An Honorable Thief (8 page)

Courted for her fortune!
Kit closed her eyes and tried to repress a hysterical bubble of laughter. A penniless adventuress, courted for her fortune!

"I'm dashed sorry to have distressed you like this, Miss Singleton! I'm a tattle-tongued fool! You don't need to fret about me knowing. I'll not mention it to a soul. In any case, I'm sure very few people know about it. I know I was told it in the
strictest
confidence."

She stared at him blankly. Very few people indeed! Everything clicked into place: Miss Singleton's comments about her wearing pearls instead of diamonds; Lord Norwood and other men's determined courtships; Mr Deven-ish's equally determined questioning about her background.

Mr Wollborough hovered, awkwardly. "Can I get you a glass of something? Er, do you want me to fetch your aunt?"

Kit took no notice of him. Her mind was in a whirl. Virtually the entire
ton
must believe her to be rich.
That
was the reason so many people had been so very friendly and welcoming towards an unknown young woman. It wasn't "polite society" at all
—these people were no different from others she had encountered all over the world. Money smoothed all paths, honeyed all tongues, welcomed all strangers.

They imagined her to be a great heiress! It would be laughable, if it were not so disastrous to her scheme. But however had such an outrageous rumour started? Such a ridiculous one, what's more
—a diamond mine! How could she ever get out of this one?

She glanced up at the crestfallen young blade who hovered awkwardly, looking crashed and miserable. Kit repressed another bubble of half-hysterical laughter. Young Mr Wollborough was only too aware that he'd blown his chance with the great heiress.

"Take me to my aunt, if you please, Mr Wollborough," said the heiress. "I find I have the headache."

As soon as they reached home, Kit broached the matter with Rose Singleton. "Young Mr Wollborough asked me about a diamond mine, Aunt Rose."

"Hmm, yes, dear?" said Rose, retrieving a trailing scarf which had almost slipped to the floor.

"He seems to believe
—a number of people, in fact, seem to believe that I own a diamond mine."

"Yes." Rose's brow wrinkled at the look on her niece's face. "What is the matter? I know you did not wish it to be generally known, but these things have a way of coming out."

"But why would people believe I own a mine full of diamonds?"

"It was diamonds, was it not? I'm sure it was
—I would have remembered if he'd said rubies or emeralds. Or sapphires—sapphires would go so beautifully with your eyes. But no, I was certain he said a diamond mine."

"Who said?"

Rose frowned. "Your father, of course! Who else?"

Kit closed her eyes briefly. Papa! Who else!

"My papa told you he owned a diamond mine?"

"Wait, I'll fetch the letter." Rose wandered into the front withdrawing room where her small Sheraton writing desk stood. She rummaged through the pile of papers in the desk, then turned and peered around the room, annoyed. "Now where has it got to? Things move in this house, there is no denying it."

"Oh, never mind," said Kit. "It will turn up sooner or later. Now just refresh my mind, will you please, Aunt dearest? Where did my papa say this diamond mine was situated?"

Aunt Rose looked at her in astonishment. "Don't you
know
where it is situated? How very odd. But I suppose..."

"Where is the diamond mine, Aunt Rose?" Kit prompted gently.

"Why, in New South Wales, of course. Where else?"

New South Wales? A diamond mine
in New South Wales? Kit closed her eyes for a brief second. Of course. It was just like her father to throw in a last-minute embellishment like this. A quite impossible, ridiculous, ludicrous embellishment.

Kit took a deep breath and unclenched her fists. It was, after all, improper, not to say unfilial, if not downright impossible, to strangle the dead!

"Did I get it wrong, my love?" said Rose anxiously. "But where else would it be, for that was where you were living, was it not? My friend Mr Harris thought it an exceeding odd place for a diamond mine, too. Oh, where
is
that wretched letter?"

"You told your friend Mr Harris I owned a diamond mine in New South Wales? Oh, Aunt Rose! How could you? As if anyone would ever believe anything so fantastical. And ridiculous! New South Wales is a tiny, struggling convict settlement. A
penal
colony, for Heaven's sake!"

Kit took a deep breath as she considered her situation. Everything had been going so smoothly, so well
—quite as if it were not one of Papa's schemes. Now, suddenly, she had an impossible diamond mine to somehow incorporate into an already impossible plan! It was quite like old times. Suddenly her sense of humour got the better of her. Kit collapsed in a chair and peals of laughter rang out.

"But was that not correct, my love?" ventured Rose uncertainly. "Only I could have sworn that is what your father explained to me. And his letter did most certainly come from New South Wales." She looked round her distractedly. "If only I could find his letter. It is quite mystifying to me, how so many things seem to disappear in this house." She lifted a blue satin cushion and peered hopefully under it, but no letter appeared.

"No," said Kit, the laughter dying from her eyes. "Papa started to tell me he had written to you, but he was dying. I knew only what he asked me to do. I might have known there would be other aspects to his scheme."

"Scheme. What an odd name for it," said Rose curiously. "I suppose all parents make plans for their daughters' come-outs, but to call it a scheme
—how very odd. But then your father was never one to take the simple straightforward path, was he?" She sighed pensively and smoothed the cover of the cushion she was still holding.

Kit regarded her aunt curiously, wondering whether Rose still retained some affection for her father. After a moment or two she said, “Aunt Rose, have you told many people?''

"Oh, Heavens, no," said Rose. "It would be terribly vulgar to boast of such a thing. No, no. I only mentioned it
—in confidence, of course—to one or two very discreet friends."

Kit regarded her dubiously. "Well, perhaps it will be all right, but if anyone asks me
—''

"Heavens, child, you must not fret yourself about any such thing. No one would dream of asking you." Rose was shocked. "Ask a young girl? As if you would have any idea of your father's business matters!" She laughed. "The very idea!"

Kit bit her tongue. She had spent an entire evening parrying questions about it. But she would not distress Rose by telling her so.

It was a mystery to her why society people seemed to think an interest in business was something to be ashamed of. It seemed to Kit that business, or trade as it was more commonly called, was the way to achieve safety, security and prosperity. But even her father had regarded it as vulgar. And he was a card cheat.

Rose leaned forward and patted her on the knee. "Do not distress yourself about it, my dear. If I was wrong about the diamond mine in New South Wales, I shall simply inform my friends that I was mistaken, and all will be well."

Kit opened her mouth to argue. She may not have moved in the rarefied circles of the Polite World before, but if she knew anything about people, she knew that people who claimed to be discreet almost invariably were not. A diamond mine in a penal colony was a ludicrous concept...

"Yes, that is a very good notion, Aunt Rose," she said decisively. "And if anyone mentions it, I hope you will deny it most vigorously and explain you were mistaken. It would be dreadful if people were to think we had deceived them."

It would change nothing, Kit knew. People would believe what they wanted to. The diamond mine was a fact in their minds, which no amount of denial would budge. But when the truth came out, as it inevitably would, at least Rose would be remembered to have denied all knowledge of it.

"Yes, my dear. I will. I'll make everything quite clear." Aunt Rose beamed and replaced the satin cushion. "And now, my love, it has been a busy evening, and we ladies must get our beauty sleep, must we not? Sweet dreams, my dear." Rose kissed her affectionately on the cheek and floated upstairs, trailing several scarves behind her.

Kit woke early. It was still dark outside, the faint tendrils of dawn only a hint of a shimmer over the dark rooftops.

She knew what had woken her. Anxiety. She always woke before dawn when she was worried about something. This morning she had more than her share of worries.

The problem that leapt to her mind first should have been the diamond mine problem, but for some reason the first thought in her waking brain was of Mr Devenish's face when he discovered the loss of his phoenix tie-pin.

She closed her eyes. Why on earth had she lapsed
—with such a man? And in such a situation. It was wicked, it was foolish, it was far too risky. But it was done, and too late now to undo it.

And besides, she had other concerns. Somehow she had to decide how to ride out the disaster of this wretched diamond mine rumour.

She pulled the covers over her head and groaned.

She had planned to enter London society with barely a ripple, to move through it virtually unnoticed and to leave it the same way, having completed her task. She had planned to be inconspicuous. Now she was a diamond heiress. From a prison colony on the other side of the world! Diamonds in a prison! Who wouldn't find that combination fascinating?

She groaned again. It was the sort of ridiculous embellishment her father had delighted in; his way of laughing up his sleeve at those less well-informed. But he'd sent her to avenge him. With such an aim in mind, he would surely not jeopardise the outcome for a silly joke. No, Rose must have got some old letter, where Papa was doing his usual face-saving story-telling, and confused it with the letter from New South Wales, telling her to expect Eat.

Whatever the source, the damage was done. Kit would have to deal with it. It wasn't as if she had a choice.

In the meantime, she needed to clear her head. She needed fresh air, and exercise.

Mr Devenish was in a bad mood. He had slept but a few hours and awakened with a splitting head
—no doubt a legacy of the brandy he had consumed. He was cross with himself for doing so—it was years since he had woken with a drink-induced headache.

The headache was exacerbated by the further realisation that he had spent the evening in a singularly profitless fashion
—the information he had gathered about the Singleton chit had amounted to precisely nothing.

It had seemed so simple and straightforward: speak to the girl, find out where her father had been based, and then investigate from there.

But the girl was the vaguest, most irritating scatterbrain he had come across in an age; he hadn't got a single useful fact out of her. If she hadn't been so brainless, he would have... would have...

Mr Devenish swore and pulled the bell to summon his valet.

That was another, utterly infuriating aspect of the wretched evening! How on earth had he become aroused by a brainless ninny in the middle of a ballroom?

It must have been the brandy.

That cheeseparing Parsons, serving his guests inferior brandy! Yes, that was it. It was all the fault of second-rate brandy: the headache, the bad temper...the girl.

His glance fell on the collection tossed carelessly on to his bedside table and his expression darkened even more. His gold watch with the phoenix design and the winking ruby eyes. There should have been two items on his bedside table, not one, dammit! A perfect ending to a perfect night! He had lost his ruby phoenix tie-pin!

He had noticed it missing as soon as he had arrived home and removed his cravat. He'd sent a servant with a note around to the Parsons immediately, and was informed an hour later that the servants had searched, but had discovered no sign of the pin. He must have dropped it in the street.

Lost forever, dammit! It was his favourite pin, too. He'd designed it himself, as a reminder that no matter what was destroyed, he could always rebuild his life.

He lay back in bed and tried to recall when he had last noticed his pin in place. Instead, he found his mind wandering to thoughts of Miss Singleton... He sat up hurriedly.

To the devil with her! It was embarrassing, being aroused at thoughts of such a little simpleton!

He could recall each and every time his body had touched hers, from the first moment when he took her dance card from her, to each time their hands met briefly in a dance. And as for that waltz where he'd actually found himself being aroused...

He groaned, thinking of it. Such a thing had never before happened to him
—not since he'd been a green youth...

He closed his eyes. Curse it, his body still recollected the imprint of her small, slender body against it when she'd stumbled and fallen against him after supper.

He put the thought firmly out of his mind.

And found himself recalling the first time his pocket had been picked in Marseilles when he was a very young man. And of attempts since then...