Fortune's fools (3 page)

not want to come back in here later and find it all wadded up on the bed."

It was midnight, much too late to be strolling outside in the tiny garden behind their rented house. Still, Kate was restless and needed to walk. Pulling her cloak around her nightrail, she shoved her feet into the half boots she had carried down to the kitchen and slipped outside.

It was quite dark, with only a sliver of moon peeking out from behind the clouds. Keeping to the wall of the house in case anyone should be looking out the windows, Kate made her way to the back of the walled garden and sat down on the cold stone bench. She gazed up at the stars that stubbornly shone through the thin clouds. Closing her eyes, she made her fervent wish: "I wish Mama would decide to let me go home again."

"What a deal of yearning to put in one short sentence," said a deep voice.

Kate leaped to her feet and whirled around.

"Who is there?" she demanded, more angry than afraid.

"Don't worry, little kitten, I mean you no harm. I'm your new neighbor, and I, too, was drawn outside by the stillness of the night."

Kate chuckled, relaxing at the cultured accents of the kindly voice.

"What is so funny?" he asked from behind the wall that separated his property from hers.

"It is obvious to me that you have yet to see me if you call me little," she said.

"Oh? How intriguing. Perhaps I should climb ..."

"No!" she said, pulling her cloak more tightly around her.

"What is wrong? I thought we had established that I do not mean you any harm," said the deep, velvety voice.

Kate grinned again. "Perhaps you do not, but I am not properly dressed underneath my cloak."

"All the more reason," he teased, but he made no move. "Shall I introduce myself?"

"If you like, though there can be nothing proper about such an introduction."

"No, I don't think I shall. I rather like speaking to a beautiful stranger in the night. It adds a certain piquancy to our conversation. One day we will meet properly. You will curtsy, and I will make a leg. Then you shall know my name. Until then, we will meet here, with the stars and the moon our candlelight."

"But how will we meet? We will not know each other in the daylight," said Kate.

"I would know you anywhere with that lovely lilting voice," claimed the gallant.

"Now you are being foolish," she chided.

"Dreams can make a man very foolish. Perhaps it is the lateness of the hour, or the stars twinkling above."

"What shall I call you?"

"You may call me Sir Milton, and you shall be my Iseult."

"Then you should be Tristram."

"Real life is seldom like the legends, Iseult."

"Which you must admit is a very good thing in some cases, Sir Milton."

"I suppose you are right."

"I should go in before someone discovers us. I hope to hear from you again, Sir Milton. Good night."

"Bonne nuit, ma petite,''' he said, and Kate hurried back to the house, her heart racing at the audacity of flirting with a man she neither knew nor could see.

When she was safe in her room again, she drew back the curtains, hoping to be able to see into the neighboring garden. She was out of luck. Several small trees obstructed her view, and she let the curtain fall.

"Stoopid," she murmured.

How foolish she was being, her heart fluttering over a man's silliness. She had always prided herself on her directness and had laughed at the other young ladies when they batted their eyes and sighed over some man. Now, she was doing the same—and all for a deep masculine voice that cascaded over the ears like velvet on the skin.

"Stoopid," she whispered again, climbing into bed and pulling up the counterpane.

Raising up on one elbow to blow out the lone candle on her nightstand, Kate smiled into the darkness. The first ball was on Sunday night. She had almost a week of midnights to hear that voice and his honeyed words.

Kate frowned. What if he did not return? But he had said he would, that they would meet again under the stars. If he did not return, she would have the measure of the man and count it as a small loss. But if he did return to the garden wall...

Kate rolled over and hugged her pillow. With a sweet smile, she fell asleep.

Two

Max rose early the next day in his pursuit of Thun-derlight. While he knew he could not afford to buy the stallion, perhaps if he discovered who was riding him, he might figure something out. Surely that slip of a girl was not the owner! If only he had not lost her in the crowd the day before.

He was mounted on a big gray gelding, another of the Marquess of Cravenwell's horses. While Max was thankful that he had access to such excellent horseflesh while in London, he would have felt much better if only he could strangle the marquess for losing Thunderlight.

He rode through the park twice, but there was no sign of Thunderlight. Frustrated, he tried once more, but still had no luck. Dejected, he turned the big gelding back toward the stable.

As he neared the gates, the same black carriage that had almost hit him the day before entered the park. Max pulled back on the reins, his eyes widening in appreciation at the beauty on the seat gazing back at him, her hands clasped in her lap, her pretty straw bonnet tilted at a jaunty angle over blond curls. He tipped his hat and smiled. The girl lowered her eyes, but turned her head to look at him as the carriage passed by.

"Whew, that one is a rare beauty," he said, patting his

horse's glossy mare. "Come on, let's go home. We're not going to find Thunderlight today."

Max spent the remainder of the day at Tattersall's, meeting friends and advising them on which horses they should select. His queries about an Irish horse breeder turned up a name, but no address, so he was no closer to finding Thunderlight.

From Tattersall's, he went to his club to meet more friends for dinner. It was a modest place with the august name of Regent's, which catered to the younger men with little money. It was little more than a coffee house, but it was a place where Max could be certain of enjoying a decent meal with a congenial group of friends. They urged him to join them for a night of revelry at one of Pall Mall's gaming hells, but Max had no interest in losing the small purse he was carrying.

The clock was striking midnight when he arrived home. Tristram, who was busily writing on his tome, merely waved a distracted hand to his greeting. Bored, Max accepted the glass of port Barton poured for him and wandered outside.

It was turning cooler, and he hunched his shoulders against the stiff breeze. Taking a pull on the drink, Max sat down on a stone bench, gasping as the cold penetrated his pantaloons. He swallowed wrong and began to cough.

"Sir Milton, are you all right?" asked a feminine voice.

Max jumped up and spun around. "Who's there?"

"It is I, Iseult. I heard you coughing. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." He cleared his throat.

"You sound very different. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I ... I beg your pardon, but what are you doing out here in the middle of the night?" Max

grinned at the sound of her giggle. "I mean, I am delighted to find such an intriguing tenant in the garden next door, but surely you should be inside, away from the cold."

"I am not at all cold, Sir Milton, and I was hoping you would return tonight."

"Return ... oh, I see," said Max, glancing at the house where his little brother was working so diligently. Tristram was so wrapped up in his work, he must have started something and then forgotten all about the girl. Well, Max was more than willing to carry on an anonymous flirtation with such a captivating voice.

"Are you not afraid someone will discover our little assignation?" he asked, settling back on the bench and leaning against the garden wall.

"No, everyone is asleep. Mama is ... still recovering from an indisposition, and Papa prefers rising early to staying out late. That is why Mama will have to be the one to accompany me to the balls and other entertainments."

"Oh, so Iseult is going to the balls."

"Yes, next Monday night."

"Your first ball," he said.

"Yes ... I mean no. That is, it will be my first in London. I have been to many others, but not here."

"So, like all the other young ladies, you have come to London to find a husband," said Max.

"Perhaps, but... never mind. I should be going."

"No, stay," he whispered, turning to face the wall.

"I... I should not," she replied.

He could hear the hesitation in her voice and said, "But you will."

"Yes, a little longer."

"Good. Tell me, little Iseult, where are you from?"

She giggled. "As I told you last night, Sir Milton, you

really must stop calling me little. I am all of five feet nine in my stocking feet."

"Ah, a statuesque beauty," he murmured.

"How... how tall are you?" she asked, her tone almost anxious.

"I am six feet tall—a mountain of a man, so they tell me.

"Oh, that is tall," she said breathlessly.

"Tall enough for a girl as magnificent as you," he added.

She gave a little gasp that made him laugh. He could tell from the height of her voice that, in her confusion, she must have leaped to her feet. He rose also.

"Will you leave me so soon?" he asked.

"I must go back inside. Good night, Sir Milton."

"Good night, fair Iseult."

Then he was alone. Max walked back to the house, a broad smile on his face. He rather thought he would enjoy living in the little house with its enchanting neighbor.

"Tristram, I just met the most interesting person."

"That's good," replied his brother, not bothering to look up. "Another one like you, who thinks horses are better than people?"

"Hm? As to that, I could not say. I shall have to ask her." Max waited to see if this comment would elicit more interest. When it did not, he wandered to his room and flopped down on the bed to while away the time, thinking of the beauty who most certainly belonged to that charming voice.

Almost as tall as he. That would be most interesting, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The remainder of the week, Max spent every morning in the park. He began to lose hope that he would see Thunderlight again, but he went anyway, and he always happened to be at the entrance at eleven o'clock to watch the beauty pass through the gates. She still lowered her eyes, but she smiled each time she saw him. He wished he could find the occasion to stop the carriage and introduce himself, but the dragon beside the girl scowled at him merely for looking. When there was a ball, then he would have the opportunity to meet her, to ask her to dance with him.

Twice he returned to the garden wall to wait in vain for the mysterious Iseult to reappear. If she was a lady, she had probably come to her senses and realized how improper their midnight meeting had been. Max consoled himself with the thought that their neighbor was probably as plain as she was tall.

He much preferred the petite beauty in the park. She was just what he was looking for in a wife—shy, beautiful, and, he hoped, plump in the pocket. If she were only half as sweet as she was beautiful, then he might be willing to wed her.

It never occurred to Maxwell Darby that the girl might have very different ideas.

Saturday brought a cold wind whipping through the streets and warning London's occupants that winter was indeed on its way. It was the first week of October, and the wind brought with it Viscount Tavistoke, up from the country to urge his sons toward their objectives— finding wealthy wives.

When Barton opened the door to his knock, it flew out of his hands, banging forcefully against the wall.

The viscount strode across the threshold, tearing off his gloves and throwing them to the surprised servant.

"Whom may I say ... is ... calling," huffed Barton, trailing after the viscount.

"Calling? I ain't calling. I'm here to see my boys." The viscount peered up at the servant and added, "You must be Barton. Cravenwell told me he had assigned you to the lads. Where are they? Ought to be up to greet their dear papa."

"If we had known you were coming, Papa, we would have been up," said Max, entering the room and fastening the frogs on his silk banyan.

"I will bring coffee, Master Max," said Barton, scurrying from the room.

"And where is Tristram?"

"Should be in bed, covering his head with his pillow if he has any sense at all," said Max. "Have a seat, Papa."

The viscount, who was already seated, glared at his son.

"Did you just arrive in town?"

"No, I got here last night. I'm staying with Craven-well, you know. I don't think we would deal well together, the three of us, in this pokey little house."

"Oh? Do you find it pokey?" said Max, glancing around as if seeing the house for the first time. "I find it quite charming and spacious. Just the thing for me and Tris."

"Demme, boy. Have you no eyes? Hardly bigger than those rooms you had last year. Besides, I've no desire to stay in a house where Cravenwell used to keep his mistresses."

"Ah, that would account for Tristram's pink bedchamber," said Max. "Speak of the devil. Good morning, Tris. Only see who has come to call."

"Not staying with us, are you, Papa?"

"Ungrateful wretch," growled his father. "No, I ain't. I'm with the marquess. You look like the devil."

"Why, thank you, Papa. As it happens, I was working until the wee hours of the morning."

"Were you? Good for you!" exclaimed the viscount. 'Tell me, what is she like? Listen and learn, Maxwell. So what is she like? Rich? And beautiful, too, I'll be bound. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. You would do well to take a page out of your little brother's book."

Max shouted with laughter, and Tristram twisted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Papa!" said Tristram.

"Papa, you have hit the nail on the head. The book you spoke of is just that. Our Tristram was up all night working on a book, a novel of epic proportions."