I Kissed an Earl: Pennyroyal Green Series (19 page)

Her father’s investment group was called the Mercury Club.

But not precisely it. Like it.

She was to think of Le Chat and a group of investors?

And then, astonishingly, really quite embarrassingly, he’d signed with a florid drawing of breasts.

The bodice they wore he’d clearly scribbled as an afterthought, possibly remembering too late who his audience was, because she could see he’d actually drawn nipples on them. An arrow was pointing at the left breast.

Good God. Men. She felt her cheeks heating.

These were followed by words she didn’t understand: Only 5. 2 to go. And the last symbol was a large heart, followed by a large U.

Love U.

Finally, two words spelled out completely. Forgive me.

Forgive him? She wanted to kill him at the moment.

She also wanted to hug him and to shake him, and dear God, what would she do? Her brain throbbed, feeling as huge and cottony and useless as the one he’d drawn inside that head on the foolscap. She didn’t know what to make of the rest of the note, and she hadn’t time to decipher it.

If she didn’t go down soon, of a certainty the earl would come looking for her. She hesitated a moment longer. Then shoved her note with her inadequate scrawled message of anger and love under the bed, doubtless to be collected by that child, and patted at her hair in the mirror, then went down to dinner.

Chapter 12

T hink like Mercury Club.

What the devil did that mean?

About a dozen guests were collected at a long, glittering table. Course after rich delectable course was born in by silent footmen and she watched it, soothed by the familiar rhythm of the serving of a spectacular meal, because her brain was a whirlpool. And despite it all, Violet was hungry.

She was seated next to the Viscomte Hebert and across from the earl, who was directly opposite the viscomtesse.

As dinner progressed, it was clear the viscomtesse had taken to pouting a little, though pouting suited her, and doubtless she knew it. She’d lips like perfect little pillows, one curving neatly to sit atop the other with no dip at all in the top lip, and this fascinated Violet. Candlelight suited her, too. It was difficult not to admire her in aesthetic way—her dress was a shade of sherry satin that could have been dyed expressly to match her eyes, and her graceful little hands flashed in those shiny gloves as she lifted and drained glass after glass of wine. Violet disliked her more and more the longer she stared.

The viscomtesse gazed across the table at the earl with a scarcely disguised combination of resentment and wistfulness, while Lavay whispered compliments and witticisms to her at intervals, which thawed her in an almost seasonal way. Smiles, pouts, smiles, pouts. She suspected Lavay was managing her the way he might manage the sails on a ship, catching the wind of her moods with his charm.

Until, that was, the viscomtesse caught a glimpse once again of the earl across from her, and was reminded of her tremendously bad timing at marrying a French viscomte when she could have had an English earl and sank into brooding.

Had the viscomtesse actually loved him? But how well had she known him? What could a woman like that understand of love?

Was it necessary to love or only to believe one is in love?

Who possessed these answers? she wanted to demand, and bang her fork on the table. I want to know! She had been denied so little in her life, and suddenly the questions tormented her like gnats.

The oblivious or indifferent Comte Hebert, having gotten his triumphant marriage to this vision out of the way, applied himself to his very good food and serious conversation with his guests and ignored his wife in the manner of husbands everywhere. He addressed his lovely English guest instead.

“Miss Redmond, how do you enjoy your voyage so far?”

His jaded dark eyes all but hugged the bridge of a nose that arced out like a perfect letter D. She’d seldom seen a haughtier face. She liked it.

“I think sea voyages suit me. I’m told you’re interested in shipping enterprises, Monsieur Viscomte. Have you been plagued by Le Chat?”

She congratulated herself on the smooth introduction of the pirate into conversation, and was conscious of a pair of blue eyes fixed instantly upon her, she imagined—she hoped—in approval.

The words Le Chat sent up an excited murmur at the table.

“Mais, non. Not me. But the The Maria Louisa was robbed and sunk. My friend Monsieur Fontaine lost all of his money in the endeavor. And another ship, The Gorgon, she was boarded and sunk.”

“How terrible! Was Monsieur Fontaine one of many investors in the Maria Lousia?” Think Mercury Club.

“I believe so,” he said. “She was carrying silk. It is gone. Poof! Stolen.”

“Silk. A great pity, indeed.” She smiled at the viscomte, who, in a way inimitably French, admired her dress and décolletage with a swift sweep of his birdlike eyes. “Do you know who the other investors might be?”

“I do not. But a Mr. Musgrove in Brest is one, and I believe another of his ships is sailing from Le Havre for Brest soon. The Caridad.”

Brest! Ah. Now she understood the Breasts! And the arrow, for singular. Brest, not breasts. Or perhaps…it was a directional. Perhaps it meant Lyon was going to Brest, which was another port along the coast of France.

Dear God! If Lyon was headed to Brest, was The Caridad in danger?

“Perhaps it’s enough for Le Chat to know that you are in pursuit of him, that there is a large bounty on his head. Perhaps he’ll cease his scoundrel ways.”

Don’t count on it, Violet thought, her appetite suddenly diminishing.

“I heard he has sunk ten ships!” One the female guests volunteered breathlessly. “Boom!

Down they go.”

Mutters, both excited and censorious, ensued.

Violet thought of what Lyon had written on her message. Only five. Two to go. Could this refer to ships?

She glanced at the earl, who had lost someone he cared about in one of those ships. His plate was nearly polished clean.

Her hands were suddenly chilled, even inside her gloves. She laid the silver fork alongside her plate and folded her hands in her lap to warm them.

And yet the food was good, as the earl had promised. None of it taxed her chewing capabilities. In a mere few days Violet had missed food that could lay claim to flavor. And she didn’t at all miss the suspense regarding whether she’d bite into a baked weevil. She looked at the earl. His features had gone hard and remote; his posture was of that unnervingly about-to-pounce-to-kill variety. She pitied her brother the enemy he had in the earl, she truly did.

He looked at her. The candle flames were reflected in his blue eyes, which seemed absurdly symbolic.

She was worried everything was going to seem symbolic from now on, thanks to that damn message from her brother.

“I hear he is truly ugly, with long shaggy hair and no teeth and terrible, terrible breath,” one shuddered deliciously. “And an earring!”

“Au contraire. I hear he is handsome as Adonis, and his voice will melt all will from women, and that he is a valiant fighter.”

“There is nothing gallant about piracy, madame,” the earl said gently. “And nothing valiant.”

“Oh, allow us a little romance, Lord Flint!” And all the guests giggled. “Perhaps you are jealous?” She fluttered her lashes.

He smiled politely, and Violet thought perhaps she was the only one who noticed the strained patience and the boredom and the hint of contempt behind that smile. He behaved beautifully; he was uncomfortable here. He knew so much more than they did about piracy. He likely knew so much more about most things than they did.

“You are a trader, Lord Flint.” The viscomte addressed this to the earl. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Musgrove, another trader who makes his home in Le Havre?”

“I am. And a pity Mr. Hardesty could not join us this evening, too,” the earl added.

“Because we could have long and dull and very pleasant conversation about trade over cigars, non?” The viscomte winked at Violet.

The viscomtesse muttered something in French here, most of which was unintelligible, but one was “Hardesty” and the other cochon.

A different view of her brother was coming into focus. And yet Lyon had once been so devoted to Olivia Eversea. Then again, she supposed he was a man, and the viscomtesse here was an opportunist, and not ugly.

“He was told of our gathering and our guests earlier today, but he needed to depart,” the viscomtesse confirmed.

So that’s how Lyon had guessed she was present and had found himself a clever messenger.

“Our earl here is from America, n’est-ce pas?” The comte showed no resentment of his guest’s grand title. “I know of an American captain of a large cargo schooner. He was arrested for slaving.”

“Despicable,” the earl agreed emphatically. “But despite the laws, an illegal slave trade still thrives in Britain. I have alerted the navy to such ships on more than one occasion. Unfortunately, if the British navy catches them the scoundrels have been known to throw their cargo—human beings—overboard. I do not condone slavery, sir. I lament that states in the American South do. I never shall. And I shall do my part to end it in my own country, when it comes to that.”

Violet stared at the earl, her fork poised midair. Horrified at the picture he’d painted, of people stolen from their land, chained, and then thrown overboard.

“Very good, sir,” the viscomte said mildly. “I am careful about whom I choose to partner in trade with, you see. I needed to ask.”

“I understand completely, sir.” Flint was in agreement.

“Have you been to America, Miss Redmond?” The viscomte turned to her, his demeanor instantly different, warm, inclusive, charming, his dark eyes appreciating her thoroughly.

“Why would one want to go to America, Vicente? I’ve heard most Americans are savages, regardless.” The viscomtesse said this sweetly to her husband before Violet could reply. Peas fled from the viscomtesse’s fork as she poked at them like an incompetent billiard player and stared at Violet. The wine had clearly played havoc with her reflexes. Was Violet the only one who saw the earl’s spine stiffen as though someone had shoved the barrel of a pistol into it?

Violet felt the hairs stir unpleasantly on the back of her neck. Like snipers rising from a crouched position, ready to attack.

Lavay shifted in his seat.

“You’ve an excellent cook, madam,” the earl said almost too gently. “The lamb is particularly fine.”

“Thank you,” the comtesse purred, then skewered a piece of meat, licked it clean of sauce with her pink tongue, just like a cat, and pulled it into her mouth. A prurient little show. She narrowed her eyes sleepily at the earl. He watched, looking interested in a sort of abstract way. Violet was reminded of his expression when he danced with Lady Peregrine. Her appetite further fled when she pictured him partaking of this creature. His big nude body covering hers—

She clenched her hand tightly around her fork. Resentful that the conversation was robbing her of the desire to eat the excellent food.

“And they say, you cannot make a silk purse from a sow’s ear, that is true, n’est-ce pas? Once a savage, always a savage. Particularly with those of shall we say, mixed parentage.” The viscomtesse volunteered this with wide-eyed innocence.

And wrapped her tongue about her spoon to polish it, then held it up before her as if to admire her handiwork.

Violet could see her own reflection in it, upside down, from across the table. Her jaw was clenched. Her eyes were narrowed to slits. She was a furious white. She in fact looked downright dangerous.

The comte stared at his wife with something akin to astonishment. The earl remained politely quiet. Excruciatingly quiet. Enduring for the sake of manners and the company he was in, for the sake of the viscomte who’d married a beautiful actress/whore because he could, and would likely live to regret it.

And something savage spilled over in Violet.

And yet she took pains to sound somewhat timid when she spoke.

“Allow me to say I’m not so certain, Lady Hebert. I imagine many would say your own transformation from sow’s ear into silk purse is very convincing.”

Her tone was so credibly humble it took the viscomtesse a moment to realize she’d been gravely insulted.

She froze. Instantly calling to mind an arching cat, fur all on end. Her big eyes glared, as if deciding which part of Violet she would like to stab with her fork first. Clearly she was speechless.

“Oh, Lady Hebert,” Violet said shyly, conciliatorily. She leaned forward and touched her hand to her hostess’s, and the viscomtesse, anticipating an apology or explanation, began to thaw. Violet waited a strategic moment.

“I should very much like to tell you how much I admire your wig. It almost looks like real hair.”

The viscomtesse snatched her hand back. “Vous êtes une putain grossière!” she hissed.

“Je crois que le pot appelle le noir de bouilloire,” Violet replied sweetly. Thereby officially launching an uproar at the table.

The viscomtesse tossed her napkin down and began protesting with sharp little hand gestures and rapid petulant French to her husband, and Violet took the opportunity to slide her chair back and exit, very gracefully, to the terrace, out of range of the viscomtesse’s fork and knife.

The terrace was so lovely it ought not belong to that woman, Violet thought. The moon was a window of light in the midnight blue sky; a cobweb of cloud clung to it; a breeze shook it off gradually. Stars, near ones, far ones, shone in their ancient patterns, performing their myriad doing duties: a map for sailors, inspiration for poets, oracles for astrologers, excuses for lovers to behave rashly.

A fountain surrounded by little white stone benches sat in the middle of it, and it was enclosed by vine-trailed walls. She settled onto one of the benches. It still held the warmth of the day. She was alone only for a minute or two. She knew precisely who had followed her out by the size of the shadow and because she thought, really, she would know him anywhere, and then he came into the moonlight immediately so she wouldn’t be afraid. He stood before her for a silent moment.