Читать книгу The Mistress - Сьюзен Виггс - Страница 9

Under a French gown of emerald silk, Kathleen O’Leary wore homespun bloomers that had seen better days. She told herself not to worry about what lay beneath her sumptuous costume. It was what the world saw on the surface that mattered, particularly tonight.

Next Friday, she would go down on her knees and admit the ruse to Father Campbell in the confessional, but Friday was far away. At the present moment, she meant to enjoy herself entirely, for it was a night of deceptions and she was at its heart.

The mechanical gilt elevator speeding them up to the third-floor salon of the Hotel Royale was only partially responsible for the swift rush of anticipation that tingled along her nerves. She clasped hands with her two companions, Phoebe Palmer and Lucy Hathaway, and gave them a squeeze. “Think we’ll get away with it?” she whispered.

Lucy sent her a dark-eyed wink. “With looks like that, you could get away with robbing the Board of Trade.”

Kathleen would have pinched herself if she hadn’t been holding on so tightly to her friends’ hands. She couldn’t believe she was actually committing such an audacious act. Going to a social affair to which she wasn’t invited. In a dress from Paris that didn’t belong to her. Wearing jewels worth a king’s ransom. To meet people who, if they knew who she really was, would not consider her fit to black their boots.

The bellman pushed up the brake lever and cranked open the door. With only a swift glance, Kathleen recognized him as an Irishman. He had the sturdy features and mild, deferential demeanor of a recent immigrant. Phoebe swept past him, not even seeing the small man.

“Mayor Mason will not be seeking another term,” Phoebe was saying in a breathless voice that seemed fashioned solely for gossip. “Mrs. Wendover is having a flaming love affair with a student at Rush Medical College.” She enumerated the tidbits on her fingers, intent on bringing Kathleen up to date with the guests she was about to meet. “And Mr. Dylan Kennedy is just back from the Continent.”

“Remind me again. Who is Dylan Kennedy?” Lucy asked in a bored voice. She had never been one to be overly impressed by the upper classes—probably because she came from one of the oldest families of the city, and she understood their foibles and flaws.

“Don’t you know?” Phoebe patted a brown curl into place. “He’s only the richest, most handsome man in Chicago. It’s said he came back to look for a wife.” She led the way down the carpeted hall. “He might even begin courting someone in earnest this very night. Isn’t that deliciously romantic?”

“It’s not deliciously anything,” Lucy Hathaway said with a skeptical sniff. “If he needs to pick something, he should go to the cattle auction over at the Union Stockyards.”

Kathleen said nothing, but privately she agreed with Phoebe for once. Dylan Francis Kennedy was delicious. She had glimpsed him a week earlier at a garden party at the Sinclair mansion, where her mistress, Miss Deborah Sinclair, lived when not away at finishing school. Kathleen had stolen a few moments from tending to her duties to look out across the long, groomed garden, and there, by an ornate gazebo, had stood the most wonderful-looking man she had ever seen. In perfectly tailored trousers that hugged his narrow hips, and a charcoal-black frock coat that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, he had resembled a prince in a romantic story. Of course, it was a glimpse from afar. Up close, he probably wasn’t nearly as…delicious.

She spied a door painted with the words Ladies’ Powder Room and gave Lucy’s hand a tug. “Could we, please?” she said. “I think I need a moment to compose myself.” She spoke very carefully, disguising the soft brogue of her everyday speech.

Phoebe tapped an ivory-ribbed fan smartly on the palm of her gloved hand. “Chickening out?”

“In a pig’s eye,” Kathleen said, a shade of the dreaded brogue slipping out. She was always provoked and challenged by Phoebe Palmer, who belonged to one of Chicago’s leading families. Phoebe, in turn, thought Kathleen far too cheeky and familiar with her betters and did her best to put the maid in her place.

That, in fact, was part of the challenge tonight. Lucy swore Kathleen could pass for a member of the upper crust. Phoebe didn’t believe anyone would be fooled by the daughter of Irish immigrants. Lucy asserted that it would be an interesting social experiment. They had even made a wager on the outcome. Tomorrow night, Crosby’s Opera House was scheduled to open, and the cream of Chicago society would be in attendance. If Kathleen managed to get herself invited, Phoebe would donate one hundred dollars to Lucy’s dearest cause—suffrage for women.

“You can gild that lily all you like,” Phoebe had said to Lucy as they were getting ready for the evening. “But anyone with half a brain will know she’s just a common weed.”

“Half a brain,” Lucy had laughed and whispered in Kathleen’s ear, which burned with a blush. “That leaves out most of the people at the soiree.”

They stepped into the powder room decked with gilt-framed mirrors and softly lit by the whitish glow of gaslight sconces. The three young ladies stood together in front of the tall center mirror—Lucy, with her black hair and merry eyes, Phoebe, haughty and sure of herself, and Kathleen, regarding her reflection anxiously, wondering if the vivid red of her hair and the scattering of freckles over her cheeks and nose would be a dead giveaway. Her long bright ringlets spilled from a set of sterling combs, and the flush of nervousness in her cheeks was not unbecoming. Perhaps she could pull this off after all.

“Lord, but I wish Miss Deborah had come,” she said, leaning forward and turning her head to one side to examine her diamond-and-emerald drop earrings. The costly baubles swayed with an unfamiliar tug. Other than girlish games of dress-up, which she had played with Deborah when she’d first gone to work as a maid at the age of twelve, Kathleen had never worn jewelry in her life. The eldest of five, she had never even received the traditional cross at her First Communion. Her parents simply hadn’t had the money.

“Deborah wasn’t well,” Phoebe reminded her. “Besides, if she had come, then you wouldn’t have had her fabulous gown to wear, or her Tiffany jewels, and you’d be sitting at the school all alone tonight.”

“Cinderella sifting through the ashes,” Kathleen said tartly. “You’d have loved that.”

“Not really,” Phoebe said, and just for a moment her haughty mask fell away. “I do wish you well, Kathleen. Please know that.”

Kathleen was startled by the moment of candor. Perhaps, she thought, there were some things about the upper classes she would never understand. But that had not stopped her from wanting desperately to be one of them. And tonight was the perfect opportunity.

The well-tended young ladies of Miss Emma Wade Boylan’s School received scores of invitations to social events in Chicago. Miss Boylan had a reputation for finishing a young woman with charm and panache, and charging her patrons dearly for the privilege. In return, Miss Boylan transformed raw, wealthy girls into perfect wives and hostesses. A bride from Boylan’s was known to be the ideal ornament to a successful man.

The gathering tonight was special, and well attended by members of the elite group informally known as the Old Settlers. As it was a Sunday, there would be no dancing ball, so it was dubbed an evangelical evening, featuring a famous preacher, the Reverend Mr. Dwight L. Moody.

Proper Catholics were supposed to turn a deaf ear to evangelists, but Kathleen had always been challenged by the notion of being proper. Besides, the lecture was nothing more than an excuse for people to get together and gossip and flirt on a Sunday night. Everyone—except perhaps the Reverend himself—knew that. It was all part of the elaborate mating ritual of the upper class, and it fascinated Kathleen. Many a night she had stayed back at the school, paging through Godey’s Lady’s Book, studying the color fashion plates and wondering what it would be like to join the rare, privileged company of the elite.

Tonight, fate or simple happenstance held out the opportunity. Miss Deborah had taken ill and had gone home to her father. As a lark, Phoebe and Lucy had decided to try what Lucy termed a “social experiment.”

Lucy swore that people were easily led and swayed by appearances, and there was no real distinction between the classes. A poor girl dressed as a princess would be as warmly received as royalty. Phoebe, on the other hand, believed that class was something a person was born with, like straight teeth or brown hair, and that people of distinction could spot an imposter every time.

Kathleen was their willing subject for the experiment. She had always been intrigued by rich people, having lived outside their charmed circle, looking in, for most of her life. At last she would join their midst, if only for a few hours.

“Are you hoping for a private moment with Mr. Kennedy?” Lucy asked Phoebe teasingly.

“He will surely be the handsomest man in attendance tonight,” Phoebe said. “But you’re welcome to him. I have a different ambition.”

“What is wrong with him?” Kathleen asked, remembering the godlike creature she had watched in the gazebo. She knew that if Phoebe had wanted Dylan Kennedy for herself, she would have had him by now. “What aren’t you telling us?”

“The fault is not with Mr. Kennedy, but with our dearest Phoebe,” Lucy said, her voice both chiding and affectionate. “She has set a standard no mortal man can possibly meet.”

“What is it that you want?” Kathleen asked.

“A duke,” Phoebe whispered, nearly swooning with the admission.

Kathleen burst out laughing. “And where do you suppose you’ll be finding one of those? Beneath a toadstool?” She feigned a mincing walk and stuck her nose in the air. “You may call me ‘your highness’ and be sure you scrape the floor when you bow.”

Lucy swallowed an outburst of laughter. “Isn’t a royal title against the law?”

“In this country,” Phoebe said with an offended sniff. “And it’s ‘Your Grace.’”

“You mean you would leave the States in your quest for a title?”

Phoebe stared at her as if she had gone daft. “I would leave the planet in order to marry a title.”

“But why?” Kathleen demanded.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Honestly, you’ve never known your place, Kathleen O’Leary. Deborah spoiled you from the start.”

“That’s because Deborah is smart enough to see that divisions of class are artificial,” Lucy said. “As I intend to prove to you tonight.”

“Let’s not quarrel.” No matter how hard-pressed, Kathleen always found it easier to tolerate Phoebe’s snobbishness than to try to reason with her.

She checked inside her beaded silken reticule. As ornate as the crown jewels, the evening bag was anchored by a tasseled cord to her waist, the crystal beads catching the light each time she moved. As a lady’s maid, she knew the contents of a proper reticule: calling cards, a tiny vial of smelling salts in case she felt faint, a lace-edged handkerchief, a comb and hairpin, a coin or two.

Because she was Irish, she could not deny a superstitious streak in herself. Before leaving the school tonight, she had snatched up a talisman to carry her through the evening. It was a mass card from St. Brendan’s Church, printed in honor of her grandmother, Bridget Cavanaugh. The sturdy old woman had died three months earlier, and Kathleen ached with missing her. It seemed appropriate and oddly comforting to slip the holy card into her reticule, as if Gran were a little cardboard saint carried in her pocket. She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I am as ready as a sinner on Fat Tuesday.”

She and her friends slowly approached the salon, their footfalls silent on the carpet patterned with swirling ferns. Kathleen savored every moment, every sensation, knowing that memories of this night would sustain her through all the long years to come. She tried to memorize the plush feel of the thick carpet beneath her feet, which were clad in silk slippers made to match the Worth gown. She felt the rich, heavy weight of the emerald-and-diamond collar around her neck, and the tug of the matching earrings. She listened to the polite, cultured burble of conversation in the grand salon. To her, the mingling voices sounded like a chorus of angels. Everything even smelled rich, she reflected fancifully. French perfume, Havana cigars, fine brandy, Macassar hair oil.

They reached the arched doorway flanked by tall potted plants. The breeze through an open window let in a hot gust of air, causing the ferns to nod as if in obeisance. The uncertain luster of the moon polished the spires and dome of the courthouse in the next block. Far to the west, the sky flickered and glowed with heat lightning. It was a night made for magic. Of that, Kathleen felt certain.

She paused between Phoebe and Lucy. Under her breath, she said the word prism and left her mouth pursed. Miss Boylan taught that prism was the most becoming word a young lady could utter, for it caused the mouth to shape itself into a perfect bow, so attractive in company.

The trouble was, Phoebe and Lucy, rigorously trained by Miss Boylan, also said prism, and the three of them made the mistake of looking at one another.

Lucy burst out laughing first and Phoebe stayed sober the longest, but eventually they all erupted into gales of mirth. Trapped and exposed beneath the archway, they were unable to hide from the disapproval of long-nosed society matrons and haughty gentlemen peering at them through gold-rimmed lorgnettes.

“Oh, that went well,” Phoebe said, hiccuping away the last of her laughter.

“A most discreet entrée,” Lucy agreed. She linked arms with Kathleen. “We must proceed as if nothing has happened.”

“Welcome, ladies, welcome!” A jovial man in a beautifully tailored claw-hammer coat came forward, acting the host. “And your happiness is most welcome indeed.” He made a gallant bow from the waist. “I was afraid the evening was going to get stodgy on me, but you’ve rescued us from that.”

“Thank you ever so kindly, Mr. Pullman,” Phoebe replied with an effortless curtsy. “We’re honored to be included in tonight’s affair.”

“Everyone’s welcome.” He spread his arms to show off an impressively heavy watch chain anchored to a solid gold fob. “Do come in, come in.”

“Mr. Pullman,” Lucy said, “I’d like you to meet my friend Kate O’Leary from Baltimore.” She winked and dropped her voice to a whisper. “You know, the Learys of Baltimore. They have just recently arrived in town for an extended visit.”

George Pullman, famed entrepreneur whose palatial rail cars were described as “wonders of the age,” fixed a keen, assessing eye on Kathleen.

Her mouth went dry. Her bones stiffened to cold stone and her cheeks were touched with the fire of humiliation. What a fool she was, to think she could pull this off. She was about to be found out and publicly unveiled by one of the most famous men in Chicago. She wanted to turn and run, but she could not seem to move her feet. She did the only thing she could think of. Summoning her best smile, she sank into an oft-practiced curtsy.

“How do you do, Mr. Pullman,” she said with soft, precise diction. Not a trace of the Irish brogue that rolled unabashed through the cottage where she’d grown up. Not a flat, coarse vowel to be heard. Not a single waver of movement in the curtsy.

“Of the Baltimore Learys,” he said at last, clearly fooled by Lucy’s ruse. “My dear, you quite take my breath away.” He seemed sincere. Then, remembering himself, he added, “You all do. My compliments to Miss Boylan.” He moved on to greet someone else.

Kathleen didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until she nearly burst, letting out a sigh of relief.

“I told you we’d fool everyone,” Lucy said, gritting her teeth in a smile.

“Humph.” Phoebe moved into the midst of the gathering like a ship under full sail. “George Pullman’s money is as new as the Sinclair fortune. It takes generations of refinement to hone one’s taste.”

Phoebe Palmer never missed a chance to remind anyone who would listen that “old” money was far superior to “new.” She considered it gauche for a family to get rich all in one lifetime rather than accumulating wealth over generations. Such things mattered to people like the Palmers.

Phoebe spent a moment scanning the crowd, her nose lifted high in the air. A hound on the scent, she sought out the most prestigious guests in the salon: Mr. Randolph Higgins, Mr. Robert Todd Lincoln, Miss Consuelo Ybarra, Mrs. Arabella Field. Then she focused on her quarry—Kim, Lord de Vere, son of the duke of Kilbride. A circle of fawning, fascinated Americans surrounded the carelessly, almost effeminately, toothsome young lord. Phoebe sought out Mr. Pullman to request a formal introduction.

Kathleen and Lucy exchanged a glance and had to struggle against another attack of the giggles. “Her great dream is to be a penny princess,” Lucy explained. “British peers with bankrupt dukedoms and such often come to the States looking for a rich girl to marry. Then they use the girl’s fortune to rebuild their estates.”

“And she allows this?” Kathleen could see no benefit in the deal for a young woman.

“See for yourself.”

Phoebe had turned herself into a simpering, self-ingratiating creature, begging for scraps at the skinny, chinless lord’s side.

“What is wrong with a nice red-blooded American millionaire?” Kathleen asked.

“The fact that he’s male,” Lucy said with a grin, always quick to air her views. In favor of universal suffrage, birth control, free love and equal rights for women, she made no secret of her radical ideas. Try as she might, Miss Boylan had not been able to lecture such notions out of Lucy Hathaway’s head.

“One day you’ll meet a man who will make you beg forgiveness for saying that,” Kathleen warned her.

“One day hell will ice over, too,” Lucy said. “But I don’t expect either event to occur in my lifetime. However, I was hoping to meet an interesting man tonight.” Her scrutiny fixed itself on Mr. Randolph Higgins. A newcomer to Chicago, he was tall, broad and almost inhumanly attractive. “I’ve been thinking of taking a lover. Just to see what the fuss is all about.”

Kathleen sucked in a shocked breath. “Really, Miss—”

Lucy clutched at Kathleen’s arm. “Heavenly days,” she said.

A chill of nervousness curled in Kathleen’s gut. “What?”

“It’s Philip Ascot.”

“What the devil’s he doing here?” Instinctively Kathleen hunched her shoulders, wishing she could hide. Philip Ascot IV was the fiancé of her mistress, Deborah Sinclair. Since Deborah was unwell tonight, Kathleen certainly hadn’t expected him to attend. She peered at the young man suspiciously. Not a single blond hair nor a thread of clothing was out of place. He smiled politely while greeting Reverend Moody, a white-mustached, bombastic man, the only one present who believed his purpose this night was to save souls.

“I’ll be found out for certain,” Kathleen said, deflating in her beautiful dress.

“Will you?” Lucy lifted one dark eyebrow. “Are you sure he’d recognize you?”

“I’ve worked for his fiancée for years,” she said. “He has seen me a hundred times or more.”

“Then we’ll simply have to brazen it out,” said Lucy. “Come on. Just act as if you own the place.”

Somehow, Kathleen found the poise to cross the room with a smooth, proprietary grace. Judging by the polite greetings drifting toward her and Lucy, she began to realize that she was carrying off the ruse. Mimicry had always been a gift of hers, helping her to absorb the same lessons in elocution, dancing, French and flower arranging her mistress had suffered through.

The difference was, Kathleen didn’t consider the lessons a punishment. She loved every moment of them. She loved knowing which fork to use, which foot to put forward in a curtsy, learning how to say pas de quoi and shaping her mouth around the word prism before entering a room. It all seemed so lovely and refined to Kathleen. She couldn’t fathom why Deborah detested her lessons so much. But then, her mistress had always been a quiet, circumspect young woman, overshadowed by her domineering father and, increasingly, by her high-society fiancé.

“Philip Ascot, as I live and breathe,” Lucy said, approaching the fair-haired man and holding out her hand.

“Miss Lucy,” he said, gallantly lifting her hand to his mouth. “You look fetching, as always.”

“This is my dear friend Kate from Baltimore.” Lucy took back her hand and presented Kathleen, pushing lightly but insistently at the small of her back.

Though she kept a social smile on her face, Kathleen felt sick. This was it. The moment of truth. Philip had only to take one look at her and he would recognize his fiancée’s maid. He would expose her right down to her homespun bloomers and the calluses on her gloved hands. Too late, Kathleen remembered that he had given Deborah the diamond-and-emerald earrings last Christmas.

Sweet Jesus and the bald apostles. She was in for it now.

Philip made a formal bow and took her hand. Through her peau de soie glove, she felt the brief touch of his lips. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. “Enchanted, Miss Kate. What a pleasure indeed to meet you.” He stared at her intently, a dashing smile on his face. But to Kathleen’s shock, there was not a flicker of recognition in that stare. Only…an interest that was just a shade shy of polite. As quickly as she could, she freed herself from his touch.

“We are quite surprised to see you here, since Deborah is ill,” Lucy commented. She had always been a plain-speaking sort; she got away with it because she was descended from a famous, blue-blooded family and was worth a fortune.

“Ill, you say?” He lifted an eyebrow. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.” He shrugged, dismissing the mention of the woman he was soon to marry. “Another fit of melancholia, I presume. I’ll look in on her tomorrow, perhaps.” With a broad, cold grin he turned his attention to Kathleen. “So how long are you with us?”

Kathleen wondered why she had never recognized the vaguely predatory air that lurked just beneath the surface of this man’s polished exterior. Perhaps, she realized with mild amazement, it was because she had never been the object of his interest before. When she was merely a maid, he paid her no more attention than a piece of furniture.

“Only a short while, Mr. Ascot,” she said evasively. “Now you must excuse us.” Without waiting for a reply, she took Lucy’s arm and steered her away. As they moved toward the refreshment table, her cheeks felt as if they were on fire.

“You’re trembling,” said Lucy. “Are you all right?”

“I’ve just had a rather rude awakening. I’ve been in the company of that man dozens of times, because of Miss Deborah. But he’s never even seen me before. He didn’t recognize these earrings, even though he picked them out. Not that I would want his attention, but it’s a wee bit disconcerting to know I attracted all the notice of a potted palm.”

“He’s an insufferable snob,” Lucy said, curling her lip. “I have never been fond of him.”

Neither had Kathleen, but she felt strange and hollow inside to know her existence was so insignificant to people like Philip Ascot. And he wasn’t the only one. Earlier, Phoebe had ignored the elevator operator. Lucy had accepted a glass of lemonade from the tray of a passing waiter with the same lack of regard. Lucy, who hadn’t a mean bone in her body, blandly smiled her thanks, but didn’t actually see the neatly dressed waiter, didn’t wonder what his name was, where he came from, whether his shiny shoes pinched his feet, or if he had a sweetheart or a wife.

To the upper crust, people like the waiter—even personal maids like Kathleen O’Leary—were ignored. Not out of malice, but out of sheer obliviousness.

Imagine going through life being invisible. As if she didn’t exist at all. The very thought chilled and horrified her. It was more than vanity that made Kathleen want to be noticed. It was a keen sense of survival. If she was invisible, how could her life possibly matter? She wished she could march through her days with the conviction of Lucy, or the self-importance of Phoebe, or even the quiet gentility of Deborah.

Instead, she found herself at an unhappy crossroads. Because of her education, stolen from the tutors and governesses hired for her mistress, Kathleen no longer fit in with the working classes. Yet due to the circumstances of her birth, she didn’t fit in with the privileged set, either.

Tonight, she decided, casting away the chilly shadows of doubt, tonight she would be a true lady, no one would be the wiser and Lucy would win her bet with Phoebe. Bolstered by that conviction, she resolved to set aside her doubts once and for all, and enjoy the evening.

She gave herself over to the experience, laughing and flirting with surprising ease and enjoyment. She met Mr. Cyrus McCormick, whose reaper works had made an even bigger fortune than Pullman’s Palace Cars. She exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Asgarth, pretended to follow a lengthy gossip session delivered by Mrs. Cornelia Wendover and traded a promising smile with Andrew Ames, a slender, timid gentleman who owned a seat on the Chicago Board of Trade.

Even though it was the Sabbath, and the purpose of the evening involved the salvation of the soul, no one seemed to remember that. Helping herself to a flute of champagne, she took a drink, thrilled by the bubbly texture and tart flavor of it. Relaxing more by the moment, she began to feel truly accepted in the rare company of Old Settlers, estate tycoons, captains of industry and transportation moguls. She loved their power, their confidence, their unabashed flaunting of the fine things they owned. She admired the women in their Parisian gowns and Russian jewels. She envied the patina of culture that lingered on those who had spent time traveling abroad.

What a contrast this made with the society of her old neighborhood. In the West Division, there would be Mass on Sunday night, and afterward, perhaps a ceili with a fiddle band, plenty of cheap drink and dancing until everyone ran with sweat. As a small girl, she used to love a good ceili, but as she was drawn more and more into the orbit of the very rich, she had come to see the wild, Celtic celebrations as somewhat…barbaric.

Conscience-stricken by the disloyal thought, she plunged her hand into her reticule and secretly drew out her grandmother’s mass card. The painting of Saint Bridget, her face bright with a martyr’s glow, glared up at her accusingly. And what manner of colleen are ye, then, ashamed of yer own flesh and blood? Gran’s voice seemed as close as a whisper in her ear. With a start, Kathleen dropped the card on the carpeted floor.

Before she could retrieve it, the heel of a large foot, clad in a shining leather shoe with a gleaming white spat, came down on a corner of the card, pinning it in place.

Sweet Mary, she would burn in hell for certain, letting some tycoon trample her poor Gran.

The owner of the foot didn’t seem to know he was snuffing out a saint.

Kathleen wondered if she could slip the card out from under the foot without attracting his notice. Feigning a casual pose, she put out a dainty toe and attempted to drag the card toward her. No luck; the larger male foot held it pinned in place. She would have to stoop to pick it up.

Working as discreetly as a pickpocket, she unscrewed one of her earrings and dropped it on the floor.

“Oh, dear,” she murmured. “I’ve lost—”

The gentleman turned.

“—my earring—” She broke off and stared. It was him.

Black-haired, blue-eyed and utterly captivating, Dylan Francis Kennedy had the sort of face Kathleen pictured when she and Deborah stayed up late to read forbidden, romantic tales of chivalry and daring. A wealth of curling, glossy hair set off the chiseled masculine jawline. The artful curves of his cheekbones and gently cleft chin were echoed by the shape of a mouth that made Kathleen remember Phoebe’s description of him: delicious.

Unfortunately, at the moment, the delicious Dylan Kennedy stooped and picked up both the diamond earring and Gran’s holy card.

“Yours?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Thank you kindly, sir.” Brazen it out, she told herself. In one swift movement she slid the card into the reticule, not bothering to secure the drawstring. But before she could take back the earring, he held it away from her.

With a smile that struck her absolutely speechless, Mr. Kennedy said, “Allow me.”