The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (18 page)

“Lovely day, James,” he remarked. “Easy to be lulled into sleep on a day like today.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

They both knew Nigel was apologizing, but that wasn’t enough for Nigel. He believed people should speak their thoughts plainly. Like Miss Davidson did. Nigel swore a silent oath. She had spoken plainly all right. She’d told him not to bother pursuing her, for she wasn’t interested.

Was that what he’d been doing? Pursuing her?

What had come over him? Certainly, a young lady of eighteen was marriageable. There was no question about that. Men took eighteen-year-old brides every day. But not men like Nigel. Nigel had seen battle. He’d killed in the name of his country. And that was not all he had done. In covert service, he had also seduced a number of women. It was a task he rarely relished and never asked for, but it was one for which he was very well suited, apparently, for he was always successful. Yes, he had seen too much, done too much, lived too long, to even think about marrying an innocent girl of eighteen years.

His mother had been only eighteen when she’d married his father. Eighteen, and married to an old man who had no more in common with her than a worn boot had with a rainbow. How could Nigel have forgotten that? How could he have let himself believe, even for a moment, that Kitty could ever be anything more to him than his ward’s friend?

He swore again, this time aloud.

“I really am sorry, my lord,” James said from behind him, thinking his master’s irritation was directed at him.

“No, James, it is I who should apologize,” Nigel admitted, attempting to force Kitty Davidson from his mind. “It was wrong to snarl at you back there.”

“Not a bit of it, my lord. It was wrong to be snoozin’ when I should ha’ been takin’ care o’ yer cattle. It won’t happen again.”

“Good man.”

Nigel frowned. James was almost a man. He would not be able to tiger for Nigel much longer. The boy was growing out of his striped livery, and soon he would no longer be able to fit on the narrow tiger’s platform installed on the rear of the carriage. Nigel was going to have to find another youngster to take his place. An image of Thomas, the little boy who worked at Lady Marchman’s, leaped into Nigel’s mind. Jane had reported that Miss Davidson had taken food to the stables for the boy in the dead of night. Nigel wondered at her generosity. She’d risked getting herself into trouble for the lad. He must quite need more food. But if she continued supplying it, she’d get them both into trouble—and Thomas could find himself on the street. Nigel considered the lad’s plight for a moment. He was a stableboy and accustomed to working around horses. He’d make a good tiger, if Lady Marchman could be persuaded to part with him. He’d speak with her about the matter first thing tomorrow morning.

But Nigel did his best to ignore returning to dwell on the thought of Kitty Davidson’s tender self-sacrifice and to steep himself in his own irritation instead.

What had got into him back there at Lady Marchman’s?

Nigel flicked the reins too hard, spooking his cattle. Damn if his heart had not skipped a beat when Jane had mouthed to him that Kitty Davidson was eighteen! Kitty Davidson, who looked absolutely charming in that flower-strewn dress. He had thought he was grown beyond being moved by the sight of a beautiful young woman years ago. But he had been wrong.

She looked like she belonged in a garden.

His garden.

And therein lay the trouble.

Why was a girl unacceptably young at fifteen and suddenly marriageable at eighteen? It didn’t make any sense, but it was a fact, nevertheless. Civilized minds that recoiled at the thought of a man marrying a fifteen-year-old thought nothing of a married-with-child eighteen-year-old. There shouldn’t be such a difference, but there was and that was that. Something happened to a girl during those three years. She became a woman, a lady. A young lady, but a lady just the same.

Still, Nigel was determined to marry someone closer to his own age. Even without his mother and father’s situation to steer him, he certainly would never have wanted to wed a chit fresh from the schoolroom—a shivering, timid waif who would obey his every command. No, Nigel wanted a wife who could match him move for move, one who was not afraid to best him, if she could. And the trouble with that, of course, was that most women his age were married. Lately, he’d begun to suspect he’d done himself out of finding an intellectual match by foolishly insisting on a love match as well. He’d thought he had waited too long.

But then Jane had mouthed the word “eighteen” at him, and his logical, practiced resolutions had spun off their axis. Eighteen was certainly old enough to marry. No one would look askance at his courting Kitty Davidson. Kitty Davidson, who was a blossoming rose, not a shrinking violet. A thorny rose with a fiery center. She wasn’t afraid of him. She had no interest in obeying him. Her tender years were no hindrance to her spirit or her intelligence. And when she had broken that teacup and reached for a napkin instead of the bell pull, Nigel had been stunned. There was no denying the attraction he felt for her. Even now, he was plagued by the memory of her surprisingly rounded body nestled against his chest as he’d carried her upstairs on that first day, the soft contours of her legs and hips against his open palms. His senses went a-begging as he imagined her in his bed.

Nigel’s hands gripped the reins too hard. He’d known the pleasure of many women. And he always knew as soon as he touched them how it would be between them. Instead of simpering and lowering her clear blue eyes whenever her opinion differed from his, Kitty Davidson stood straighter, flared, and spat fire. He knew that could scorch his bed as she scorched her conversation. She would bum her mark into his very soul.

As soon as Nigel arrived home, he took up the decanter of brandy and sat in his favorite chair and swore some more.

With her sharp wit and agile tongue, she would be a popular and lively addition to the most fashionable salons in London—if she ever managed to marry well enough to be admitted there. A sudden image of Kitty assailed him: Kitty, standing at the back door of a yeoman farmer’s cottage, wearing rags, to which several children, clustered about her feet, clung. Kitty, with tired, sunken eyes and sore, red hands. Swearing again, Nigel put down the decanter. He needed to think about his investigation. He rubbed his temples and tried to concentrate.

For all he knew, the war plans had already been passed. There were several expatriate French visiting or working at Baroness Marchman’s School, though only one—Madame Briand—seemed likely to be involved. She could well serve as a link in the chain of communication across the Channel. “Yvette” came and went on a regular basis. She was obviously either picking up information on its way out of England, or she was dropping it off. Nigel was overlooking something—or someone. There was another person involved. Someone in the chain was missing, someone who either already was or soon would be right under Nigel’s nose. He could not simply apprehend Yvette Briand. Her accomplices would be alerted, and the plans would only find another way across the Channel to Bonaparte. No, Nigel needed to find out who comprised the other links in the chain.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

K
ATHRYN AWOKE WITH
the sun. The first light of dawn was just painting the edge of the sky a breathtaking blue.
Nigel
. The name stole into her foggy thoughts like a ray of early light. Blue such as Nigel wears. She had dreamt about him again.

In her dream, they had been walking along together over a country hill. He had pointed to the deep blue morning sky, which matched his coat. Then the sky reached down and scooped him up toward heaven, but he had tumbled down and dissolved upon hitting the ground, only to disappear into the earth.

Did he always wear blue? She’d never seen him without it. The color suited him. He had looked so handsome yesterday in his bottle blue coat, a diamond pin winking from the folds of his immaculately tied cravat like the morning star in the sky outside her window.

He was very like a star, she mused. Mysterious and inaccessible.

She tore her gaze from the sky. Yesterday, Kathryn had been shaking with anger as that devil Blackshire had all but admitted to her that he was going to do whatever was necessary to keep Lady Jane from meeting her young man, Bankham. Why would he do that? If he found Jane so tiresome, so difficult to keep in check, why did he not contrive to get her married as quickly as possible? Did he derive too much pleasure from denying others happiness? Or did he gain something else from his continued guardianship of the girl?

The answer came to her in a flash of understanding. Jane was an heiress, or so the loquacious maid Nicolette had informed her importantly. And since Blackshire was Jane’s guardian, he would have control of her inheritance until she married. Of course! That was why he wouldn’t even let Jane meet Lord Bankham. He wouldn’t let her marry until he had to—and then, since he had complete control over her finances, it would be easy for him to force her into marrying a man of his choosing, a man with whom Blackshire would no doubt make a deal, a very lucrative deal for them both. But not for Jane.

She supposed she should not be so very upset about it. Her parents notwithstanding, love matches were uncommon amongst the
ton
. Marriage was more often than not a simple transfer of wealth.

A few feet away, Jane snored softly in their bed. Kathryn was glad to see the girl sleeping soundly, for she had turned in early complaining of a megrim and had slept fitfully. Too fitfully for Kathryn to escape to the library without fear of waking her, unfortunately, and the topmost shelves of the library remained regrettably un-searched. Kathryn was as quiet as she could be while she dressed. Pulling on the blue-sprigged muslin, she found herself wishing she had something else to wear.
He saw me in this yesterday
. The thought escaped before it could be tamped down by reason.

Rubbish! She did not care what he thought of her. He was not interested in what she wore, anyway. He was more interested in what was under her clothes, the beast. An image of Lydia, clutching her torn bodice and careening down the hall away from Blackshire, flashed into her mind. Savagely, she pulled on the dress and fastened its openings. She didn’t give a fig about what she wore today, she told herself. The sprigged muslin would be just fine.

Last night Jane had advised Kathryn of the day’s plan. Their drive in the park had somehow grown into a morning’s outing. Kathryn’s insides were knotted.

A whole morning in the company of Nigel Moorhaven.

A whole morning diverted away from her search for the diary. But there was no help for it. She had already agreed to accompany Jane and Blackshire to the park. Besides, Jane’s predicament must be almost as bad as her own. If Blackshire had his way, Jane would marry some ogre of his choosing, or if she chose not to give in to Blackshire, she would end up unmarried. A spinster. An old maid. An ape-leader.

But not if Kathryn could help it.

Her anger with Blackshire had slipped silently away overnight to be replaced with a firm resolve to do whatever she could to help Jane in her quest to meet Quinn, Lord Bankham. Kathryn had to think of a way to save her from Blackshire’s greed. Jane would be introduced to Bankham today if Kathryn had to throw herself in front of the man’s carriage to get him to stop!

She trembled at the thought of Blackshire’s reaction to such a ploy. He would explode with anger. He would be incensed. Especially after she had rebuffed his obvious advances yesterday in the library. Advances he’d made to someone who looked fifteen! He hadn’t known “Kitty Davidson” had let it slip that she was actually eighteen, so the blackguard had been attempting to fascinate yet another babe in the nursery.

She shivered with dread.

At half past seven o’ clock, Nicolette knocked softly on the door. She entered carrying a large, white box. She put it where Kathryn directed and left. Inside the box rested a delicate concoction of pale lavender muslin with an airy lace overskirt of the bluest violet. Satin ribbon rosettes trimmed the shoulders and the high waist. A wide-rimmed bonnet trimmed with faux violets, another pair of lace gloves—off-white this time—and slippers that looked too large along with an impossibly tiny reticule. Kathryn was delighted. Auntie was a darling!

Kathryn changed into the gown and then went in search of Thomas. The muslin and lace swirled lightly around her as she walked, and the long tails of the satin sash floated in the breeze. She recognized that it was in the first stare of fashion. It was the finest gown she had ever had, and it made her feel wonderful. Good, dear Aunt Ophelia! Oh, but she simply had to stop sending clothing. Kathryn would have to carry it all away with her when she left Baroness Marchman’s, lest the lady attempt to return the clothes to Lord Arborough! Two gowns were enough. Her valise was not large. Any more, and she would have trouble carrying them. She would send a message with Thomas imploring Auntie to send no more. After dashing off a quick note, Kathryn went looking for the little stableboy, but ten minutes later Kathryn’s pleasure in the lovely dress was forgotten, for Thomas was gone.

He was no longer in Lady Marchman’s employ, said the head groom, and none of the servants knew where the lad had gone. But a maid did say she’d seen the little boy walking off with his possessions that morning, just after Lord Blackshire had arrived.

Blackshire! That explained it all. Kathryn’s blood began to boil.

Yesterday, from the windows of the library, she’d watched that demon take his leave. She’d seen him march away, stiff with anger. She’d heard him take his wrath out on his tiger, the sharp syllables of his rebuke floating to her on the moist air. She’d watched Thomas trudge back to the stables with his pitiful rag ball in his hand. Blackshire must have blamed Thomas for his tiger’s lapse in duty. The devil must have come back to the school early this morning specifically to have Thomas dismissed. Such cruelty! It was unspeakably evil!

Seething, Kathryn hovered just inside the front door, waiting for Blackshire to arrive. Poor little Thomas. He had no parents, no family. He was alone in the world. Where would he go? And what would he do when he got there? What would he eat? Where would he sleep? Did he even have his blanket with him, or was that school property?

“
Ohhh
. . . !” Kathryn snatched a pillow from a chair and hugged it, crying silently until, at a quarter of nine, eyes dry and hot, Kathryn heard the sounds of a heavy carriage pulling into the drive. She dismissed the maid who came to open the door and opened the door herself, leaving it ajar and standing behind it, waiting for him.

The expression on his face changed as he pushed open the door the rest of the way, at first registering pleasure at the sight of Kathryn and then puzzlement and shock as he realized Kathryn was angry.

But Kathryn wanted to be sure he knew exactly how angry she truly was.

“I hate you,” she seethed. “You are vile and despicable,” she added, not leaving anything to chance.

His eyes narrowed into lazy slits as he regarded her in a bored fashion. He fiddled with his shirt cuffs.

“What,” he drawled, “have I done, now?”

“I’ll tell you what you’ve done, you blackguard—as if you did not know! Ha! You’ve hurt a little boy. Do you think he is like a bit of rubbish you can just cast away? He has a name and feelings. And he did not just cease to exist. Even now he is somewhere out there”—she pointed to the street—”lonely and . . . and c-cold.” She almost sobbed the last sentence. She swallowed hard. “You have made an enemy of me this day, my lord,” she said, “and do not think that because I am of poor consequence that I cannot be a thorn in your side. Indeed, I will be a stake in your heart unless you find him forthwith. I will—”

“Are you speaking of Thomas?”

“You bothered to learn his name, then? You surprise me, you devil. You demon. You heartless, vile, wretched, cruel, cold, unfeeling—” Kathryn sputtered to a stop, for Blackshire’s shoulders were shaking.

The man was laughing!

“How dare you?! How dare you laugh?” Kathryn had had enough. She drew back her arms and began to pummel Blackshire with her fists. Immediately, he caught her wrists, but she did not meekly end her assault. Instead, she hauled back her foot to kick the dastard in the shins. Blackshire, though, anticipating her attack, drew her tightly against him, pinning her arms between them and easily avoiding the blow her feet would have delivered. When she gathered her breath to protest, the warm, clean masculine scent of him robbed her of words. Still, she struggled against him, acutely aware of his body wherever it pressed so intimately against hers. His flat, hard belly. His powerful thighs. His long fingers and wide palms, which molded themselves to the small of her back. And, though she fought against the memory, she remembered exactly how it had felt to be kissed by him. It had been intense, exciting, intoxicating....

“Look at my carriage,” he said, loosening his hold on her, but not letting completely go. “Go on, look.”

“I don’t care about your fine carriage.” She sneered. “Do you think your wealth impresses me? Your blasted carriage could be fashioned of gold and I—” But she did glance at the carriage, and her tirade came to an abrupt halt, for there was Thomas, standing proudly erect at the head of Blackshire’s horses.

“Thomas! Oh, Thomas . . . ” Blackshire released her fully, and Kathryn ran to the boy and scooped him up joyfully, spooking the horses, who whinnied and shied. Instantly, Thomas spoke to them, clucking nonsense as Kathryn hastily put him down.

“Crikey, miss, the ’orses! Do be careful. I’d ’ate to lose me job before I’d worked me first day through.”

For the first time, Kathryn noticed what Thomas was wearing. He was dressed in striped livery and wore new shoes.

“Come to think of it,” the boy clarified, “I’d ’ate to lose me job before I’d worked the first ’undred years or so.” He turned adoring eyes up at Lord Blackshire, who had approached at a sprint when the horses shied.

He firmly grasped Kathryn’s shoulders and thrust her away from the pair, whose eyes were still flashing white.

“Good work, Thomas. You handled the team expertly. I knew you would be perfect as my tiger.”

“Your tiger!” Kathryn gasped.

His warm hands lingered on her shoulders, his fingers splayed so that his thumbs rested on the sensitive skin at the base of Kathryn’s neck. She shivered, and he lowered his hands.

“I—I was mistaken,” she told him. “I am sorry, my lord.” The apology left her feeling raw. The man was still a devil. She must not forget his treatment of Jane and poor Lydia. She turned to Thomas. “You look splendid, Thomas lad.”

The boy shoved his shoulders back, and his chin rose a notch before he leaned over to her and whispered, “His lordship ’ired me away from her ladyship this morning, before the cocks crowed. Paid for me, he did. Took me to his palace. I got a hefty raise, a new suit of clothes wif proper shoes, this ’ere livery coat and pants and hat, an’ a real bed to sleep in. I get to sleep in the ’ouse, miss!” He grinned. “I never slept in a ’ouse before,” he said proudly. “An’ this morning I ate me breakfast round a table wif a bunch o’ other lads. They’re right uns, they are. All o’ em. Includin’ ’im!” He hooked his thumb at Blackshire and, leaning toward her, whispered reverently, never taking his gaze from the marquis, “The lads told me ’e goes to Parly-mint and orders the king to help poor folk!” His eyes wide, he flashed her a significant look and then peered back toward Blackshire. “His lordship’s a hero, an’ no mistake, miss! They all talks about ‘im.” He beamed at the marquis.

Kathryn blinked, incredulous.

She followed the boy’s gaze up to Blackshire’s handsome face. The man wore a smug expression. At that moment another carriage barreled down the street and drew to a halt before them. Its driver hailed Nigel loudly and jumped down. His dark brown hair glinted with a reddish cast in the morning sunlight. He walked with a slight limp but otherwise carried his large frame gracefully. He insulted Blackshire good-naturedly and bowed low over Kathryn’s hand, flashing dimples.

She liked him immediately.

Blackshire made a smooth introduction as though nothing unpleasant had just occurred between Kathryn and himself. Mr. Jeremy Scott, he said, had served in the army with Blackshire and had been invited to accompany them on their outing.

The pleasantries out of the way, Kathryn ruffled Thomas’s silky blond hair. “I am so happy for you, Thomas.”

To Blackshire she said, “A word with you, my lord.” He followed her back to the front door. Without looking at him, she said quietly, “I was wrong, my lord. I made a hasty assumption and I regret my subsequent accusation and display of enmity. Yet I promise you that if you ill-treat that boy in any way, I shall make you regret it.” With that, she drew herself up to her full height, which was woefully inadequate for the purposes of intimidation, and stalked off to find Jane. The sooner their excursion was begun, the sooner it would be done with.

Nigel watched her withdraw into the house, her back indignantly upright and proud and her chin tilted high in the air. She was dressed in yet another of Madame Vensois’s creations, a violet and cream muslin concoction that seemed more suited to a temptress than to a schoolgirl. At least on her. The light, sheer fabric clung to her swaying hips as she walked. At his elbow, Jeremy said, “Couldn’t hear what she said from over there, but I didn’t have to.” He nodded his head in Kitty’s direction, his eyes taking measure of her stiff, indignant carriage. “Bad-tempered little baggage, is she not?”

“Yes.” Nigel did not look away from her, but followed her dignified progress back up to the front door of the school with his eyes.

“Quick as a ferret.”

“Yes.”

“And twice as mean.”

“Yes.”

“You like her, don’t you?”