Queen of Diamonds (17 page)

“No, but she had an unfortunate accident with her gown and is above stairs making reparations. It is past time for customers to be calling anyway.”

“Miss Pettigrew was distraught that you might dismiss her over the ruined gown,” Browne added in worried tones.

As if Hellen could ever believe Queenie would cast her out over a stupid thing like a scrap of muslin. Queenie shook her head at her friend's supposed foolishness. Hellen was upstairs, brilliant girl that she was, out of the Runner's reach. “In that case I had better go reassure her.”

“Surely that can wait until I am finished with my questions, ma'am,” the Runner said, almost as an order.

Queenie lowered her eyes modestly. “But I need to make a few repairs myself,” she said, delicately implying a call of nature. “I won't be but a minute.”

Rourke bowed slightly.

Queenie turned to go, hoping her feet could still obey her head's command to move. If she fainted, would he leave? If she fled out the back door, could she climb over the fence? Maybe Hellen had fashioned a rope ladder out of the bed sheets and Queenie could climb down the side of the building and hire a hansom cab to drive her to the Antipodes. Or she could hide in Charlie's alley.

Then, when she feared she might actually swoon, right at the Runner's feet, Harry took her arm and turned her toward the back, to the stairs.

“I will make sure the back door is locked while you are gone,” he said, “now that your seamstresses have gone for the night.”

Once they were in the hall, though, out of sight and hearing of the Runner, he took both of her frigid hands in his and rubbed them between his own warm ones.

He leaned closer and softly kissed her trembling lips, in case Rourke had come out and was watching the supposed lovers. He whispered, “I am here. No one will hurt you. But whatever you do,
chérie
, do not let him see your fear.”

Queenie raised her chin, squared her shoulders, and cleared her throat. She took a deep breath, pressed a quick kiss of her own on Harry's mouth, and asked, “Who says I am frightened?”

“That's my girl.”

Chapter Seventeen

Hellen started babbling the instant Queenie reached the sitting room of their apartment.

“I did not know what to say, what you were going to say. What if Mama comes back and says something altogether different? And you know I'll never remember half of it anyway. I am sorry about the gown, but that was all I could think of.”

Queenie was taking off her hat and gloves. “The gown does not matter.”

“But John George does, and he will hate me when he finds out we have been pulling the wool over everyone's eyes.”

“No, Mr. Browne will not hate you. He loves you. And he will love you more for being a loyal friend. The whole affair was my doing, not yours, anyway. And your mama cannot return any time soon because of the distance, and because it will take more than a day to convince your father to provide you with a dowry. But he will, I just know it. Even if only to get your mother out of his neighborhood before his wife discovers her presence.”

“Mama said the same thing.”

“When she finally returns”—the later the better, for Valerie Pettigrew could not be trusted to keep quiet about her friend Molly forever—“your John George will be so pleased and relieved that you are not a poor shop girl that he will sweep you off to the altar before you can say Jack Rabbit. You will live happily ever after and have three bespectacled babies. You can name one after me.”

“What, Queenie?” Hellen was horrified. Her children would be Mary and Jane and John. Or George.

“You are right. You can think of me, instead.”

“But where will you be? In prison?”

“I hope not. I have a story that ought to satisfy Rourke for now. It will take him a while to discover the lies amid the truth. I'll be trying to think what to do until he does. Perhaps I can sell the business and make enough money to live on somewhere else.” With yet another name, with another career, but without Harry.

“But I like the shop! And you are such a success.”

Queenie splashed water on her face, hoping the tears would also rinse off. “I like the shop, too.” While she repaired her dark brows and lashes—and the beauty mark—Hellen came over and handed her a fresh handkerchief.

“Harry will help.”

“Yes, he said so. But I do not think even Lord Harking can fix this. And he will hate having to try. His brother-in-law's actions were sordid enough, and you know how he tried to keep that quiet and private.”

“Until he shouted it across the Opera House.”

Both young women had to smile at the memory. Then Hellen asked, “I will not have to go back downstairs, will I?”

“No, I shall tell them you took a drop of laudanum to settle your nerves.” Queenie looked longingly at the bottle. “Get into bed, in case Rourke insists on looking. If he is as diligent as he appears, he might ask.”

Hellen was already in her robe, with the stained gown soaking in a tub of water. “But I will stay awake until you come back. You have to tell me what you told him, so I will know what to say in case he comes again tomorrow. He wanted to know how long I have known you and where we met.”

“Why, you have merely to say that you never heard of Madame Denise Lescartes until I returned from France last month.”

“Heaven knows that is the truth!”

“And we met, I suppose, in the park while I was starting to set up shop. You admired my dog, and we started talking. You were, ah, visiting the stationers on the corner and kindly helped me word my calling card. The clerk there will recall seeing us together. Remember how he spilled an entire tray of quill pens when we walked in?”

“And how his wife boxed his ears!”

“Exactly. Then we discovered that we both had an interest in visiting The Red and the Black. Mr. Browne already knows that you considered becoming a dealer there, but that I hired you instead, as soon as I saw that I could afford an assistant.”

Hellen clapped her hands. “Which is true! And our meeting in the park when you came home from France. How clever you are, to think of telling the truth. I would have made up some faradiddle that no one could believe.”

Queenie quickly combed through her curls with her fingers, leaving off her bonnet. Her head already ached enough without that weight. She left off her gloves, also, rather than find a fresh pair. She was in her own home, after all, and she was a business woman, not a fine lady. “There, I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be.”

“You are as beautiful as ever, anyway. Perhaps if you flirt with Mr. Rourke he might forget about his questions?”

“Hellen! I am no Siren, to steal a man's wits. And I think it would take more than a pretty face and fluttering eyelashes to distract Mr. Rourke from his duties.”

Now Hellen's eyes filled with tears. “But what if he does not believe you? What if he asks a question you have no answer for? You cannot very well spill tea on your gown, for I already used that excuse. And tears. You know how men turn to pudding when a woman cries. But I doubt Rourke can be gulled twice in one night.”

“Well, I can always swoon, I suppose. But no, I can do what I always planned to do eventually, which is talk to Lady Charlotte's family. If Rourke does not swallow my tale, I can refuse to speak to him or his fellows until I have seen the earl or his brother. Rourke will not take a chance of my contracting gaol fever or such, not when I might have the information he needs, so I will get to visit the Endicotts one way or the other. I will throw myself on Lord Carde's mercy.”

“What about Harry?”

“Oh, I doubt such an upstanding gentleman like Lord Harking will have any mercy, once he finds out how I have lied.”

“But he loves you! I swear he does.”

“I think he might, a little. But so what? He would never marry a shopkeeper, a female in trade. Nor would he wed an orphan from who knows what origin, whose adopted family was involved in dreadful crimes.”

“But John George wants to marry me—he said so even before he knew about a possible dowry—and he knows what my mother is, and that my father is not her husband. If a man loves you enough…”

“Your Mr. Browne is a kind and intelligent gentleman, who is not afraid of society's censure. But he is not a viscount.”

On that sad truth, one of the few truths that would pass her lips that hour, Queenie went back downstairs.

* * *

The men had finished their tea, as an excuse to finish the contents of Rourke's flask. Harry was hoping Rourke would relax his vigilance; Rourke was hoping the liquor would loosen Harking and Browne's tongues.

“She is even prettier than I expected,” Rourke said, looking for a reaction.

He got a grin from Browne. “The prettiest girl in all of England. Can you believe a regular dasher like her is willing to settle for an ordinary chap like me?”

“I meant Madame Lescartes, although Miss Pettigrew is a lovely young woman and you are a lucky man.”

“Oh.
Madame.
Takes your breath away, doesn't she? I almost forgot my own name when she walked into the school.”

Rourke looked around the shop. “It is hard to believe a woman could be so beautiful and talented besides. And ambitious. A woman would have to be ambitious to open a fancy shop, wouldn't you say, my lord?”

Harry's smile faded. “There is nothing wrong with ambition.”

“Not unless it leads a body to step beyond the pale. With a lord on the line, who knows what a female might do, or try to hide?”

“This lord is not on any line, and Madame Lescartes is not a schemer. You will see.” And if he did not, Harry would make him. There was no building full of law officers behind Rourke now, and there would be no insulting Harry's
chérie
or intimidating her or implicating her in some long ago crime. Not while Harry was in town.

Somewhere between hiring the Runner and having Rourke show an interest in Denise, Harry had decided to stay on in London. That way, he told himself, he could take the diamonds home with him if they were recovered. He could testify against his brother-in-law if, heaven forfend, the ugliness came to a trial. And he could stand by his friend.

Friend? Who was he fooling? He could no more leave Madame Lescartes than he could stop breathing, and that was no friendly feeling. Hell, he was half tortured by the thought of her upstairs in that cozy sitting room, perhaps changing her clothes, brushing her shiny curls, going to sleep there later. Oh, how he wanted to share her bed. His bed. Any bed. A chair.

He did not need the alcohol to heat his blood. The sight of her coming home, so obviously eager to see him, had rekindled a fire that was barely banked since he had met her. And his blood and his body were not the only parts of him burning. He ached to protect her, shield her from worry, make her laugh, and erase those shadows that lurked behind her blue, blue eyes. She was a friend the way his wrist and his hand were friends: attached, inseparable, one no good without the other.

Damn, what was he going to do about it?

For a start, he was going to pull the only empty chair in the shop closer to his own. Then he was going to listen.

* * *

Queenie took the last chair in her showroom, drawn close to Harry's, thank goodness, and sat with her hands folded in her lap, the picture of unconcern. Harry nodded his approval.

“Would anyone like more tea? No? Very well, then, Mr. Rourke. What would you like to know?”

“Perhaps we should go somewhere more private?”

“I would invite you to the sitting room above, but Miss Pettigrew is close to sleep. Would you prefer to sit around the cutting table?” He'd likely prefer the guillotine, she thought.

Rourke scowled at Harry and Browne, who had made no signs of leaving. “I meant apart from the gentlemen.”

Queenie raised her chin a notch. And her eyebrow, the way she had seen Lady Jennifer do. “Why? I have nothing to hide from anyone. Nor have I anything to say that my friends cannot hear.” She raised her hand to her mouth to cover a delicate yawn. “Perhaps you might get on with your queries, then. I find I am
tres
weary, also.”

“My pardon, ma'am.”

Queenie thought his apology might be a shade sarcastic, but she dipped her head regally in acceptance. Harry hid a smile behind his hand, as if he too were covering a yawn. She was magnificent, and he had worried for nothing; his
chérie
would take her fences flying, throwing her heart over the hurdle.

“How long have you known Miss Pettigrew?” was the Runner's first question.

“Long enough to know that she is kind-hearted and sweet-natured and will make some man—Mr. Browne—an excellent wife.”

Browne was back to grinning.

“And before you can ask, Parfait and I met Miss Pettigrew in the park when I returned from Paris.” Queenie bent down to pet the poodle, who had taken a guard position in front of her feet. “A dog is a great socializer,
n'est-ce-pas
, and an easy topic of conversation between strangers. Neither Hellen nor myself are of circumstances to stand on ceremony, needing a proper introduction by a mutual acquaintance or a maid in tow every moment. While speaking, we found we had mutual interests and similar errands to accomplish. With Hellen's knowledge of London, which I lacked, she was invaluable in helping set up my shop.”

“Ize?”

Queenie blinked. “Well, I suppose Hellen has a good eye for colors, but I prefer to make those decisions on my—”

“Ezra Iscoll, the fence. Do you know him?”

“I choose not to know persons of his profession and reputation. I understand Hellen's mother has made use of his services on the past, but I would rather deal with the devil himself.” She smiled and touched her bare neck. “Besides, as you can see, I have no jewelry to sell. I disposed of everything of value in France to finance my apprenticeship with Monsieur Guatheme, and then to secure my passage to England. I even sold my wedding ring.”

“I take it Monsieur Lescartes has passed on, then?”

Now Queenie looked at the Runner as if wondering how such a stupid person had attained such a post. “Would I be here alone in London otherwise? Establishing my own business? Wearing mourning? Going to the opera with Lord Harking?
Non, non, non
, and especially
non
.”

Harry could not like the especially, but the Runner did not like looking stupid. “Of course not. My apologies. Was your loss recent?”

He was not being polite, Queenie decided. He was trying to get more damning facts out of her. Before he could ask for dates and places that would be too easy to disprove, Queenie gave him more hogwash.

“As recent as yesterday, it seems sometimes.” She dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Hellen had pressed on her. “He died too soon, poor Lescartes, before he had time to reclaim his family's vineyards.”

“What of your family?”

Again, Queenie spun the tale she had made up of whole cloth. “Le Blanc was their name.” Blanc meant white, or empty, and was a common French last name. It would take Rourke ages to trace, if it were at all possible, with so many records lost in that war-torn country. “They were from Paris originally, but when my father was conscripted to the army, my mother fled to England, as so many others tried to do. We traveled anywhere she could find work as a seamstress.”

“You went back to find your father, to reclaim his property, perhaps?”

“He was killed in his first battle. And no, there was no wealth or lands. They would not have come to
ma mere
anyway. You see, they never married.”

Ah, Harry thought, so that was why she held her cards so close to her superb chest: she was a bastard. No woman wanted to admit such an obstacle to making a good marriage or making a successful career. And no wonder she and Hellen Pettigrew had become friends, with so much in common. He could see the Runner making those same conclusions.

Before Rourke could ask for more details, Queenie went on: “We went back to France after the war because
ma mere
missed her homeland. She was ill with the wasting disease and wanted to die on French soil. I buried here there.” Queenie had no trouble summoning real tears while she thought of Molly's last days. She sniffled once or twice, then said, “I had few acquaintances in France, having lived abroad so long, but few in England to return to either. There was little money left after the doctor's bills, and I could not earn enough on a seamstress's salary to live. Then I met Monsieur Lescartes, an answer to my prayers.”