An Honorable Thief (5 page)

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
as 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 hand 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 watchdog; 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 signed 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 eoaxingly, "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
—dlon'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 then-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 naive 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. "Qh, 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?"