Kasey Michaels (9 page)

“Mind your own demmed business, Boothe,” Noel Kinsey spat, then grinned. “Careful now, Boothe—if she topples again, she’ll be the death of you.” And then the earl was off in a flick of reins and the snap of a whip, never to know how close he had come to disaster.

Which was all the fault of one Simon Roxbury, Viscount Brockton, and general royal pain in Callie Johnston’s unscratchable backside.

And the good Lord will forgive me: that’s his.

—Empress Catherine the Great

Chapter Four

“T
ell me again.”

Simon pulled at his left ear, a sign that he was both angry and bored. More angry than bored, as his mother very well knew from experience. Her smile widened as she jiggled in her chair like a young child being offered a treat and repeated her demand.

“Mother, don’t push,” he warned, then shook his head in resignation as Bartholomew Boothe succumbed to the viscountess’s plea.

“I’ve got it pretty much figured out, ma’am. It was a ploy, see,” Bartholomew began, then looked to Armand Gauthier. “That’s right, isn’t it, Armand? A ploy? Is that the right word?”

Armand, who had been sitting at his ease in the Roxbury drawing room, nursing a snifter of brandy he’d warmed between his palms, smiled and nodded. “You’ve got it, Bones. A ploy. A device, a diversion, a gambit, a bit of mischief. A ruse. A scheme, perhaps even a stratagem—if I may give our Miss C that much credit without bringing a rain of curses down on my head from our friend here.”

“And brilliant!” Imogene broke in after throwing back the single glass of sherry her overcautious son allowed her before dinner, and serious drinking, could begin. “So simple, so elegant in its own way: Abducting the man in the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, with half of London watching and not knowing. The gel’s got backbone, I’ll hand her that, and the heart of a Trojan.”

“While also possessing the brain and self-preservation instincts of a demented dormouse.” Simon rubbed a hand across his mouth, considering—not for the first time—the wisdom of bringing the brilliant Miss C to his home, and to his mother. “She could have been caught out as easily as she might have succeeded, you know, and even now be incarcerated, awaiting trial. And a swift hanging. The Crown doesn’t look kindly on those attempting to murder titled gentlemen. Or hasn’t that occurred to any of you?”

“I thought about it,” Bartholomew admitted, frowning, then brightened again. “But she wasn’t caught. She nor her aunt—who is rather appealing, don’t you think? No, they weren’t suspected at all, not by any of us. Except by you, of course, Simon, which is why they’re both locked up in one of your guest chambers now that you’ve hauled them here against their will. Is that a hanging offense—hauling people into your house when they don’t want to be there? I think it might be. Yes. It might just be! And have you figured out yet what you’re going to do with them? I mean, you can’t keep them tied and jailed. Not forever, anyway. They have to eat, for one thing.”

Armand rose and walked over to look down at Bartholomew, then grinned at Simon. “Isn’t he darling, old friend? He still thinks the stout one is a female. Should we have him fitted with spectacles, do you suppose, or should we allow him his illusion and watch, enthralled, as he begins to court her? It could prove amusing.”

Bartholomew shot to his feet in one quick motion, his thin cheeks blazing red. “What the devil are you talking about? Of course the aunt is a woman. If not, she’d be Miss C’s uncle, which she ain’t. Aunts are women, always were, always will be. Any dolt knows that!”

The viscountess eyed Bartholomew owlishly. “Straight as an arrow, and thick as a plank, aren’t you, Bones? Poor boy.” Then she held out her empty glass to her son, who decided she might be allowed a second glass, just this one time. After all, the circumstances were rather extraordinary. “Leaving Mr. Boothe’s potential foray into romance for the moment, son,” she said as she accepted the refilled glass, “let us get back to the reason you brought the girl dressed like a young man—and the young man tarted up like a woman—to Portland Place, shall we? After all, it’s not my birthday, although I must tell you I do consider the pair of them a smashing gift. Even if I doubt either of them would make docile pets.”

“She tried to bite Simon as he loaded her into his carriage,” Bartholomew put in, seating himself once more. “Almost shot him last night, brained him with her clog, and now she’s biting.” He shook his head. “Such women are dangerous,” he pronounced. “I believe I’ll rethink my infatuation, seeing as the aunt’s one of her relations.”

“Not a word, Armand,” Simon warned his friend, who had already opened his mouth, surely to say something designed to befuddle poor Barebones more than he already was—if such were possible. “Look, Mother,” he went on quickly, “we’ve brought Miss C and her”—he looked to Bartholomew—“um, her
companion
here to you because, frankly, there seemed to be no other choice open to us. Dressed as a young gentleman or not, our pistol-wielding miscreant is obviously a young woman. A young woman with the manners of a wild Indian, but the speech of a gently bred young girl, if her vocabulary is too broad for refined company. She wouldn’t open her mouth, wouldn’t utter a word after I relieved her of her pistol—of both her pistols. Wouldn’t tell us her name, wouldn’t give up her address. I had no choice. If I had let her go, she’d only run after Filton and try to blow a hole in him again?

“From what I know of the fellow, she might be knighted for such an act,” Imogene said, hungrily eyeing the dish of sugarplums she had heard calling her name this last half hour. If only her stays weren’t digging at her so... but, no, she had to resist. “And the aunt isn’t talking, either?”

“I think he’d rather be boiled in oil than admit to his name, or his gender.” Armand waggled his eyebrows at Bartholomew, who looked as if he were beginning to realize he’d made a mistake that would haunt him in the form of cutting jokes for a good fortnight or more. “Besides, it’s clear our Miss C is in charge there. The poor dupe seems to be placed in the position of following behind her, a ring through his nose, doing her bidding. Is that how you see it, Simon?”

Simon nodded, suddenly too weary to speak. He’d had quite a start, walking out of White’s to see Filton falling to the ground, half-buried beneath a heap of skirts and flailing limbs. Amusement at the man’s predicament quickly evaporated, however, as he’d heard the husky, badly disguised female voice of the brat who had kidnapped him the previous evening. His every nerve had instantly gone on the alert, so that he had deduced the preposterously daring Miss C’s intent even before she could slip her hand into her bulging pocket.

From that point until now, events would probably always remain a bit hazy in his mind. Filton had made good his exit, still obnoxious, still in one piece, and blissfully oblivious to his near disaster. The “aunt” had continued his caterwauling, the intensity of the wails increasing as Filton drove off and he got a glimpse of Miss C being held, quite securely, in Brockton’s grip.

Waiting until the passersby had lost interest in the small drama and walked off, Simon had then motioned for Armand to grab hold of the now-whimpering “aunt.” Together, they’d hustled the odd pair around the corner, to where his carriage waited.

And now they were all in Portland Place: Simon, Bartholomew, Armand, the viscountess, Miss C, and the “aunt.” Four of them in the drawing room, pondering what would happen next, two of them locked away upstairs, their mouths tightly shut and their motives still unknown.

“Let’s get them down here, shall we?” Simon suggested, walking to the doorway. With a lack of elegance that betrayed his agitation, he bellowed his intention up the stairs to Emery, then dispatched the hovering Roberts to assist the butler in herding the prisoners down to the first floor.

“I am not being childish!” Lester declared hotly, throwing out his bottom lip in an angry pout.

“Are so,” Callie answered calmly as she lay propped on the brocade coverlet, Lester’s bonnet perched on the tip of one booted foot as she lounged at her ease, her arms crossed behind her head. All in all, her disposition was strangely sunny. “You’re being childish, and sulky, and—much as it pains me to say this—you’re right, pink don’t become you. Not a whit.” Lester’s china blue eyes narrowed dangerously, causing him to resemble an infuriated cherub—a comparison that did nothing for his consequence.

“I really do hate you sometimes, Callie. I swear I do.”

Callie yawned prodigiously (without bothering to cover her mouth—men could do that) and looked down the length of the bed at her dear friend. He really did look silly, now that she considered the thing: dressed all in pink, his blond hair hanging in damp ringlets around his moon face, his cheeks flushed as he paced back and forth in long strides that caused his fairly snug gown to bunch up closer and closer to his full waist. She felt a pang of guilt, knowing she had been the one to land them in this particular bramble patch. Not that she wasn’t
always
the one who continually thought up adventures that oftimes ended with them in the briars. “You could don the bonnet again, I suppose. Maybe then they won’t figure out that you’re a Lester, and not a Leslie?” she offered by way of assurance.

Lester stopped pacing to shove his fists against his waist as he glared at her. ‘Well, of course I’m going to keep pretending to be a woman,” he said testily. “I may even have to plead my belly to keep me from the hangman.” He turned to one side and cupped his hands around his rather round abdomen. “So? Do you think I could get away with it?”

“Oh, certainly. Until your beard began to grow out, I suppose,” Callie returned solemnly.

“Oh, God,” Lester groaned, rubbing at his already-fuzzy chin before plopping himself down on the floor in an inelegant heap. “We’re going to die. I just know it. We’re just going to die. I can’t even abide a tight collar—how will I survive the hangman’s noose?”

Callie howled with mirth, unable to control her giggles as she looked at Lester through tear-wet lashes. “You’re not... not
supposed
to survive the noose,” she got out between gales of laughter. “I believe... I believe that’s the entire point of the exercise.”

Lester remained sitting cross-legged on the floor as he reached into the pocket of his gown and pulled out his sole remaining licorice whip. “That’s it, Callie,” he said dully. “Keep on laughing. Laugh until your eyes cross. That way, you’ll just end up in Bedlam, chained to a wall and being pissed on by the other madmen. I’ve seen etchings, so I know. Horrible place!”

She jackknifed to a sitting position, dangling her legs over the edge of the bed. “You know, Lester, that might not be an entirely terrible idea. We could pretend to be lunatics. You could keep to your assertion that you’re a woman, and I could... I could... Lester? What could I do?”

Her partner in contemplated crime sniffed derisively. “Just keep on doing as you’ve been, Callie. Heaven knows that’s lunatic enough for any three people. Why, they might feel so sorry for the pair of us that they’ll just let us go. Give us alms and tea, perhaps, and send us on our way.”

“Alms and tea?” Callie considered this for a moment. “Oh, you mean
amnesty
.” She nodded. “Yes, that might work. We certainly look pitiful enough. But we can’t give them our right names, Lester. You do know that.”

He frowned, clearly confused. “We can’t? But you know how forgetful I am about names. I’ll never remember. I know!” he then exclaimed, clambering to his feet, and nearly tripping over the hem of his gown. He employed the licorice whip as a pointer, first aiming it at her and then at himself. “I’ll be you and you can be me—that way I won’t have anything new to remember.”

Callie rolled her eyes heavenward and addressed her Creator through the stuccoed ceiling. “Do you see? Do you see what I have to put up with?” She sighed, then explained patiently, “No, Lester, that won’t fadge. The viscount will simply apply to both our parents, who will then come to London to fetch us. Can you imagine your papa’s surprise when he spies you out in your gown? They have to be
different
names, Lester. Names we’ve made up out of whole cloth.
Lies
, Lester. We must tell lies. Surely you can do that?”

“Can I?” Lester asked around a mouthful of licorice as he retrieved his bonnet and knotted the strings to the left of his second chin. “Do you remember that time we were caught out changing signposts?”

Callie blew out her breath in short bursts, her mind conjuring up a memory of that particular ill-fated adventure meant to direct the London mail coach along entirely the wrong road. Callie’s new governess had been aboard the coach, and she’d already decided that, at nearly fourteen, she was done with learning the proper way to curtsy to a duke, considering she had no reason to believe she’d ever be within spitting distance of one.

She shook her head. “All you had to say was that we’d accidentally knocked the post down and were putting it back in place, as I recall. What you did, Lester, was drop to your knees and plead, ‘Please, Papa, don’t kill me—Callie made me do it!’ ” She sighed again, also remembering her punishment for having lured Lester into mischief yet again. Why, she’d had to sit on a pillow for nearly a week! “So you’re right, Lester, subterfuge won’t work. Not with your faint heart.”