Queen of Diamonds (19 page)

“One kiss,” she said.

“One kiss,” he echoed fervently, as an answer to his prayer. “Then I can leave.”

It was not one kiss, of course. It never was.

The first one did not have their noses angled right, and the second did not have their lips touching perfectly. But, ah, the third. That was one kiss, one kiss for the ages.

Harry meant it to last till dawn, at least. Queenie meant it to last a lifetime.

She pressed herself closer, and his arms came around her back while hers reached for his neck and his hair and his shoulders, anything that she could touch.

He could touch the fabric of her high-necked gown, and it was not enough. There was lace, not skin; material, not warm, womanly flesh. He groaned.

Queenie wriggled closer. He groaned again. Now he felt her breasts pressed against his chest, her soft belly against his hardness. She fit perfectly, if he bent his head. She was perfect altogether, responsive and eager, making little mews in her throat that echoed in his brain, in his gut.

Queenie felt a tingle that began in her lips and turned to a throb lower, where she had not known she could feel a response. Then his tongue parted her lips and she stopped wondering at the new feelings and wondered if her legs would hold her up. She need not have worried, for Harry was lifting her, carrying her to one of the chairs, to his lap. She stopped thinking altogether when his hand reached for her breast.

One kiss? One maelstrom, rather, one earthquake, one whirlpool swirling their attraction and affection and admiration into another world, another level where wits went begging and hearts begged for more.

One kiss.

One of his hands reached down to raise her skirts.

One bark from the dog.

One small boy cleared his throat. “I brung the biscuits, ma'am.”

* * *

Harry proved what a fine gentleman he was by not strangling Charlie, kicking the dog, or flinging the female over his shoulder and carrying her out the door. He raised her to her feet instead, got unsteadily to his own, and adjusted his neckcloth, that had somehow come unknotted.

Queenie swayed, breathing as if she had run from Lands End to Lincolnshire. “I was, ah, checking his lordship's shoulder. His wound appears to be healing well.”

Charlie did not bother acknowledging the lie. He opened the bakery sack and pulled out a biscuit for the dog. He stared at the two adults, one more red-faced than the other, but only because Madame Lescartes had more chafes from Lord Harking's whiskers.

“I suppose I should be going then,” Harry said, ashamed, embarrassed, wanting to apologize, but to the lady or the boy, he did not know. He did not regret the kiss. Hell, he regretted not locking the doors more. But it was wrong and the only way he could make it less wrong was by leaving.

This time he made it to the exit, prodded by the glare of an ancient ten-year-old's disappointed eyes. Afraid of what he would see in his
chérie
's blue eyes, he bowed, said he would call on the morrow, and finally left. He did not even kick at the first lamp post he passed. The second one, though, felt all of his fury and frustration and total befuddlement.

He limped all the way back to his hotel.

Chapter Nineteen

“You told me I had to tell the truth, always.”

Queenie looked into Charlie's accusing eyes and felt tears come to her own. The boy had so little, and now she had stolen his trust, too. “Sometimes the truth is not so obvious as all that. Sometimes, it is hard for even an adult to know what is true or false.”

“You said you wouldn't be the governor's light o' love.”

That was not light. It was a conflagration. If not for the boy and the dog, Queenie knew she might have followed the flame right to the shop's front floor, or Harry's hotel. And enjoyed it, for as long as the affair lasted or until she burned to cinders. She could already taste the cinders in her mouth, thinking of what the boy might have seen or heard.

“You should not have eavesdropped,” she said. Heaven knew that was a minor breach compared to her own transgressions, but Queenie had to tell Charlie something. She was supposed to be his mentor, his teacher. Oh, dear.

“I wanted to know what that Robin Redbreast wanted.”

She sank into one of the chairs. “You heard that, too?”

“I clumb over the back fence and sneaked in the back door. You lied to the Runner, asides.”

“I—” she began.

“You said you met Miss Pittipat in the park.”

“Miss Pettigrew.”

“But she calls you cousin sometimes.”

“We are not cousins. I swear that. It is a pet name, only.” Like
chérie,
unless she truly was Lord Harking's sweetheart. Queenie was having trouble concentrating on Charlie and not her own concerns. But he
was
her responsibility, too. She combed her fingers through her disordered curls, hoping for a more dignified look, despite her swollen lips. “Do you understand?”

“I ken Miss Pittipat says it when she forgets and starts to say somethin' like queer, or question.”

“That is Pettigrew, for heaven's sake. She is the one who barely recalls her name, not you, so you cannot be surprised when she mis-speaks.”

Charlie scuffed his new shoes on the floor, looking down, not talking.

“You think she means to call me something like Queenie, then?”

He nodded. “The mort they are all looking for.”

Queenie sighed. “You want the truth?”

“You said it was a command.”

“A commandment, Charlie, from the Bible.” She leaned her aching head back against the chair rail. “Very well. But I cannot tell you everything, for that would put you in harm's way too.”

Charlie had lived his entire life at the edge of danger. Knowledge made a chap safer. “Better to know who's lookin' over your shoulder than to find his knife in your belly.”

Queenie shuddered at the image, but went on. “There is no longer such a person as Queenie Dennis, the woman they seek. There never was, really. She was made up years ago, like a fairy story. I tried to erase her, to cause less pain for that family looking for her. Some of the other people searching for her do not mean her well. Or me, for knowing about her. They are evil, Charlie, desperate to keep themselves from the hangman's noose, so Queenie Dennis is far better off dead and buried in France.”

“I wouldn't let no one hurt you. Me and Parfait can look out for you, 'stead of Lord Harking.”

“Thank you, but it is too dangerous for all of us. I would be horrified if harm came to you, or Parfait, because of me. Soon I will tell the truth to the right people, when they come to London. They will protect us all, I hope.”

“But you ain't sure?”

She shook her head, not willing to tell the child one more lie. “Meantime, I am an orphan, just like you.”

“For true this time?”

“That is what they told me.”

Charlie took a biscuit from the sack and held it out to Queenie, which she took to mean she was partly forgiven. She accepted it, despite her dry mouth and tear-choked throat. Parfait came and put his muzzle in her lap, so she shared, taking comfort in the big dog's warmth and uncritical affection, especially when he had a treat. She stroked his curly head while he ate, ignoring the crumbs on her skirt.

Charlie pulled out another biscuit, one with a raspberry center. “They told me I was born under a cabbage leaf.”

“How is a child to know?” Queenie asked, more of herself than the boy. “And how is a grown woman supposed to know what is right?”

“You had a mum to teach you,” Charlie said, wiping crumbs away from his mouth with his sleeve, leaving a red streak across his lips and his shirt. “I never did.”

“Yes, I was fortunate. I had a woman who called herself my mother. She taught me needlework so I have a living. She taught me manners so I can deal with my customers. She hired tutors and instructors so that I could advance in the world, knowing as much as my poor brain could hold. But she lied, too.”

“Go on with you. She never.”

“She did. And now I do not know who I am anymore.”

“You ain't no light skirt.”

“No. I am not that. And I swear to you I shall not be.”

“That's all right and tight then, 'cause we can keep the shop 'stead of hidin' out in a cottage in some woods.”

Queenie was touched that Charlie would go with her wherever she went. On the other hand, she now had to plan to take him with her wherever she went, except to prison. Perhaps Lord Harking would take in the boy, find him a place on his estate. “What about Mr. Rourke, the Runner?” she asked.

Charlie made a rude noise. Queenie was going to have to do something about his manners soon, and Parfait's, who was nosing about for more food.

Indignant, Charlie asked, “What, you think I would peach on you to Bow Street, after you took me in and all?”

“He would pay you handsomely for what you said about Miss Pettigrew.”

“You pays me enough. Money ain't everything, you know.”

She stood up and brushed out her skirts. Then she pulled Charlie close and hugged his thin shoulders, ignoring the raspberry stains that would get on her gown. “I do know. And you have repaid me tenfold.”

* * *

The day had been a vampire, sucking the life from Queenie. She was exhausted, despite the hour being far earlier than her usual bedtime. She should have stayed up sewing or sketching or going over her accounts in preparation for a busy day at the shop tomorrow, especially after missing so much work today. Instead she was simply too drained by the day's events: the hectic morning at the store, then Lady Jennifer's gathering, Hellen's hysteria, Rourke's interrogation, and Charlie's accusations.

And Harry, always Harry, Lord Harking, a man she thought even misanthropic Molly might come to adore. He was soft-hearted and gentle, and hard where it mattered. In his principles, of course. So what was she going to do about him, besides get her heart broken? If it wasn't too late.

It was too late to worry about it tonight. She would have the rest of her life for that, anyway.

Queenie wanted nothing more than to collapse onto her bed, in her clothes, if she could not manage to undo the tapes and ties and fastenings of her gown without a struggle. Then again, if the gown came apart as easily as that, poor Charlie might have been shocked worse.

The only good thing Queenie saw about being so tired was that maybe she would fall sleep without endlessly reliving a single one of the day's nightmares, and stay asleep without any of her usual nightmares, either. Whenever she was sorely troubled, she had come to learn, her dreams had her falling, tumbling downward, crying out for help that did not arrive. Perhaps tonight she would be too tired to care if she fell, landing shattered at the bottom of whatever crevice beckoned. Oblivion might be welcome if no one came to her aid.

Lord Harking would come if she called out to him. Oh, he would come like a knight on a white charger, a hero from a story book, stalwart, ready to take on any dragon for his damsel in distress. How many cavaliers got cooked in their armor by the fire-breathing fiend?

In her weariness, Queenie wondered if he could hear her in her dreams, if true soulmates knew each other's hopes and fears, as the poets declared. She was being foolish, of course. Harry merely wanted to keep her safe, at his side. He wanted her, period, which might have been a fine dream, a lovely fairy tale, or a new nightmare in her life.

She hoped she might at least be able to rest without recalling Harry's kiss, which would have kept her awake, tossing in her blankets for something she could not name and could not have.

Despite her fatigue, she managed to undo her clothes. She washed quickly and changed into her nightgown. Her short curls needed nothing more than a quick brushing and a glance in the mirror at the roots, which were still dark, thank goodness. She crawled under her covers, more than ready for this day to end.

Parfait whined.

She sighed and patted the mattress beside her. “Very well, you can come onto the bed.”

But the dog was not making those mournful cries. Likely Parfait was still below with Charlie, having biscuits for supper, proving what a poor provider Queenie was, on top of her other sins. No, the sniffs and sighs Queenie could hear all too well were coming from the second, smaller bedroom, Hellen's chamber.

“Hellen, are you still awake? Are you well?” Queenie called, desperately not wanting to get up again.

“Nooo,” came back through the thin walls.

No she was asleep, or no she was ill? Maybe Hellen was simply having a nightmare of her own. Queenie waited, but the whimpers grew louder.

Either way, Queenie had to drag herself up to find out. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders rather than finding her robe, and went barefoot to the hall, shielding her candle.

Hellen had not taken the laudanum, had not been asleep, and had not recovered from Officer Rourke's visit. Now she was splotch-faced and sobbing, huddled in her bed like a sack of rags left out in the rain.

“Everything is ruined,” she wailed when Queenie trailed into her room.

“No, I think I satisfied Officer Rourke for now.” Queenie set down the candle and carefully explained again what she had told the Runner about their meeting in the park, hoping Hellen could remember it. She also made up a story about why Hellen called her cousin on occasion, in case anyone else had heard or noticed. “We became close friends, that is all. And Madame Lescartes is too formal, while Denise is too familiar for an employee. Besides, we can say your mother feels better letting people believe we are related, rather than your going into trade working for a stranger.”

“Mama will kill me for not telling her it's you.”

“But Ize might kill her if he thought she'd go to Bow Street.”

Hellen sniffled and blew her nose into the handkerchief Queenie had thought to bring, Hellen's own being sodden already.

“But that's not all.”

Queenie had not thought it was. They had been over this ground often enough that even Hellen understood the peril. “Can we not discuss the rest in the morning? It has been a trying day for me, also.”

“No matter,” Hellen wailed. “Nothing will be different in the morning! He won't marry me then, either.”

Queenie sank onto the side of Hellen's mattress, shoving her over. “John George? Mr. Browne?”

“Who else, silly?”

Queenie's mind was too tired to make sense of Hellen's anguish. “What, was he going to marry you tonight?”

“He wanted to, I know it. No, I do not mean get a special license or run off to Gretna Green this very evening, but he was going to ask, for certain. He invited me to have dinner with his parents at their inn in the country Sunday after church.”

“Excellent. You see, that must mean his intentions are honorable. You have nothing to worry about.”

“He is an honorable man. His intentions were never anything else. But now he will never come up to scratch.”

“Of course he will. He loves you. I have never seen a man so smitten.” Queenie patted Hellen's hand in reassurance. There, now she could go back to bed.

Hellen wailed when she stood up and reached for the candle. “No, he will not marry me. He will not be permitted to.”

“Nonsense. His parents will be glad to have such a beautiful, well mannered daughter-in-law, the perfect wife for a schoolmaster. You will charm the parents and patrons and make the students feel welcome. You can help the girls learn about fashions, if they are to be trained as ladies' maids. Mr. Browne's parents are sure to give their blessings.”

“They are not the problem!”

If not anxious about meeting her prospective in-laws, Hellen must be in a fidge over money. Mr. Browne would never be as wealthy as a titled gentleman—or as casual in his affairs, thank goodness.

Queenie tried to sound encouraging. “You know your mother went to fetch back a dowry, and the baron has never refused her anything.” Except a wedding license, of course. “Mr. Browne seemed pleased by that, happy that he can support you in the manner you deserve until he advances in his career. And I shall provide your trousseau, so he will not have to pay for your bride clothes, either. You are a bargain, my dear, one he will be eager to snap up.”

Hellen kept whining. “But that was when I was a baron's daughter, even from the wrong side of the blanket. I was never a liar and a cheat!”

Queenie was ready to throw her blanket over Hellen's head and smother the impossible chit. “What, have you been seeing other men?”

That stopped the whimpers, at least. “Of course not. But John George is bound to find out when that awful Runner uncovers the truth.”

Ah, the truth. There was that, again. Queenie pulled the cover closer around her own shoulders. “If Mr. Browne was willing to accept you as your mother's daughter”—and a bastard, besides, although Queenie did not say the last aloud—“what makes you think he will change his mind over a few mistruths and misdirections?”

“Because the people we are lying to are his employers, you goose! They paid for his very education and gave him a position of authority at the new academy. Without their notice, he would be back in the country helping his father and brother with their acres, or minding that dilapidated inn. He owes Lord Carde his loyalty, and Captain Jack, too, who started the school.”