Queen of Diamonds (22 page)

“I would only hope for children if the circumstances were right for them,” Queenie said, at which Mrs. Browne nodded approvingly. She might accept a baron's by-blow as a daughter-in-law; she did not want to turn her respectable inn to a home for wayward woman and their illegitimate offspring.

“For now I have young Charlie. I am the closest thing he has to a parent, and I find the responsibility daunting.”

“That is good. If you thought you knew what you were doing, you would be doing it wrong. He seems a likely lad, so all you have to do is love him and encourage him, teach him the right way to go on, and see that he has opportunities.”

“That's all?” Queenie laughed. “I thought teaching him manners was going to be my hardest job.”

“But he is nearly grown, not a sweet baby to hold and cuddle.”

Queenie did not wish to speak of her empty arms. “I am content with my dog,” she said, wishing Parfait was at her side instead of off exploring.

Mrs. Browne clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Here we only keep the ones that earn their living. Sheep-herders and such. And they stay outdoors.”

“Oh, but Parfait works just as hard. He is the emblem of my store, you see, a walking advertisement, especially with his stately manner. And he is an excellent watchdog.”

“The creature does not look like any dog I've ever seen, with that fancy haircut.”

“He is as hungry as any hound, and good company.”

“As is Lord Harking?”

Ah, there was something in the bloodhound in Mrs. Browne too. “His lordship is an excellent companion. And a fine whip,” she added.

“He seems fond of you.”

Queenie knew what Mrs. Browne really wanted to know: if Queenie and the viscount truly were lovers. She might turn a blind eye to her daughter taking long walks with a windmills-in-the-attic gentleman, but she could not be as accepting of a gentleman and his kept mistress at her table. She was open-minded, but the vicar might come back with Hellen and John George, for tea and cake. One simply did not entertain a man of the cloth and a member of the muslin company at the same time.

Queenie shielded her eyes so she could look in the distance, and avoid answering. She wished Parfait were here, or Harry back from watching a ram service his ladies. Mrs. Browne thought that was acceptable, but not a couple trying to obey their principles instead of the blood pounding in their veins.

None of which was the woman's business, but Mrs. Browne had been too kind to insult. Queenie relieved her fears. “Lord Harking shall be returning to his country estate shortly. I shall have my dog and my shop and young Charlie.”

“Ah.” The older woman understood what Queenie left unspoken. “That is better in the long run, you'll see. Although I am sorry for you now, and will feel sorrier when he leaves. He is a fine man, Lord Harking. But he is a lord.”

“Precisely.”

Mrs. Browne pushed herself up to go inside to see about tea. “They'll all be hungry again soon enough. Especially the vicar, if I know his housekeeper. The others will be back from their chores and games and rambles, acting as if we had not eaten in a week.”

Queenie offered to help and this time her offer was accepted. She followed Mrs. Browne through the common room, where Mary Jane and Phelan Sloane were quietly reading aloud, to the huge, immaculate kitchen. Mrs. Browne handed her an apron and said, “It is better for John George and Miss Pettigrew, you know.”

The kitchen? Another meal? “Meeting with the vicar? But nothing is to be settled until Hellen's mother returns, I thought.”

“No, your lordship's leaving will be better for the young people. I am sorry, but the plain truth is their wedding has enough to overcome without the bride keeping fast company. Lord Carde and Captain Endicott—no matter what devilment they raised in their youths—won't like it.”

They would not like Queenie, either.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Sloane, strangers, Rourke—and two rides in a rickety rig? Queenie but her lip. Harry obviously had a pleasant time, smiling and patting babies and kissing Mrs. Browne's cheek when she packed a hamper of food for them to take home. He promised to come again, and Queenie thought he meant it.

She slightly loosened her hold on the curricle's side rail. “Yes, everyone was lovely. And I thought they liked Hellen very well. It was good for her to see that her betrothed's family are not all clodpoles and cabbage-heads, too.”

“Mr. Browne knows as much about farming as any man I know.”

“Yes, but the Browne women know something of fashion and theater and novels, besides cooking and cleaning and child-bearing, which is important to Hellen. She will not be gaining a mere husband, but an entire family.”

“Isn't that always the way?”

Only if the husband—or wife—had a family. “Especially so in this case, when the Brownes are so close. No woman would wish to come between her husband and his loved ones.”

Thinking of the impossibility of her ever winning a loving family's approval as a prospective bride was almost more distressing than the speed of the horses. Almost. Queenie studied the road ahead so that she could warn Harry if a rabbit darted in front of the carriage, or if a sharp turn loomed in the distance. He was watching her too closely and too often for her comfort.

“You seemed interested in that queer chap, Sloane.” Harry tried to keep the jealousy out of his voice, but he had twice caught her looking at the madman over the rim of her tea cup, and again when they were leaving. Sloane paid her no attention, which piqued some beautiful women, Harry knew. He did not believe Madame Lescartes could be so vain that she needed the adoration of every man in the room but, hell, she usually got it. Every male at the inn, from pimple-faced adolescent to old Mr. Browne himself, had been moonstruck by her. Everyone, that was, but John George, of course, who was used to her startling beauty, and Phelan Sloane. Even the women were won over by her inner beauty, as she knelt to take measurements for doll clothes, pressed a coin for luck into the enceinte woman's hands, and tucked a blanket around the deaf old auntie before they left. Sloane had not noticed.

Harry let the horses pick their own pace. “Mr. Browne is hoping Sloane will marry the youngest daughter, the one who hardly left the man's side.”

“Yes, he mentioned that to me. Mary Jane is devoted to the gentleman, so I see no reason why Lord Carde should forbid the match. Still, the entire time there, I could not help thinking of Phelan Sloane's sad story, how he loved so deeply the first time.”

“So deeply that he destroyed his own beloved.” Harry had no sympathy for the man and less interest in him, especially now, knowing that his companion's concern was merely romantic claptrap. “He was a fool.”

So was Harry, for still dreaming of a little cottage tucked in the woods somewhere, where only love resided, no doubts, no danger. He and his woman, and to the devil with the rest of the world. He could love her and make love to her and not care what anyone thought. It was all he could do right now not to turn the horses down a narrow side path, to find a clearing out of sight of the road, to lift her down against his aching body, to ask her—nay, to beg her—to let him love her. He could take the blanket from the carriage, the wine Mr. Browne had packed, and all the yearning that he had tried to ignore. Ignore? Deuce take it, he had been trying to dampen his desires in wine, drown them in cold water, defy them by will power alone, to no avail.

He wanted this woman, none other, and for far more than a tumble in the grass. In the cold. With the others in the following coach wondering what had happened to them.

To say nothing of Charlie, riding behind them.

So Harry kept the horses and his urges to the straight path, and dreamed of that cottage. There he could worship a goddess, pay homage to a princess, cherish the most precious jewel a man could hope to hold this side of heaven.

…And he would destroy the woman as certainly as Phelan Sloane had killed the object of his unholy affections.

With all her gifts, all her talents and beauty, both inward and outward, Madame Denise Lescartes had to be free to live her own life, in her own fashion. He could not trample her scruples.

And she would not let him.

“Do keep your eyes on the road, my lord.”

“I think you should slow down for that turn.”

“Is the horse on the right limping?”

“No, you may not come inside. It grows late and I have to be at work in the shop early in the morning. Besides, I worry where your good nights would lead.”

To a better night, if he had his way, but Harry was neither surprised nor disappointed. So his love was a nag as well as a principled prude. No matter, the regret in her voice as she turned down his offer of a late supper when they reached her street made up for that. She wanted his kisses as much as he burned to give them, which did nothing to put out the fire, of course.

“I think you should go home, Harry,” she said as she took out her key.

“Well, yes. I have to return the horses to the livery stable, and cannot leave Charlie to hold them for long, even if they are tired.”

“No, I mean home to Harking Hall. I saw you in the country today. You belong there, with your crops and your cattle. They need you.”

“I have estate managers and competent tenants. And messengers to convey my wishes or any problems that might arise. Nothing will suffer without my presence.”

“What about your sister and her children?”

“She has her friends in the neighborhood to commiserate with her on her husband's defection and the children have nannies and tutors. I would be
de trop
, I swear. And it is not as if I am planning on being gone forever.”

“But there is nothing for you here in London.” Especially without the promise of forever.

She was closing the door, literally and figuratively, but Harry was not ready to go. “I cannot leave while you are living your life in terror.”

He had noticed how she waited for the other carriage to come before she left the roadway, looking over her shoulder and up and down the street. She had let the dog sniff around the shop before she entered the darkened building, then she had lighted every candle and lamp in the place. Harry did not know if her hands were shaking from fear or from clutching the side rail so long, but he hated the idea that she was afraid, and hated more that he could not protect her. “If I can do nothing else, share nothing else with you, I would stand beside you as long as you need a friend in London.”

“I do not deserve your loyalty.”

He kissed her hand, while Hellen and John George Browne disappeared into the back room, to check the rear door. They would be awhile.

“You have it, and anything else I have to give.”

“You are so good, Harry, but you must not stay on my account. I told you—”

“How soon?” He did not release her hand, but rubbed his thumb across her palm, sending shivers through both of them. “You said you would act soon to bring an end to the danger and indecision. How soon?”

Part of the difficulty was him. If Harry stayed in town, Queenie did not know how long she could resist him. The more time she spent with Harry, the more she loved him, and the more she wanted to throw herself at him, to beg him to take her away—yes, even in the curricle!—and forget about everything, in his arms. He was the worst danger she had yet faced, and the sweetest. Why, she did not even have the fortitude to take back her hand because his touch felt so good. She could trust him—except with all her secrets, which would shatter his affection anyway. She could not trust herself.

That was not the danger he was speaking of, though.

“I am tired of not knowing my future too. This limbo of uncertainty is beyond unnerving. I thought I could wait until the people I need to speak with returned to London, but now I am thinking that I should travel to them.” Then she would know if she was free to make her own life or not, however barren it would be without Harry.

“I will take you.” That was a statement, not a question.

Yes, Queenie decided. That was fitting. She could enjoy her last days with Harry, seeing the love in his eyes, and then tell the truth once and for all, to everyone. Lord Carde could decide to prosecute her or not after he found Ize, and Harry could go home, without regrets. He would not even want her as his mistress after hearing all the lies unraveled. He would be happier for that. She would not look at him, she decided, when she confessed her role in the mess and her silence afterward. That way she did not have to see the love die. “Very well. I will go with you. But not in the curricle.”

* * *

She spent half that night composing a letter to the earl, asking if she might come for an interview, concerning his search. She was not about to travel north—no, not even for the sake of time with Harry—to find Lord Carde on his way to London, or gone to another of his properties.

She wrote another letter to the earl's brother, Captain Jack Endicott, asking if he could be at Carde Hall at the same date. She did not think she'd have the courage to recite her tale twice. In addition, she wanted to make certain that Browne's employer knew that John George had no knowledge of her background, and that Hellen was not involved in his family's losses.

She rewrote the letters three times, half deciding that she could tell the whole tale on paper and not have to make the journey at all. No, she was a coward, but how much worse to wait here in London for the magistrate to pound on her door or the constables to come cart her away. Or Ize to realize she had turned him in.

Besides, she wanted that time with Harry. A closed carriage, at least several nights on the road, meals in private rooms at inns…separate bedchambers, naturally. Good night kisses? Queenie remembered Harry's kisses, and had to use one of the discarded letters to fan herself. What if they had adjoining bedrooms?

She was no whore, selling her body. She was no mistress, letting a man pay her bills. She was no light skirt, free with her favors.

She was no shriveled old maid, either. What was she saving herself for? She would never marry, never have a family. Even if she was free to go her own way, Queenie knew she could never love another man, not after knowing Harry. Shouldn't she have a few days of pleasure to savor for the rest of her life?

Queenie knew there were ways to prevent children. Perhaps Hellen knew of them; if not, Hellen's mother's friends had to. Their livelihoods depended on not looking like that woman at the inn, breeding another little Browne.

It would be wrong. It would be delightful.

Molly would be spinning in her grave. Molly never loved a man, not that Queenie knew of.

Queenie's own beliefs rejected the notion of giving herself to Harry. Her own body rejoiced.

Maybe she should think about sending her confession in a letter after all, and avoid temptation.

She did not send her letters, not any of them.

* * *

Queenie and Charlie were up early a few days later, cleaning the shop before opening. Queenie might not be able to sweep all her cares and concerns away, but she could get rid of a week's worth of London's soot, grime and dirt from the front of her premises. She was washing the window, since she was taller, while Charlie swept the walkway and polished the brass railing. No one was about except servants and deliverymen, so Queenie was wearing a faded old gown and a kerchief over her hair for the messy job. She had thought about not bothering with the face paints or the fake beauty mark, but servants often noticed more than their masters, and gossiped just as much. Thank goodness she had taken the time.

“'Ere boy, outta my way,” a familiar voice rasped. A small man pushed roughly past Charlie, on his way toward the front door. He was dressed in a stained coat and a limp-brimmed hat with long, oily hair sticking out the bottom. Hair also stuck out of his nose, and his eyes stuck out of their sockets.

Queenie could pick up her bucket and leave, pretending to be a maid. Or she could throw it at Ize. Neither was a good idea.

She unwrapped her kerchief from her head so he could see her black curls, but she kept wiping at the window, her face turned from him.

Parfait was growling, which was also not a good idea, as the cur—the two-legged one—appeared ready to kick out at her dog. Queenie called the poodle to her side, in French.

Bending down to hold Parfait by the collar, her all too distinctive blue eyes averted, Queenie said, “
Pardon, monsieur
, but the store, she is closed. You must,
qu'est-ce que c'est?
come back later.”

“What, do I look like I've come shopping?” He cackled, licking at his thick lips. “I'm come to see Hellen Pettigrew. They said at her house she's been staying here.”

Queenie forced a shrill laugh. “
Mademoiselle
Hellen never rises this early in the morning,” she said, in French.

“Huh?”

Queenie repeated herself in English, and added, “Her friends would know that.”

“I heard she was a shop girl now, not lollygagging like a gentry mort.”

“
Que
?” Queenie said. “That is, huh?”

“She's working, ain't she?” He looked at the building, the apartment above. “Less'n you're working another lay.” He cackled again at the double meaning. “I heard as how the fancy culls was hanging around.”

Queenie looked up also, but not at Ize. “Monsieur, I do not know your
Anglais
so well. But my shop is everything
comme il faut
, proper. I do not think Mademoiselle Hellen is wishing to see you,
non
?”

“She'll see me. I heard she was looking for some pearls.”

“
Oui
, but no longer.”