Captain Jack's Woman (14 page)

George’s lips thinned, but he knew better than to lecture Jack on that subject. “But you don’t have a mistress at present.”

Jack’s smile was blinding. “Not just at the moment, no. But I’ve a candidate in mind who’ll fill the position admirably.” His silver-grey gaze grew distant as his thoughts dwelled on Kit’s delicate curves.

George humphed and fell silent.

“Anyway,” Jack said, shaking free of his reverie, “any wife of mine would have to understand she’d have no influence in such areas of my life.” With Kit as his mistress, he couldn’t imagine even wanting a wife. He certainly wouldn’t want one to warm his bed—Kit would do that very nicely.

N
oise, laughter, and the distant scrape of a violin greeted Kit as she strolled up the steps of Marchmont Hall. At the door, the butler stood, sharp eyes searching each guest for the required sprig of laurel. Drawing abreast of him, Kit smiled and raised her gloved fingers to the leaves thrust through the buttonhole in her lapel.

The butler bowed. Kit inclined her head, pleased that the retainer had not recognized her. He’d seen her frequently enough in her skirts to be a reasonable test case. Confidence brimming, she sauntered to the wide double doors that gave onto the ballroom, pausing at the last to check that her plain black mask was in place, shading her eyes as well as covering her telltale mouth and chin.

As soon as she crossed the threshold, she was conscious of being examined by a large number of eyes. Her confidence wavered, then surged when no one looked more than puzzled. They couldn’t place the elegant stripling, of course. Calmly, as if considering the attention only her due, Kit strolled into the crowd milling about the dance floor. She’d had Elmina recut a cast-off evening coat belonging to her cousin Geoffrey, deepest midnight blue, and had bullied her elderly maid into creating a pair of buff inexpressibles that clung to her long limbs as if molded to them. Her blue-and-gold waistcoat had once been a brocaded underskirt; it was cut long to cover the anatomical inadequacies otherwise revealed by the tight breeches. Her snowy white cravat, borrowed from Spencer’s collection, was tied in a fair imitation of the Oriental style. The brown wig had been the biggest challenge; she’d found a whole trunk of them in the attic and had spent hours making her selection, then recutting the curls to a more modern style. All in all, she felt no little pride in her disguise.

Her principal objective was to locate Lord Hendon amid the guests. She’d imagined she’d find him being lionized by the local ladies, but a quick survey of the room brought no such interesting specimen to light. Lady Dersingham was by the musicians’ dais, Lady Gresham was seated not far from the door, and Lady Marchmont was hovering as close as she could to the portal; all three were obviously keeping watch.

Kit grinned beneath her mask. She was one their ladyships would be keen to identify; their other prime target would be her quarry. Convinced Lord Hendon had not yet arrived, Kit circulated among the guests, keeping a weather eye on one or another of her three well-wishers at all times. She was sure they’d react when the new High Commissioner darkened the doorway.

To her mind, this opportunity to evaluate Lord Hendon was unparalleled and unlikely to be repeated. She intended to study the man behind the title, and, if the facade looked promising, to investigate further. Disguised as she was, there were any number of conversational gambits with which she could engage the new High Commissioner.

Kit glimpsed Amy in her Columbine costume at the other end of the room and headed in that direction. She passed Spencer, talking farming with Amy’s father, and carefully avoided his attention. She’d convinced him to come alone in his carriage, on the grounds that she needed to arrive without his very identifying escort to remain incognito. Thinking she meant to hoodwink Amy and their ladyships, he’d agreed readily enough, assuming that she’d use the smaller carriage. Instead, she’d ridden here on Delia. She’d never brought Delia to Marchmont Hall before, so the grooms had not recognized the mare.

The Marchmont Hall ballroom was long and narrow. Kit sauntered through the crowd, nodding here and there at people she knew, delighting in their confusion. Throughout, she kept mum. Those who knew her might recognize the husky quality of her voice and be sufficiently shrewd to think the unthinkable. She was perfectly aware her enterprise was scandalous in the extreme, but she’d no intention of being within Marchmont Hall when the time came to unmask.

As she drew closer to the musicians’ raised dais, she heard them tuning their instruments.

“You there, young man!”

Kit turned and beheld her hostess bearing down on her, a plain girl in tow. Holding her breath, Kit bowed, praying her mask hadn’t slipped.

“I haven’t the faintest notion who you are, dear boy, but you can dance, can’t you?”

Kit nodded, too relieved that Lady Marchmont hadn’t recognized her to realize the wisdom of denying that accomplishment.

“Good! You can partner this fair shepherdess then.”

Lady Marchmont held out the young girl’s gloved hand. Smoothly, Kit took it and bowed low. “Charmed,” she murmured, wondering frantically whether she could remember how to reverse the steps she’d been accustomed to performing automatically for the past six years.

The shepherdess curtsied. Behind her mask, Kit frowned critically. The girl wobbled too much—she should practice in front of a mirror.

Lady Marchmont sighed with relief and, with a farewell pat on Kit’s arm, left them in search of other suitable gentlemen to pair with single girls.

To Kit’s relief, the music started immediately, rendering conversation unnecessary. She and the shepherdess took their places in the nearest set and the ordeal began. By the first turn, Kit realized the cotillion was more of an ordeal for the shepherdess than herself. Kit had taught her youngest two male cousins to dance, so was acquainted with the gentleman’s movements. Knowing the lady’s movements by heart made it easy enough to remember and match the appropriate position. Her confidence grew with every step. The shepherdess, in contrast, was a bundle of nerves, unraveling steadily.

When, through hesitation, the girl nearly slipped, Kit spoke as encouragingly as she could: “Relax. You’re doing it quite well, but you’ll improve if you don’t tense so.”

A strained smile that was more like a grimace was her reward.

With an inward sigh, Kit set herself to calm the girl and instill a bit of confidence. She succeeded sufficiently well for the shepherdess to smile normally by the end of the measure and thank her effusively.

From the other side of the room, Jack surveyed the dancers. He’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier, rigged out in his “poor country squire togs,” a black half mask and a brown tie wig. For the first three minutes, all had gone well. After that, the evening had headed downhill. First, Lord Marchmont had recognized him, how he’d no idea. His host had immediately borne him off to present him to his wife. Unfortunately, she’d been standing with three other local ladies. He was now on nodding terms with the ladies Gresham, Dersingham, and Falworth.

Lady Marchmont had iced his cake with an arch pronouncement that she’d “someone” she most particularly wished him to meet. He’d suppressed a shudder, intensified by the gleam he saw in the other ladies’ eyes. They were all in league to leg-shackle him to some damn drab. Sheer panic had come to his rescue. He’d charmed his way from their sides and gone immediately in search of refreshment, remembering just in time to redevelop his limp. At least it provided an excuse not to dance. Strong liquor was what he’d needed to regain his equilibrium. Matthew had gone alone to the Blackbird, to line up their next cargo. Jack wished he was with him, with a tankard of their abominable home brew in front of him.

In the alcove off the ballroom where the drinks were set forth, he’d come upon George, a decidedly glum Harlequin. At sight of him, he’d uttered a hoot of laughter, for which George repaid him with a scowl.

“I know it looks damn stupid, but what could I do?”

“Call off the engagement?”

George threw him a withering look, then added: “Not that I’m not sure it constitutes sufficient cause.”

Jack thumped him on the shoulder. “Never mind your troubles—mine are worse.”

George studied the grim set of his lips. “They recognized you?”

Reaching for a brandy, Jack nodded. “Virtually immediately. God only knows what gave me away.”

George opened his mouth to tell him but never got the chance.

“Christ Almighty!” Jack choked on his brandy. Abruptly, he swung away from the ballroom. “What the bloody hell’s Kit doing here?”

Frowning, George looked over the guests. “Where?”

“Dancing, would you believe! With a shepherdess in pale pink—third set from the door.”

George located the slender youth dipping through the last moves of the cotillion. “You sure that’s Kit?”

Jack swallowed his “Of course I’m damned sure, I’d know her legs anywhere” and substituted a curt, “Positive.”

George studied the figure across the room. “A wig?”

“And his Sunday best,” said Jack, risking a quick glance at the ballroom. The last thing he wanted was for Kit to see him. If the Lord Lieutenant could recognize him immediately, it was certain Kit would. But she knew him as Captain Jack.

“Maybe Spencer brought him?”

“Like hell! More likely the young devil decided to come and see how the other half lives.”

George grinned. “Well, it’s safe enough. He’ll just have to leave before the unmasking and no one will be any the wiser.”

“But
he’ll
be a whole lot wiser if he sets eyes on either you or me.”

George’s indulgent smile faded. “Oh.”

“Indeed. So how do we remove Kit from this charming little gathering without creating a scene?”

They both sipped their brandies and considered the problem. Jack kept his back to the room; George, far less recognizable in his Harlequin suit, maintained a watchful eye on Kit.

“He’s left his partner and is moving down the room.”

“Is your fiancée here?” Jack asked. “Can you get her to take a note to Kit?”

George nodded. Jack pulled out a small tablet and pencil. After a moment’s hesitation, he scribbled a few words, then carefully folded and refolded the note. “That should do it.” He handed the square to George. “If I’m not back by the time for unmasking, make my excuses.”

Jack put his empty glass back on the table and turned to leave.

Appalled, George barred the way. “What the hell should I say? This ball was all but organized for you.”

Jack smiled grimly. “Tell them I was called away to deal with a case of mistaken identity.”

Disentangling herself from the shepherdess’s clinging adoration, Kit beat a hasty retreat, heading for the corner where she’d last seen Amy. When she got there, Amy was nowhere in sight. Drifting back along the room, Kit kept a wary eye out for the shepherdess and Lady Marchmont.

In the end, it was Amy who found her.

“Excuse me.”

Kit swung about—Amy’s Columbine mask met her eyes. Beneath her own far more concealing mask, Kit smiled in delight and bowed elegantly.

She straightened and saw a look of confusion in Amy’s clear eyes.

“I’ve been asked to deliver this note to you—
Kit!”

Kit grabbed Amy’s arm and squeezed it warningly. “Keep your voice down, you goose! What gave me away?”

“Your eyes, mostly. But there was something else—something about your height and size and the way you hold your hands, I think.” Amy’s gaze wandered over Kit’s sartorial perfection, then dropped to the slim legs perfectly revealed by the clinging knee breeches and clocked stockings. “Oh, Kit!”

Kit felt a twinge of guilt at Amy’s shocked whisper.

“Yes, well, that’s why no one must know who I am. And for goodness sake, don’t color up so, or people will think I’m making improper suggestions!”

Amy giggled.

“And you can’t take my arm, either, or come too close. Please think, Amy,” Kit pleaded, “or you’ll land me in the suds.”

Amy dutifully tried to remember that Kit was a youth. “It’s very hard when I’ve known you all my life and know you’re not a boy.”

“Where’s this note?” Kit lifted the small white square from Amy’s palm and unfolded it. She read the short message three times before she could believe her eyes.

Kit, Meet me on the terrace as soon as possible, Jack

“Who gave you this?” Kit looked at Amy.

Amy looked back. George had impressed on her she was not to tell the slim youth who had given her the note—but did George know the slim youth was Kit? She frowned. “Don’t you know who it’s from?”

“Yes. But I wondered who gave it to you—did you recognize him?”

Amy blinked. “It was passed on. I don’t have any idea who wrote it.” That, at least, was the truth.

Too caught up in the startling discovery that Jack was somewhere near, probably among the guests, Kit missed the less than direct nature of Amy’s answer. Forgetting her own instructions, she put a hand on Amy’s arm. “Amy, you must promise you’ll tell no one of my disguise.”

Amy promptly reassured her on that score.

“And I won’t, of course, be here for the unmasking. Can you tell Lady Marchmont—and Spencer, too—that I was here, but that I felt unwell and returned home? Tell Spencer I didn’t want to spoil his evening.” Kit grinned wryly; if she stayed for the unmasking, she’d definitely ruin Spencer’s night.

“But what about the note?” asked Amy.

“Oh, that.” Kit stuffed the white paper into her pocket. “It’s nothing. Just a joke—from someone else who recognized me.”

“Oh.” Amy eyed Kit and wondered. The male disguise was almost perfect—if she’d had such difficulty recognizing Kit, who else would?

“And now, Amy dearest, we must part or people will start to wonder.”

“You won’t do anything scandalous, will you?”

Kit repressed the urge to give Amy a hug. “Of course, I won’t. Why, I’m doing everything possible to avoid such an outcome.” With a twinkle in her eye, Kit bowed.

With a look that stated she found the act of attending a ball in male attire inconsistent with avoiding scandal, Amy curtsied and reluctantly moved away.

Kit took refuge behind a large palm by the side of the ballroom. Caution dictated she avoid Jack whenever possible, but was it possible? Or wise? If she didn’t appear on the terrace, he was perfectly capable of appearing in the ballroom, by her side, in a decidedly devilish mood. No—it was the lesser of two evils, but the terrace it would have to be. After all, what could he possibly do to her on the Lord Lieutenant’s terrace?

She scanned the crowd, studying men of Jack’s height. There were a few who fit that criterion, but none was Jack. She wondered what mad start had brought him to the ball. Unobtrusively, she made her way to where long windows opened onto the terrace that ran the length of the house.