmly, “for it ith not at all ladylike to talk of such things. In any case, Papa said to be forever talking of money ith horridly vulgar.” She smiled beatifically at him and batted her eyelashes gently. “Don’t you agree?”

There was a short, strained silence. Mr Devenish reached for the dish of crab patties.

Kit laid a small hand on his, and said earnestly. “Should you really be eating tho many crab patties? They are very rich, you know, and my papa found they did not at all agree with his constitution—”

“I have eaten and enjoyed crab patties all my life,” he snapped, and reached towards the dish.

Kit tactfully moved the dish away from him with an understanding smile. “Yeth, but after a certain age, I believe, gentlemen are not able to do all the things they used to enjoy in their youth. Would you care for a ruthk?” She offered him a rusk, maintaining her demure expression by biting hard on the inside of her cheek.

“No, I would not!” he snapped explosively. There was another short silence while Mr Devenish fought to control his indignation at being treated as an octogenarian.

Kit placidly examined her nails, ninny fashion.

He stood up. “You seem to have finished your supper, Miss Singleton.” He held out a commanding hand to help her to her feet.

Kit, relieved not to be pushed further on the question of her background, offered him an artless smile and allowed herself to be drawn from her seat.

“I believe Sir Bartlemy Bowles was hoping to take you on a short promenade around the room,” he said, his eyes glinting.

Oho, so the Watchdog stooped to low tricks, did he? How dare he deliver an innocent young girl such as she to a creature like the Octopus!

She turned to leave, but her hem appeared to be caught under the chair. She stumbled and fell against him, quite awkwardly, and floundered against him momentarily, trying to regain her balance. He gently took her upper arms and lifted her upright; she avoided his gaze and babbled hasty thanks and apologies for her clumsiness.

Mr Devenish frowned blackly. At the first touch of her body against his, a surge of awareness had passed through him like wildfire. He thrust her small, firm body resolutely away from him. He was not attracted to this little widgeon! He was damned if he would be attracted to any respectable female of the ton, let alone a complete simpleton!

“Thank you very much for the dance and for escorting me to thupper, Mr Devenish, but my Aunt told me not to go on to the terrace without her, tho, if you don’t mind…” She smiled a last smile at his waistcoat, enjoying the sight of his pristine white cravat, the smooth folds of which were quite unmarred…not by a crumb or a scrap of crab. Not even by a tie-pin, phoenix or otherwise.