An Honorable Thief (13 page)

"Oh, dear. Sorry, Sir Bartlemy, I wasn't watching," Kit murmured. "This is such a complicated dance, is it not?" She twirled daintily around and skipped back.

Miss Lutens was watching, her eyes wide with mingled horror and delight. Kit grinned and swung into the next movement.

"Bloody H
—ouch!" Sir Bartlemy cursed as one diminutive slippered foot stamped surprisingly heavily on his instep.

"Oh, dear, how clumsy of me," cooed Kit prettily. "Poor Sir Bartlemy, being partnered with such a Clumsy Clara."

Sir Bartlemy gritted his teeth in a smile, muttered something gallant and hopped back into place, favouring his left foot.

It was their turn to twirl down the line. "Oof!" gasped Sir Bartlemy. Her foot had accidentally smashed against his ankle bone.

"Ouch!" She'd missed her step and crashed heavily onto his other instep.

"What a difficult dance it is. Oh, Sir Bartlemy, you poor thing! I'm not terribly good at this, am I?" called Kit apologetically, as she floated lightly and gracefully into the next movement.

"Yeouw!" A hard little heel had accidentally ground down on to masculine toes.

"Ouch
—damn—er!" An ankle bone received a second sharp blow.

"Oh, dear! Poor Sir Bartlemy!" she wailed each time in pretty concern, and danced enthusiastically on. The Sir Roger de Coverley was, after all, one of Kit's favourite dances.

At last the dance finished. Kit felt exhilarated, quite ready for her next turn on the floor. She glanced at her dance card as Sir Bartlemy escorted her off the floor. Oh, yes. The supper dance, a waltz with the Watchdog. She looked around, only to find him watching her, a slight frown on his face.

Sir Bartlemy led her up to Mr Devenish, limping heavily. He bowed. "Thank you, Miss Singleton, for a most... memorable dance," he said. He turned to Mr Devenish and handed her over with every evidence of relief, adding, "I believe you're her next vict
—er, lucky partner." He winced as he touched his cheekbone, which was still red under the powder.

Mr Devenish bowed slightly.

"Mind your feet, old man," Sir Bartlemy whispered as he passed. "Pretty little gal, but devilish clumsy. Looks graceful enough, but damme, kick on her like a mule." And he hobbled off in the direction of the exit. Sir Bartlemy had apparently decided on an early night.

Mr Devenish stared after him, a thoughtful look on his face, then turned to Kit. "How very interesting. I seem to recall you are particularly light on your feet." His brow arched in a silent question.

Kit had no intention of enlightening him. "I am well enough in a dance which I have been taught, but that one was new to me, so I am afraid I may have been a trifle clumsy."

"Indeed? So you are skilled in the waltz, a new dance that is all the rage, yet have never danced a traditional dance like the Sir Roger de Coverley before?" he said smoothly. "How very odd. I quite thought it was a favourite with all the ladies."

Kit had no answer for that.

He regarded her sceptically. "Yes, I thought so," he murmured. "I do not suppose your extraordinary clumsiness had anything to do with Sir Bartlemy's reputed tendency for, er, shall we say, excessive familiarity." His statement ended on a faint upward inflection.

Kit said nothing. She glanced vaguely around the room, trying to look like a brainless ninny, hoping for some distraction to draw his attention away from her. The Watchdog was all too perceptive for her liking.

She cursed herself for her impulsiveness. She could not regret her punishment of Sir Bartlemy, but it should most certainly have been kept for a less conspicuous occasion. Heavens, it wasn't as if she had never had to put up with unpleasant male attention before. It was vital to her plans that she stay as inconspicuous as possible. She groaned inwardly.

She became aware of what Mr Devenish was saying in a rather irritated and gruff voice.

“And there was no need to jeopardise your come-out in such an outrageous fashion. Of course you have no male relatives, but that doesn't mean others cannot act on your behalf, curse it! That little worm won't bother you again. I will see to it."

He was offering to protect her from the likes of Sir Bartlemy, Kit realised. The thought hit her with a rush of warmth. What a nice Watchdog!

She'd never had anyone offer to protect her before. Apart from Maggie, that is, and that was not quite the same.

What would it be like to have a watchdog of her own, acting as her protector, her shield? A watchdog to protect her from octopi like Sir Bartlemy. Someone to whom her welfare would be important; who would worry if she were hungry, or frightened, or in danger.

She recalled the way he had come to the rescue of an unknown female in the park, thundering down on the footpads on his magnificent black horse, a mysterious black knight appearing almost magically out of the morning mist. And the charmingly solicitous way he had enquired after her state of mind afterwards. He had even escorted her home
—or would have if she had not been forced to escape him. All that protectiveness for an unknown female.

Kit did not need a watchdog, of course. She had survived the last twenty years quite well and had learned to deal with a vast range of unpleasant and even dangerous situations with very little help from anyone. So she did not
need
a watchdog...

But the thought of such protectiveness aimed at her was very appealing.

It could not be. She shook herself mentally. It was simply not possible. She had a job to do. She had made a promise to her father. And to herself. There was no place in her schemes for a watchdog.

Kit shook her head decisively. "No, I thank you," she said, smiling at him warmly, so as not to hurt his feelings. "I am very well able to deal with the likes of Sir Bartlemy. And besides, as well as punishing Sir Bartlemy, I was demonstrating to my friend Miss Lutens how she could
—" Kit stopped, aghast, as his lips twitched in a sardonic glimmer. She had as good as confessed to Mr Devenish that her clumsiness had been deliberate.

Mr Devenish's lips twitched again. He was clearly enjoying her evident confusion. “There is no need to look so appalled," he murmured. "I would never have believed that you were capable of such accidental clumsiness. I have danced with you myself, do not forget, and found you exceptionally light and sure on your feet."

Kit mumbled her thanks.

"Yes," he added cynically, "I am much inclined to believe that every instance of clumsiness you have exhibited has been with an ulterior motive in mind."

Kit froze. His next words confirmed her sudden fear.

"That stumble at supper the other evening, for instance..."

His faint, mocking smile bored into her. Kit felt like a mouse encountering a cobra. She waited with bated breath for his next words.

Was he planning to denounce her as a thief here? At Almack's? Oh Lord, Rose Singleton would die at the disgrace. Up to now, the worst she'd feared was that Kit would do something as shocking as dance the waltz before she'd been approved to do so by one of the patronesses. That was the worst Rose could conceive of.

Kit closed her eyes briefly. Rose Singleton would rue the day when she succumbed to the blandishments of Kit's father. What a way to repay Rose for her kindnes^; her protegee being pilloried for theft. She opened her eyes again, prepared for the worst.

He picked up her dance card and scanned it briefly. "You are free for the next dance. Shall we?'' And he held out his hand to her in a masterful fashion.

Breath left her body in a great whoosh of relief. He had not meant to denounce her at all! She had panicked over nothing.

She glanced up at him to read his expression. He stared down at her, his eyes, cold, shrewd, knowing and a trickle of ice stiffened her spine. He might be saying nothing, but his eyes told her the truth. He
knew
she'd stolen his tie-pin. He was holding it over her head.

Oh, he was a formidable watchdog, all right. She'd just forgotten whose watchdog he was. Not hers. He was protecting others from her. He was protecting Thomas, his nephew, Lord Norwood.

Kit made three resolutions at that moment. The first was that she would have to turn Thomas's interest away from her. And very soon. Secondly, she needed to be far more wary of Mr Devenish in future
—he was far too perceptive—dangerously so, in her case.

Her third resolution was that she really should not ever dance with him again. Most particularly not the waltz. That was even more dangerous. She had learned at the Parsons's ball that whirling around the room in his arms had a very definite weakening effect on her common sense.

Even when not dancing, he had the power to weaken her defences; his offer to protect her from the importunities of Sir Bartlemy had completely undermined her natural wariness and look what had happened
—he'd led her straight into a trap!

No, she could not possibly dance with him again.

She stared at his outstretched hand. It was strong and unfashionably tanned, not at all the hand of a gentleman. She shouldn't touch it, not if she had any common sense left. But how to refuse him, when she had no acceptable polite reason? And when her foolish female brain was telling her one more little dance wouldn't hurt. Foolish female mouse brain. Dance with the big handsome cobra, go on...

The opening strains of the music for the next dance began. As she heard it, common sense returned in a rush. A beatific smile spread across her face. The mouse had won.

"I am most terribly sorry, Mr Devenish," she cooed, "but as yet, I have not been approved by any of the patronesses to dance the waltz at Almack's. And I would not dream of disobeying my aunt's strict advice in this matter. I must, reluctantly, refuse you."

Mr Devenish frowned, bowed curtly, and walked away.

Kit watched him passing through the crowd with a mixture of triumph, relief and regret. She could not afford any more encounters with Mr Devenish. He was by far too knowing.

...
every instance of clumsiness you have exhibited has been with an ulterior motive in mind... that stumble at supper the other evening, for instance.

So if he knew, then why not denounce her? That, quicker than anything, would solve the problem of his nephew's interest in Kit.

No, he could not possibly know it. How could he? In his world, ladies did not steal gentlemen's tie-pins at supper. Her guilty conscience had led her to see more significance in his words than there actually was.

If he truly thought her a thief, Kit would even now be residing in Bridewell Prison, instead of very properly sitting out a waltz at Almack's. Perhaps he might suspect...but that was all.

If Kit was to succeed in her plan, she had to ensure no one, no one at all showed more than a passing interest in the activities of Miss Catherine Singleton. Mr Devenish was interestednn Catherine Singleton for one reason only
— Thomas, Therefore, to be free of Mr Devenish's unwanted interest, Catherine Singleton would have to get rid of Thomas. Immediately.

Kit had few qualms about it. Thomas was no more enamoured of her than the next woman. If it was love Thomas felt for Kit, it was what Maggie called cupboard love
— love of Kit's supposed diamond mine.

Yes, she would give Thomas, Lord Norwood, his
conge
immediately
—tonight, if at all possible.

And then Mr Devenish would leave Miss Catherine Singleton alone.

Kit, the determined daughter with a great deal of common sense and the plan to retrieve the family honour, knew it was the only possible solution.

It was the other Kit, the foolish female mouse-brained one, who wistfully wished it could be otherwise...

Kit glanced around the room. Aha, there was Thomas, standing leaning up against a pillar, chatting to
—good Heavens! He was chatting to Libby Lutens and another young lady. How very interesting. Clearly he was still protecting Miss Lutens from the attentions of the Octopus. Perhaps watchdoggery ran in the family.

Kit watched approvingly. Up to now, she had not been at all impressed with Lord Norwood; he had stuck her as a dull and rather feckless young man. This protectiveness of Miss Lutens showed her a new side of him. Possibly it was new to him, too. Whatever, she liked Thomas the better for it. It was almost a pity she had to spoil his night by giving him his
conge.

But it had to be done.

She rose from her seat and began to cross the floor.

"Miss Singleton." It was a warm, feminine voice with a decided air of command. Kit turned. She recognised that voice.

"Lady Cowper." She curtsied to the lady, one of the formidable Lady Patronesses of Almack's.

"It has come to my attention, Miss Singleton, that you are lacking a partner for this dance," said Lady Cowper. “May I present Mr Devenish as a desirable partner? I can recommend him; he dances the waltz exceptionally well." She smiled at Mr Devenish in an almost roguish fashion. He smiled and bowed to her. Kit gritted her teeth.

"Shall we, Miss Singleton?" He held out his hand to her, a faintly mocking smile on his lips.

Kit, aware of Lady Cowper's eyes upon her, curtsied demurely and laid her hand on his proffered arm. She darted him a smile of saccharine sweetness. "I hope I shall not dithappoint you with my clumthiness, Mr Devenish," she lisped pointedly. He was quite aware she had no wish to dance with him again. No serious wish, at any rate.