The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (14 page)

Trouble was, he didn’t want to wait.

Suddenly, Miss Davidson’s lovely face popped into his mind, and the feeling her image provoked was definitely not one of fatherly—or even of brotherly—protectiveness.

Madness! Miss Davidson was but sixteen. And he was bloody well nine-and-twenty! He’d never considered courting one so young, and he bloody well wasn’t considering it now. Sixteen! She wasn’t even old enough to look at. She was, however, old enough to get someone into deep, deep trouble, and that someone would not be Nigel. It did not matter that the Earl of Reeve had been nine-and-thirty upon his wedding day and had taken to wife a girl of only sixteen. It did not matter what was acceptable to Society; wedding a child was not acceptable to Nigel. Nigel tossed down the rest of his brandy and poured himself another. He banished the image of Miss Davidson from his mind and conjured up Madame Briand’s instead.

Where had he seen that woman before?

He was certain they’d met, probably on one of his missions on the Continent. Perhaps she had been wearing a disguise when he’d seen her before. A different hair color? Or different clothing? No clothing at all, perhaps?

Nigel tried to remember the faces of the ladies he had taken to his bed—or to their beds. But it was not one of their womanly images that came to mind. It was the image of another woman, one he had never taken to his bed, a woman he’d never seen. An woman no man had ever seen. A mature Kitty Davidson, fully blossomed, sharp-tongued, and full of fire. Her lithe, naked body stretched out on his bed. Her eyes half closed in passion as he lowered himself over her and . . . and . . ..

He growled. Where the devil were his thoughts taking him? Kitty was not yet a woman grown. It didn’t matter if he was imagining what she might be like several years hence. Today she was but a child, and he had no deuced business thinking of her in such a manner!

Nigel took another draft of brandy and tried to concentrate on the satisfying burn down the back of his throat. Perhaps that was his trouble. Perhaps he’d had too much brandy. Nigel put the half-filled glass aside.

Staring into the fire, he allowed himself a smile. He half hoped he was still unmarried a year or two from now, just so he could see her face when they met at a ball or at the opera. He would gauchely remind her of how she had treated him today. He chuckled, wondering if she’d blush and lower her eyes or whether she would scratch his eyeballs out for his impertinence. Nigel liked his eyes right where they were, but then again, he rather hoped she wouldn’t blush, either. He’d hate seeing her with all her magnificent fire gone.

His smile fell. He wasn’t likely ever to find out. After the story Lady Marchman told him today, he knew Kitty would never make her bow to Society. Lady Marchman told him she’d arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back and a night rail stuffed into a pitiful satchel. Her family had died, and she’d had nowhere else to go. Girls of her station, with no relations and no fortune, did not have a come-out.

He would never waltz with her across the shiny marble floors of a ballroom.

Nigel thought about Lady Marchman’s strange assertion that the girl needed someone influential to befriend her. Was Kitty in some sort of trouble, or did she simply need what could be had for the price of a few guineas—a new gown or two?

One thing was certain: Lady Marchman knew more than she was willing to tell. When pressed, she had clamped her lips tightly together and stubbornly refused to say more.

Nigel strode to his desk and scratched off a missive to one Madame Vensois, a clever, pleasant woman with whom he’d become well acquainted during the year he’d kept his first mistress. She made the most beautiful gowns, and she could be depended upon to be discreet. A second note was directed to Jeremy Scott.

In light of “Madame Briand’s” appearance, Nigel knew he needed another man on the scene. Jeremy had been one of Sir Winston’s operatives almost as long as Nigel. He was a good man, a keen observer, and a loyal friend.

Nigel had to sleep sometime, and Jeremy would keep watch when Nigel could not.

Impulsively, Nigel added a scrawl to the bottom of his letter to Jeremy, a request for a favor. Would Jeremy carry out a discreet investigation on one Miss Kitty Davidson?

Summoning a footman, Nigel sent the letters immediately. That done, he thrust Kitty Davidson firmly from his mind, barked an order to his valet, and stalked to the stables. Perhaps a good, hard ride would clear his head.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

N
IGEL WIPED AT
his brow with a sky blue handkerchief and reined in his stallion. The horse’s black, velvety mouth was flecked with foam, and Nigel’s rib cage was sore from the exertion, but the good, hard ride had done nothing to drive the image of a grown-up Miss Davidson from his mind. It was still there, taunting him with a sense of familiarity. But that wasn’t the worst. His body taunted him, too, with a blatant physical response whenever he remembered the feel of her in his arms. She certainly hadn’t felt like a child.

He swore.

He planned to spend the early afternoon productively at his club, trying to ferret out any information he could on Lady Marchman and her late husband. Though her current station in life precluded her acceptance into the highest of social strata, Lady Marchman was still a titled member of the
ton
. Her husband, Nigel had found out, had been a high-stakes gambler who had lost virtually everything on his wedding day. If there was anything more interesting than that to know about him, someone at the club would probably be the one to share it with Nigel.

But he knew he would be unable to concentrate fully on the case.

He dismounted and walked his horse parallel to the Serpentine until the animal was cool enough to take a draft of the water there. Nigel wished it were that easy to cool himself.

Was he a degenerate? Was he mad? Would he be forced to hand himself over to the Bedlamites? He was lusting after girl who was barely marriageable. Instead of the image of a grown-up Miss Davidson, he deliberately focused instead on one of Kitty bedecked with those ridiculous, bouncy satin bows atop her head.

That did it.

His libido screeched to a halt, and Nigel blew out a deep breath, relieved to know his gentlemanly honor was intact, to know he wasn’t interested in Kitty Davidson, the sixteen-year-old. And all he had to do to banish the much-too-alluring image of a grown-up version of the chit was to imagine those enormous bows nestling in that shiny halo of blond curls of hers.

Nigel blinked.

Shiny blond curls . . . blue eyes . . .

Of course! Why hadn’t he realized it before? Nigel slapped his thigh, spooking his horse. Now he knew why Miss Davidson, with her glorious curls and wrathful blue eyes, her slight build, and her spiteful tongue seemed so familiar to him. He’d had the feeling he’d met her before, but he hadn’t. It was simply that she bore a strong resemblance to the fairy queen from Ophelia Palin’s ball!

He laughed out loud, garnering curious looks from passersby. It wasn’t the impossibly young Miss Davidson who’d sent his senses a-begging at all, but the fair, twenty-three-year-old Titania. Thank God.

He marveled at the resemblance, but it was easy to see why he had not recognized it at once. He’d never seen the fairy’s whole face, after all, just her lovely blue eyes, her mouth, and her hair. If he saw the two side by side with no masques, he was sure, they would look nothing alike, and the fairy was slightly taller than Miss Davidson, wasn’t she?

He wasted no more time in trying to discern the reason it had taken him so long to understand his wayward libido. Miss Davidson was gone from his mind, and he had work to do. Enough of this nonsense. More urgent matters awaited his attention. Even now he could be at his club, interrogating the old boys at the whist tables. He wondered how much it would take in lost wagers and fine brandy to loosen the right tongues. Nigel sighed and headed for home. His clothes would need to be changed and his horse stabled for the night.

But an hour later, instead of being ensconced in a comfortable chair at the club, cheerfully losing at whist, Nigel found himself paying a social call on Ophelia Palin.

The club would still be there after his visit to Palin House, and the high-stakes gamblers generally showed up much later than the rest of the crowd. A lost hour was a small price to pay for his sanity.

He had to exorcise the sudden madness that had overtaken him when he had first beheld the fairy queen, the flare of attraction that had swept over him like a wild thing, claiming his reason and driving him to take her into his arms and taste her lips. He’d been unable to concentrate on anything since that night. His desire for the fairy had even driven him to an unreasoned and unacceptable lust for the Davidson chit.

But no more.

He would find out who the fairy was, escort her to a ball or to the opera, find her as superficial and frivolous as the rest of the tonnish cloud of fainting dainties, and be done with it.

Sure. And the Prince Regent was a monk.

Something inside warned him it might not be that easy to regain his balance.

He handed his horse’s reins off to the blue-and-scarlet liveried groom who waited in front of the immense house on Grosvenor Square. As he waited in the vast grand entry hall of Palin House for the butler to return from announcing his arrival, Nigel remembered his reaction to the fairy on the night of the ball. The mere sight of her had stirred him, mentally and physically. Beauty abounded in London, and Nigel could have his choice. But it was not the fairy’s beauty alone that had claimed his reason. He didn’t even know what most of her face looked like. No, it was the way her eyes cast uncertainly about the room, the way they flashed their sapphire fire when he first spoke to her, the way they danced as she publicly insulted him! It was her clever and gallant rescue of Lydia, someone she didn’t even know. It was her cleverly duping him into going after Kettle-kitty and her kittens so she could make her escape. It was the way she had yielded to his kiss, sighing into their embrace as though sating a hunger long denied.

Nigel couldn’t help noting the absence of a wedding ring on her hand that night--and Ophelia Palin knew who she was.

The butler returned and showed him into a small, garishly decorated salon done in shades of orange, Ophelia’s favored color. Here and there amongst the visual chaos were splashes of purple: a vase, a pillow, a painting. As he entered the room, Nigel’s eyes rested on these as a drowning man might rest on a piece of floating flotsam.

“Why, Lord Blackshire! What a pleasure it is to see you again so soon, my boy!” the couch appeared to say before Nigel realized Ophelia reclined there, neatly camouflaged in a flaming orange gown amongst a pile of flaming orange pillows. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Yes, my lord,” a man said, stepping from a window alcove, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” Though clean and tidy, he was dressed in the clothes of a workingman.

Nigel’s eyebrows lifted and he looked to Ophelia for the necessary introduction, but his hostess was too busy looking daggers at the man to perform it. Evidently, Nigel had walked in on some sort of dispute.

“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked. He’d had this experience before. People were almost always “at home” when the Marquis of Blackshire called, whether they were ready to receive him or not.

“Yes.” “No!” They spoke at the same time.

Ophelia glared at the man again, while the man smiled at Ophelia saucily before walking forward with his hand extended toward Nigel.

“Pleased to meet you, my lord. I’m John Robertson, a friend of the family.”

Family? Nigel thought. He was unaware that Ophelia had any family, but he kept the thought to himself. Mr. Robertson’s heavy accent spoke of his low birth, even if his clothing did not. Nigel took the rough, callused hand the older man offered him and, smiling, shook it firmly. “Do I detect a trace of a Scottish brogue, Mr. Robertson?”

“Aye, that you do, laddie. My dear mother, rest ’er soul, was a Scot,” Mr. Robertson said, allowing his mother’s influence to creep into his words even more heavily.

Ophelia, still glowering at Mr. Robertson, held out her hand to Nigel. He crossed to her and bowed over her fingers before sitting down next to Mr. Robertson on a couch opposite the one Ophelia sat upon. Not looking at Mr. Robertson directly, Ophelia said, “John, please see that tea is served immediately.”

“Yes ma’am!” John said, springing crisply to his feet, snapping his heels smartly together, and tugging his forelock.

Nigel was momentarily confused. So . . . John Robertson was a servant? Had he not just introduced himself as a friend of the family? Nigel’s eyes followed the man across the room, but instead of quitting the room to fetch the tea, Mr. Robertson moved to the braided red silk bell pull and yanked it, then returned to his place on the couch, grinning smugly at Ophelia.

What was going on here? Nigel wondered. Whatever it was, it was certainly no place for a guest, yet Nigel hated to leave before he learned the identity of the fairy queen.

He had best be out with the reason for his visit as soon as possible.

“My dear Miss Palin,” he addressed Ophelia, “I am afraid my reasons for coming to see you are duplicitous. It is not the mere pleasure of your company I seek, but a formal introduction to a certain young lady who attended your masquerade ball.”

“Oh?” Ophelia said, a mask of unknowing innocence falling over her.

Nigel wasn’t fooled. Ophelia knew exactly of whom he spoke, but he decided to play the game her way.

“You must know the one. She smiled at everyone,” he said. “Everyone except for me. She agreed to dance with every man fortunate enough to ask her . . . but me. And she was gracious with everyone . . . but me, whom she insulted. You must know who she was. She returned to your side after each dance. I even saw her kiss you.”

“Many young ladies kiss their hostess’s cheek, my boy.”

“Ah . . . she is so young then? Is this her first Season?”

Ophelia chuckled. “Good shot, my boy, but you’ll have to do better than that to get me to reveal who she is or anything else about her.”

“Then you do know the identity of the lady I seek.”

Ophelia laughed. “Of course I know who she is. She was the great treasure I was revealing at the ball. Did you not figure that little puzzle out, young man? You and every other unmarried gentleman in Town, it seems, wish to know who she is. Half of them were here this morning.” She pointed to the pile of calling cards on the heavily carved, red chinoiserie table beside her. “Of course I know who my treasure was, my boy!” She cackled. “I’m just not going to tell you. Not yet, anyway. You shall just have to be content with ‘the mere pleasure of my company.’” She motioned a maid to place the gleaming, burnished gold tea service on the table.

Ophelia poured for Nigel and was about to replace the pot when John Robertson cleared his throat loudly and pushed his own cup practically under her nose. Ophelia poured for him as well, but she overfilled the teacup and the near-to-boiling liquid sloshed over the rim of the delicate, gold-rimmed saucer and onto John’s hand. Ophelia made no move to apologize, and it was John’s turn to glare. Nigel glanced at the ornate, silver mantel clock. He did not intend to stay a moment longer than the polite obligatory fifteen minutes. He wasn’t going to learn the fairy’s true name today, and these two were obviously not getting along. He wondered again about Ophelia’s mysterious family and about John Robertson’s connection to it as he sipped his tea and answered a barrage of questions from Mr. Robertson, most of them embarrassingly personal.

He was grateful when he could make his escape at last.

OPHELIA ROSE AND hurried to the window as soon as Blackshire was gone.

“All right, what’s wrong wi’ ’im?” John asked behind her. “He a little too cosy wi’ the bottle? Too shallow in the pockets? A womanizer?”

“What are you jabbering about?” Ophelia shot over her shoulder. “The marquis is wealthier than I, and he is a respected and powerful member of the House of Lords. A champion of the poor, and a sought-after guest at all of the most important social gatherings. A perfect gentleman.”

“Then you’re daft, woman!” John thundered. “Why did you not tell ’im it was Kathryn he’s lookin’ for?”

Ophelia was peeking around the heavy, fire-colored velvet drapery, watching for Blackshire to mount his horse, but she spared a second to roll her eyes at John. “You ignorant farmhand. You know nothing of Town life.”

“Drop the airs, you old windbag. I ken when a man is smitten. That look in ’is eyes . . . ’tis the same anywhere, country bloke or no. Seems to me if a well-titled, well-turned, well-heeled gentleman wants to get to know our darlin’ better—”

“Excuse me, madam,” Bendleson interrupted him, “but this letter has just arrived, and—”

“I’ll take it,” John said, snatching the plain, white envelope from the butler and hustling him out the door. “We’re involved in some very important business. See that we aren’t bothered.” He closed the door in Bendleson’s impassive face and turned back to Ophelia. “I was saying that if a gent like the marquis wants to lovey-dovey up to our darlin’ girl, then we should be doing everything we can to help ’im.” He waved the letter at Ophelia for emphasis.

“Men!” Ophelia huffed, forgetting for a moment that Blackshire, like John, was one of that cadre of exasperating male creatures. She seized the letter and tossed it carelessly onto the couch. “Even you cannot be so ignorant, Mr. Robertson.” She refused to call him by his first name no matter how long she’d known him. “The marquis is indeed smitten, as you say, but that is precisely why we must not tell him who she is.”

John sputtered indignantly. “A—are you sayin’ that . . . that my Kathryn isn’t good enough for the likes o’ ‘im?”

“Of course not!
My
Kathryn is good enough for the Prince Regent.”

“That’s not sayin’ much, from what I ’ear.”

Ophelia looked around wildly and whisked herself over to hiss in John’s ear, “Do not, for heaven’s sake, be heard publicly maligning the Prince ever again.”

John looked around. “There’s no one ’ere but us two,” he said.

Ophelia rolled her eyes again. “The servants are everywhere, whether you see them or not,” she whispered.

“But—”

Ophelia covered his mouth with her hand. “There is no time to explain the intricacies of servant-master relationships to you now, Mr. Robertson. And as for not revealing Kathryn’s identity, suffice it to say that a woman’s mysteries will only make a man’s attraction for her grow. A woman comprehends these things,” she said, “and for once, I trust, you will not insist that you know as well as I.”

“Well, I’m not a woman.”

“Heh,” Ophelia commented.

She sat, drinking her tea and thinking, refusing to discuss the matter until the repast was over and deliberately prolonging her silence. She wasn’t simply pricking John; she genuinely needed the time to consider.