Lady Rogue (6 page)

“Good thing he stopped your wagering on queens,” Reg pointed out unhelpfully.

The dealer glanced up at the Earl of Everton, then turned the card. “Looks as though you’ll be touring London on foot and alone,” Alex said, as the queen of hearts drifted down to the table. He reached out and slid her pile of sovereigns into his, and then gathered them all in front of him. With no blunt, the chit couldn’t go much of anywhere for the next fortnight, and that would make things considerably easier on him. Or so he hoped.

“You’re a selfish brute,” Kit said, disappointment in her eyes.

“And I’m beginning to think it’s past your bedtime, boy,” Alex returned, amused.

“My father sent me here to acquire some town polish, you know,” she informed him, raising both eyebrows and daring him to play again.

It was more tempting than he expected. “Your father sent you here to keep you out of trouble while he’s traveling,” he countered smoothly. He stood, nodding at his other companions. “Let’s go, brat.”

Kit balked, then with an annoyed sigh finished her port, dropped the remainder of the coins he had fronted her into a pocket, and stood. “Good night, gentlemen,” she said, clapping Reg Hanshaw on the shoulder and nodding at Augustus.

“Night, Kit,” Augustus returned, raising his glass at her. “And if Alexander won’t show you about town, I will.”

“That’s generous of you,” Alex commented, narrowing his eyes a little. It was uncharacteristically generous,
but despite his scrutiny, he could see nothing in Devlin’s faded eyes but cynical, drink-dulled amusement.

“Not at all, dears.”

Kit headed out, and Alex flipped a sovereign at the dealer. With a nod, the man caught it and dropped it into his waistcoat pocket.

“Cheat,” Devlin murmured.

“Whenever possible.” Everton followed his purported cousin outside. As soon as they were out of earshot of the crowded club, he rounded on her. “How in the devil did you get here?” he snapped, motioning for his carriage to be brought around.

“I walked,” she said indignantly. “I didn’t want to be accused of stealing from your stables again.” She glared at him, then glanced over her shoulder at the club. “What’s wrong with Devlin?”

“And our discussion of earlier this evening? Did you forget that?” he continued, gesturing her into the carriage and climbing in behind her.

“That was not a discussion. That was you telling me you couldn’t be bothered to look after me.” She folded her arms and sat back in the deep cushions opposite him. “Well, I didn’t ask you to look after me, Everton. You don’t need to treat me like a wee babe, just because I happen to be a female.”

“Barely,” Alex replied, amazed he had mistaken her for anything but a female even for a moment.

“And you’re a poor excuse for a gentleman,” she shot back.

“I’m a good enough excuse for you to be stealing my neckties,” he noted, reaching forward to finger the well-tied ruffles at her throat.

She took a quick breath, then slapped his hand away. “Stop that. You’ll ruin it.”

He sat back, watching her pretending not to watch him. She was taller than Francis, but somehow appeared, to his enlightened gaze anyway, more fine-boned and delicate even than Barbara. And in those stained ragamuffin clothes, she looked like an escapee from a workhouse. To his surprise he wanted to kiss the waif, wanted
to kiss those lips that were set in a straight, offended line and needed no paint to lend them perfection. Alex took a slow breath of his own. “Consumption,” he finally said.

Her eyes, curious again, met his. “What?”

He paused for a moment, holding her gaze, before he answered. “Augustus. He’s got consumption.”

She fidgeted a little, then looked away again. “Oh.”

“You play faro well,” he offered, smiling a little and hoping he was the reason for her sudden discomfiture.

“I know.”

“Your father did teach you, then?”

“He taught me everything,” she said, defiant again, and lifted her chin.

“Oh, I imagine there were a few lessons he skipped,” Alex said slowly, wondering whether she actually expected him to continue behaving himself. “Little things, here and there.” He pursed his lips. “And not so little things.”

“You’ve yet to shock me, Everton,” she grumbled.

“I’ve yet to try.” Curious about how she would react, he leaned forward again and reached out one hand. She followed his fingers as he drew closer. Everything about her seemed to draw him, as it had from the moment he set eyes on the waif, and he touched her knee with his palm. Her eyes snapped up to meet his. He held her gaze, slowly sliding his hand up her leg to her thigh. Her muscles tightened beneath the coarse material of her breeches, and again he was conscious of the desire to kiss those delicate, sensuous lips. Very aware of her quickened breathing and the flush of her cheeks, he leaned closer, hoping she would snap at him so he could turn a kiss into a jest. Instead she remained silent, looking at him with uncertain, wary eyes. And that was all that stopped him. Alex slipped his hand sideways up along her hip, then quickly dug into her pocket to pull out the coins she had captured, and sat back again.

“Damn you!” she snarled belatedly, reaching out to grab his hand.

He held his fist closed while she tried to peel back
his fingers, using the moment to regain his own composure. With his other hand he reached into his own pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which he dropped into her lap. “Here,” he said.

She snatched up the ten-pound note, then looked at him in ruffled suspicion. “What’s this for?”

“Next time you decide to go on an adventure, take a hack. Don’t go walking about London at night. Not even in Mayfair. It might be safer than Saint-Marcel, but that isn’t saying much.”

Kit started to speak, then changed her mind about whatever it was she had been about to say. “Worried about me?” she asked instead, looking up at him from under her long, dark lashes and smoothing the paper between her fingers.

“About the criminals, actually.” He grinned, counted out the change in his hand, added more coins to it, and returned it to her. Five minutes ago it hadn’t been his intention to leave her with any blunt, but returning some money to her was the only excuse he could come up with for touching her. Not that he generally needed an excuse with a woman who placed herself alone with him in a closed carriage, but these circumstances were far from typical. Their fingers brushed again, but he had to make some show of honoring his father’s ill-made debt, and reluctantly pulled his hand away. “From the manner in which you continue to bash me, I imagine you can take care of yourself.”

She returned his gaze evenly, though a soft blush still colored her cheeks. “You expected otherwise?”

“Not really,” he said quietly. The coach pulled to a stop in the drive of Cale House, and a footman came forward to pull open the door. “So do we have an understanding now, cousin?”

Slowly she nodded, then folded the note and put it in her pocket. “Yes. But—”

He held up one hand, and motioned for her to precede him. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

“W
here is my cousin this morning?” Everton queried as he stepped into the entryway, handing Wenton his hat and gloves before motioning his companion to do the same.

“Mr. Riley is taking a bath, my lord,” the butler answered, as the earl retrieved the freshly ironed morning edition of the
London Times
from the side table in the hallway.

Alex tucked the paper under his arm and raised an eyebrow. “Another one?”

“Yes, my lord.”

The earl gave a slight smile. Dirty as Kit Brantley had been when she arrived, it would likely take a month of baths to wash away the layers of grime. It was a pity she didn’t wish her back scrubbed. “Come along, Mr. Lewis.”

“Yes, my lord,” his companion replied, hefting the satchel he carried with him.

Just outside his study door, Alex stopped. A small flake of white, highly visible against the dark mahogany floor, lay close to the wall. With a glance at Mr. Lewis, he squatted and picked up the speck. It was paint, though he couldn’t see a scuff on the wall where someone might have bumped into it. “Wenton,” he asked, and heard the butler come up behind him. “Was someone moving furniture?”

“No, my lord.”

Alex straightened, then noticed the slight mark on his doorframe at the level of the handle. “And how did my cousin spend his morning?” he queried offhandedly.

“He rose rather late, my lord, and then came downstairs for breakfast.”

“And yesterday morning?”

“Reading, I believe, my lord.” The butler paused. “Do you wish me to make a daily report, my lord?”

Alex shook his head and set the paint flake into the butler’s gloved hand. Apparently the waif hadn’t been able to resist the challenge of a locked door. He wondered what she might have been looking for, and whether she’d found anything of interest. It seemed his first hunch had been correct—she wasn’t staying at Cale House for protection. Which meant that he was going to have to find out what, exactly, she was doing in London. And until he did, he would have Wenton keep the silver closet locked. With a glance at Mr. Lewis, he proceeded up the curving staircase and rapped at her bedchamber door.

“Yes?” her sleepy reply came.

“Kit,” he called softly, “may I come in?”

“No!” Inside the room, water splashed wildly about, and naked skin slid against the brass tub. Alex grinned. Wet feet scrambled about the room, to the accompaniment of several muffled curses. “What do you want?” the girl’s breathless voice came after a moment.

“I’d like a word with you,” he responded. The mental image conjured by all the noise was very interesting indeed.

“Well, just a moment,” she snapped. More rustling sounds followed, and finally the latch rattled. “Yes?” she said, yanking the door open.

Alex opened his mouth to comment on her sloth, but stopped. Kit was out of breath, her lips parted a little in a half scowl. Her hair was loose, hanging in damp, golden waves down to her shoulders, and she had neglected to tuck in her shirt. Her cheeks, flushed from the heat of the bath, were a soft rose, and Alex’s breath
stilled as he met her eyes. After a long moment she blinked and looked down at herself.

“Oh, blast,” she grumbled, and quickly walked to the dressing table to grab a strip of cloth and tie her hair back in its customary fashion. Then she turned away, abruptly bashful, and shoved the tail of her stained shirt into her breeches. “I thought you were abandoning me again today,” she said over her shoulder.

“Simply because I choose to continue my regular routine doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned you,” he countered, stepping into the room and continuing to watch as she finished dressing. He’d seen women dress and undress a hundred times, but nothing like the waif fastening her breeches before him. It was quite…fascinating.

“I rather thought that not going out of one’s way was one of the def—” Kit turned around and stopped. She blanched, her eyes seeking Alex’s and then flicking to the second figure in the doorway again. “Who are you?” she demanded.

“This is Mr. Lewis,” Alex offered, wishing he’d left the man downstairs. “He is my tailor. He is also quite discreet, for it is his business to disguise the knock-knees and hunched backs of several esteemed and vain members of the peerage.”

“Mr. Lewis.” She nodded, her gaze still shifting uncertainly between them.

“Mr. Riley.” The tailor bowed, then looked at the earl questioningly.

“Proceed,” Alex said, motioning the small man forward.

“Just a moment,” Kit protested, raising one hand to stop the tailor’s advance. “What’s going on?”

“I thought if you intended to be here for a time, you should have more than one set of clothes,” Alex said offhandedly, stepping over to sit in her windowsill. she would need a chaperon, and though he was admittedly a poor choice, he had no intention of missing this.

Kit stopped and stared at him, surprise warring with the suspicion on her face. “But—”

“He knows about your…singular condition, cousin.
Humor me.” Alex pulled the
Times
from under his arm and leaned back in the deep sill. He snapped the paper open and began reading. Or rather, pretending to read. With his elbow he pushed the window open just a little more, so he could see a reflection of the proceedings.

“I can’t pay for this,” Kit muttered, still looking at him.

It was the first time he’d heard anything like regret or embarrassment in her lilting voice. He lowered the paper and gave a brief smile. “My gift, then,” he replied, and returned to his feigned reading.

Kit took a slow breath, blew it out, then shrugged and nodded at Mr. Lewis. The tailor pulled a measuring tape from his pocket and indicated that she should lift one arm. It was a graceful arm, her long, slender fingers curling just a little as she watched Mr. Lewis. Alex watched closely, as well, though his attention was not on the tailor. Unlike nearly every female he’d ever known, there was no artifice about her, no concern over finding the perfect pose, or turning just so to show off her slim waist to best advantage.

The measuring of her wrist and elbow followed, and Alex continued to watch, amused but increasingly mesmerized. There were unsuspected advantages to being a tailor. It would almost make it worth the disgrace of taking up a trade, to be the one circling her slender wrists with his fingers, and running his palms along her arms. As Mr. Lewis lifted Kit’s short tail of hair to slide his measuring tape about her collar, the smile slowly left Alex’s face. Delicate tendrils of blond hair curled at the nape of her neck, its gentle curve beckoning his caress, the touch of his lips. He shifted forward and banged the window hard with his elbow, sending her reflection swinging out over the garden.

“Don’t fall out the window,” Kit advised him, tilting her head to eye him as he settled himself up straighter and, with as much composure as he could muster, returned the window to its former position.

“Just reading about the Bank of London considering American investments,” he muttered, lifting the paper
again. “Loyalty goes behind commerce, apparently.”

As she smiled at the newspaper, the measuring began again. Kit turned sideways while the tailor ran the tape down the length of her spine, and then shoulder to shoulder. Alex relaxed, and even managed a slight grin at her contortions as she sought to keep an eye on Mr. Lewis. Then the tailor motioned her to lift both arms, and stepped forward to wrap the tape about her chest.

Alex licked abruptly dry lips at the faint slither of the tape across the thin cotton of her shirt. Kit shifted uneasily and turned her head toward him again. “Might I have a new hat, as well?” she ventured, with a nonchalance that poorly hid her embarrassment.

“I suppose we can manage a visit to the haberdasher without having to swear him to secrecy,” Alex agreed, shifting uncomfortably. Jaded as he considered himself to be he was dismayed to note that he was becoming rather painfully aroused. It was completely unlike him to be feeling so stirred at such a tame sight. After all, he’d seen women in far more advanced stages of undress, and in far less innocent poses. But perhaps it was the innocence of the scene that was so riveting, after all. Kit was not trying to seduce him, but merely to gain herself a new set of clothes. She obviously had no idea what the combination of her body and that damned measuring tape was doing to him—and thank God for that.

The tape slunk downward, tightening again about her waist. Another pencil-scratch of a note followed, and the tape lowered again, settling about her rounded hips. Alex exhaled, remembering the feel of those hips against him when he had first begun to suspect that Kit Riley was a female. The tape slipped a little, and with nimble fingers the tailor slid it back in place. Alex groaned silently. She was stunning, Aphrodite in breeches, and he wanted her. Badly.

Finally Mr. Lewis took a step back, cleared his throat, and knelt. “If you please,” he murmured, and attached the top end of the tape to her waist. Swallowing, his hands shaking a little, Alex lowered the paper as the tailor slowly stretched the length of the cord down to
her ankle. He made another notation on his pad. As the tailor shifted again, raising the tape toward her inseam, Kit’s cheeks colored to a deep rose. She flinched like a wild deer, catching Alex’s eyes with a pleading expression.

“Lewis!” Alex bellowed instantly, lurching to his feet, the paper crumpled in his hand.

Startled, the little tailor jumped back and turned to face him. “My lord?” he asked, pushing his spectacles back onto his nose.

Alex took a breath and shook himself. It would do no one any good if he charged the poor tailor like a bloody wild boar. “Use the damned breeches she’s got on to measure the rest,” he ordered, and motioned Kit toward the dressing closet. “There’s a robe in there,” he grumbled.

She favored him with a swift, grateful smile as she hurried into the tiny adjoining room. Alex briefly shut his eyes and leaned back against the sill again. The breeches flew out of the closet, and the tailor retrieved them, measured the inseam and the cuff, then, with a hesitant glance toward the earl, tossed them back again. “Thank you,” came the chit’s muffled voice, and a few moments later she reemerged.

Mr. Lewis made a few last notations, then put away his tape and wet the end of his pencil with his tongue. “All right, my lord. What would you like?”

Something he couldn’t have, because of a damned debt of honor. “I think something in gray, though I leave the details to your discretion. Plus a new shirt and a half dozen cravats, all for tomorrow.” Feeling slightly more composed, Alex placed his hands behind his back and eyed Kit speculatively. “By the end of the week I want two more suits, in blue and a dark green. No brown. And nothing dandyish, for heaven’s sake.”

Kit looked over at her brown coat. “Why not brown?” she asked defiantly.

“I’m bloody tired of seeing you in it. That’s why not,” he answered. “For the evening, a black and a dark gray, I believe. With sufficient shirts and waistcoats and
whatever else my cousin desires to accompany them.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Both of the chit’s eyebrows lifted. “
Five
suits?”

Alex sighed. “I suppose this means you’ll want five hats and five pairs of boots, as well?”

Kit delayed a moment before she answered. “Could I?” she asked with a delighted laugh.

He snorted, finally giving in to his urge to chuckle. “No.”

Stewart Brantley sat at a table shoved against the back wall of a small tavern on Long Acre, just north of Covent Garden, and finished a glass of port. The innkeeper had thought him high in the instep for ordering a gentleman’s drink, but he had at one time been a gentleman, after all. And at the moment he was a former gentleman who felt in the mood to celebrate.

Some damned lord might have stepped into his affairs once, but he would see to it that it did not happen again. And the fellow he had just parted company from had actually seemed eager to arrange to provide a few empty crates to a stranger in return for a quantity of blunt. A good quantity, admittedly, but not compared to what those filled crates would earn him when passed into the correct hands.

“Stewart,” a voice called, and Brantley looked up sharply, stifling a surprised curse.

“Fouché,” he asked in French, first looking about to make certain no patriotically rabid Englishmen were about, “what brings you to London?”

Jean-Paul Mercier looked more like a member of the French nobility than a smuggler, but in fact, he was both. His shoulder-length dark hair was pulled back into a tail at his neck in the current French fashion. The Comte de Fouché nodded pleasantly, and gracefully slid his tall, spare frame onto the bench opposite Stewart. Two other men seated themselves at another table, their presence no surprise. The comte rarely traveled alone.

“I have come to view the sights, of course,” Fouché returned, also in French, evidently deciding that he
didn’t wish to risk being overheard in English, either.

“Rather peculiar time for a holiday, wouldn’t you say?” Stewart commented, fiddling with the half-empty bottle before him and madly trying to figure out what in the world Fouché was doing there.

“You are not pleased to see me, I think,” the comte noted, with a slight pout that made him look younger than his thirty-three years. Fouché pulled the bottle from his companion’s fingers, examined the label, and poured himself a drink. “And after I went to such effort to find you.”

Stewart glanced at him. “You knew I would be here.”

“Yes,” Fouché agreed, “but when I learned you had taken young Kit away from Paris with you, I thought perhaps you did not intend to return.”

The thought had crossed his mind. “We are partners, Jean-Paul.”

“Yes,” Fouché agreed, “but you are also a traitor.”

Although he doubted anyone in the tavern spoke French, Stewart glanced about and leaned forward. “I am no such thing.”

“You provide weapons for soldiers of Napoleon,” Fouché pointed out.

“I am providing them to you. What you do with them is your affair.”

“Not simply mine, my friend.” The soft, cultured voice had dropped into a delicate murmur, but Stewart knew better than to be fooled. Despite his refined looks, the comte was cold as Yorkshire in winter, with no compunctions about killing when the whim struck him. Brantley had seen that on more than one occasion.