Lady Rogue (9 page)

“And you promised me,” she continued slowly. “Once you’ve settled with Fouché, you won’t deal with him any longer.”

“I go where the largest profit lies,” he snapped. “Fouché was a risk, I admit. But if we’re successful, we can go far beyond settling with him.”

“If you’d tell me what you were planning, it might make my task a bit easier,” she grumbled. “Unless you don’t trust me.” Kit looked at him sideways, but Stewart Brantley’s expression didn’t change.

“It’s not necessary that you know. And don’t question a bad cause at the expense of good money.”

“I know, I know.” She glanced about to make certain no one was watching them, then touched the back of his hand with her fingers. “I’ll find him. Soon.”

“I know you will.”

“I don’t care if it’s going to be stupid and boring without your esteemed presence, Kit,” Alex commented, “and you can stomp your feet or throw a tantrum or whatever childish thing you wish to do. I’m not changing my mind. You’re not going.”

Kit glared at him. She’d been after Everton for better than an hour now, since he’d returned from the afternoon session of Parliament, and she still hadn’t worn him down. “You can’t make me stay, and I’m not childish.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I can, and yes, you are.” Alex turned around, dismissing her, as Antoine availed him of his splendid gray evening coat.

“This is beyond belief!” Kit stomped her foot and harrumphed. When that failed to gain his attention, she grabbed his fine kid gloves off the dressing table and threw them on the floor. “
Vous êtes un bravache gros!
”

Alex glanced at her reflection in the mirror. “Antoine?”

“You are a big bully, my lord.”

“
Vous êtes un bravache arrogant!
”

“You are an—”

“I understood that one.”

Kit recognized the tone of his voice, and his irritated expression. She’d pushed him too far again. He turned on her, and with a curse she spun around to flee. She had barely made it into the hallway when his hand
clamped down on one shoulder in a hard and unbreakable grip. Alex spun her around. “So I’m arrogant, am I?”

“
Un bravache arrogant
,” she repeated clearly.

He wrapped both hands around her upper arms and forced her backward. She tried to stand her ground, but despite her efforts, he continued to push her until her spine came up against the wall. She could have kicked or bitten him, should have done so, but in the face of those glinting eyes she could only lift her chin defiantly.

“An arrogant…bully,” he translated. “Care to apologize?”

In the dim lamplight, the eyes gazing down at her were almost black. His long-fingered hands were warm through the thin material of her shirt as he held her pinned, for she hadn’t yet donned her own coat. “
Vous êtes un bravache, et vous avez les yeux beaux.” You are a bully, and you have beautiful eyes
. If he’d had an inkling of French, she would have been doomed, but she couldn’t help saying it, anyway.

His lips twitched. “Translate,” he demanded.

“
Jamais!
” she responded gleefully, more relieved than she cared to admit. “Death first.”

For a long moment he looked down at her, several emotions running across his lean features, then, with an exasperated snort, he released her. “You are an impossible annoyance. Go get your coat, chit. And you will behave tonight.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, Alex!” She ran for her bedchamber. As she turned away, she failed to notice the slight smile that touched her host’s lips as he returned to his own bedchamber.

“You stay close by,” Everton muttered to his companion out of the side of his mouth. He smiled and stepped forward to greet Lord and Lady Fontaine, their host and hostess for the evening.

“Make me,” his confederate said in the same tone, apparently having forgotten Alex’s threats and warnings of the past thirty minutes.

“Harold, Elizabeth, allow me to introduce my cousin, Christian Riley,” Alex offered. Kit stepped forward to shake the baron’s hand and kiss the baroness’s with her usual boldness. “Kit, Lord and Lady Fontaine.”

“So pleased you could come, Lord Everton, Mr. Riley.” Elizabeth smiled, and gestured them to join the rest of the guests in the main ballroom.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” Kit breathed, gazing about the crowded room. She reached up to her collar, then glanced at him. “Is my cravat tied correctly?” she whispered.

“It’s perfect,” he returned, stifling the urge to wrap his arm around the chit’s neck and drag her back home before she did something foolish. Or dangerous. Instead, he reached out and flicked a speck of dust from her lapel.

It had occurred to him earlier that, whatever her motivation for wanting to attend the rout, she was correct—over the last few days he had begun to behave like a stodgy, overprotective old boor. Despite that, and somewhat to his consternation considering he had no idea why she was truly in London, he was at the same time discovering that he seemed to be completely incapable of resisting any request, demand, or wish the waif might make.

“All right,” he sighed, “go amuse yourself. But do be careful. Not everyone would be pleased to learn of your…uniqueness.” Nor would everyone look kindly on him if the farce was discovered.

She leaned up toward him, and for a moment he thought she was going to kiss him, right in the middle of the Fontaine rout. And he was disappointed when instead she pulled a cigar out of the inner pocket of his coat and tucked it into her own.

“What happened to ‘don’t talk, don’t walk, just stand in the corner, behind the draperies, and observe’?” she asked.

“I belatedly realized that as a rakehell, it is my duty to defy polite society by whatever means necessary,” he answered, his eyes still on her half-smiling lips, wanting
to taste them again. “Tonight, dear one, this means you.”

“
Merveilleux!
” she chortled gleefully, then touched his sleeve. “That means ‘marvelous.’ I’ll see you later.”

He watched as she strolled off in the direction of the punch bowl. The fact that she knew no one in the room, and almost nothing about the blue-blooded society she found herself in, presumably had no effect on her. Apparently Kit Brantley was afraid of nothing. And though that, too, brought into question her reasons for seeking him out, he couldn’t help the smile that touched his lips. She was afraid of nothing, that was, other than whether her cravat was
de trop
.

Francis and Reg intercepted her at the refreshment table, and Alex relaxed a little. They would keep her clear of anything completely unsavory, if for no other reason than to avoid facing the ire of her cousin.

“So, my devil, you haven’t frightened young Christian away yet?” The sultry voice of Lady Sinclair sounded behind him.

“Barbara.” He turned and reached down to take her hand. Her gown was a deep, blushing violet that didn’t even bother to pretend to be demure. The daring scooped neck, with its border of filmy black lace, captured and lifted her full breasts, absolutely demanding that a gentleman’s eyes be drawn to them. “No,” he replied, obliging. “Kit insists that I cannot possibly be as vile as everyone says.”

She gave a low chuckle. “Little does he know. Dance this waltz with me, Alex, before I expire from boredom.”

He nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

They stepped out onto the floor as a waltz began. Barbara smiled silkily up at him. “You haven’t yet told me how ravishing I look this evening.”

“You look ravishing,” he replied obediently, returning her smile.

“Thank you,” she purred. “I had the dress made with you in mind.”

It seemed they’d had this same conversation before,
but the conclusion was invariably satisfying, so he was willing to play along. “Then I trust you are wearing nothing underneath?”

She gave a sultry chuckle. “You are a devil, Alex.”

They would have to go to Lady Sinclair’s town house for the night, for the way Kit tended to barge into his bedchamber, the chit might receive more of an education than her father had intended. Of course, if he left the girl to her own devices at Cale House for the entire night, there was no telling what mischief she might get into. He might return home and find that she’d turned the place into a faro palace to keep herself in waistcoats and cravats.

“What are you smiling at?” Barbara asked.

He blinked and looked down at her. “Beg pardon?”

“You were looking terribly amused about something.”

“Oh. Apologies,” he muttered.

“You should apologize. I was in the middle of telling you that Edith Denton’s pet fox got out of its pen and was hunted down and killed by Viscount Harriston’s hounds the other day. The poor woman was devastated.”

Alex’s lips quirked. “I’m certain Foxy was devastated, as well.”

Barbara cuffed him on the shoulder. “Naughty man,” she chided. “Harriston did offer her the tail. I believe she’s going to have it put on a hat.”

He smiled, glancing over at the refreshment table to see who Kit might be amusing herself with at the moment. She wasn’t there, and he looked toward the orchestra in the corner. The chit wasn’t there, either, and he frowned. The gaming room wouldn’t open until after dinner had been served, so she couldn’t be up there.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

“What is it?” Barbara asked, a slight scowl creasing her porcelain features.

“My cousin. I seem to have misplaced him, and he’s a devilish lot of trouble. Did you see where he might have van—”

Abruptly he saw her. There she was, not twenty feet
away, waltzing,
waltzing
, with Mercia Cralling. The chit spied him looking at her, and gave a wicked grin and a nod.

“That damned…” he muttered under his breath. The waif was a graceful dancer, he noted grudgingly. Better than half the gentlemen in the room.

“Mr. Riley has made a conquest, I think,” Barbara purred.

“Apparently,” he grumbled, his attention still on the girl.

“A shame Caroline begged off attending tonight,” Lady Sinclair commented. “I’ve been telling her all about your cousin. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s quite curious to meet him.”

“You don’t know anything about my cousin, so how could you be gossiping about him?” Alex returned, more sharply than he intended. Damn the chit, she was making him demented.

“I know enough,” Barbara supplied, her tone faintly surprised. “He is your cousin, his father sent him for you to look after while he is traveling, he’s a bit rough about the edges, plays a fair game of faro, and you’re quite fond of him. Besides the fact that he’s exceptionally well favored.”

So he hadn’t been the only one to notice that about young Mr. Riley. “He’s too young for you,” he said.

“That’s unkind.” Her dark eyes cooled. “Apologize.”

“Don’t play games, Barbara.” The waltz ended, and he turned to look for Kit again.

She sniffed. “Unless you apologize, the only game you play tonight will be solitaire.”

He smiled humorlessly. “I believe that’s your game for the evening. I shall simply find another player.”

“Boor,” she snapped. “Why can’t you apologize?”

“Because I don’t have to,” he replied, and turned and strolled away. It was true. He didn’t need to extend himself, because she had more need of his wealth than he had of her company. Especially tonight. When he turned around to find her, Kit was back laughing with Reg and
Francis and toting a spare glass of punch, presumably for Miss Cralling.

“I shall have to reexamine my family tree,” a dry male voice came from behind him. “I don’t recall being related to a Riley of any sort.”

A glass of port appeared over his shoulder, and Alex accepted it without turning around. “Don’t you remember Aunt Marabelle marrying that Irish circus performer? That”—he gestured in Kit’s direction—“is the unfortunate result.”

A tall, well-built man, a few years older than Alex, stepped up beside him. The dark hair was beginning to recede a little, and the light blue eyes were full of interest and curiosity as he gazed at Kit. “We don’t have an Aunt Marabelle.”

On Alex’s other side a slim hand tucked around his arm. “I do like the circus,” an amused female voice said. “Is this one an acrobat?”

“A bear baiter,” Alex answered, smiling down at the petite, auburn-haired woman. “If I can get him over here, I’ll introduce you.”

If Alex had been alone, he was certain the chit would never have left the circle gathering around her. Seeing, though, that he had company, it only took a few gestures and a commanding glare to convince her to come away from the crowd and join him. “I’m having a splendid time, cousin,” she said in her low lilt, her eyes dancing.

“No doubt,” Alex replied dryly. “Kit, you remember our cousin Gerald Downing and his wife, Ivy, don’t you?”

Kit actually blinked. “Why, yes. Father’s spoken—”

“Mother’s spoken,” Alex corrected smoothly.

It didn’t faze her. “No, Father’s spoken of Mother’s family to me, many times.” Kit leaned over and put a hand on Gerald’s sleeve to look at him from beneath her lowered brow. “Mother has died, you know.”

“Oh, dear, poor Marabelle,” Gerald exclaimed, glancing at his wife. “Did we send flowers, my love?”

“Oh, no,” Ivy replied, shaking her head. “Marabelle was allergic, Gerald.”

“She was dead, sweetest. I don’t think she would have minded.”

Kit was looking from one to the other of them, her expression wavering between amusement, caution, and complete bewilderment. “Am I being bammed?” she asked after a moment.

“Rather.” Gerald reached out and shook her hand again. “Pleased to meet you, whoever you might be.” He looked over at Alex. “So who is he?”

Alex glanced about to make certain no one else was near. “She,” he corrected softly.

“She?” Ivy repeated at a whisper, turning to look at Kit all over again.

Kit was glaring at him, and he was certain if she’d had a pistol, she would have shot him. “I can’t believe you told them!”

“Gerald is my cousin. It’s not as though they didn’t know something was about.”

“You never told me you had cousins.”

“You didn’t ask.”