Maggie MacKeever (6 page)

Beau abandoned his kippers. “Why is it I mistrust your intentions? I am not usually the suspicious sort.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Quin, “you are more intelligent than you generally admit. Kate can’t keep hiding in her bedchamber. We need an explanation for her presence here.”

 Kate suspected she might be perfectly content remaining unseen in her chamber. As for her presence, she couldn’t explain it satisfactorily herself. Any female with a grain of sense would take her chances with murderous relatives rather than risk her heart with Quin.

How often, she wondered, did he find uninvited women hiding in his bed?

What would he do if
she
slipped between his sheets?

Kate pushed away her cup. Most likely, he would shove her out onto the floor. Where Edmund would be waiting to strangle her. At least then the business would be done.

“Since when does the Black Baron need to provide explanations?” Beau asked. “Your past relationship is reason enough.”

“You alone are aware of our past relationship.” Quin reached for the butter dish. “I prefer it remains that way.”

Of course he did, thought Kate. “You and Liliane.”

Beau looked startled. “Liliane?”

“She was attempting to ravish Quin. I came to his defense.”

“Never did I think to see the day,” Beau murmured ironically. “Far be it from me to belabor the obvious, but in that case the cat must be well out of the bag.”

“So long as I supply the cat with sufficient cream,” said Quin, “she will keep her claws sheathed. If I may continue? The servants realize there is a stranger in the house. I propose we explain Kate as one of your conquests. You have so many conquests no one will find it of especial interest if you acquire one more.”

“But Miss Fletcher!” protested Beau.

Quin spread butter on a slice of toast. “Miss Fletcher’s interest will be piqued.”

“Excuse me,” broke in Kate, not best pleased by this cavalier disposal of her person. “If I am to be Mr. Loversall’s latest, ah, light o’ love, wouldn’t I be more likely to be residing beneath
his
roof?”

“But this is
my roof!” argued that gentleman. “Or it was, as near as doesn’t count. I think too highly of you to introduce you into a bachelor establishment, you see. And under the circumstances, I think you should call me Beau.”

“
This
is a bachelor establishment,” Kate pointed out.

“No,” retorted Beau, “this is a gaming hell. And you, it would appear, are a
fille de joie
. In which case, I question why I would leave my
fille de joie
beneath the same roof as Quin.”

“You trust me?” Quin suggested.

“In a pig’s eye,” snorted Beau.

Kate stared at the linen tablecloth. Truth be told, she wanted to be beneath no roof save Quin’s. But Quin had neither mistresses nor relationships lasting more than a few hours. Was that what she desired for herself?

If only she could forget the feeling of his fingers stroking her foot. The memory made her squirm.

Both men were watching her. “I could have had an
affaire
with Quin at some point in the past,” Kate offered. “Immoral creature that I am. Consequently we are both immune.”

Beau said thoughtfully, “It might serve. Quin retains some vague fondness for you — oh yes, I grasp the reasoning behind this subterfuge — while I am quite
épris.
” Head tilted to one side, he studied Kate. “No one will believe I am
épris
over anyone dressed as unfashionably as you are. I shall take you to Mme Dubois, which will give additional credence to our tale.”

 “But I am in mourning!” Kate objected. “Under the circumstances, it is hardly proper for me—”

“Under the circumstances,” Quin broke in, “it is beyond hypocritical for you to preach propriety.”

Kate clenched her hands in her lap, lest she hurl the jam pot at his provoking head.

Chapter Eleven

Quin might have, had he cared to do so, counted numerous instances of ill-judgment made during the course of his career. None had been so momentous as his purchase of a gaming hell. With Moxley’s had come responsibilities. People depended on him for their livelihood.

He stopped by the hazard table where, to the astonishment of everyone assembled, he went down fifty pounds. It was not Quin’s custom to lose. Nor was it his habit to care one way or another whether Dame Fortune smiled or frowned.

Rather, it had not been his habit. Lately he had come to think he preferred to keep his fortune intact.

Quin suspected this about-face had to do with Kate. Precisely
what
it had to do with Kate, he could not say.

Did not care to say.

He was not accustomed to so much introspection.

Sobriety was not for the faint of heart.

He was called away from the hazard table by an altercation at the front door, where a band of drunken bucks were belligerently demanding feminine companionship, result of Coffey having told them whores of great skill and inventiveness worked within. It was damned mean-spirited of Quin to refuse to share, they stated, lightskirts being in the habit of serving themselves up to him on silver platters, while lesser mortals were expected to pay the going price. The bucks were persuaded to depart, at length and with lust left unslaked, only after Samson rolled up his sleeves and announced he was of a mind to break some heads. As result of this and other irritations, the hour was later than usual when Quin made his way to his bedchamber.

He opened the door. A fire burned on the hearth. A figure was curled up in the comfortable wing chair.

A female figure. But all the females were safely off the premises, or so he had believed. Quin realized he hadn’t actually seen Liliane depart.

She had been all conciliation since they struck their bargain. Quin didn’t trust her the merest fraction of an inch.

The figure stirred, sat up. Firelight gleamed in Kate’s dark hair.

How had he forgotten for a moment that Kate was in the house? He certainly had not forgotten what happened the last time they were alone together in this room.

She’d accused him of meaning to banish her to the ranks of his forgotten women. It wasn’t true. Quin hadn’t set out to seduce Kate, or if he had it was without ulterior intent, or with no more ulterior intent than usual, and probably less.

He closed the door behind him. Kate’s recent purchases hadn’t included nightwear, unless she fancied voluminous neck-to-toe attire. Around her shoulders she wore a Norwich shawl.

Quin pulled off his coat, his waistcoat, unwound his cravat. Kate watched without expression. He wondered how far he’d have to go to wring a reaction from her.

And then he wondered if he truly wanted her to react to him, and why, or if this aberrant notion was result of the annoyances and frustrations of the past several hours.

“Nice shawl,” he observed. “Did Beau purchase it for you?”

“Did you purchase it, you mean? The shawl suited my coloring, he said.” Kate rested her dark head against the back of the chair. “Mr. Loversall introduced me to Mme Dubois as Kate Manvers. I daresay it hasn’t occurred to you that I might have a care for my reputation, Quin.”

Lord Quinton was hardly in the habit of concerning himself with female reputations. Feeling vaguely guilty, he moved to the fireplace. “Being as you are residing beneath my roof, your reputation is already tarnished beyond repair.” He paused before he added, “You are safe here, Kate.”

Wryly, she regarded him. “It’s you who are safe, from other women, so long as I am on the premises. Or so you may think. You have not succeeded in making yourself ineligible, you know.”

Quin rested an elbow against the mantle. “
Touché
.” Was Kate as aware as he of the huge bed looming in the shadows? Her feet were bare.

And very pretty feet they were. Quin knew every crease and curve. His fingers tingled with the memory of caressing her, tracing the length of her scar.

If only those once-perfect feet had grown callouses and thickened nails.

Quin left off thinking of Kate and bunions, a futile effort at any rate since it was proving no deterrent to his desire.

Thought of his eligibility, however, was. The Quintons were an ancient family, mentioned in the Domesday Book; they had been granted lands in Essex and Dorset by Duke William of Normandy following the Battle of Hastings in 1066. The title of feudal barony became one by patent — ‘and for Us Our heirs and successors do appoint give and grant until him the same name state degree style dignity title and honour of Baron to have and to hold unto him and their heirs male of his body lawfully begotten and to be begotten’ — issued by King John as result of some covert activity concerning the Magna Carta. In the ensuing centuries the Barons Quinton had successfully managed to curry favor and feather their nests, generation after generation, until the present day.

The current holder of the title had no heir nor was anxious to acquire one. Quin hoped his father was rolling in his grave.

Kate was observing him, more closely than he liked. “You never married?” he inquired.

“I lost my taste for the business,” she retorted. “After Verena Wickersham. What became of her? I never heard.”

Quin eyed the brandy decanter, which was on the other side of the room. “I couldn’t say. She attempted to arrange a compromising situation. I refused to cooperate.”

“And so she was truly compromised.” Kate’s tone made it clear she understood exactly what he had omitted. “Have you no conscience, Quin?”

If ever Quin had possessed a conscience, he’d done his best to root it out. “That is a foolish question. But I’m not surprised you ask. Whereas men seldom waste pondering motivations, women are forever desirous of determining what makes a man tick.”

Kate made no response. Quin crossed to the brandy decanter, raised an inquiring eyebrow. She shook her head.

The devil with her. Quin filled a glass, and drank. Kate said, “You must surely realize that all those women want to bed you because of your reputation and not because of the man you are.”

Quin didn’t immediately reply, a facile response not suitable to the moment, and any other manner of response unthinkable, much as he might like to turn Kate over his knee.

Sex was, to him, a simple biological function. He enjoyed it in the moment, and performed his part with no small skill, and then dismissed the business with an indifference apparently irresistible to the opposite sex.

Irresistible, that was, until recently.

This member of the opposite sex had locked her door against him. Quin didn’t recall any female locking a door against him before.

Or fleeing from his touch.

Usually it was the other way around.

Not that he took flight, precisely. Quin preferred to think of it as beating a prudent retreat.

And indifference, in this instance, was no good word for what he felt. “What did you think of Mme Dubois?”

Kate pulled the shawl closer around her. “I did not realize how countrified I have become. Skirts, Mme informs me, are conical in silhouette with various types of decoration, sometimes large and ornate and padded with cotton wool. Sleeves are alternately puffed at the top with a tapering lower sleeve, puffed in a huge billow from shoulder to elbow, puffed only at the elbow, puffed from shoulder to wrist; and known variously as the ‘Marie’ sleeve, the ‘Demi gigot’, and the ‘Imbecile’; all these kept distended by down-stuffed pads or linings of stiff book-muslin and buckram, or in the most extreme cases, whale-bone hoops. As for necklines: the lower the better, so far as Mme Dubois and Mr. Loversall are concerned.” She broke off, uncomfortable. “You spent a small fortune on me today. I will repay you after I meet with my aunt’s solicitor.”

“No need.” Quin didn’t recall Kate was prone to nervous chatter, and was curious as to what had caused it now. “Consider it a compensation for our broken betrothal vows.”

Kate looked as if she wished to comment on that broken betrothal. Instead she bit her lip. “You are under no obligation. I am in your debt.”

Quin could think of a means by which she might repay her debt, reprobate that he was. He experienced a vague disappointment Kate didn’t seem similarly inclined.

Nonsense, he told himself. This odd emotion must be relief.

There was a long silence before Kate spoke again. “Edmund will know by now that he has lost his inheritance. He’ll be looking for me in hope of getting it back. Yet you tell the world I am staying here. What are you playing at, Quin?”

Chapter Twelve

 In so large a metropolis as London, amusements of every variety could be found; and if gambling houses such as Moxley’s fixed themselves up in imitation of the more exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, lesser hells were not so nice. Edmund Underhill found himself in one of those lesser places now. The long low-ceilinged room was furnished with chairs and small tables and dimly lit by small lamps, the air pungent with stale perfume and unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke.

Edmund gestured for another bottle. He had not recovered from the shock of learning that what he’d believed his fortune was, in fact, earmarked for Kate. The family solicitor — unaware himself until recently of the changes made in the disposition of the Underhill estate — apologized but explained that, legally, there was nothing to be done. Edmund left the office in a temper, deriving scant satisfaction from the knowledge he had frittered away a fair amount of Kate’s windfall.

The remaining funds had been meant to finance his come-about. Edmund had arrived in London intending to present himself as a young gentleman newly in possession of a fortune, who would be welcomed everywhere. But matters had turned out otherwise, as was clear from his surroundings, and where the deuce
was
Kate? Not in Yorkshire, where she should be, which suggested her suspicions might have been aroused.

She had seen nothing, surely? Edmund stared into his glass. Sometimes in memory he heard his mother’s head thudding against the steps. Sometimes he wakened, drenched in perspiration, from dreams of dead eyes. It was her own fault, he informed Dorothea on those occasions. She should have been more sympathetic to his needs.