Barbara Metzger (11 page)

Adelina had chipmunk cheeks, two chins, and sausage-shaped fingers. “Indeed, but not as fortunate as I consider myself,” Courtney declared. Before Adelina could interpret that barbed comment correctly, the viscount drew Kathlyn forward. “My dear, may I present Lord and Lady Fostwick. Miss Kitty Parke.”

Bright spots of color appeared on Adelina’s plump cheeks. She bobbed her head a scant quarter of an inch, then grabbed Fostwick’s arm. “Let us wait inside, Fostwick. The air is too insalubrious here.”

“Quite, quite.” As the couple moved away, Courtney and Kathlyn could hear Lord Fostwick muttering, “Should have presented the chit to you, a married lady and a baroness. Not t’other way around, a plain miss years younger. Ouch, that was my gouty toe you tripped on, ma’am. Stap me if this new generation ain’t too casual about such things.”

“Shut up, you old bladder of wind. Chase shouldn’t have introduced me to her at all. The jade is his paramour!”

“Fortunate devil. Ouch. Do watch your step, my pet. But you are quite right, he should not have presented the female. Not at all the thing. Grievous insult, I believe. I shall have to call him out first thing in the morning.”

Adelina looked over her shoulder to note Courtney’s broad back and muscular legs despite the limp. Then she looked at her hunched-over, chicken-breasted husband. His eyesight was so poor, he couldn’t see Lord Chase at twenty paces, and his hand shook so badly, he’d never hit him if he did. Then his son by his first marriage would inherit and Adelina would have nothing but her widow’s portion. “Don’t be an ass, Fostwick.”

After Lord Chase handed Kathlyn into the crested coach and tucked the rug around her knees, he took the seat next to her, rather than the facing one. “In case anyone is watching,” he explained, since they’d had to take the closed carriage on such a chill night. The driver and footman might be loyal, but they might also be loquacious.

Kathlyn didn’t mind the viscount’s closeness, welcoming the warmth and savoring the lemony scent of his cologne. She did mind the confusing scene back at the Opera House. “That woman, Lady Fostwick, wasn’t a courtesan at all, was she?”

Chase stretched his wounded leg out more comfortably. “Not precisely. She was my former fiancée.”

“But what about those strictures of society? You should not have introduced us.”

“You’re right, and I apologize profoundly for any discomfort the introduction may have caused you.”

Now Kathlyn was more confused. “You’re apologizing ... to me?”

He was absently stroking her fingers in his hand, ostensibly to warm them. “Adelina Marlowe, Lady Fostwick, deserves the husband she got. She isn’t fit to touch your hem, Kitty.”

His words did more to warm her than his touch, but that was lovely, too. Kathlyn had to smile at the thought of that haughty society matron being considered soiled goods. “Next you’ll be telling me I’m too good for royalty.”

“Deuced right you are. Our royal dukes are the most worthless libertines in Britain, and Prinny himself would be the last man I’d want you near. He’s the worst of the lot, for besides having excellent taste, he’s dashed hard to refuse. Recently, of course, he’s been fascinated with older women, but he still has an eye for a pretty face. No, I pray you never come to his attention. I’d have to emigrate to the Americas for refusing to make the introduction.”

She had to laugh. “What fustian. Why would you care if I met the prince?”

And was despoiled by His Royally Lecherous Highness, why indeed? Why should he care if Kitty heard lewd suggestions, received indecent proposals, saw the aristocracy in rut? She was no milk-and-water miss, nor was she his responsibility. Without family, money, or education, many of her sisters had no choice but to take the primrose path. They’d be happy if Courtney set their feet in the right direction. Not Miss Partland. Never Miss Partland, he swore, for no good reason that he wished to examine or discuss. “Why would I keep you out of Prinny’s plump clutches? My investment, don’t you know.”

Ah. Kathlyn pulled her hand away to tidy an errant curl. Then she stared out at the swirling flakes. Lord Chase was right, it was only a flurry. And she was only an investment.

Good, Kathlyn thought, she’d needed the reminder. A few days and nights in the viscount’s company, with his lordship on his best behavior because he needed her cooperation, almost let her forget what an arrogant, self-righteous prig his lordship could be. She wasn’t good enough for him, and he wasn’t ever in danger of forgetting that.

Well, he wasn’t good enough for her either. He might be the finest gentleman she was ever likely to meet, appearing to offer everything a girl could want out of life. But appearances were deceptive, she recalled. She wasn’t a prostitute, and he couldn’t use one.

Lord Chase was handsome and rich, intelligent and kind to his dependents, but Kathlyn didn’t need a big house and balls every night. She wanted a little home of her own, a loving husband, and a family, the one thing his lordship could not provide. Let him find that woman who’d be content to bear his illustrious name, without bearing his children.

As always, the thought of the viscount’s vicissitudes made Kathlyn relent, pitying the poor man for his grievous loss. So when he kissed her good night outside Nanny’s, for the coachmen’s benefit, she went gladly into his arms. He could mean nothing but pretense and platonic affection by it, Kathlyn told herself, so she might as well discover what kissing was about while she had the chance before setting up her school.

Miss Partland had been smacked on the lips by Squire’s son one afternoon after his lessons with her father. She’d taught him another lesson, blackening his eye for him. But this was nothing at all like that. There was nothing furtive or frenzied in the viscount’s kiss; it simply felt nice, all tingly, with snowflakes on his lips. Very nice, very nonthreatening because Kathlyn knew he wasn’t going to maul her about or ask for more than she was willing to give. Exceptionally nice. By the time his lordship was done with the pretend kiss, the just-for-show kiss, Kathlyn’s knees were like jelly, and she couldn’t feel her toes at all. No, she felt her toes, but not the ground they stood upon. The poor man must have been a wonderful lover before his injury.

The poor man dismissed the carriage before he could order it to Harriet Wilson’s place. He’d walk home, despite his injury.

* * * *

“Aha! That’s got to be my pigeon, gorblimey!”

“What’s that, dear Mr. Dimm? I thought you liked the sweet little squirrels best, not the pigeons.” Ursula Miner frowned at the sack of nuts in her hand, the fourth sack of nuts this week. She was no closer to finding her jewels or the female who had them than those rubbishing rodents. Her only consolation was that neither was Quigley, who was skulking in the bushes still, nor Bow Street’s doddering detective. Neither one had recognized Harry’s widow in her wig and veil, but neither one had found Harry’s haul either.

Inspector Dimm folded the newspaper to the gossip page, delighted that he could get his butt off the cold bench at last. “Here, listen to this: ‘The polite world was agog last night to see a certain hero of the Peninsula sharing his opera box with an unknown Diamond. The raven-haired beauty did not seem to be giving much of a chase to our courting viscount.’ That’s got to be her, b’gad.”

“Her?” Ursula asked, showing polite interest instead of going for the old man’s throat. Four days of feeding scurvy squirrels and cozying up to Father Time, and the thief-taker had bought her one cup of tea, one hackney ride, and the information that they were looking for a new ladybird recently taken under some gent’s wing. And all of those bushy-tailed vermin were begging at her feet. “The female you were looking for?”

“Aye. Now I know for sure that she’s still in Town.”

“But do you know where to locate her?” Ursula wasn’t sure Dimm knew where to locate his trouser flap, he’d been so cold to her overtures. She’d even had to rent an apartment, thanks to the cheap old codger.

“Someone at Bow Street’s bound to know which viscount. These here
on dits
columns, that’s what they call the tripe, give clues and hints. Should be easy enough to find where he keeps his sweethearts stashed. No matter, the young buck’ll be bringing his sweetie to the Cyprians’ Ball in a few days. I’ll get Nipperkin back. We’ll spot her there.”

“The, ah, Cyprians’ Ball, you say? My, I haven’t been to a ball in ever so long....”

“My apologies, ma’am, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Not for a lady’s ears. And I’ll be on duty, a’ course.”

“Of course. So conscientious.”

“Right, that’s how I get the job done. Be leaving now, I will, off to report to the governor. Been a pleasure, ma’am, and I hope you’ll share my bag of nuts here another day.”

“Oh yes, it’s my favorite thing above all.” Ursula waited till Dimm’s back was turned, then kicked at a squirrel near her booted foot. “Pesky park rats.”

Quigley was so hungry, he was thinking of snaring one of those ratty-looking squirrels the widow woman was always feeding—or stealing one of the nuts. It would be the only thing he managed to steal this week. 

* * * *

Quigley didn’t have a shilling to his name, wasn’t a good footpad, and was about to lose his lodgings at Shippy’s, where there’d been no news from Sean but plenty of lice and bedbugs.

He didn’t know what else to do except watch the old gaffer act the mooncalf for some veiled mutton done up as lamb. Every morning he trailed Dimm from Bow Street to the park, hiding in the bushes, trying not to scratch himself. Then he followed the Runner back to Bow Street after all the nobs had ridden through Rotten Row. Quigley thought he could rob a bank if this was the best Bow Street could do.

Maybe when Sean came back they’d go into that line of work. They’d held up that coach all right and tight, too, even if they hadn’t thought to take anything. Maybe they could be highwaymen. They sure as hell couldn’t be cracksmen again, not without Harry.

It was Harry who always planned their jobs, Harry who fenced the jewelry, and Harry who divided the money. Damn, Quigley missed old Harry. Wished they hadn’t of killed him, too, leastways till they knew where the diamonds were. Wished he didn’t have flea bites on his rump.

Chapter Twelve

Another storm was raging, but this one was in Nanny Dawson’s front parlor. Lord Chase was holding out for the harem costume for the ball, bare midriff, gauze pantaloons, and a gem in Kitty’s navel.

Nanny was having none of it. “Not even over my dead body, Master Courtney, for I’d come back to haunt you from the grave if you dressed our Miss Kitty in anything so wicked.”

Kathlyn wanted to wear her lovely evening gown, with stars and moons sewn on the midnight blue overdress and a feathered mask like the one she’d seen at the milliner’s. “A mysterious lady of the night. Quite fitting, I think, my lord.”

“What, and hide half your face? I think not.”

Lizzie thought her lady should wear a gray domino with little pointed ears sewn on the hood and whiskers painted on her cheeks.        Dressing Kitty as a cat was considered a charming notion, but not quite what his lordship had in mind. Courtney wanted something beautiful, somewhat risqué, and certainly memorable. After that night, no one was to doubt his taste or his virility. They dressed her as a Gypsy, and he got his wish.

Kathlyn wore her hair loose down her back, held off her face with two Spanish combs Courtney’d brought home from the Peninsula, a red rose tucked in one of them. Her hair fell in silky waves past her waist, which was cinched to hand-span width despite Nanny’s rich cooking. She wore a rose-embroidered, white peasant blouse on top, loose enough to fall suggestively over her shoulders, low enough to show the top of her lace chemise—and a great deal of soft white skin. Below, her skirt was black, held out by six swirling red petticoats, showing off her neat ankles and dainty black slippers. Courtney was all for having her go barefoot, but was overridden again.

“What, in this weather? She’ll take a chill and die afore morning.”

“His lordship won’t care, so long as he gets his money’s worth tonight.” Kathlyn was growing nervous about the coming ordeal and aggravated that the viscount was looking at her like a piece of merchandise he was considering purchasing. Heaven knew he’d already made his bargain.

The outfit was deemed complete with gold hoops in her ears, coins around her neck, and bangles jingling at her wrists. Kathlyn loved the noise, the swish of satin petticoats and the tinkle of the coins; she adored the freedom of loose skirts and unbound hair. Twirling in front of the mirror in her room, Kathlyn thought she could envy the Gypsies, the Gypsies in fairy tales, anyway, for she didn’t think she’d like sleeping in a wagon or eating rabbit stew by a campfire and never having a hot bath. Well, she was a lady pretending to be a courtesan who was pretending to be a Gypsy; she might as well pretend a better life for her character, Madame Katerina Paki. And she couldn’t have imagined a better partner for ‘Madame Paki.’ There might not be many blond, blue-eyed Gypsy Roms, but for ‘Katerina,’ Lord Chase was the only match. The viscount wore tight black breeches tucked into high boots, and a loose white shirt with billowing sleeves. Kathlyn tried not to notice the golden mat of hair that followed the open shirt to his red sash.

Nanny thought the gold hoop in one ear made his lordship look more like a pirate than a Gypsy. Kathlyn thought it wouldn’t matter. He could steal any number of hearts, whatever guise he wore. Thank goodness her knowledge of him kept her safe from such temptation, she told herself, peeking once more at the bronzed muscles his shirt left uncovered. Oh, dear, yes.

For Courtney’s sake all that mattered was that their costumes matched. He tucked a red rose in his sash, a twin to the one Kitty wore in her hair. He was willing to let the loose screws see her beauty, her sheer feminine desirability—as long as they saw that she was his.

* * * *

Their reception at the Argyle Rooms was everything Lord Chase had wanted, and more. Too much more. Too many men wanted to dance with Madame Katerina or bring her champagne—hell, Courtney thought, they wanted to lick her toes! Thank goodness she wasn’t barefoot after all. If they held an auction for her favors this very night, Kitty would have enough blunt to open her school tomorrow. Deuce take it, he swore, she’d have enough to open a bloody university.