Queen of Diamonds (8 page)

Camden smiled back, and Harry was forced to make the introduction. He looked toward the door to the women's retiring room, hoping Madame Lescartes would not come out to see how his friend was eyeing her friend. Cam was like a schoolboy with a box of bon-bons. It was not a matter of which he ate first, but if he could finish them all before anyone demanded to share.

“Miss Pettigrew, is it?” Cam bowed over her hand, holding it to his lips, then simply holding it. “And far more beautiful than your renowned mother.”

Poor Browne's neckcloth must be too tight, for he was gagging.

Then Cam was asking Hellen for a dance, his purring voice asking far more.

“Ah, sorry, but we were just leaving,” was all Harry could think of to say. Madame Lescartes would kill him if he let her young friend go off with a gazetted rake. Worse, she'd think he was a libertine like Lord Camden.

“Surely you can wait one more dance?” Cam was speaking to Hellen, not Harry. “Or I could see you home, my dear.”

Hellen giggled. Now that was more like it. Lord Camden was the answer to every maiden's—or every would-be mistress's—prayers. Of course Hellen was not going to accept the first gentry cove's first offer, not on her first night on the town, not even for a duke's first son. But a first dance? She tripped off, her hand still in his lordship's.

Queenie came out to the corridor in time to see the back of Hellen's flounced skirt, the flounces that she had so painstakingly stitched, swirling around the yellow-pantalooned legs of a wealthy womanizer. She knew he was rich by the flash of diamonds. She knew he was a rake by how close his head was to Hellen's, how he raised her hand to his lips, how he said something to make her laugh. And how Lord Harking's cheeks were flushed.

“I could not help it,” Harry said before she could complain. “I have known Cam for ages.”

“You could not refuse your friend?” she asked, her voice dripping scorn.

“I could not refuse
your
friend.”

Queenie sighed. She knew Hellen had gone off voluntarily, the little fool. She knew Hellen's ambitions, but she had hoped that Mr. Browne could show her another way. Now she hoped Mr. Browne could survive the night, the poor man. His complexion was green, and his eyes appeared crossed beneath his spectacles.

“Perhaps they are serving tea somewhere,” she suggested. None of them needed more of that punch.

Browne gratefully used her excuse to escape, rather than watch Hellen in the arms of a dashing, deep-pocketed and titled gentleman, everything he was not.

“And we shall leave directly after the set is finished.” Harry led the way back toward the ballroom, vowing to make sure Camden did not sweep Hellen out onto the balcony or off to a secluded nook.

“No, we shall stay,” Queenie said after looking around. As the evening had worn on, some of the polite mask had worn off. Men were staggering and sweating. Women were swaying, their face paint smudged. Couples were huddled in corners, their clothing awry. Others were kissing and sharing intimate touches, right on the dance floor. Queenie was not certain, but she thought one pair was fornicating behind the draperies. Either that or a breeze had blown up in that one window.

“Are you certain?” Harry was not comfortable watching men of his class, men who ran the government or captained industries, disport themselves without any sense of dignity. The lower classes might lose themselves in drink and desire, but he expected better of his peers. Harry supposed he was a prude after all.

He could not understand Madame Lescartes's wanting to stay, not if she was as offended as her curled lip seemed to indicate…unless she was having second thoughts about her chosen occupation. In which case, perhaps Harry was not quite a prig. He could feel his pulse accelerating in anticipation. “Would you care to dance, then?”

“No, we shall stay here and watch, if you do not mind. That way we can intercept Hellen when the dance is done. If the silly widgeon wishes to lead this kind of life, I cannot stop her, but I can ensure that she knows what she is choosing. Let her see for herself how cheaply the women are held, how little the men care for anything but their gratification. With your permission, my lord, we shall stay, and keep her safe for this night while we can. Then she can choose.”

Harry nodded, feeling half like a knight errant, half like the boy with his finger in the dike, trying to hold back a flood. What, was he supposed to discourage every rake in the room—which was every man except him and Browne—when Hellen smiled at them? At least he could get rid of Camden, making his hands into fists and jerking his head toward the card room when Cam brought Hellen back to them at the end of the dance.

Cam raised one eyebrow. “Guarding your one chick I can understand. But two?”

“This one's not fledged yet,” was all Harry said.

Ten officers from the Home Guard could not have kept Hellen innocent or unknowing that night, which, Harry supposed, was Madame Lescartes's intention. Hellen had to see the couples having sex in the seats, others pressed against the walls. Harry knew for a fact that one man pinched her bottom, and another grabbed her breast before Harry grabbed his arm. Scores had drooled over her hand, and more than a few had planted wet kisses on her cheek before he'd planted his fist in their bellies.

Harry could swear he'd seen Madame Lescartes flash her darning needle a few times, which relieved him somewhat, knowing she could protect herself behind him.

A drunk splashed wine on Hellen's gown and another narrowly missed her hem when he cast up his accounts. They moved on to the supper room.

They saw women running down the corridor, some in tears, some in torn clothing. They saw women with bottles, and women with bruises.

When Harry saw the girls, younger than Hellen, kneeling between the men's legs at the tables, he turned, blocking the view. “Enough.”

Queenie swallowed the bile in her throat. She could not eat a bite anyway. “Enough,” she agreed.

Hellen was ashen, the rouge on her cheeks standing out in bright contrast, like a wide-eyed doll. Her lovely gown was ruined, her slippers were beyond repair. She would have black and blue marks tomorrow on places no one had ever seen, much less touched. And she was frightened of what could have happened, without Lord Harking and Mr. Browne beside her.

“Enough,” she agreed.

Browne had reached his limit hours ago. He grabbed Hellen's arm, pulled her from the assembly rooms, and then he kissed her while they waited outside for Lord Harking's hired coach.

“Why should every other man in the room get to sample your wares?” he asked, panting. He quickly kissed her again. “There, now it is enough.”

So Harry kissed Queenie too.

Chapter Eight

He asked first. Not with words, but with his eyes and raised brows, and how slowly he lowered his head toward her lips.

Queenie said yes. Not with words, but by moving a step closer, holding her face up, closing her eyes. She told herself that she wanted to show Lord Harking her gratitude. Heaven only knew what would have happened tonight without him. Hellen could have accepted a dishonorable proposition. Worse, she could have been dragged off by some cad who would not take
no
as an answer to his offer. Queenie's darning needle could not do much against a determined drunk or debauchee. It was bad enough that both Hellen and she had been groped at and insulted, despite the valiant efforts of Lord Harking and Browne. His lordship had certainly not bargained for bodyguard duty when he asked to escort them to the ball. So Queenie was grateful to him. That was all.

No, that was not all, not even by half. After this evening Queenie desperately wanted to feel something sweet, something unsullied, something solid and real. Viscount Harking seemed to be the most decent man of her acquaintance. He truly was looking for his brother-in-law, and he had not been looking at the half-naked women at the dance. He'd hated the licentious behavior at the ball and had stayed only to please her.

Who was she fooling? Yes, she was grateful; yes, he was a true gentleman. More than anything, though, Queenie wanted to kiss Lord Harking. So she did.

Ah.

The ground did not shake—except when the horses brought the carriage closer. Her toes did not curl—but they did grow numb from the cold in her thin satin slippers. No thunderbolt pierced the night sky, or her heart; no bells chimed or heavenly choir sang.

But, oh.

His lips were warm and gentle. His lemony scent was fresh and clean. His hand on her back was strong, but not coercive. She could have pulled away any time, if she had the moral fiber of a flea. This was where Queenie wanted to be, though, where she might always have wanted to be, without knowing it. Even if he was a lord and she was a bastard pretending to be a businesswoman, this moment was hers, and it was perfect.

Then someone coughed.

Uh-oh.

They were in the street, in public view, in a disgraceful embrace. Worse, they were near strangers, from different worlds, who would never meet after tonight. Queenie raised her hand to her mouth as if she could wipe away the warmth, the tingling, the memory of his lips.

Harry knew he should apologize, but he was not sorry, not in the least, except for the interruption. And Madame Lescartes—Deuce take it, he could not keep calling her such a mouthful—Denise had enjoyed it too, from those tiny sighs he'd heard. Nor had Browne apologized to Hellen, not that Harry needed to take lessons in behavior from a green-as-grass schoolmaster. What he needed was a cold bath.

He must have been wanting to kiss this woman since the moment he laid eyes on her, so he was glad he'd gone and done it. Better to get such things over with, like going to the tooth drawer. Unfortunately, now he only wanted to kiss her again. And again.

Damn.

“Thank you,” he said, hoping his voice was steadier than his racing heartbeat.

“Th-thank you?” Queenie's wits had definitely flown away on the wings of that brief passion. He was thanking her for a short, inexperienced, most likely schoolgirlish kiss?

“For not stabbing me with your needle.”

“Oh.”

Harry had not wanted to stop kissing her, of course, but they were in the street and his coach was there waiting, one of the grooms clearing his throat as he pretended to inspect the harness. Hellen and Browne were already stepping into the carriage, while another groom held the door. Harry knew he would not get another chance to be so close to Denise on the ride home, not with the others present, and yet he could not bear to see all hope gone with the end of the evening.

“Would you come to supper with me? That is, all of us? I hate for the night to end so badly.”

She wiped at her mouth with her gloved hand, so Harry quickly added, “No, not the kiss, but the ball. I would like to have better memories, wouldn't you?”

Better than his kiss? Queenie did not think that was possible, but she nodded her agreement.

Hellen was worried about her soiled gown.

“We can eat at my hotel. The chef is a wizard, and the tables are lighted with candles, so no one will notice. Or you can keep your shawl around you. Please, I would be glad of the company.”

“Well, I never did get to eat at the dance.” And Hellen had never eaten at a fine hotel.

Browne was hungry, too, with nothing to look forward to at The Red and the Black, which was empty of both staff and food.

So they went back to the Grand Hotel, where the desk clerk seemed relieved that Harry was not escorting the females upstairs to his suite. This was a respectable hotel, after all.

The maître d' in the dining room wrinkled his nose at the sight of the two women in their daring, slightly disordered finery. Harry's handsome gratuity restored his sense of smell, that and Queenie addressing him in his native French.

While they waited for their order, Queenie tried to make conversation. She did not want to speak about the ball. Or the future. Or her past.

Hellen was no help, still lost in dismay over her dress and her shattered dreams. Mr. Browne had little to offer in reporting progress at the school, and Queenie did not wish to appear too interested in Lord Carde or Captain Jack Endicott.

The weather was cold, they all agreed, but not surprisingly so, since spring had not yet begun. The hotel was elegantly furnished and the chandelier in the lobby was magnificent. The wine Lord Harking selected was excellent, and the violin music in the background added a lovely touch.

Thankfully the soup was served, so there was no need for more inanities. When those plates were taken away, though, Queenie told the viscount, “I am sorry we did not find your brother-in-law at the ball. What shall you do next?”

Harry choked on a sip of wine. He was going to visit Rochelle Poitier's house of convenience next, that was what he was going to do, but he could not say it in front of the women. Zeus, if Denise thought he was a rogue for stealing a kiss in the street, she'd think he was a total reprobate for patronizing a brothel. “My friend Camden had, um, a few ideas where Martin might be staying.”

“So you will not be leaving for the country immediately?”

“No, not yet.”

They both considered the possibilities—and improbabilities—while two waiters served the next course.

Hellen, meanwhile, had recovered some of her spirit over the wine and mock turtle soup. “Your friend was very nice,” she hinted. “And a fine dancer. He told a good story, too.”

“Oh, Cam is all of that,” Harry told her, “the best of good fellows.” Then he saw the drawn look on Madame Lescartes's face. He doubted her disapproval was for the vol-au-vents of veal, so he added, “But old Cam is a confirmed rake, you know. He is never seen with the same woman more than twice.” Since Harry only saw his friend a few times a year now, that was no lie. Nor was: “I have never known him to keep a mistress.” Harry had no idea what Cam did or did not do with his numerous women, married, widowed or simply available. Harry preferred it that way.

Denise's face relaxed. She sent him a grateful smile, so Harry elaborated, half to win her approval and half to discourage the pretty little peagoose further. “And Cam confided in me that he was thinking of marrying and starting his nursery. He would never embarrass his bride with an, uh, outside interest.” At least Harry hoped his friend would wait until the honeymoon was over before visiting bordellos and balls for the demi-monde.

Hellen sighed and went back to her meal.

The Frenchwoman's black eyebrows were raised in doubt over those startling blue eyes.

“Not all men are unfaithful spouses, you know,” Harry said, although he could not with any certainty name a loyal husband. He did not know why, but he very much wanted Madame Lescartes to know he was not like the rest of his gender. “I, for one, intend to honor my wedding vows.”

“As do I,” Browne added, somewhat muzzily, from all the wine and from gazing at Hellen, who was licking a drop of sauce off her lips. “My mum would have my guts for garters otherwise. Same as she would my father's. He's never looked at another woman in all the years they've been married.”

“How…commendable.” Queenie dabbed at her own lips with her napkin.

Harry felt a bit muzzy himself.

“And I know Captain Jack swore fealty to Miss Silver,” Browne added. “They say she wouldn't have him elsewise. And I heard that Lord Carde has hardly left his lady wife's side since they were wed, and them with a babe and another on the way.”

“I am happy for both couples.” Queenie was not surprised Lord Carde was a faithful husband, although she'd had doubts about the captain, owner of a gaming parlor and a notorious womanizer. Still, the two men were trying to fulfil one oath by finding their sister. They would not break another vow if they held their word so dearly.

“What of you?” Harry asked, interrupting her musing on the so-far elusive Endicott brothers.

“Me? Why, I have never considered marriage, remarriage, that is, much less adultery.”

“What, a beautiful woman like you not thinking of matrimony? I thought all females were born wanting a wedding band.”

“They desire a husband because they have no other choices if they wish a home and family, security for their future. I have my shop.”

“Can you not have both?”

“Should I support an idler with my labor? A man who approves of my career is likely a good-for-naught who has none of his own. He would have the right to my profits, the power to make decisions concerning my every transaction. I would not relinquish that control to any man.”

That was the law of the land, Harry knew. Like children, women were not considered competent to manage their own affairs.

“But what about love?” Harry wanted to know. “Would that tender emotion not change your mind?”

Queenie brushed that aside like a crumb. “I am no romantic, believing all the poets' pretty verses. How could I trust words of affection from a man after he sees how successful my shop is going to be? I would be like one of the young ladies of your
ton
with a handsome dowry, never knowing if my suitor was interested in me, or in what I brought to the marriage.”

Harry had never considered the woman's point in all their maneuvering to make the best match. He knew he resented being chased for his title and his lands and his bank account. “I always thought true love made that leap of faith, but I am no expert, nor a poet either. But what if a gentleman had money of his own? Would you wed a rich man who did not need your income?”

Queenie pushed some peas around on her plate without eating. “Men of means do not usually permit their wives to work, out of pride or fear of gossip, or merely demanding that their spouses' interest be focused on them, not on running a business.”

Harry knew that was also true. He doubted he would wish his wife off tending a store every day, no matter how much blunt she earned. Supporting his family was a man's job. Charitable works, keeping house, raising their children, those were suitable activities for a viscountess.

Madame Denise Lescartes was not, of course, a suitable viscountess for him. He knew that, and knew it far before Camden reminded him. What he really wanted to know, though, was if the beautiful young woman, who professed not to be in the oldest profession, would be a faithful wife. It was none of his business, of course, and would be an offensive question coming from him, a virtual stranger who shared nothing but a dance, a kiss, and now a dinner.

He really wanted to know.

She did not volunteer the information, nor any further thoughts on love, marriage or poetry. She commented on the capon in plum sauce instead.

Since he was a gentleman, one who was not currently interested in marriage or his prospective wife's dowry, Harry had to follow her lead. “If you think that the dinner is good, wait until the sweets course. The chef here specializes in desserts
flambé
, although the management makes a waiter with a bucket of water follow along in case of fire, since they already had one disaster.”

Hellen clapped her hands together like a child. “I cannot wait!”

Harry decided that Madame Lescartes was correct: Hellen was far too young to enter a life of sin, no matter her upbringing and expectations. A man would have to be a true cad to take her innocence, even if it was given freely. Unfortunately Harry knew that certain men relished despoiling maidens.

John George Browne did not appear to be such a one. Harry eyed him with speculation. The poor-sighted chap was moonstruck, all right, or maybe that was the wine. Too bad Harry would not be in London long enough to encourage a match between these two, easing at least one of Madame Lescartes's worries. A legitimate match, that is, he considered, sanctioned by the church and the law.

But Hellen as a schoolteacher's wife? Harry would have doubted she could read, but she read the menu, except for the French, which Denise translated for her. But she was not raised to cook and clean and care for babies, just to please men, so heaven only knew what her future could hold, her friend's best wishes aside.

Harry wondered again at Madame Lescartes's background. Was she reared to please men? He doubted it. Sometimes she did not seem to like the males of the species as a group. Was she taught to be a wife and mother? Harry thought that was questionable, considering her attitude about supporting herself. Hers had to be an unconventional upbringing to send her into trade, to make her so independent, so confident of her skills as a modiste. He could not ask about that, either, dash it, or Monsieur Lescartes.

Queenie, meanwhile, had given up trying to make conversation, letting Mr. Browne and Hellen talk about their favorite desserts while she pondered Lord Harking's words. He intended to be a faithful husband? He was most likely lying. Or thinking optimistically. He did not even have a fiancée. How could he know how he would feel a year after marriage, or two, or ten? What if his wife turned shrewish, or lost her looks, or grew fat with child? Would he still hold to his vows? Molly had said no man did. Queenie knew that at least half the men at the Cyprian's Ball were married. The other half did not look as if a gold band would change their characters and their skirt-chasing. Even Mr. Browne admitted that fear would keep him to the straight and narrow, as it kept his father. What if his wife was a meek little mouse? Would he stray then?