Maggie MacKeever (2 page)

Accompanying Quin were an individual who had the appearance of a prize-fighter and a third man who was slender, fair-haired and none too steady on his feet.

The men were arguing. Rather, the third man was arguing. The pugilist remained silent. Quin seemed disinterested. Kate remained in the shadows so that she might watch them unobserved.

The pugilist took hold of the third man’s collar and jerked upward. “Save your breath to cool your porridge. You know the house rules. A man can stare until he’s cross-eyed, but he’s forbid to touch.”

The third man’s voice rose an octave, perhaps due to the circumstance that his lapels now resided in the vicinity of his earlobes. “You’re not blackballing me!”

Quin said, in tones of utter boredom, “I rather think we are.” The pugilist applied his other hand to the waistband of the third man’s breeches, hefted him, and pitched him down the steps.

The man hit the pavement, tumbled wrong end foremost. He rolled to a stop, cursing, at Kate’s feet.

Kate moved away from him, and limped slowly forward. Eyes narrowed as if he found it difficult to focus, Quin watched her approach. “Here now,” said the pugilist, as she climbed the steps. “Who are you, and what do you want? This is no place for you, miss.”

Kate had not expected Quin would recognize her. Still, his lack of recognition stung. “Don’t you know me?” she inquired.

Quin regarded her blankly. “Have we met?”

“His lordship,” put in the man called Samson, “can hardly be expected to recall every female he—”

“Every female who has crossed my path,” Quin interjected. “Let us not be crude.”

Every female he had tumbled, Kate amended. “Perhaps his lordship may remember this.” She drew back her hand and slapped his mocking face.

Chapter Three

Lord Quinton sprawled on the sofa in his morning room, a pleasantly proportioned chamber located at the back of Moxley House. Green linen draperies softened the sash windows. Green and white striped paper hung on the walls. The floor was polished oak, the furnishings rosewood.

It was a surprisingly feminine chamber, reminiscent of its previous owner. Quin sometimes thought about turning the room into a more masculine study, but had not drummed up sufficient ambition to undertake the project.

He stretched out his long legs, swirled the brandy in his glass. His visitor wandered around the room, inspecting the long case clock, the writing desk with its beaded drawers and tapering square legs, the ink stain on the wall.

Now that she had his attention, Kate seemed uncertain how to proceed. Not inclined to make matters easier for her, Quin raised his glass.

And then he lowered it. Kate Manvers was in his morning room. He needed to regain the full use of his wits.

She was a tall slender woman, with hair as dark as midnight, eyes as grey as morning mist. More years ago than he cared to count, those wine-red lips had ravished his.

Kate caught his gaze and flushed. It was the curse of such perfect pale flesh: no emotion could be hid.

Ignoring her discomfort, Quin continued his inspection. Thick dark eyelashes, sharply marked brows. High cheekbones, aquiline nose. His fingers recalled the feel of that long slender neck.

She had removed her cloak. The severe black of her gown suited her, if the style did not: high necked and long sleeved and fashioned in a manner that failed to flatter the body hid beneath it, which was particularly fine.

Quin marveled that he hadn’t known her. Once he would have known Kate Manvers anywhere. But such was his reputation that women frequently presented themselves at his front door on the flimsiest of pretexts.

Had Quin not been present, Kate would have been denied entrance, there being no rational reason for a respectable woman well past her first youth to arrive on his doorstep clutching an old valise.

What a coxcomb Samson had made him sound. His lordship can hardly be expected to remember every female—

And then Kate slapped him, and Quin realized who she was.

It wasn’t the first time Kate had slapped him.

She hadn’t limped then.

Recollection, if slow to stir, was simmering now. Quin suspected — the curve of a bare breast, sunlight gleaming in dark hair — this was not a good thing.

Disconcerting to discover that he wanted to know the details of Kate’s injury. To learn how far she’d traveled. And why she had come.

Quin rose, crossed to the decanter, poured brandy into a second glass. “Sit down before you fall down. How did you hurt your leg?”

Kate accepted the brandy, sank down awkwardly on an upholstered chair. “A riding accident.”

He frowned. She had been a superb horsewoman. “How unlike you to be careless. Was the horse also harmed?”

Her fingers tightened on the glass. “Arabella had to be put down.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Kate had loved her dappled mare.

She brushed aside his sympathy. “It was a long time ago. Tell me, do you often have your guests tossed into the street?”

“Certainly, when they misbehave. I do
have standards, though they are not high.” Quin smiled, without humor. “As you may have heard.”

She cast him an ironic glance. “The whole world has heard of the infamous Black Baron. As I daresay was your intent.”

Quin had believed himself beyond annoyance, but discovered he was not. “Take care lest you begin to bore me, Kate.”

“Or you will toss
me
out into the street?” Uncowed, she raised her chin. “No matter what I say or don’t, you will do as you please. Do you truly care so little what people think?”

“I care for very little.”

“Then I am sorry for you, Quin.”

Quin was further affronted by this comment. Had he not seduced a thousand women (or allowed them to seduce him), wagered a fortune (and won three), visited the field of honor with men who did not survive to duel again? Yet here sat Kate, with something akin to pity in her gaze.

“You cannot think I give a damn for your opinion,” he said coolly.

Kate placed her drink, unsampled, on the small sofa table. “I’m not here to quarrel, Quin.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“Appearances to the contrary,” she said wryly, and shifted in her chair. “Believe me, had I any other choice, I would not have come to you.”

Quin didn’t doubt it. He imagined Miss Manvers would be more eager to encounter the plague — if she remained a miss, and wasn’t instead a ma’am, in which case her spouse should be shot for allowing to enter this house. Unless she had run away from said spouse, and wished Quin to protect her, which was an even more unsettling notion, Quin being more in the habit of avoiding irate spouses than facing them head-on.

What the devil
did
she want from him? Were he to ask, he’d hand her the advantage. Kate already had more advantage over him that Quin cared her to realize.

“Yet here you are,” he said, determined to disconcert her at least half as much as she had disconcerted him. “Showed up on my doorstep like a strumpet searching for a tumble. Shall you find out for yourself if what the scandalmongers say is true?”

She scowled, “No, I shan’t! Pray don’t try and provoke me further. I have already behaved badly enough for one evening.”

Kate had not behaved half as badly as he would like. Quin recalled various occasions on which he had been bit and scratched and bruised, result of no excess of temper, but passion of a different sort. He disliked these memories, wished they would go away.

He wished
she
would go away.

Or alternately that she would stay, and toss aside her bonnet, and rip off her gown, and bite and scratch and bruise him one more time.

Which was even less likely than a visitation of levitating swine.

Kate was watching him, more closely than he liked. “Shall I apologize?” she asked.

Quin turned away, rang for a servant. “Why bother, when we both know you won’t mean a word? The hour grows late, and I have things to do. Tomorrow is time enough for talk. You’ll stay here tonight.”

She stiffened. “And if I don’t care to spend the night beneath your roof?”

“I said beneath my roof, not in my bed.” Quin glanced pointedly at her valise. “Did you not already tell me you have nowhere else to go?”

Kate bit her lip, then sighed. “Thank you. I suppose.”

She thanked him, she supposed?
He
should
have her tossed out. “Your gratitude is premature,” said Quin, as he strode toward the doorway. “The infamous Black Baron does nothing without expecting payment in return.”

Chapter Four

The last of the gamesters had departed, exhilarated by gain or disheartened by loss: some in partial possession of their faculties and therefore remaining upright; others unable to ambulate without assistance; the more sodden among them stuffed by footmen into their carriages and sent home. Servants scurried about, setting the gaming rooms to rights. Liliane paced the supper room, awaiting her audience with her employer.

She disliked being made to cool her heels. As if she were a supplicant and Quin some high-and-mighty feudal lord.

Patience,
she told herself. Her goal was in sight. Before Lord Quinton suspected her intentions, he’d be caught fast in her web.

And wouldn’t the pusses hiss and spit then? Rosamond, Adele, Daphne and the others would turn pea-green with envy upon learning Liliane had managed a tête-à-tête with Quin

Yes, and she meant to make the most of it. Liliane inspected herself in a looking-glass. Honey-blonde curls and creamy skin and big green eyes, perfect teeth, a luscious lower lip, and a straight little nose. Gown of raspberry silk with a tightly fitted bodice that clung to her curves, rounded neckline that exposed her shoulders and a great deal of her chest, sleeves puffed and tapered, skirt embellished with large tucks and a broad hem. The gown wasn’t hers to keep, of course. The garments worn by the girls during working hours remained on the premises when they left for the night.

Liliane smoothed her skirts. She was a diamond of the first water, if she did say so herself. And a clever enough actress that she should tread the boards, Samson in the usual way of things not one to permit the wool to be pulled over his eyes. Yet she had persuaded him to hire her by claiming to be something she was not, him being partial to females of good character fallen on hard times as opposed to misses barely out of the schoolroom, not that Liliane had ever seen the inside of a schoolroom, but she was a quick study nonetheless, could mimic the manner of an impoverished gentlewoman as well as anyone, and mouth break-teeth words better than most.

Life was a curious business. Here she was pretending to be the sort of female who when nose-to-nose with trouble would feel a spasm coming on, her constitution not being strong; who in a ticklish situation would require a nice lie-down, and her temples bathed with lavender water, and calves’ foot jelly served up to her on a silver spoon. In truth, Liliane considered silver spoons better for the selling of them, and wouldn’t recognize a maidenly spasm if it nipped her on the nose.

However, a nice lie-down was in her future, providing she was clever with her cards.

At least, she supposed it would be nice enough. His lordship had tossed up sufficient skirts that he should know what he was about.

Liliane turned away from the mirror. Her nerves were in a jangle, now the moment drew nigh. Still, how difficult could the business be? Everybody knew the Black Baron was a sot.

Lord Quinton entered the supper room at last, beckoned an attendant to his side. As his eyes flicked over her, Liliane discreetly tugged her neckline lower. His lordship, alas, appeared more interested in the brandy fetched him than in her creamy flesh.

Ladies and ladybirds alike flocked to the Black Baron like moths to a candle flame, drawn by his reputation, curious to discover for themselves how well he was equip’t. Liliane wondered if those other hopefuls found it this difficult to catch his eye.

She drew in a breath so deep the seams of her bodice creaked, and cleared her throat. Quin frowned, as if puzzling why she was still here. “
Tiens!
That Coffey pig— The incident was of the most distressing.” Liliane clasped her hands beneath her breasts, plumping them up further in case his lordship was too fuddled to remark what was right under his nose. “Although it is not the first time I have found myself the object of unwanted attentions, you comprehend.”

Quin sampled his brandy. “I didn’t imagine it was.”

He had barely glanced at her bosom. The man was jaded beyond belief. Liliane was strongly tempted to inform Lord Quinton that he might kiss her arse.

Instead she touched a lace-trimmed handkerchief to the corner of one eye. “He said he desired to speak with me about a private matter. I did not expect one of your friends would behave so shabbily.”

“More fool you,” murmured Quin. “Curious, is it not, that a man would try and force himself on an unwilling female when there are so many willing females to be found?”

Matters weren’t progressing as Liliane had anticipated. For one thing, her employer was — despite his reputation — far from being foxed.

Needs must when the devil drove. Mam would have her guts for garters if she didn’t soon have some progress to report.

“Who can explain a drunken swine?” Liliane allowed a second tear to trickle down her cheek. “I beg you, don’t turn me off! It’s a harsh world for such as me, should I lose my place.”

Unmoved by her tears, Lord Quinton gestured. The attendant hastened forward, decanter at the ready. She poured. Quin studied the brandy, then raised it to his lips, and drank.

Only when his glass was empty did he look at Liliane. “Samson wants me to dismiss you, being of the opinion you wouldn’t have wandered into the hallway in the first place if you were up to any good. However, I’ve decided to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“
Vraiment?”
Liliane dabbed her eyes with the scrap of fabric before tucking it into her bodice, which — though there seemed little enough point in doing so — she nudged lower still. “You are of a kindness unsurpassed.”