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An Honourable Thief
Anne Gracie


The dashing Mr. Hugo Devenish had come to London on an important mission: to prevent his innocent nephew from marrying an unsuitable young heiress.He'd never expected to be trounced upon by the most infamous thief in town! All society was agog at the rash of burglaries being committed by the mysterious Chinaman, but Hugo's attention was diverted once he was introduced to his nephew's heiress, the intriguing Miss Kit Singleton. Hugo found himself utterly enchanted. But her dubious background gave rise to the suspicion that Miss Singleton was somehow connected to the notorious thief. And Hugo could only hope to uncover Kit's many secrets, before the winsome beauty managed to steal his heart!









Mr. Devenish danced her across the room in a dazzling display of virtuosity and masculine energy,


twirling her and twirling her until she was quite dizzy with pleasure and delight.

Kit had danced the waltz several times before, but she suddenly realized why it had been regarded as so scandalous. When danced like this, caught up hard in the grip of a strong masterful man, twirling in his arms until you lost awareness of anything except the music and the man, the experience was utterly intoxicating.

Kit simply gave herself up to the magic of the dance. And the man. The world blurred around her in a glittering rainbow, the music spun through her brain in a melody of magic, and all that anchored her to the ground was the hard, strong body of a tall dark man.




Praise for Anne Gracie’s recent titles


RITAВ® Award Nominated

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“Ms. Gracie has a knack for delving into people’s souls and tickling their funny bone.”

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“An easy and elegant style…this is as polished a piece of romance writing as anyone could want.”

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Tallie’s Knight

“Charming and wonderful…”

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#615 THE TEXAN

Carolyn Davidson

#617 A WILD JUSTICE

Gail Ranstrom

#618 THE BRIDE’S REVENGE

Anne Avery




An Honorable Thief

Anne Gracie







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Available from Harlequin Historicals and

ANNE GRACIE


Gallant Waif #557

An Honorable Thief #616




Contents


Prologue (#ueeb88a1f-32fa-5650-aa38-8684f701fff4)

Chapter One (#u3f4b00cf-4968-5924-af28-660276caf854)

Chapter Two (#uc0540e00-a745-5e94-9f09-a7c130b0af5b)

Chapter Three (#u45c80fb6-a0ea-59ed-8193-cea0463ba2c2)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


Near Batavia, on the island of Java, Dutch East Indies. 1815

“Promise!” The dying man grabbed her arm in a hard-fingered grip. Promise me, damn you, girl!

Kit Smith winced under the pressure. She glanced down at her father’s thin, elegant fingers biting into her flesh. Gentleman’s fingers. White, soft, aristocratic, seeming too fine even for the heavy ring he wore. Refined hands, good for lifting a lady’s hand to be kissed. For gesturing in an amusing fashion to illustrate a sophisticated story. White-skinned, blue-veined hands. Hands which had never done a hard day’s labour in their life. Hands which excelled at the shuffling and dealing of cards…the clever, extremely discreet dealing of cards…

Kit bit her lip and tried to ease her arm from under the punishing grip. He did not know his own strength, that was Papa’s trouble.

People didn’t when they were dying.

“Promise me!”

Kit said nothing. With her other hand she picked up a linen cloth and wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth.

“Dammit, girl, I want that promise!” He searched her face angrily. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything you haven’t done a hundred times or more in your life!”

Kit gently shook her head. “I cannot, Papa.”

He flung her hand aside in disgust. “Bah! I don’t know why I bothered even asking you. My daughter!” The scorn in his voice lanced through Kit. “My only living child! She, who has refused to help her father since she turned thirteen!”

“Hush, Papa, do not try to talk. Save your strength.”

“Be damned to it…I’m dying, girl…and I’ll not…be hushed. By sunset tonight—” He spat blood and lay gasping for breath before he could continue. “Dying, curse it…and without a son to…” He rolled his head away from her, muttering, “Nothing but a daughter, a useless daughter—”

Kit did not respond; she told herself she was inured to the pain of his tirade on the uselessness of daughters. She’d heard it all her life.

Her maidservant and companion, Maggie Bone, bustled in, carrying a pile of clean linen and a bowl of fresh water. Kit nodded her thanks and, as Maggie removed the blood-soaked wad of linen, Kit pressed a fresh pad against the wound in his chest.

“Done for, curse it.” He gave a snort of bitter laughter. “And by some clod of a colonial lout! Me! In whom the finest English blood flows…”

Kit pressed harder, willing the flow to stop.

“Not so hard, girl!”

Kit eased the pressure slightly. In moments fresh, bright blood seeped through it. Her father’s life blood, draining inexorably away into a napkin.

“Blasted stiff-necked Dutchman. Accusing me of cheating! Me! The Honourable J—” He broke off in a paroxysm of coughing.

“Hush, Papa, you will only make it worse if you try to speak. And besides, you are not the Honourable Jeremy Smythe-Parker here. That was in New South Wales. The name you are using now is Sir Humphrey Weatherby, remember?”

Not that it mattered any longer, she reflected. The Dutch doctor had left, the Javanese servants could not understand English and Maggie’s loyalty was unquestioned. There was nobody to pretend to any more. But one could not break the habits of a lifetime so easily, and keeping track of her father’s many identities was such a habit.

Her father ignored her. He lay gasping for breath for another moment of two. “Felled by a grubby tradesman, in a dirty foreign village in the middle of nowhere. If the blasted Pittance hadn’t been late—”

The Pittance was what he called the money which arrived so mysteriously from time to time. It seemed to come, no matter where they were, though it was often late. Kit had no idea where it came from, or why. Her father refused to discuss it.

She glanced through the window at the sea sparkling under the sunlight. It was so blue it almost hurt her eyes. To be sure, there were the swamps and the mosquitoes were very bad—malaria was a serious risk—but on some days, Kit had thought they had landed in paradise.

Yet in her father’s eyes, everywhere they had ever lived, no matter how wonderfully exotic or beautiful, had soon been declared grubby or obscure or provincial. Nothing compared with England.

He was, he had always been, a most bitter exile.

Kit reached for a fresh pad of linen. He was growing paler by the moment.

Her father coughed painfully. “Dammit…why could not Mary have given me a son who lived…sons…”

She tried not to listen. She pressed the linen pad more firmly against his wound. Was it her imagination, or was the blood flow slowing?

“A son would understand about a man’s honour.”

“I understand honour very well, Papa,” said Kit. “Even if I am only a girl.” If her father was unaware of the irony of a card cheat and swindler lecturing his daughter on honour, Kit was not. But it was not the card game or the recent duel with the Dutchman he was referring to. No, it was about what had happened in England all those years ago.

“Don’t take that tone with me, girl! If you understood anything at all about a man’s honour, you would make me that promise.” He lay back, wheezing with the effort of his outburst. “Females have no understanding of honour. Their minds are too clouded with emotion…If only my bonny boy had lived.”

Her mother had died giving birth to a little stillborn brother when Kit was six, but her father still spoke of her brother as if he was a person he had known and loved.

“If only he had not died. Now…” He looked at her with bitter grief. “My son would not let me die refusing to promise to avenge the great wrong done me.”

There was a long silence. All that could be heard in the room were the far distant noises of life going on outside the cottage: the chattering of monkeys in the jungle behind the house, the laughter of children in the nearby village, the squawking of a chicken.

And inside the cottage the sound of laboured breathing.

Not for the first time, Kit wondered about what had happened back in England, before she had even been born. He had always been bitter about it, and yet uncharacteristically silent about the details. He’d always vowed revenge, but on whom and for what, she’d never known.

Whatever it was, it had never stopped festering in him.

If it hadn’t happened, he’d said over and over—generally when he’d been drinking—he would be a rich man, respected, living in a beautiful big house in England. His beloved England.

She’d never quite believed it. But now she wondered. Had she been too quick to dismiss it as another one of Papa’s fantasies?

Had that—whatever it was—truly been the cause of her father living the sort of life he had? Drifting from one place to the next. Living from card game to card game. Arriving in obscure corners of the far-flung empire as Sir Humphrey This or The Honourable Mr That; leaving as a reviled card cheat and scoundrel…as they had just a few weeks ago from Sydney Town in the colony of New South Wales. An ignominious exit, tossed on the first outgoing ship…arriving in the Dutch colony of Batavia.

If the Great Wrong—as he put it—had not been done to him, would he have lived as a decent, contented man in England?

She would never know. But he was her father. She ought to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Kit bit her lip. He was her only living relative. And he was dying. Who was she to deny him peace on his deathbed? Her scruples suddenly looked a little like selfishness to her.

She looked down at him. His face was grey, his lips had an ominous tinge of blue. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep—the tension in his body testified to that.

He looked like a man drained of all hope.

All her life Papa had always had a new scheme, a new horizon, plans…

Who was she to say no to a dying man’s last wish?

Kit sighed. She leaned forward and took his hand gently in hers. “I will do what a son would, Papa. I will retrieve your honour for you. Tell me what I must do.”

The heavy-lidded eyes opened, wary at first, then suddenly sharp with triumph. The long-fingered hand tightened convulsively and painfully as he pulled his daughter closer to whisper the instructions in her ear.

At last he finished, closed his eyes in exhaustion and sank back against the pillows.

The heat of the afternoon pressed on them. A hot moist wind lazily stirred the leaves in the trees outside. The only other sound was that of a man fighting for every breath.

Suddenly he opened his eyes. “Sent a letter to Rose from Sydney Town. Told her—” He choked suddenly and went into a long paroxysm of coughing.

He subsided shaken, grey and immeasurably weaker. Kit wiped his face with a cool, damp cloth and wondered who this Rose was.

“Hush now, Papa, do not worry yourself. I will do what is necessary. Just lie still and try to save your strength.”

A ghastly smile settled on his lips. “My son…” he muttered, so low, Kit could hardly hear him. “My beloved son…”

And with that, her father died. On a low pallet in a simple Javanese cottage on the other side of the world from where he belonged. Killed in a duel for cheating at cards. The final blow in a life that, according to him, had contained nothing but blows.

He died without a word of love or farewell to his only child, his daughter, the companion of his exile for the whole nineteen years of her life.

“Never mind, Miss Kit,” said Maggie Bone comfortingly. “He did value you, really. Some men never can say how they feel.”

Kit accepted the lie with a nod and a tremulous smile. “I know, Maggie.”

“I wish you’d never promised him, though.”

“Yes, but I did, so there’s no going back on it now.”

Maggie sighed. “London, is it?”

“Yes, London. To stay with someone called Rose.”




Chapter One


London 1816

Mr Hugo Devenish made his way through the quiet streets of London, his eyes on the faint, unnatural glow in the sky over the city. Gaslights. Twenty-six miles of gas mains had been laid around London, he had heard recently. Everyone was rushing to install the new miracle.

Sultan’s hooves clattered and echoed on cobbled stones. Hugo leaned forward and patted his mount on the neck. He’d carried his master gallantly for a long distance. Horse and master were pleasantly weary.

He passed the homes of several acquaintances and cast a casual eye over the dark and silent buildings.

Suddenly he stiffened. A shadow moved out of one of the tall mullioned windows on to a small balcony jutting from an upper storey of a large grey mansion nearby. There was something furtive, stealthy in the movement that attracted Hugo’s attention. He reined Sultan to a silent halt.

It was Pennington House, the home of Lord and Lady Pennington. Hugo knew the family slightly: Lord Pennington was a member of the Government, a stern, slightly pompous man in his early sixties; Lady Pennington was a prominent member of society. Their son, Hugo believed, was an intimate of his nephew, Thomas.

Shadowy figures ought not to be appearing from darkened windows of the homes of Government members at three in the morning, thought Hugo. This could well be a matter of national security. The war was over, but that did not mean there were no more Government secrets to be stolen and sold. There were always secrets.

Hugo watched intently, his eyes squinted against the glow thrown out by the gas lamp in front of the house. He cursed it silently. The bright glare made it very difficult to make out the figure behind the lamp—all he could see was a silhouette.

As he watched, the figure climbed on to the carved stone balustrade, paused for a moment and then leapt out into the air. Hugo’s breath caught—the thief would surely plummet to his death—but no. He clung to the next balcony like a monkey and climbed up. He was an agile little devil, thought Hugo.

He ought to go and rouse the household, to pound on the front door until someone came. But by that time, the thief would be gone. No, he would try to catch the scoundrel himself.

He watched as the miscreant shimmied skilfully up one of the shallow carved columns which graced the front of the house—not at all an easy task, as a man who had spent his boyhood climbing around the upper reaches of ships and masts well knew. He admired the agility and skill of the rascal, even as he resolved to foil him.

The thief clambered onto a low roof and disappeared around a corner. Hugo followed, wincing at the slight clatter that Sultans hooves made on the cobbles. He hesitated, then slipped off his horse, tied him to a nearby lamp-post and ran into the narrow alleyway which bordered the house.

It was difficult to see the scoundrel. There was only the occasional flickering of movement against the grey stone of the house, the faint scrap of a foot on a slate tile. Then a shadow moved swiftly and lightly along the roof that ran along the back part of the house and for a moment, the scoundrel’s silhouette was clearly visible in the soft golden glow the gas lanterns cast against the night sky.

Hugo frowned at the silhouette; it was strange and yet somehow familiar. The intruder wore loose baggy clothing, shapeless pants and a baggy tunic. He wore some sort of cap on his head, and something flapped against his back. An elusive thread of memory twitched in Hugo’s mind, but he was entirely focussed on the thief’s actions and did not pursue the thought.

The thief leapt lightly off the roof and landed cat-footed, on all fours, balanced on the high stone wall which surrounded Pennington House. He swung his legs over the wall and prepared to drop down.

Hugo raced to intercept him. Just as the thief hit the ground, he threw himself forward in a tackle, catching the thief around the legs.

“Aiee-ya!” The thief kicked out, hard, breaking Hugo’s hold.

“Oof!” Hugo, winded, but determined, grabbed again at the intruder. They rolled on the filthy cobblestones and as he clutched at the loose baggy clothing, he caught a whiff of a scent: strong, foreign, familiar.

The thief was wearing a black skull-cap pulled down over his head and dark muffler wrapped around the lower part of his face. All Hugo could see were his eyes, glinting fiercely in the gaslight. He caught hold of a skinny arm and—

“Aiee-ya!” It was as if a blunt axe had landed on his wrist. Hugo swore and let go, and in a flash the thief pulled free, rolled away from him on the cobblestones and raced swiftly along the alley. A long black pigtail bounced lightly against his back as he ran.

Hugo scrambled to his feet and gave chase.

As he rounded a corner there was a flurry of hooves. He threw himself against a wall as a brown horse bore down on him, a small figure clinging nimbly to its back. Horse and rider passed under the gaslight and Hugo gasped in surprise.

The thief was a Chinaman. The cry he had used was peculiarly Chinese. Hugo had heard coolies use it abroad. He’d not expected to hear it in London. And the clothes were unmistakable—the typical loose baggy dark indigo pants and tunic, a round black embroidered cap and most obvious of all, the long black pigtail hanging down the length of the thief’s back, bouncing and flying as the horse rounded a corner and disappeared.

Of course! No wonder the silhouette had looked odd and yet familiar. And that was where he’d smelt that scent before—in a Chinese joss house! It was some kind of incense, sandalwood perhaps.

But good God! What would a Chinaman want with the secrets of an English Government member?

Panting slightly, rubbing his sore wrist and feeling rather foolish for having been bested by a man so much smaller and lighter than himself, Hugo limped back to the front door of Pennington House and braced himself to rouse the household.

He glanced up at the gas lamps at the front of the house. They were supposed to reduce crime in London; all they’d done was make it more difficult for him. The scarf had hidden most of the rascal’s face, but those damned gas-lamps distorted everything. He’d caught a glimpse of the thief’s eyes—but in them he’d seen only the reflected blue flames of the gaslight and whoever had heard of a blue-eyed Chinaman!

He gripped the knocker and pounded on the Penningtons’ front door.

“Miserable blinkin’ weather. I’d forgotten about the miserable blinkin’ weather. That’s London for you!”

Kit glanced at the sour countenance of her maid, who was peering gloomily out of the window.

“Rain, rain all the blinkin’ time—and then, when it does finally stop, what do you get?—blinkin’ fog! However did I stand it when I was young?”

Kit tried not to smile. “Never mind, Maggie dear, we need not stay here forever, you know.”

Maggie snorted and picked up the woollen stocking she had been darning. “You can’t gull me, Miss Mischief. You’ve always hankered after a home of your own, and now we’re finally home in England—”

“But that’s just it, Maggie,” Kit interrupted, frowning. “I’m not home. I wasn’t even born in England. I don’t belong here, any more than—”

“What do you mean, you’re not home? O’ course you’re home!”

Kit smiled a little ruefully. “No. I’m not. I have no family here—no family anywhere. I’m living amongst strangers here, just as I always have.”

“Nonsense! No family? What about your auntie? Miss Rose is—”

Kit blinked in surprise. “Maggie, I thought you realised.”

Maggie frowned. “Realised what?”

Kit pulled a wry face. “Rose is no aunt of mine. Papa had no kin. She is—or was—one of Papa’s friends. You’ve met a dozen of my �aunts’ before.”

Maggie frowned. “I dunno, Miss Kit, Miss Rose doesn’t seem like one of those types. Your pa was always interested in more, more…”

Kit smiled. “More glamorous females? Yes, but it has been more than twenty years since he last saw Rose. Much can change in that time and Rose may well have been quite a dasher in her youth—”

Maggie stopped her with an emphatic gesture. “We’ll not discuss your pa and his hussies. Scandalous, it was!” She lifted a long white frock in delicate muslin and carefully laid it on the bed. Come on, missie, let’s have you into this.” Tossing the gown over Kit’s freshly coiffed head, she turned her around, twitching the fabric into place, examining every inch of her critically. Her eyes softened at the sight of the young woman’s flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

“You’re enjoying this, ain’t you, Miss Kit?”

Kit blushed and looked a little self-conscious. “Yes, Maggie. I never dreamed it would be such fun to be a young girl again. To have nothing more to worry about than what to wear and who to dance with. And Miss Singleton is so very kind. I do not care what she may have done in the past, I have not experienced such kindness in…” She sighed, shook her head and drew on her gloves briskly. “Yes. It is very agreeable.”

Maggie looked at her searchingly. “You don’t think you might like to take the opportunity to get yourself a husband, lovie?”

Kit shook her head firmly. “It’s not what I came here to do.”

“Yes, but—”

“No, Maggie. I am here under false pretences. I couldn’t possibly deceive any man into offering for me. It is one thing for a man to offer for Miss Singleton’s poverty-stricken long-lost niece—though money seems to be so important here that I cannot imagine anyone doing such a thing. But to offer for a poverty-stricken unknown adventuress daughter of Miss Singleton’s former—” She broke off hurriedly. “Well! That’s a very different matter, at any rate. Any man knowing my true background is more likely to offer me a carte blanche than a ring, and you know I wouldn’t accept that.”

“I should hope not, indeed!”

Kit laughed. “Yes, Maggie dearest, your stuffy strait-lacing has certainly rubbed off on me.” She caught Maggie’s look and amended her statement. “Well, in most areas, at least. I cannot be expected to have inherited nothing at all from Papa, now can I?” She planted a light kiss on her maid’s rosy cheek.

Maggie bridled in pleased disapproval. “Oh, get away with you, Miss Baggage! I don’t approve and you know it—and I hope I know better than to try to change your mind after all these years, so dratted stubborn you can be—but you do know they hang people here, Miss Kit. Or transport them.”

“Yes, and they chopped people’s heads and hands off in China, but I still have both my bits, don’t I?” said Kit. “You need not worry,” she added soothingly. “It is only a small commission from Papa, and not at all dangerous.”

Maggie snorted. “Don’t try to gammon me, Miss Kit. I wish you’d just forget whatever it is your pa asked you to do. He never was careful enough of your welfare. Can you not forget all that nonsense now His Nibs has passed on?”

“Nonsense? Family honour is not nonsense,” said Kit. “In any case,” she added hurriedly, having almost forgotten her resolve to keep Maggie ignorant of her doings, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am merely preparing to attend a ball. Now—”

Maggie sniffed. “Won’t break a promise, will you? And he knew it, drat the man!” she added under her breath. “I’ll say no more, for I was never one to waste breath in trying to change what can’t be changed.”

“Yes, and we must hurry, or I shall be late for this ball. Now, where is that shawl, the embroidered gauze one? I have a mind it will go perfectly with this gown.”

Grumbling under her breath, Maggie fetched the embroidered white-on-white gauze shawl and draped it carefully around her mistress’s shoulders. She stood back, examined Kit with a critical eye, and sighed heavily. “Aye, ’tis bonny you look, right enough, though I wish you’d wear something other than white. It does bring out that dratted brown colour in your skin.”

Kit laughed. “Oh, pooh! I am no longer brown at all—in fact, I think I look sadly pale. But there, that is the fashion, I suppose. And my gown must be white, dearest Maggie. I am supposed to be a girl just emerged from the schoolroom—naturally I must wear white.”

She ignored the maid’s snort and searchingly examined her face in the looking glass. “I do look like a young girl, do I not, Maggie? My twenty years do not show too much, do they?”

“No, Miss Kit. T’aint natural,” the maid said gloomily. “You look barely eighteen—even younger when you smile.”

“Good,” said her mistress briskly. “I must remember to smile more often then. Now hand me my cloak, if you please, or I will keep this new �aunt’ of mine waiting in the hallway, and that would never do.”

Kit hurried down the stairs. She found Aunt Rose patiently waiting in the hallway below.

“Ah, there you are, dear,” called Rose. “I hope that cloak you are wearing is warmer than it looks. The evening is chillier than I expected and, you know, that mausoleum of Fanny Parsons’s is as cold as a tomb, and she never heats it properly. I blame that husband of hers,” she added darkly. “The Parsons have always been shocking pinch-pennies, but he is by far the worst of them. I have had to put on three petticoats—three!—and I am sure I shall still catch a chill.” She shivered and hugged a slightly tatty fur cloak around her.

Kit could not help smiling down at the middle-aged woman as she descended the stairs. It was a little cool, but to hear her speak, one would think it about to snow.

“Aunt Rose’ was slender, almost wraithlike, with a pale, faded sort of prettiness about her—rather different to the bold good looks her father had favoured in women. And, far from being fashionable, she was generally dressed rather dowdily and, being so susceptible to drafts, always with a great many scarves and shawls trailing about her person.

And yet, despite the faded looks, despite the dowdy clothes and the vagueness, there was a definite sort of something about Rose Singleton, a certain unconscious air of ton that even the best looking and most fashionably dressed of her father’s other female friends had lacked.

Kit supposed that this was why her father had chosen to send her to Rose Singleton instead of anyone else. The surprise was that Miss Singleton had agreed to take her. In fact, she must still have harboured some warm feeling towards Kit’s father, for she had embraced Kit on her arrival in England quite as if she really were her long-lost niece.

“Ah, you are wearing pearls, my love. Very suitable,” said Rose. “I must remember to compliment your maid. So many girls in your position would be quite unable to resist the temptation to drape themselves with stones until they look exactly like a chandelier and I do so think diamonds are unsuited to a young girl. Pretty, of course, but so hard. Pearls, now, are much more suitable for an ingenue.’

“Diamonds, Aunt? There is no danger of me wearing diamonds, I assure you!” Kit could not help the choke of laughter that escaped her. Diamonds! It had been as much as Kit could manage to purchase one set of good quality fake pearls before her arrival in England. Diamonds, even paste ones, were beyond her budget.

Miss Singleton looked her over approvingly. “Yes, my dear. Very wise of you. One would not wish to appear vulgar.”

“No, Aunt Rose,” said Kit demurely. What on earth did she mean, girls in your position? A vague allusion to her imposture? If so, it would be a first. Rose Singleton could be quite determinedly vague at times, particularly when it came to avoiding subjects she did not wish to discuss. But she had been so kind and generous, Kit would not for the world distress her by referring to anything the lady wished to avoid.

She assisted the footmen to hand Rose into the coach, tuck a fur rug around her and adjust the heated bricks under her feet and then sat back, agreeably warm herself, while the coach rumbled over the cobblestones. She had learned to enjoy small pleasures while she had them.

Outside, the night was clear and bright. The coach pulled up outside the Parsonses’ town house, a grand old building, a little on the fantastical side and much embellished with Corinthian columns and odd Gothic gargoyles. It was lit, not only by gas lamps, but by flaming brands held aloft by liveried men.

Kit stepped from the coach and turned to assist Rose down. She felt a thrill of pleasure and anticipation. Tonight she would not think of anything except the ball. Tonight she would let herself be the carefree young girl everyone thought her and enjoy all the pleasures London society had to offer.

No doubt she would pay for it later, but then, that was life.

“Is this not delightful?” whispered a young girl sitting next to Kit. “I never thought there would be so many people. I have never been to a ball in London before,” she added confidingly.

Kit smiled. “Yes, it is quite new to me also.”

“Are not the ladies’ gowns beautiful?”

“Yes, very,” Kit agreed. “So many beautiful colours.”

“Kit, my dear, here is Lord Norwood, wishing to be allowed to dance with you. Give him your card, my dear,” said Rose, smiling meaningfully at Kit.

Thomas, Lord Norwood, bowed punctiliously over her hand. His fair hair was elaborately pomaded and carefully coaxed into the “Nonpareil’ style. He wore knee breeches of a nice shade of biscuit, a heavily embroidered waistcoat and a coat which fitted tightly across narrow shoulders; his shirt points were so high and so heavily starched he could barely turn his head. His neckcloth was a complicated affair involving several knots and loops. Added to this was a collection of fobs, pins and a quizzing glass. All in all, Lord Norwood appeared the very epitome of a dandy.

Kit handed her card over, hiding her reluctance. She had been hinting Lord Norwood away for several days now, but he seemed utterly impervious to her hints. She was not sure whether it was impregnable self-consequence which enabled him to overlook her indifference, or whether he had some other motive for making her the unwilling object of his attentions—a wager or some such. For unwilling she was: her plans did not allow for friendships of any sort, male or female. Her promise to her father was her paramount concern.

Lord Norwood scribbled his name on her card, bowed gracefully and handed it back, saying in world-weary accents, “Miss Singleton, my night is complete. The joy of securing my name on your dance card is all I have hoped for, or even dreamed of.”

Kit smiled sweetly. “Does this mean we do not actually need to dance, then, now that your name is safely on my card?”

He blinked in surprise, then laughed indulgently. “Such pretty wit,” he murmured. “I look forward to our dance.” He bowed again and disappeared into the throng.

“You are so lucky,” whispered the girl next to her. “He is very handsome.”

“Mmm, yes,” agreed Kit. “He is handsome.”

“And he dresses so beautifully.”

“Yes.”

“I think he likes you,” the girl whispered coyly.

“No,” said Kit thoughtfully. “I don’t think he does. I must confess I am quite at a loss to know what he sees in me at all.” She frowned as she noticed Lord Norwood disappear into one of the anterooms. It was one of the rooms reserved for those who wished to play cards, rather than dance.

“Oh, but—” began the girl.

Kit smiled quickly. “No, no. Take no notice of my foolishness,” she said. “I have a touch of the headache, that is all. I am sure Lord Norwood is everything you say he is. And I am very lucky to have been asked to dance with him. Now, I have been meaning to say, ever since you sat down, what a very pretty dress you are wearing. And such an interesting reticule. Wherever did you get it?”

Successfully distracted, the girl entered into a discussion of clothes and the various shops she and her mama had searched to obtain just the right fabric. As she extolled the delights of the Pantheon Bazaar, Kit’s attention wandered.

Lord Norwood was not the only man who had shown Kit a degree of flattering attention and her unexpected popularity disturbed her. It was not as if she was anything out of the ordinary—at least, she was, but nobody in London knew about her unconventional background, so as far as appearances went, she looked very much the part of any young lady making her come-out.

And it wasn’t as if she was beautiful or anything; there were many much prettier and more attractive girls who had been brought out that season, not to mention several diamonds of the first water. Kit had planned to move through London society with barely a ripple, attracting little notice. Anonymity was vital to the success of her plans. To this end she had tried to ensure that her personality, in public at least, appeared fairly bland and colourless. And she had certainly made no effort to attract male attention; in fact, she had tried very hard to deflect it.

And yet almost from the date of her arrival in London, she had been solicited to dance, invited to go driving, had flowers sent to her, and so on. Even the ladies had been exceptionally friendly, inviting her to soirees, musical afternoons, for walks in the park, to balls, routs and pleasure expeditions; in short, to all the many social events on the calendar of the London ton.

All this, for an unknown girl, sponsored into society by her not particularly distinguished “aunt”. Perhaps this was the reason people referred to “polite society”…?

“He’s just come in and don’t you think, Miss Singleton, that he’s the most elegant-looking man you’ve ever seen?”

Kit glanced across to where her young friend was looking. A knot of people stood in the entrance, exchanging greetings. Only one man stood out of the crowd, as far as Kit was concerned; a tall dark man in severely cut evening clothes. Elegant would certainly describe the clothes, Kit thought, but as for the man himself…

He stood out like a battle-scarred tomcat in a sea of well-fed tabbies. Tall, lean, rangy, sombre. Detached. A little wary and yet certain of his prowess. His eyes ranged over the colourful throng. Kit wished she could see the expression in them. His very stance expressed the view that he could not care the snap of his fingers for the lot of them.

He looked more like a predator than a guest.

His hair was dark, midnight dark and thick, she thought, though cropped quite brutally close; not quite the Windswept, not quite the Brutus. A style of his own, Kit thought, or perhaps he disdained to follow fashion.

She wondered who he was. He did not seem to fit in this colourful, pleasure-seeking crowd. He stood, a man apart. Indifferent.

His face was unfashionably bronzed, the bones beneath the skin sculpted fine and hard. A long aquiline nose, just slightly off centre. A long lean jaw ending in a square, unyielding chin.

Not elegant: arresting.

His mouth was firm, resolute, unsmiling. She wondered what it would take to make him smile.

A woman hastened to greet him: their hostess, Lady Fanny Parsons. Kit watched him bend over her hand. He was not a man accustomed to bowing—oh, he was graceful enough, but there was a certain hesitation, she noticed, a careless indifference.

Lady Fanny was laughing and flirting. As Kit watched, the man shrugged a pair of very broad shoulders. The hard mouth quirked in a self-deprecatory grimace. She wondered what they were discussing.

“Miss Singleton?” came the youthful voice at her elbow. “Is he not the most divinely beautiful man you have ever seen?”

Kit blinked. Elegant she could accept. Striking, certainly. Even a little intimidating. But divinely beautiful? Never.

She turned to her young friend, only to find her looking at some other, quite different man, a very pretty young fellow in a pale blue velvet coat, striped stockings and pantaloons of the palest primrose. Sir Primrose had been standing beside her man of darkness, Kit realised. She wanted to ask her young friend if she knew who the dark stranger was. Such a distinctive man would surely be well known.

“Who is—?”

But he had disappeared.

Just then, Lord Norwood came to claim his dance with Kit. And soon the music started and Kit was too busy dancing to think of anything except the delightful sensation of being a young girl at a fine London ball.

She would think about the tall dark man later.

“Hugo Devenish! How very unexpected,” gushed Lady Fanny Parsons, surging forward in a froth of satin and lace. “I was certain you would ignore my invitation as you usually do, you wicked man.”

“Ignore you? Never, Lady Fanny.” Hugo bent over the hand she offered him. “’Tis just that I am so rarely in Town.”

Lady Fanny laughed and rapped him playfully with her fan. “And I hear you have been doing battle with frightfully dangerous criminals, you hero, you! So brave, such a risk you took. I heard the latest fellow was a desperate great ruffian armed to the teeth!”

Hugo quirked an ironic brow. “Rumour does me too much honour. It was a small, unarmed Chinaman.”

“A Chinaman! Good Heavens! I hadn’t heard that! What on earth would a Chinaman be doing breaking into the Pennington house—?”

“Black pearls are highly prized in the far east, I have heard.”

“Of course, the famous Pennington Black Pearls! Poor Eliza is just devastated, you know, and her husband is furious! An heirloom. Worth an absolute king’s ransom!”

Hugo nodded. “Yes, I was unable to save them, unfortunately.”

“Oh, but think how much worse it could have been if you hadn’t disturbed the blackguard!”

Hugo shrugged, but said nothing. He had already explained to Pennington that he felt the thief had already completed his depredations when Hugo arrived.

“Oh, you are so wonderfully modest, dear Hugo. I am so glad you are here—you can protect me tonight, in case any nasty Oriental thieves break in.” Lady Fanny giggled girlishly and rapped his arm with her fan again.

Hugo bowed again, then took his leave of Lady Fanny and made a leisurely way across the crowded room to where a lady had been glaring at him since his arrival.

“What the devil has brought you to London just now, Hugo?” said Lady Norwood, leading him into a small anteroom.

Hugo observed her coolly. “I was under the impression that you had written me no fewer than eleven missives, stating in terms of utmost urgency that you required my immediate attendance.”

“Yes, but I wrote you at least six more after that telling you most expressly not to come!”

He smiled and raised a glass of champagne to his lips. “Yes, that is what decided me. I arrived this afternoon and when I presented myself in Portland Place, your butler informed me you were attending Fanny Parsons’s ball. And since Fanny had sent me a card…”

Lady Norwood stamped a foot. “Well, it is most inconvenient of you. I beg you will return to Yorkshire tomorrow morning without delay. Your presence is not needed here any longer, and to be frank, Hugo, you are very much in the way.”

Her late husband’s half-brother did not seem at all perturbed by her hostility. He shrugged. “You wrote to me that you were in grave distress.”

“Oh! Yes. Well, I was. I have been so frightfully worried about Thomas, you see.”

“About Thomas?” He regarded her with faint disbelief.

“But I have, Hugo, you have no reason to look at me like that.” She pouted winsomely in his direction. “You know what a doting mother I am, and oh! the cares of motherhood.” She sighed soulfully.

Hugo, displaying a lamentable lack of gallantry, did not respond. She peeped a glance at him through her downcast lashes. His expression was cynical.

“Dibs not in tune, eh, Amelia? Too bad. You’ll not get a penny from me, so you may as well give up the play-acting.”

Amelia abandoned her soulful mien. “You are nothing but a penny-pinching clutchfist, Hugo!”

Looking bored, Hugo strolled to the doorway and observed the dancers currently engaged in a cotillion.

His sister-in-law was not fooled by this apparent interest in his fellow guests. She glared at his back. The sight he presented did not at all meet her fastidious standards. His hair was cropped far too short and was not coaxed into a modish style, but simply brushed back from his brow. His shirtpoints were starched, but not high enough to be fashionable; his neckcloth was so plain as to be an affront to any person of taste. His coat fitted him perfectly, but it was of such a dark shade that it made him look almost as if he was in mourning, particularly in combination with his black pantaloons.

The entire effect was too sombre for words, but Amelia was forced to concede that his attire, at least, did not disgrace his family. It was the man himself who was the problem.

Those shoulders…She shuddered. More suited to a labourer than a gentleman. And his skin, which he’d carelessly allowed the sun and wind to darken to an unfashionable brown colour. She glanced at the hands holding the wineglass and sniffed. He could have worn gloves, at least! Those hands—tanned, and covered with nicks and scars—a shameful testament to a youth spent in manual labour.

She averted her gaze from her brother-in-law’s offending person and concentrated on his miserly habits.

“Not everyone enjoys a life of monkish isolation and deprivation, Hugo. We have expenses, Thomas and I. The life of a fashionable person costs a great deal. You—” She cast a disparaging glance over his plain clothing. “You would have no idea of the demands on a gentleman’s purse.”

The faint, disparaging emphasis on the word “gentleman” did not escape Hugo. But these days he was indifferent to it. His mother had been old Lord Norwood’s second wife, an heiress, with the stigma of trade attached to her. And Hugo was only the second son, after all, and with the blood of “dammed tradesmen” in his veins.

Lady Norwood continued, “In any case, as Lord Norwood, Thomas has a position to maintain, and he has every right to the fruits of his inheritance! You have no business denying—”

“Thomas’s inheritance, madam,” interrupted Hugo in a blighting tone, “was a shamefully neglected estate, a crumbling manor house, mortgaged to the hilt and falling apart with disrepair and a mountain of debts to go with them! The fact that Thomas was left anything at all was no thanks to my father and my half-brother, but to whichever far-seeing ancestor of ours established the entail which prevented them gambling away every square inch of land.”

Amelia squirmed, uncomfortably. “Yes, I know, but that is all in the past, after all. And everything has changed now, and you have returned and can—” She broke off as she glanced at him and saw the look in his eye.

She pouted and fiddled with her rings. “Well, I’m sure I am sorry about what happened to you, but it is not as if you suffered too badly—”

“You know nothing about it, madam.”

“Possibly not, but I can see you are very far from purse-pinched, after all. From all I have heard, I’m sure you could pay Thomas’s debts, and mine, and barely even notice it. We are family, after all.” She did not meet his eyes.

His lips thinned, and he inclined his head. “Indeed. Such…belated…family feeling does you honour, I am sure. But I am not going to pay Thomas’s debts. Nor yours.”

“No, you will not assist us in any way—”

“I towed this family from the River Tick, madam, if you care to recall. And I have expressed myself more than willing to teach Thomas how to manage his estate and—”

“Oh, yes—you would make of him a tradesman like yourself!” Amelia sniffed scornfully. “How Thomas would ever find himself a decent bride with the stench of trade about him I declare I don’t know!”

Hugo stared indifferently at the wall above her head.

“If you truly wished to help Thomas, you could settle a sum on him and then you need never worry about us again, but no! You will do nothing so straightforward! I think you enjoy having the power over us that you do!”

Hugo’s brows snapped together. There was an element of truth in her accusation, he realised. Not that he wanted power, but Thomas and Amelia’s constant requests for money gave him some faint feeling of being part of a family. It was a pathetic thing to realise about oneself, he thought.

“It would please me very well if I never had to see you or Thomas again.” Hugo drained his glass of wine. “I would be delighted to be able to wash my hands of the boy, but he is my only relative, after all, and I have a duty to him.”

“Well, then, why will you not—?”

“My duty is to ensure that Thomas learns not to get himself into the same spiral of gambling and debt that his forebears did!”

“How dare you sneer at my son’s forebears—they were, at least, all gentlemen born!”

“And gentlemen born live in debt, is that it? Thank God I had some common blood, in that case. No—we shall not brangle over the past.” He stood up and made for the door. “You have my last word on it, Amelia; you and Thomas must learn to live on your income, or find someone else to frank your vowels.”

“Well, and so we shall if only you will go back to Yorkshire!” hissed Amelia waspishly. “You could not have come to London at a worse time!”

Mr Devenish turned. “What do you mean?”

“Thomas and I have found a solution to all our difficulties, and if you would just take yourself away, we will bring the whole thing off.”

“What solution?”

She did not reply, but concentrated instead on examining a small, dark oil painting.

“What solution, Amelia?” he repeated in a deep, commanding voice.

Amelia tossed her head and looked mutinous. Her half-brother-in-law waited, his silent gaze boring into her.

“Oh, very well, if you must know, Thomas is taking the same solution as your father did for his difficulties. But the girl is proving very lukewarm and he will not be able to bring it off if you blunder in with your jumped-up tradesman’s blood and your ugly labourer’s hands, trumpeting your connections with us. You know they always want titles and the bluest of blood!” She sat down on her chair again in a flounce of silk.

“Who always want titles and the bluest of blood?” Hugo’s rather hard grey eyes narrowed. “You don’t mean Thomas has decided to marry an heiress?”

“Yes. Of course, he is far too young to have to make such a terrible sacrifice, but if you will persist in being so frightfully clutchfisted…”

Hugo considered her announcement. It may not be such a bad solution, he thought. With the right bride, Thomas may be induced to learn to control his ruinous habits.

As his financial advisor and uncle, Hugo could reasonably be expected to have an influence in the drawing up of the marriage settlements. He would ensure that the bride and any children she had would be protected from the results of Thomas’s extravagance. It might work, he thought. It all depended on the bride.

“So, who is this heiress?” he said mildly.

Amelia, obviously relieved by his calm acceptance of the news, sat forward excitedly on her chair. “Well, of course, nothing has been settled yet—and it probably won’t be unless you go back to Yorkshire immediately and not breathe a word to a soul!—but she has a diamond mine! She is—” Amelia’s smooth complexion glowed in triumph “—a nabob’s daughter!”

Hugo frowned. “Which nabob? I’ve heard of no new nabob in town.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at him. “It is not generally known. Anyway, there is no nabob—”

“But I thought—”

“He is dead, at any rate, and a good thing too, I say, for nabobs are invariably loud and vulgar—the stench of trade is alwa—” She broke off. “Not that there is any question of vulgarity—the girl is quite sweet and demure, but it is providential that she is an orphan, at any rate. Thomas will have complete control of all her money from the start.”

Hugo’s frown remained. “I have heard of no new heiress. Who is she?”

Amelia pouted. “Well, but if you must know—not that it is at all your business!—it is the Singleton girl.”

“The Singleton girl!” Hugo looked appalled. “You cannot be serious!”

She nodded.

“Good God! I had no idea the boy was so desperate! Rose Singleton is as old as you are!”

“Rose Singleton? She is not! She’s forty, if she’s a day!—you forget I was the veriest child-bride! Why, Rose has been on the shelf for years and years. But what has Rose Singleton’s age—you don’t mean you thought—?” Amelia stared at him in stupefaction. Then she burst out laughing. “Rose Singleton? And Thomas?’

“To my knowledge the only unmarried female among the Singletons is Rose,” said Hugo, with some asperity,

“You have forgotten the long-lost Singletons,” said Amelia matter-of-factly, applying a wisp of lace to her eyes.

Hugo frowned. “I didn’t know there were any long lost Singletons.”

“No, nor did I. But then this girl arrived, and Rose is bringing her out, and oh, Hugo, with a diamond mine, she is exactly what Thomas was looking for!” She tucked the handkerchief back in her reticule.

Hugo ignored that. “A long-lost Singleton, and a nabob’s daughter…You did say she was a lady?”

“Well, naturally there is the trade connection, but of course she is a lady, Hugo, else Thomas would not wed the girl!” Amelia said indignantly. “The girl herself is an orphan and the father is safely dead, so he cannot return to embarrass anyone. And there is a diamond mine!”

“Yes…the diamond mine,” Hugo murmured. “You’ve had her investigated, of course.”

Amelia shrugged. “She is bound to have vulgar connections, so what is the point?”

Hugo sighed. “Her financial background, I meant.”

“Do you never believe a thing anyone tells you?” Amelia snapped crossly.

He bowed over her hand and strode towards the door. “Not usually. I find I prefer to ascertain the truth for myself, wherever possible. If she is as wealthy as you say, it would be an obvious solution for Thomas’s difficulties. I have numerous connections with the East India Company, so—”

“Not India. New South Wales.”

Hugo came to a sudden halt. He swung around, staring at his sister-in-law in blank disbelief. “New South Wales? What do you mean, New South Wales?”

“The mine is in New South Wales.”

“A diamond mine in a convict settlement?”

Amelia looked puzzled. “And what is wrong with that, pray? I have heard tell New South Wales is very large.”

He snorted. “A diamond mine in a penal colony! Lord, imagine the problems—every rag-tag thief and criminal would be committing crimes in the hope of transportation to Botany Bay and a fortune in diamonds. The courts would be even more flooded than they already are. No, no, you are mistaken there, Amelia.”

“No, I am not. She quite definitely came from New South Wales—I am not stupid, you know Hugo!”

“A diamond mine in New South Wales!” he repeated scornfully. “Such a thing could not exist.”

She pursed her lips in annoyance. “Obviously you wish it did not!” she said waspishly. “But apparently they have only quite recently crossed some impossible mountain range into the unknown interior, so who is to say there are no diamonds there? Certainly not a man who buries himself in rural fastness for most of the year and is odiously selfish the rest of the time!”

“The whole tale sounds too smoky by half to me.”

Amelia shrugged pettishly.

“I would be very interested to meet the owner of a New South Wales diamond mine,” Hugo said slowly.

Amelia glared at him. “This is nothing to do with you, Hugo! If you want Thomas to be settled comfortably, then take yourself back to Yorkshire! I won’t have you meddling and putting the girl off our family.”

“I gather she is here tonight.”

Amelia hesitated, then shook her head in dramatic emphasis. “No, no, she didn’t come.”

“That little dark creature Thomas was attempting to hide from me on the dance floor?”

“No, no, no! It is not her at all—that is some other girl! A completely different girl.”

Hugo smiled. Her feverish denial confirmed his suspicions. “I think it is incumbent on me, as Thomas’s only male relative, to meet the girl, at least.” He strode towards the door.

“Hugo, you will not approach this girl, do you hear me?” Amelia shrieked. “I forbid it! You will ruin everything!”




Chapter Two


“Miss Singleton.”

Kit jumped and hurriedly turned. There was still the odd occasion where, if distracted, it slipped her mind that she was now Miss Singleton.

A tall dark-haired gentleman stood at her elbow, frowning thoughtfully down at her. The impressive-looking man she had noticed earlier. Heavens! Up close he was even more impressive. Bigger. Darker. Colder. Examining her with a curious mixture of frigid intensity and detachment.

Kit’s heart started beating rapidly. She swallowed.

The grey eyes met her gaze coldly. A frisson of dГ©jГ -vu passed through her.

Who was he? Why was he staring at her in that way? Did he know her from somewhere?

“Will you honour me with a dance, Miss Singleton?”

It was not a request, but a demand, snapped out in an arrogant, care-for-nobody tone. Kit did not care for it. She lifted her chin and rewarded the gentleman with a frosty look and a disdainfully raised eyebrow. She was not supposed to talk to anyone she had not been introduced to.

“Yes, of course she will,” Aunt Rose responded for her. Rose must have introduced them, Kit realised belatedly, but she hadn’t caught it. Rose smiled, nodded approvingly at Kit and drifted off towards the card room.

Kit silently held out her card. His dark head bent as he scrawled his name on it, and she peered surreptitiously to try to catch the name, without success. His hands were large, square, long-fingered and well-shaped. Oddly, they were scarred and nicked in a number of places. London gentlemen took great care of their hands; some had skin almost as soft as Kit’s—softer, in fact, for she’d had occasion to work hard at times.

Interesting. This man seemed to flaunt his imperfections…no, not quite flaunt, he seemed indifferent to them. Or was it people’s opinion of him he was indifferent to?

She leaned back a little and allowed her gaze to run over him.

Up close he still retained that aura of aloneness. He made no small talk. He simply claimed her for a dance. He was either a little shy in the company of women, or very arrogant.

His eyes flicked up suddenly, as if aware of her scrutiny. He held her gaze a long, hard moment, then he dropped his gaze back to the card. Kit fought a blush. Whatever else he was, he was not shy of women.

His eyes were grey, though of such a grey as to be almost blue, although that could have been caused by the dark blue coat superbly cut to mould across his equally superb shoulders.

Kit had not seen such shoulders on a London gentleman before. Like the mandarin class of China, the pashas of Turkey, and the highest castes of India and Java, the members of the ton strove to appear as if they had never had to lift anything heavier than a spoon—and a gold or silver spoon, at that.

Fashionable London might believe a gentleman should not have the build of a stevedore, but Kit could find no fault with it. London gentlemen padded their shoulders to achieve the correct shape, but if she was given the choice between muscles or padding…Unfashionable it might be, but such shoulders could rather tempt a girl to…to think thoughts she had no business thinking, she told herself severely.

He had not the look of a man who’d had an easy life, not like many she’d met in the salons of the ton. He was not old—perhaps thirty or so—but lines of experience were graven into his face, and his mouth was set in an implacable unsmiling line. It was rather a nice mouth, set under a long aquiline nose and a square, stubborn-looking chin.

Kit wondered again what he would look like if he smiled.

His manner intrigued her. There was a faintly ruthless air about him, and the thought crossed her mind that he might be the sort of man Rose Singleton had warned her was dangerous to a young girl’s sensibilities. Certainly he was most attractive, if not precisely handsome. And yet he was making no effort to ingratiate himself or to fascinate her. Kit was fairly sure that a rake would try both, else how would he succeed in his rakishness?

He had made no effort to charm her. His manner was more…She searched for a word to describe it and, to her surprise, came up with the word businesslike. Yes, his manner towards her was businesslike. How very odd.

A thought suddenly occurred to her. Was he doing the rounds of the Marriage Mart in search of a wife? Some men did approach marriage as a business…

Kit swallowed and firmly repressed the thought. She was not here, like the other girls, to find a husband. She was here to fulfil her promise to Papa, her vow to retrieve the family honour. She was not interested in so much as looking at any man, unless it furthered her plan.

Still, this man was most impressive, most intriguing. And she certainly looked forward to dancing with him. She had spent the evening dancing with effete aristocrats and an occasional elderly friend of Rose Singleton’s—this man was like no man she had ever met before.

He looked up, frowned, thrust her card back into her hand and strode off, very much with the air of a man who had done his duty. She glanced down. His thick black writing dominated her dance card, claiming not just one dance but two. The second one, the waltz, was the supper dance. So, he wished to take her in to supper, did he?

It was all most intriguing. She still had not the faintest idea who he was. What was his name? His name stood out against the others pencilled on the white card. A heavy black scrawl. She frowned at it. It looked uncannily like the word devil. How very melodramatic.

She watched his retreat across the ballroom with narrowed eyes. He still looked, to her eyes, out of place in a ballroom, but she wasn’t quite sure why. His attire was severe but extremely elegant and obviously expensive, from his dark blue, long-tailed coat to his black knee-breeches.

Fastened in among the snowy fold of his cravat was a cunningly wrought gold tie pin; an exquisitely crafted bird, resting in what looked like a nest of flames, its ruby eye glinting. It was a phoenix, the fabled bird of ancient Egypt, who was destroyed by fire. But then a new bird rose, fully fledged, from the ashes of the old.

A most unusual piece. She wondered whether he had chosen the pin for the significance of the design, or merely because it was pretty. He didn’t look the sort to be attracted by the merely pretty.

Who was the man? Why did he feel somehow familiar to her? And why, out of all the young girls arrayed in white, had he asked her to dance? For she had seen him ask no one else.

If he had approached her with an eye to a possible bride, he was surely unique, for he’d barely glanced at her, except for that one icy, searing glance. Kit knew from her past experience that whatever the culture, men generally showed a great deal of interest in the physical attributes of the women they took to wife. In some places she had lived, even the woman’s teeth were inspected as a matter of course—not that Kit would stand for being inspected like a horse at market! But a little interest would not have gone astray.

Kit watched as he inclined his head ironically to someone on the other side of the room. She followed the direction of his gaze. An elegant woman in an exquisite lilac silk gown glared at him, stamped her foot and turned her back on him. Kit recognised the woman: Lady Norwood, the mother of Lord Norwood.

Kit wrinkled her brow in perplexion as Lady Norwood, exuding indignation with every step, stamped away to join her cronies, leaving the tall dark man to saunter away into the crowd. What on earth was all that about?

Lady Norwood was a widow, notorious, according to Rose, for keeping company with rakes and ne’er-do-wells. Was the tall man one of her companions? Had they had a falling out?

Rake or ne’er-do-well? He did not seem to fit either description. He seemed more like a big dark arrogant watch-dog; a little fierce, a little harsh, a little cold. But watchdogs guarded things. And people. Who or what was he guarding?

And why was Lady Norwood so angry with him?

She was not quite sure how she felt, but there was no doubt about one thing; she felt more alive than ever. The simple evening of pleasure before her had suddenly turned into a most intriguing event.

“Devenish, old fellow. Didn’t think to find you in Town. Thought you preferred rustification—know I do.”

The blunt, loud voice came from just behind Kit. She turned her head but could not observe the speaker. She was resting between dances, sipping a glass of sweet ratafia, while her partner went to fetch her an ice. Her seat was next to a pillar draped with netting and twined with drooping greenery; on the other side of the pillar, two men stood talking.

“Shockin’ly dull affair, ain’t it? If I’d realised there was going to be so many of the infantry invited, I wouldn’t have come. Lord! When did marriage-bait get to be so young—tell me that, Dev?”

The other man laughed wryly. “I’m afraid it is not the debutantes who are getting younger, Marsden, but—”

Marsden! Her father had mentioned a Marsden…Kit wriggled closer, eavesdropping unashamedly.

“Devil take you, don’t say it, man! Bad enough to realise I’ve been fifteen years leg-shackled—fifteen years—can you credit it?” Marsden sighed audibly. “Reason I’m come to the Metropolis—promised the lady wife I’d escort her, celebrate the event in London—celebration! At one of Fanny Parsons’s balls—commiseration more like!” He added coaxingly, “I say, old man, you wouldn’t care to slip out for a while and pop in to White’s for a rubber of whist?”

His companion laughed. “A tempting thought—but no, I cannot. I am engaged for the next waltz.”

“Good Gad! Who with?” asked Marsden bluntly. “Never took you for a caper merchant, Dev.” There was a short pause. “Never say you’re going to dance with one of those fillies in white—don’t do it, man! Don’t get yourself leg-shackled!”

His companion snorted. “Were I in the market for a wife—which I am not—I would not put myself down for a waltz with a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation.”

Kit listened to the two men laughing and frowned. Many of her fellow ingenues were a little dull but it was not their fault. It must be very difficult to be one moment in the schoolroom and the next expected to entertain sophisticated men of the world.

“Then what possessed you to ask one o’ these chits to dance? And a waltz, too. You’ll set the match-makin’ mamas in a devil of flutter you know, and—”

“Calm yourself, Marsden. I am here on a matter concerning my half-brother’s boy.”

“Young Norwood? You mean he is—? Oh, well, that’s all right then. Probably suit him, marriage. Chasin’ a fortune, no doubt, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”

Kit stiffened. Norwood! If Norwood was his heir, then who was this Devenish she had been listening to? She pressed closer into the flowers and peered around the column. It was her tall watchdog! Not Devil, but Devenish—of course! She should have realised it sooner.

Then it dawned on her. His name was down in her card for the next waltz. She was the chit with more hair than conversation! Kit unclenched her teeth and took a sip of her ratafia. It tasted flat and oversweet. She set the glass aside with something of a snap. It was one thing to masquerade as a naïve young girl—it was another to be called a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation! She stiffened further as she caught the tail end of a sentence.

“…I’m still the boy’s trustee for a few more years, so if he is considering marriage, it’s wise to look her over.”

Look her over! As if she was a horse or something! If he tried to inspect her teeth, she’d bite him!

“It won’t take me long to ascertain what I need from the girl…”

Oh, won’t it, indeed! Kit thought rebelliously. So Lord Norwood was chasing a fortune, was he? And his mother was sending the family watchdog to inspect Kit Singleton—ha! Well, they were certainly barking up the wrong tree if they thought Kit Singleton would bring anyone a fortune. She could set them straight in a moment on that!

But she wouldn’t! That description of her rankled. She had an irresistible desire to teach the Watchdog a lesson about judging books by their covers. If Mr Devenish had decided Kit Singleton was a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation, then who was Kit Singleton to contradict him?

She felt a pleasurable frisson at the prospect of their dance. It would be quite soon.

“So, Miss Singleton, are you enjoying your come-out?” Mr Devenish swung her around masterfully.

Kit kept her eyes demurely lowered. He was by far the best dancer she had ever danced with and his shoulders more than lived up to their promise—the sensation of twirling in his arms was delicious.

It was very clear, however, that he was unused to conversing with very young ladies; he had made no attempt to charm her and his version of polite small talk was rather like being questioned by customs officers at the border. And as the dance continued, his tone, to Kit’s immense pleasure, was progressing rapidly towards that of one addressing a simpleton.

“Your come-out, Miss Singleton,” he rapped out again with a faint touch of impatience. “Are you enjoying it?”

She murmured something indistinguishable to his waistcoat, managing, just, to keep a straight face. As a chit with more hair than wit, she was making him work very hard for his conversation. She’d barely responded to his questions, and such responses she had uttered were given in a shy whisper.

Her tactics quite forced Mr Devenish to bend his head continuously towards her simple but elegant coiffure. Thus, he was well able to compare the amount of hair she had with the meagre wisps of conversation which had drifted up to him from the region of his waistcoat. And her hair was very short—she’d cut it all off in the heat of Batavia. Still, definitely more hair than wit…

“Did you say you were enjoying it, or not? I didn’t quite catch your response.”

“Oh, yeth,” murmured Kit. She was not certain where the lisp came from, but it seemed perfect for the character she had adopted, the simpleton he thought her. She had not yet looked him in the eye. Innocent debutantes were often bashful and shy. Miss Kit Singleton was the shyest and most bashful imaginable.

It was working beautifully. Mr Devenish had very good, if brusque, manners, but there was a growing note of asperity to his questions.

“You have not been in London long. I understand you arrived recently from New South Wales?”

So far she had offered him no fewer than seven “yeths” in a row. She expanded her conversational repertoire dramatically. “Oh, New Thouth Waleth ith a long way from here,” she murmured to his phoenix tie-pin. He really was very tall.

“And was your father an officer there?”

Kit managed a quiver and a sob without losing her step. “My papa ith…ith…dead.”

Above her head, Devenish rolled his eyes and danced grimly on, silently cursing the length of these wretched Viennese dances. It was worse than he had expected—getting information out of this little dullard was like getting blood out of a stone. Lord knew what his nephew saw in her. A man needed more in a wife than a pretty face or a fortune.

Not that she was all that pretty—oh, she was well enough; small, dark-haired, which was the fashion just now, and passable enough features—a straight little nose, a curiously squared-off chin and slender arching dark brows set over a pair of very speaking blue eyes. Yes, the eyes were her best feature…so very blue…

But Lord! If he had to look at that vapid smile and listen to those simpering “yeths” over the breakfast table every morning, he would strangle the woman inside a month! Less. He would infinitely prefer that he never had to speak to her again.

But he had promised her another interminable waltz, he recalled gloomily. And then supper. At least there might be crab patties at supper to compensate. He was very fond of crab patties.

“Well, Hugo?” Amelia glided up to him, a beaded silk scarf trailing behind her in elegant disarray. “What do you think? Have you learned all about the diamond mine in New South Wales? I hope you didn’t tell her you were Thomas’s uncle!”

He glowered at her from under dark eyebrows. Five minutes’ conversation with the Singleton chit had caused him more frustration and annoyance than he had experienced in a long time. But he was not going to give in so easily. He was loath to admit he had discovered almost nothing about the wretched girl.

Yet.

Hugo Devenish was not a man who would let himself be defeated by a pretty widgeon. Defeated? He blinked in surprise, and caught himself up. An odd word to use.

Amelia tugged his sleeve impatiently. “Hugo! What did you tell her? If she discovers your tradesman’s blood…”

He withdrew his arm and smoothed the crumpled fabric in irritation. “The girl is a dead bore.”

“But—”

“In fact, much more of Miss Singleton’s company would drive me to Bedlam. Thomas must be desperate indeed to consider wedding such a dreary little simpleton, rich or not.”

Amelia looked at him in surprise. “Simpleton? I do not think she is simple, Hugo.”

He shrugged. “Well, either she is simple-minded, or so shy that it cannot make any difference.” He rolled his eyes. “And that lisp! Infuriating.”

“What lisp?” said Amelia, confused. “Are you certain you have the right girl, Hugo? Miss Singleton has no lisp. And I’ve never thought her shy.”

Hugo frowned down at his cousin. “No lisp? Are you deaf? All I got out of the wretched girl was a dozen �yeths’—addressed to my waistcoat.”

Amelia’s eyes narrowed. “Did she indeed? How very intriguing.” A faint worldly smile curved her discreetly painted lips. “Hugo, you’ve flustered the poor little creature. How very, very interesting. She has never once lisped in my hearing, and Thomas has certainly never mentioned it—and I do believe he would have.” She frowned suddenly. “So…Miss Singleton is not immune to the charms of an older man, then—”

“Older man!” snapped Hugo. “I am barely two and thirty, Amelia, as you very well know! And you, sister-in-law, have the advantage of me by more than ten years.”

“Nonsense, it is barely seven!” retorted Amelia instantly. “I am not yet turned fort—no, I cannot even say it. It was most ungallant of you to raise such an unpleasant subject.” She waved away his objections. “The point is, Hugo, that I know how overwhelming a man of your age and experience can seem to a chit just out of the schoolroom.”

Hugo opened his mouth to argue, but Amelia continued, “She must have a tendre for you, else why would she lisp and behave shyly? Take it from me, she is not shy with anyone else. Quiet, pretty-behaved, yes. But I’ve found her perfectly ready to converse and not a hint of shyness. No, if she is developing a tendre for you, it is yet another reason why you must certainly stay away from her.”

“Oh, do not be ridiculous! How the devil can I investigate her background if I cannot go near her? You and Thomas would soon find yourselves in the suds if her fortune was not as large as it is reputed to be.”

“We will find ourselves in the suds if the girl decides she prefers you to Thomas, too!” responded Amelia crossly. “Stop it Hugo! There is no need to roll your eyes at me in that disagreeable manner. I am merely stating a fact.”

“Rubbish! Believe me, there is no danger of me succumbing to her simple-minded charms.”

“The girl is no more simple-minded than you or I!” Amelia stamped her foot. “She is young, yes, and innocent, but she is not the least bit stupid or shy.”

“But—”

“And she does not stutter—”

“Lisp.”

“Lisp, then.” Amelia hurried on, her eyes narrowed with ambition. “But she’s clearly smitten by your masculine charms, Hugo, and thus all our problems are compounded. I knew you would ruin everything! You must leave this girl, and take yourself back to your rural wastes and your horrid ships. Thomas and I will see to securing this fortune ourselves. I’ll not stand by to see you dazzle the girl with your elegance, your worldly address and your—”

“Steal my nephew’s bride from under his nose?” interrupted Hugo with asperity. “Apart from being ridiculous, I have no intention—”

“She is not his bride yet; they are not even betrothed. And—”

“Oh, well, if she’s not even betrothed,” he said provocatively. “Oh, don’t look like that! I have no interest in the girl, or her purported riches. I merely wish to investigate her background—as Thomas’s trustee! And that is all! Put those ridiculous suspicions from your mind! I have no need of a fortune, let alone a diamond mine of unproven provenance. And there is not the slightest danger of my succumbing to the charms of the younger Miss Singleton. Far from it! I am more like to strangle the girl!”

Kit frowned as she adjusted a curl in the mirror of one of the withdrawing rooms set aside for ladies. It was a puzzle as to why Mr Devenish was so interested in her. All those questions about her father. And New South Wales.

Perhaps Lady Norwood and Mr Devenish thought Kit a fortune hunter, out to snabble a lord for a husband.

She would have to allay their suspicions. It would be disastrous to her plans if Mr Devenish investigated her background too deeply and discovered that Miss Catherine Singleton was in fact Miss Kit Smith, actually christened Kathleen, and not a member of an aristocratic family at all. And that her father had been thrown out of New South Wales and a number of other places for cheating at cards. And worse.

If that came out, there would be a frightful scandal, and poor Rose Singleton would be the one to suffer for it. Kit would not permit such a thing to happen, not if she could prevent it. Whatever she had done in the past, Rose was an innocent, a kind and generous-hearted innocent, and Kit would not allow such a sweet-natured woman to suffer on her behalf.

She would have to speak to Thomas as soon as possible and make it clear she had no interest in him. And if he did not listen this time she would be more firm; once Thomas was out of the picture, Mr Devenish would have no reason to enquire into her background.

Foiling Mr Devenish’s brusque, penetrating enquiries was much like fencing with rapiers—exhilarating but dangerous. To see much more of him would be dangerous not only to her plans, but to her peace of mind, she suspected.

So she would allow herself one more encounter with the big dark watchdog and then—

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Kit’s thought were interrupted as a young girl came blundering into the withdrawing room and crashed into her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

The girl, who was very young and very pretty, stared a moment at Kit, then burst into tears, clearly overwrought.

Kit seated the young girl on a padded velvet bench and set herself to calming her. She had noticed her at a number of social events; like Kit, the girl was only just out.

“Miss…Miss Lutens, is it not?”

The girl nodded tearfully. “And you are Miss Singleton. I met you last week at Mrs Russell’s recital. How do you do?” she sobbed, politely holding out her hand.

Kit smiled at such well-drilled manners. She patted the girl’s hand and took out a handkerchief. “Tell me what is distressing you?” she said after Miss Lutens had calmed a little.

“Oh, I cannot,” she wept. “It is too mortifying, too foolish of me. I am just…” She wiped her eyes with Kit’s handkerchief.

“Come now, splash some cold water on your face and you will feel better. Would you like me to fetch your mama?”

“Oh, no!” gasped Miss Lutens in distress. “Mama would be so cross.”

Kit stared. It had been her impression that girls always turned to their mothers in distress.

“It is nothing. I am being silly, that is all. It is just that Sir Bar—no! No, take no notice. It is nothing.”

Sir Bar— Kit frowned. She recalled seeing this girl in the company of a certain Sir Bartlemy Bowles. Quite frequently, of late.

“Has Sir Bartlemy Bowles been bothering you?” she asked bluntly.

Miss Lutens gasped. “How did you know?”

“I saw him with you earlier. My aunt warned me about him. He is reputed to have the hands of an octopus, is that not so?”

Miss Lutens blinked.

“Too many hands, too much touching,” explained Kit.

“Oh!” Miss Lutens gasped, blushing. “Yes, exactly! And clammy!” She wrung her hands together in distress. “I simply cannot bear it.”

“Tell your mother,” recommended Kit. “She’ll soon send the clammy-handed old roué about his business. From what my aunt says, he’s notorious for pestering young girls. And though he is rich, he’s also married, so there is no need to worry that your mama plans to wed you to the horrid old slug.”

Miss Lutens giggled at the description, but shook her head. “No, that is the trouble, for I did mention it once, and Mama did not believe that Sir Bartlemy could be so ungallant. She told me not to be so silly.”

Her hands twisted the damp handkerchief into a rope. “He used to be a beau of hers, you understand, before she married Papa, and I think she still has a tendre for him.” She bit her lip. “I think…Mama thinks he is paying me so much attention for her sake…”

“Ahh,” said Kit, understanding her dilemma at last. “Well, then, you must get rid of the fellow yourself.”

Miss Lutens stared at her with large brown eyes. “Get rid of him? But how?”

“Be firm, be bold,” said Kit decisively. “Tell him to keep his hands to himself.”

Miss Lutens’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Oh! I am not sure I could…And what if he does not?”

“Then slap him! Good and hard.”

“Oh, I could not possibly slap him!” gasped Miss Lutens. “It would make a scandal, me slapping a man of his rank and years. I truly could not!”

Kit frowned. Miss Lutens had a point. “Well, try being firm and speaking to him about it, and if that does not work, let me know. I shall think of something. We women have to put up with enough in life without having to endure furtive caresses from a slug!”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” Miss Lutens beamed. “Oh, I am so pleased to have met you. I was not looking forward to this ball, you know, with Sir Bartlemy escorting Mama and me, but now I have made a friend and I am so happy!” She clasped Kit’s hand in an eager grip.

Kit smiled, her heart sinking. It was not part of her plans to make friends. If she allowed people to get too close to her, they would see through her deception. Already with Miss Lutens she had not behaved as an unworldly innocent would—she had dropped her role to rescue an innocent child from a nasty groping octopus.

It was a foolish move. But Kit could not help herself. She had learned very young to protect herself from unwanted attentions—she’d had to with the life she’d lived.

Kit hesitated. She’d been watching the other young girls with envy in her heart, envying them their doting parents and protective chaperones and wondering wistfully what her life might have been like if Papa had doted on her like these parents did on their daughters.

But now she realised that their very protectiveness had made these girls quite vulnerable to the unscrupulous attentions of persons like Sir Bartlemy Bowles. Without her mother’s support, Miss Lutens was like an oyster without a shell; soft, exposed and utterly unable to protect herself.

But Kit did not have had the benefit of a protected up-bringing; she had more than a few tricks up her sleeve. She resolved to help Miss Lutens.

“You need not simply put up with things, you know. You can take action on your own behalf.”

“How?” said Miss Lutens, eagerly.

“You must do something to give Sir Bartlemy a disgust of you.”

“But what? And what would my mama say?”

“It will be too late for your mama to prevent it. And if you are clever and subtle enough, then you won’t have to be in her bad books for long.” She gave Miss Lutens a significant look and added with a faint smile, “Much can be forgiven of a young girl who is nervous about making her come-out.”

Miss Lutens looked at her blankly. Kit winked. “Do not worry about it. Do I understand that Sir Bartlemy has already had two dances?”

Miss Lutens nodded.

“Good, then you shall not have to dance with him again tonight. Shall you be at Almack’s on Wednesday?”

Miss Lutens nodded. “Yes, Mama has procured the vouchers.”

“I shall also be there and no doubt we shall see Sir Bartlemy too.”

“Yes,” said Miss Lutens dolefully. “He is very fond of Almack’s.”

“Then I shall show you what I mean on Wednesday,” said Kit. “And when you come, bring your sharpest hatpin, just in case.”

Miss Lutens’s eyes widened. “My…my hatpin? But, but I shall not be wearing a hat at Almack’s, you know.”

Kit wondered what it would be like to be so innocent, so sheltered, so trusting of the world. Vulnerable, she told herself firmly.

“Yes, it is not for a hat. You must keep it in your reticule, but poke the end into a cork, so it does not prick you. And then, if you are bothered by such nasty creatures as, let us say, octopuses, you may take it out and…” She mimed the thrusting of a pin and winked. “Very useful things, hatpins.”

Miss Lutens gasped, put a hand over her mouth and giggled.

“That’s right,” said Kit cheerily, “and even if you do not use it, it will make you feel much more confident, knowing you have your hatpin on hand. In the meantime, take heart. There are plenty of nice, handsome young men who will take one look at you and fall instantly in love. Your mama will soon be so busy keeping track of all your suitors, she will have no time for clammy old horrors like Sir Bartlemy.”

Miss Lutens blushed and giggled again.

“That’s better,” said Kit bracingly. “Now, let us return to the ballroom,” she said. “Our partners will be awaiting us.”

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Singleton,” said Lord Norwood stiffly as he escorted Kit back to where her aunt was seated. He was a little annoyed from having been treated with cool lack of interest all through the country dance.

“You are welcome, sir,” responded Kit coolly. “I do enjoy country dances, though they can sometimes leave one a trifle breathless.”

Lord Norwood frowned. There was not the faintest hint of breathlessness about Miss Kit Singleton. Lord Norwood, on the other hand, was hot and still puffing slightly.

“Hmm, yes,” said Thomas with determined civility. “Ah, here is my—er, Mr Devenish awaiting you. I believe he is next on your card.” He nodded brusquely at Mr Devenish, bowed very correctly to Kit and left.

Mr Devenish had clearly heard Kit’s last comment. “Perhaps you do not wish to dance, Miss Singleton.” He bowed politely and suggested in a bored voice, “No doubt you are a trifle weary and would prefer to sit the next dance out.”

“Oh, yeth, of course, if you wish it,” Kit agreed instantly, then added sympathetically, “I forgot how it was with elder—um, mature gentlemen. My poor old papa used to find dancing very tiring, too—ethpecially the waltz—such a long dance, ith it not, and tho energetic.”

The strains of a Viennese waltz filled the air. She smiled sunnily up at him and looked brightly around the room. “Now, where shall we find a comfortable chair tho you may retht your poor feet?”

Mr Devenish’s lips thinned. An arctic look came into his eyes but he did not reply. Taking her waist in a firm, not to say ferocious grip, he whirled her across the room in a dazzling display of virtuosity and youthful masculine energy, twirling her and twirling her until she was quite dizzy with pleasure and delight.

Kit had danced the waltz several times before, but now, suddenly, she realised why it had been regarded as so scandalous and had taken such a long time to be accepted in polite society.

When danced like this, caught up hard in the grip of a strong, masterful man, twirling in his arms until you lost all awareness of anything except the music and the man, the experience was utterly intoxicating.

Kit simply gave herself up to the magic of the dance. And the man. The world blurred around her in a glittering rainbow, the music spun through her brain in a melody of magic, and all that anchored her to the ground was the hard, strong body of a tall dark man.

After a few moments he looked down at her as if surprised. His grip tightened, his cold grey eyes seemed to bore into her soul and Kit felt herself staring up at him like a mouse mesmerised by a cobra. They danced on, staring into each other’s eyes.

Kit felt suddenly breathless; a breathlessness that had nothing to do with the movement of the dance. She longed to simply let herself go, to float wherever he wished to take her, to dance off into a new dawn. The temptation was irresistible.

But she could not. She’d made a promise. It was her honour at stake, as well as her papa’s.

She blinked to free herself of Mr Devenish’s spell and closed her eyes, shutting out the thought that here was a man the like of which she’d never come across before…

Abruptly he loosened his grip and she stumbled slightly. He caught her up smoothly and she realised he was very strong. He was the sort of man who would never let a girl fall. The sort of man a woman could depend on.

But Kit could depend only on herself. It had always been so. It was the only possible way. She had to break this spell.

“Oh, dear, it ith a long dance, ith it not? Are you getting tired, Mr Devenish?” she murmured, a young Katherine Parr to his aged King Henry.

Insulted, he snapped, “Do you reverse?” and before she had a chance to reply he was twirling her in reverse around the circumference of the ballroom with great, if furious, vigour.

Again it was utterly intoxicating and Kit had to battle her own senses to retain a safe distance from him.

The supper, despite the gloomy predictions of some, turned out to be surprisingly good—a triumph of Fanny Parsons over her husband’s penny-pinching ways. She had provided a substantial spread: turtle soup, a number of pies—pigeon, pork, veal and ham—oyster fritters, lobster salad, eels in aspic, sliced roast duck, tiny quails in pastry baskets, dishes of tender green peas, braised capons, a mountain of shaved ham, bread and butter, fruits, jellies, fruit custards, trifles, pastries glittering with a frosting of sugar, and ices in several flavours.

There were even, to Mr Devenish’s satisfaction, crab patties. He placed several on his and his partner’s plate.

“So, Miss Singleton,” he said as they ate, “I believe you have lived a good deal of your life in…New South Wales, was it?”

Kit smiled at him, still exhilarated from the dance. “Oh, no,” she said serenely, and popped an oyster fritter into her mouth, thus making further conversation impossible for a few moments.

Mr Devenish frowned. “But I thought you came from New South Wales.”

Kit chewed her oyster fritter slowly and thoroughly. Mr Devenish gave up for the moment and devoured a crab patty. “I understood your father had, er, some business in New South Wales?”

Kit smiled. “Papa always had many different interests, yeth.”

Mr Devenish noted the way the lisp came and went. Could it truly be a sign of nervousness, as Amelia had suggested? The thought was a little unnerving, especially after the waltz they had shared.

Something had happened during that waltz…she had seemed somehow differ—No! He was not going to think about the implications of that dance. The breathless young sprite he had twirled in his arms had reverted to the idiot widgeon.

He was here to investigate her. On his nephew’s behalf.

“Your father was a landowner, no doubt? I do believe land grants—to the right people, of course—are easily come by in the Colonies.”

“Do you?” said Kit politely and chewed meditatively on a mouthful of green peas.

“That is my understanding, yes,” Mr Devenish persisted. “Did your father operate a farm? I believe wool is said to be doing well there. Did he own a lot of sheep?”

Kit giggled inanely and shook her head, but inside, she was appalled. He was very well informed about a fledgling penal colony that almost no one in London knew anything of, she thought. He may well have visited the colony—that could explain the fleeting sense of familiarity she felt in his company. She had best be very careful. It would not do to be recognised as a card-cheat’s daughter.

Mr Devenish decided to take a different angle. “I have heard that vast areas of new country have been opened up since they found a way through some mountain range, is that right?”

Kit nodded emphatically. “Oh, yeth.”

Mr Devenish leaned forward.

“I had not heard it myself, of courth, but gentlemen are invariably right, are you not?” she added, and nibbled daintily on a slice of chicken breast. What was it he was trying to get her to reveal? Knowledge of New South Wales? Her father’s business?

Mr Devenish gritted his teeth and helped himself to another crab patty. “Do you not know what—er, um.” Under those innocently questioning eyes he stuttered to a halt. Then grimly, he tried again. “So, your father did not discuss business affairs at all with you,” he said bluntly, shuddering inwardly at his lack of subtlety.

“Oh, no,” she said firmly, “for it ith not at all ladylike to talk of such things. In any case, Papa said to be forever talking of money ith horridly vulgar.” She smiled beatifically at him and batted her eyelashes gently. “Don’t you agree?”

There was a short, strained silence. Mr Devenish reached for the dish of crab patties.

Kit laid a small hand on his, and said earnestly. “Should you really be eating tho many crab patties? They are very rich, you know, and my papa found they did not at all agree with his constitution—”

“I have eaten and enjoyed crab patties all my life,” he snapped, and reached towards the dish.

Kit tactfully moved the dish away from him with an understanding smile. “Yeth, but after a certain age, I believe, gentlemen are not able to do all the things they used to enjoy in their youth. Would you care for a ruthk?” She offered him a rusk, maintaining her demure expression by biting hard on the inside of her cheek.

“No, I would not!” he snapped explosively. There was another short silence while Mr Devenish fought to control his indignation at being treated as an octogenarian.

Kit placidly examined her nails, ninny fashion.

He stood up. “You seem to have finished your supper, Miss Singleton.” He held out a commanding hand to help her to her feet.

Kit, relieved not to be pushed further on the question of her background, offered him an artless smile and allowed herself to be drawn from her seat.

“I believe Sir Bartlemy Bowles was hoping to take you on a short promenade around the room,” he said, his eyes glinting.

Oho, so the Watchdog stooped to low tricks, did he? How dare he deliver an innocent young girl such as she to a creature like the Octopus!

She turned to leave, but her hem appeared to be caught under the chair. She stumbled and fell against him, quite awkwardly, and floundered against him momentarily, trying to regain her balance. He gently took her upper arms and lifted her upright; she avoided his gaze and babbled hasty thanks and apologies for her clumsiness.

Mr Devenish frowned blackly. At the first touch of her body against his, a surge of awareness had passed through him like wildfire. He thrust her small, firm body resolutely away from him. He was not attracted to this little widgeon! He was damned if he would be attracted to any respectable female of the ton, let alone a complete simpleton!

“Thank you very much for the dance and for escorting me to thupper, Mr Devenish, but my Aunt told me not to go on to the terrace without her, tho, if you don’t mind…” She smiled a last smile at his waistcoat, enjoying the sight of his pristine white cravat, the smooth folds of which were quite unmarred…not by a crumb or a scrap of crab. Not even by a tie-pin, phoenix or otherwise.




Chapter Three


Kit joined a group around her aunt, and was soon taken to dance by a very young gentleman, a young gentleman who was rather less subtle than Mr Devenish.

Kit’s heart plummeted as he blurted out his question. “A diamond mine!” she gasped. “Everybody knows I own—!” She stopped in mid-step. “Oh, good God! You cannot mean it?”

Young Mr Wollborough stared back owlishly at her.

Yes, Kit realised. He did indeed mean it. She ignored his dismay at her reaction and sat down on a nearby bench. Whatever am I to do now!

Mr Wollborough looked dismally at her. “Drat! Mother did say it was a secret, that you did not wish to be courted for your fortune.”

Courted for her fortune! Kit closed her eyes and tried to repress a hysterical bubble of laughter. A penniless adventuress, courted for her fortune!

“I’m dashed sorry to have distressed you like this, Miss Singleton! I’m a tattle-tongued fool! You don’t need to fret about me knowing. I’ll not mention it to a soul. In any case, I’m sure very few people know about it. I know I was told it in the strictest confidence.”

She stared at him blankly. Very few people indeed! Everything clicked into place: Miss Singleton’s comments about her wearing pearls instead of diamonds; Lord Norwood and other men’s determined courtships; Mr Devenish’s equally determined questioning about her background.

Mr Wollborough hovered, awkwardly. “Can I get you a glass of something? Er, do you want me to fetch your aunt?”

Kit took no notice of him. Her mind was in a whirl. Virtually the entire ton must believe her to be rich. That was the reason so many people had been so very friendly and welcoming towards an unknown young woman. It wasn’t “polite society” at all—these people were no different from others she had encountered all over the world. Money smoothed all paths, honeyed all tongues, welcomed all strangers.

They imagined her to be a great heiress! It would be laughable, if it were not so disastrous to her scheme. But however had such an outrageous rumour started? Such a ridiculous one, what’s more—a diamond mine! How could she ever get out of this one?

She glanced up at the crestfallen young blade who hovered awkwardly, looking crushed and miserable. Kit repressed another bubble of half-hysterical laughter. Young Mr Wollborough was only too aware that he’d blown his chance with the great heiress.

“Take me to my aunt, if you please, Mr Wollborough,” said the heiress. “I find I have the headache.”

As soon as they reached home, Kit broached the matter with Rose Singleton. “Young Mr Wollborough asked me about a diamond mine, Aunt Rose.”

“Hmm, yes, dear?” said Rose, retrieving a trailing scarf which had almost slipped to the floor.

“He seems to believe—a number of people, in fact, seem to believe that I own a diamond mine.”

“Yes.” Rose’s brow wrinkled at the look on her niece’s face. “What is the matter? I know you did not wish it to be generally known, but these things have a way of coming out.”

“But why would people believe I own a mine full of diamonds?”

“It was diamonds, was it not? I’m sure it was—I would have remembered if he’d said rubies or emeralds. Or sapphires—sapphires would go so beautifully with your eyes. But no, I was certain he said a diamond mine.”

“Who said?”

Rose frowned. “Your father, of course! Who else?”

Kit closed her eyes briefly. Papa! Who else!

“My papa told you he owned a diamond mine?”

“Wait, I’ll fetch the letter.” Rose wandered into the front withdrawing room where her small Sheraton writing desk stood. She rummaged through the pile of papers in the desk, then turned and peered around the room, annoyed. “Now where has it got to? Things move in this house, there is no denying it.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Kit. “It will turn up sooner or later. Now just refresh my mind, will you please, Aunt dearest? Where did my papa say this diamond mine was situated?”

Aunt Rose looked at her in astonishment. “Don’t you know where it is situated? How very odd. But I suppose…”

“Where is the diamond mine, Aunt Rose?” Kit prompted gently.

“Why, in New South Wales, of course. Where else?”

New South Wales? A diamond mine in New South Wales? Kit closed her eyes for a brief second. Of course. It was just like her father to throw in a last-minute embellishment like this. A quite impossible, ridiculous, ludicrous embellishment.

Kit took a deep breath and unclenched her fists. It was, after all, improper, not to say unfilial, if not downright impossible, to strangle the dead!

“Did I get it wrong, my love?” said Rose anxiously. “But where else would it be, for that was where you were living, was it not? My friend Mr Harris thought it an exceeding odd place for a diamond mine, too. Oh, where is that wretched letter?”

“You told your friend Mr Harris I owned a diamond mine in New South Wales? Oh, Aunt Rose! How could you? As if anyone would ever believe anything so fantastical. And ridiculous! New South Wales is a tiny, struggling convict settlement. A penal colony, for Heaven’s sake!”

Kit took a deep breath as she considered her situation. Everything had been going so smoothly, so well—quite as if it were not one of Papa’s schemes. Now, suddenly, she had an impossible diamond mine to somehow incorporate into an already impossible plan! It was quite like old times. Suddenly her sense of humour got the better of her. Kit collapsed in a chair and peals of laughter rang out.

“But was that not correct, my love?” ventured Rose uncertainly. “Only I could have sworn that is what your father explained to me. And his letter did most certainly come from New South Wales.” She looked round her distractedly. “If only I could find his letter. It is quite mystifying to me, how so many things seem to disappear in this house.” She lifted a blue satin cushion and peered hopefully under it, but no letter appeared.

“No,” said Kit, the laughter dying from her eyes. “Papa started to tell me he had written to you, but he was dying. I knew only what he asked me to do. I might have known there would be other aspects to his scheme.”

“Scheme. What an odd name for it,” said Rose curiously. “I suppose all parents make plans for their daughters’ come-outs, but to call it a scheme—how very odd. But then your father was never one to take the simple straightforward path, was he?” She sighed pensively and smoothed the cover of the cushion she was still holding.

Kit regarded her aunt curiously, wondering whether Rose still retained some affection for her father. After a moment or two she said, “Aunt Rose, have you told many people?”

“Oh, Heavens, no,” said Rose. “It would be terribly vulgar to boast of such a thing. No, no. I only mentioned it—in confidence, of course—to one or two very discreet friends.”

Kit regarded her dubiously. “Well, perhaps it will be all right, but if anyone asks me—”

“Heavens, child, you must not fret yourself about any such thing. No one would dream of asking you.” Rose was shocked. “Ask a young girl? As if you would have any idea of your father’s business matters!” She laughed. “The very idea!”

Kit bit her tongue. She had spent an entire evening parrying questions about it. But she would not distress Rose by telling her so.

It was a mystery to her why society people seemed to think an interest in business was something to be ashamed of. It seemed to Kit that business, or trade as it was more commonly called, was the way to achieve safety, security and prosperity. But even her father had regarded it as vulgar. And he was a card cheat.

Rose leaned forward and patted her on the knee. “Do not distress yourself about it, my dear. If I was wrong about the diamond mine in New South Wales, I shall simply inform my friends that I was mistaken, and all will be well.”

Kit opened her mouth to argue. She may not have moved in the rarefied circles of the Polite World before, but if she knew anything about people, she knew that people who claimed to be discreet almost invariably were not. A diamond mine in a penal colony was a ludicrous concept…

“Yes, that is a very good notion, Aunt Rose,” she said decisively. “And if anyone mentions it, I hope you will deny it most vigorously and explain you were mistaken. It would be dreadful if people were to think we had deceived them.”

It would change nothing, Kit knew. People would believe what they wanted to. The diamond mine was a fact in their minds, which no amount of denial would budge. But when the truth came out, as it inevitably would, at least Rose would be remembered to have denied all knowledge of it.

“Yes, my dear. I will. I’ll make everything quite clear.” Aunt Rose beamed and replaced the satin cushion. “And now, my love, it has been a busy evening, and we ladies must get our beauty sleep, must we not? Sweet dreams, my dear.” Rose kissed her affectionately on the cheek and floated upstairs, trailing several scarves behind her.

Kit woke early. It was still dark outside, the faint tendrils of dawn only a hint of a shimmer over the dark rooftops.

She knew what had woken her. Anxiety. She always woke before dawn when she was worried about something. This morning she had more than her share of worries.

The problem that leapt to her mind first should have been the diamond mine problem, but for some reason the first thought in her waking brain was of Mr Devenish’s face when he discovered the loss of his phoenix tie-pin.

She closed her eyes. Why on earth had she lapsed—with such a man? And in such a situation. It was wicked, it was foolish, it was far too risky. But it was done, and too late now to undo it.

And besides, she had other concerns. Somehow she had to decide how to ride out the disaster of this wretched diamond mine rumour.

She pulled the covers over her head and groaned.

She had planned to enter London society with barely a ripple, to move through it virtually unnoticed and to leave it the same way, having completed her task. She had planned to be inconspicuous. Now she was a diamond heiress. From a prison colony on the other side of the world! Diamonds in a prison! Who wouldn’t find that combination fascinating?

She groaned again. It was the sort of ridiculous embellishment her father had delighted in; his way of laughing up his sleeve at those less well-informed. But he’d sent her to avenge him. With such an aim in mind, he would surely not jeopardise the outcome for a silly joke. No, Rose must have got some old letter, where Papa was doing his usual face-saving story-telling, and confused it with the letter from New South Wales, telling her to expect Kit.

Whatever the source, the damage was done. Kit would have to deal with it. It wasn’t as if she had a choice.

In the meantime, she needed to clear her head. She needed fresh air, and exercise.

Mr Devenish was in a bad mood. He had slept but a few hours and awakened with a splitting head—no doubt a legacy of the brandy he had consumed. He was cross with himself for doing so—it was years since he had woken with a drink-induced headache.

The headache was exacerbated by the further realisation that he had spent the evening in a singularly profitless fashion—the information he had gathered about the Singleton chit had amounted to precisely nothing.

It had seemed so simple and straightforward: speak to the girl, find out where her father had been based, and then investigate from there.

But the girl was the vaguest, most irritating scatterbrain he had come across in an age; he hadn’t got a single useful fact out of her. If she hadn’t been so brainless, he would have…would have…

Mr Devenish swore and pulled the bell to summon his valet.

That was another, utterly infuriating aspect of the wretched evening! How on earth had he become aroused by a brainless ninny in the middle of a ballroom?

It must have been the brandy.

That cheeseparing Parsons, serving his guests inferior brandy! Yes, that was it. It was all the fault of second-rate brandy: the headache, the bad temper…the girl.

His glance fell on the collection tossed carelessly on to his bedside table and his expression darkened even more. His gold watch with the phoenix design and the winking ruby eyes. There should have been two items on his bedside table, not one, dammit! A perfect ending to a perfect night! He had lost his ruby phoenix tie-pin!

He had noticed it missing as soon as he had arrived home and removed his cravat. He’d sent a servant with a note around to the Parsons immediately, and was informed an hour later that the servants had searched, but had discovered no sign of the pin. He must have dropped it in the street.

Lost forever, dammit! It was his favourite pin, too. He’d designed it himself, as a reminder that no matter what was destroyed, he could always rebuild his life.

He lay back in bed and tried to recall when he had last noticed his pin in place. Instead, he found his mind wandering to thoughts of Miss Singleton…He sat up hurriedly.

To the devil with her! It was embarrassing, being aroused at thoughts of such a little simpleton!

He could recall each and every time his body had touched hers, from the first moment when he took her dance card from her, to each time their hands met briefly in a dance. And as for that waltz where he’d actually found himself being aroused…

He groaned, thinking of it. Such a thing had never before happened to him—not since he’d been a green youth…

He closed his eyes. Curse it, his body still recollected the imprint of her small, slender body against it when she’d stumbled and fallen against him after supper.

He put the thought firmly out of his mind.

And found himself recalling the first time his pocket had been picked in Marseilles when he was a very young man. And of attempts since then…

He tensed at the thought which had suddenly popped into his brain. He considered it for a moment, then shook his head.

No! It was nonsense! Genteelly brought-up damsels of the ton did not steal their supper-partners’ tie-pins. It was not possible. For a start the girl was not bright enough…

Only…she had managed to have two dances and supper with him and avoid giving any information about her background. Would a brainless widgeon have done that? He did not have much experience of brainless widgeons, but on consideration, it seemed more than likely that a truly brainless widgeon would have prattled non-stop and blurted out all sorts of dreary details about her home and family. But perhaps the lisp made her self-conscious about prattling.

Oh, it was ridiculous. His tie-pin had simply fallen off.

Mr Devenish was disgusted. His head was likely to split. He had a sour taste in his mouth in more ways than one. Ridiculous to imagine a young lady making her come-out was as skilled a pickpocket as a Marseilles wharf rat. He needed some exercise in the cold morning air to clear the cobwebs away.

His man arrived, and was dispatched to fetch a tankard of ale, to lay out Mr Devenish’s riding buckskins and to send for a groom to saddle up Sultan and bring him to the door. Mr Devenish was going for a ride.

Despite the very early hour of the morning, the streets were busy and full of life as usual; carters with loads of cabbages and potatoes, handcarts laden with flowers, barrows full of old clothing, porters carrying baskets of corn or mysterious boxes, a pieman with fresh hot pies balanced on a tray on his head, servants bustling out to run their masters’ or mistresses’ errands, beggars rattling their tins, urchins scrambling underfoot, racing thither and yon, an occasional late returning gambler and a carouser or two returning unsteadily to their lodgings.

Mr Devenish took little notice. His mount, Sultan, a big black stallion with a gleaming coat and a proud arched neck, demanded most of his attention. The horse caracoled and danced with high spirits and too many oats, taking offence first at an urchin here, shying at a butcher’s boy and his cart there; he reared in apparent fright as a dog ran close to his hooves; he danced sideways along the cobblestones, tossing his head in disapproval at the flapping skirts of a couple of maidservants, clutching baskets.

Mr Devenish smiled, enjoying Sultan’s mischievous antics. His stallion was well under his control; the horse needed a run as much as the master.

The park, in contrast to the streets, was almost deserted. The leisured classes had not yet arisen, and the rest of the world had little time to dally in parks. The morning air was fresh, crisp and cold. Mr Devenish took a deep breath, enjoying the bite as it hit his lungs.

Sultan pranced and snorted, eager to get moving. Mr Devenish urged him into action and then, as no one else was around, he gave Sultan his head, relishing the contrast between the warmth and power of the spirited beast under him, and the whoosh of cold air through his body. Sultan’s hooves pounded on the turf, echoing in the near silence.

He passed a couple of rabbits nibbling on the sweet, damp grass. He scattered some birds feeding off bread-crumbs left by some child the day before. He passed a couple of men in frieze overcoats lurking by a clump of rhododendrons. They looked out as he came towards them but stepped back in a hurry as Sultan thundered down towards them. He idly wondered what they were doing there, but soon forgot them as he swerved to avoid a gaggle of indignant geese.

After a time, man and mount were breathing hard, and Hugo could tell that just as the ride had swept the cobwebs from his brain, so his horse had raced the excess energy from his body. He allowed Sultan to slow to an elegant canter. Hugo smiled. One of the things he loved about this particular horse was the way he moved so smoothly from one gait into the next. Hugo breathed deeply. He was feeling refreshed, invigorated, alive. And hungry. He could hear another horse galloping in the distance. Galloping hard and fast.

He looked around and saw another rider, a lady in a plain dark blue habit with a black hat crammed low over her hair. Another early riser. Soon the park would begin to fill with others, who, like him, preferred the relative quiet of the early morn to the crowded fashionable hours of the afternoon.

He watched the lady rider. It was unusual for a female to rise so early, but he soon perceived that this was no ordinary female. Most females he knew preferred to walk their horses, or, at most, to canter. This woman galloped. Hard and unfashionably, like he and Sultan had. The mount she rode was undistinguished; that much was obvious, even from this distance, but she rode magnificently. He had never seen a better seat on a lady. She had certainly almost grown up on horseback. He wondered briefly if she was a lady—there was no groom accompanying her that he could see.

He shrugged and turned his horse in a slow circle and headed back, much the same way he had come.

Suddenly he noticed the regular beat of the other horse’s hooves had come to a halt. He glanced back over his shoulder, idly, then swore. He wrenched Sultan around and thundered back the way he’d just come.

The two ruffians in frieze overcoats he had seen earlier had accosted the woman. One of them had grabbed the horse by its bridle and was fighting the lady for its control. She was giving as good as she got, beating him over the head and arms with her riding crop, all the time urging the horse to move. Her horse reared and snorted but could not pull away. The second man grabbed the skirt of her habit and pulled at it, trying to unseat her.

Hugo let out an oath and urged Sultan to gallop faster.

The woman unhooked the leg which gripped the pommel of the sidesaddle and kicked the second scoundrel hard in the face. He reeled back. Hugo heard the man shout in pain. He also heard the threats the man made towards his female attacker and his blood boiled.

“Belay that, you villains! Leave that woman alone!” he shouted, wishing he had worn spurs.




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