Mad About the Major (10 page)

Besides, there was a wry part of him that rather liked putting some bauble on his father's account.

One last defiant act, he decided.

He tossed the reins to the boy, who caught them smartly, and then got down and ambled around the carriage. “Come along, Birdie, my girl. Let us buy an offering for this goddess you so dearly want to meet.”

 

C
HAPTER 8

“W
ho is at the door, Peg?”

“A Major Kingsley.”

“Kingsley, Kingsley . . .” Justina Spenser bit her lip and went through the lists of names she'd memorized through necessity from
Debrett's
. When that failed to offer any clue, she did a running recount of the latest gossip columns, and then it came to her.

Kingsley.
Good heavens . . .

“Why, he's the heir of—­” Her fleet mind began to calculate at having such a young and rich admirer.

New curtains. Carpets.

Peg knew exactly what she was doing and only added to the temptation by holding out a package. “Whoever he is, he sent this.”

The familiar box and ribbon told all too clearly where the tempting offering inside had come from.

Rundell & Bridge.

Tasteful
and
expensive.

With quick fingers—­for this wasn't the first time she'd opened such a gift—­Justina unwrapped the offering and was delighted to find an exquisite silver bracelet, worked to look like oak leaves twining around the wearer's wrist. Dangling from it were small acorns decorated with tiny gems.

“Oh, my,” Peg wheezed. “I didn't expect that.”

Mrs. Spenser looked up from the bracelet. “Why not?”

“This Kingsley brought a young lady with him.”

“A wha-­a-­a-­t?”

“A young lady,” Peg repeated. “A right proper one, if my eyes don't deceive me.”

Mrs. Spenser saw no reason to argue the matter. If Peg said the girl was quality, she most likely was. “What do they want?”

Peg snorted. “Some prattle about taking tea with you, if it isn't too much bother.”

“Take tea?” This time Mrs. Spenser was the parrot, for she couldn't quite believe what she was hearing.

“Oh, aye, take tea. Brought a basket with them as well, so it wouldn't be a bother.” Peg shook her head as if she'd never seen such foolishness, but just as quickly her eyes narrowed. “That basket will feed us for a week, it will. Keep the greengrocer off our back step.”

Practical to a fault was Peg.

“Send them up,” Mrs. Spenser ordered, taking one more covetous glance inside the box before she snapped the lid closed.

“Both of them?” Peg made a disapproving
tsk, tsk
.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“I didn't think you were inclined that way.”

She wasn't, but her gaze flitted again toward the box.

“Oh, who am I chiding.” Peg laughed with a wheeze. “You'd sleep with Wellington's horse for that bauble.”

She might, but that was neither here nor there. “You said they just want to have tea?”

“Yes, an introduction and tea.”

“And you say she's quality?” Mrs. Spenser shook her head at the suggestion. “You must be mistaken. He wouldn't dare bring a girl of noble birth to see me.”

Peg got that calculating look in her eye. One old courtesan past her prime to a lady who was in the midst of her best years. “Care to wager?”

“Yes.”

“My pearl ear bobs,” Peg offered. They were the last of her retirement jewels, and she had held on to the fat, glossy jewels with the greed of Midas.

“Done! Against your wages for the next month—­”

“Two,” Peg said, raising the stakes.

“Yes, if you insist, two months,” Justina said, waving her hand at the entire suggestion as if it were she who was granting some grand favor. Hardly, when they both knew those ear bobs would easily bring a year's worth of wages.

“And
all
my wages, Justina,” Peg told her, one graying brow cocked up in indignation. “Including the portion you skim off when Lord Trumble gives them to you.”

“W
elcome, welcome,” Mrs. Spenser said in an elegantly accented voice.

If Kingsley had to guess, he'd say she exhibited hints of an upper-­crust education and a dash of French nobility. Or that was at least the impression the lady wanted to convey.

And the same with her legendary beauty—­she was a decidedly handsome woman, with dark auburn hair, a fair complexion, and a tall, willowy figure that curved precisely as it ought. But what made the infamous Incognita stand out was her eyes—­quick and sharp, giving no doubt to anyone of the intelligence behind them and a defiant independence that would not be easily dominated.

No wonder her admirers were politicians and artists and the very upper reaches of Society.

“How kind of you to come and call on me.” She said this with a grand smile, as if their visit was just the pleasant surprise of old friends arriving unexpectedly. “Peg, dear, do fetch a pot of tea,” she asked of the crone who had answered the door.

“Oh, aye, ma'am,” Peg replied with a bit of a snort to her words and her eyes alight with a curious sparkle.

“Mrs. Spenser, I must apologize for our thoughtless intrusion upon your hospitality,” Birdie rushed to say as Mrs. Spenser led them into her parlor, a room that looked out not on the garden like most London homes, but on the fashionable promenade below. “I rather insisted to poor Major Kingsley to bring me here.”

“Poor Major Kingsley, indeed!” Mrs. Spenser laughed. “It is Major Kingsley, isn't it?” The woman eyed him as one might a questionable stone in a necklace.

“Yes, Major Kingsley, madam,” he replied, making an elegant bow.

“Yes, I can see that now,” Mrs. Spenser said, slanting a bemused glance at him that suggested she was willing to play along—­for now. Then she turned to his companion. “And you, my dear girl, who might you be?”

“Birdie, ma'am.”

Mrs. Spenser tipped her head and studied her like a curiosity. “Birdie, eh? Taken flight, have we?”

“In a sense,” Birdie replied, holding her own.

Mrs. Spenser sat down on a settee, and patted the seat next to her for Birdie to share. Once the ladies were seated, Kingsley took the grand chair across from them, the only chair in the room that seemed designed for a man.

A regal, comfortable throne for her chosen patron. Oh, yes, there was no doubt in his mind that Mrs. Spenser was a sharp and intelligent woman.

And with the two of them seated side by side, Kingsley was struck by how similar they were in manners—­hands poised in their laps, shoulders straight, and smiles at the ready.

Though he did catch Birdie slanting curious glances around the salon as if looking for some sign of iniquity in this tastefully appointed room. He nearly laughed when a flicker of disappointment flashed across her brow.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Spenser smiled warmly at both of them. “However did the two of you fall into company? And whatever has brought you to my doorstep?” She looked from Kingsley to Birdie and then back to the major. For this last glance, her brow rose ever so slightly with disapproval.

But her true question—­the one behind her words—­hadn't escaped him. What the lady really wanted to know was:
What the devil are you doing bringing a respectable young lady to my house?

“We met at the Setchfield ball,” Birdie told her, blithely unaware of the undercurrents.

Or, being Birdie, ignoring them completely.

The lady threw back her head and laughed. “Ah, of course. Such folly and fun to be found there. Every year a new scandal. I take it you two are this year's
on dit
?” The lady's hand rose slightly to brush at her eye, indicating she'd noticed his fading bruise. “Unfortunately, I couldn't attend this year,” she told them, “but obviously I missed a grand evening.”

“Not in the least,” Birdie rushed to tell her.

“No, no,” Mrs. Spenser said, waving aside her consolations. “I'm most certain there is quite the scandalous story behind how you two met.”

“By chance,” Kingsley told her.

“Chance!” the lady scoffed. “No such thing.” Mrs. Spenser paused and looked over at Birdie. “Fate guided the two of you together. I am certain.”

“I hardly think—­” he began, shifting uncomfortably.

Mrs. Spenser ignored him completely. “I would guess you two fell in love. Love at first sight, I imagine. And now your parents disapprove of the match and you've run away. Is that it?”

“No!”

“Most decidedly not!”

These two declarations came out simultaneously, as did the acrimonious glares that followed.

Mrs. Spenser clapped her hands together, grinning over her hands, which where folded as if in prayer at her chin. “To which part?”

“Whatever do you mean?” Birdie asked her.

“Which part of my theory is wrong? Certainly you found Major Kingsley excessively handsome when you met him. Did you not?”

“He's not unimpressive,” Birdie said, glancing yet again around the room.

And not at him.

Mrs. Spenser's eyes twinkled. “And you, Major Kingsley? Did you find Birdie enchanting when you first spied her?”

His jaw worked back and forth. “I was under the impression she was someone else.”

Mrs. Spenser snorted. “That did not answer my question, but from your tone, I will surmise you found her lovely to behold.” The lady looked up. “Ah, Peg! The pot of tea. Such perfect timing.”

Her maid came in with the tray, and settled it down on the table before them, the cups rattling as she deposited it. “Now for some refreshments. Birdie, will you please pour, while Major Kingsley regales me with the rest of what I am certain is a love story in the making.”

Birdie slanted a warning glance at him as she reached for the teapot. She began to pour as any highborn lady would—­perfectly seated, careful not to spill, and holding the pot just so. She did it as if she were a duchess entertaining the queen.

This was no
cit
's daughter. No solicitor's child. No mushroom's precious hope to rise in Society.

And when he looked up, he found Mrs. Spenser studying not Birdie, but him.

So you noticed as well
, her glance seemed to say.

Meanwhile, Birdie had filled in the silence with her own version of the events. “Our association is nothing more than Major Kingsley kindly offering to escort me through a day's worth of sightseeing.”

Kingsley let out a derisive snort.
Kindly offering.

That was akin to saying the French “kindly” yielded the field at Waterloo.

Birdie's lips pursed together. “I might have implied that he owed me a favor.”

“
A
favor?” Kingsley sputtered.

“Three,” Birdie quickly amended.

“Three boons! How utterly delightful,” Mrs. Spenser enthused as if there wasn't a hint of tension in the room. “So very Herculean.” She took a cup of tea from Birdie, smiling graciously. “What have you asked of poor Major Kingsley? He hasn't had to slay anything or anyone, has he?”

“Not yet,” he muttered as he accepted a cup from Birdie. For a second their fingers brushed against each other, and in that brief contact, it happened again.

As it had in the bower. As it had when he'd kissed her. The world seemed to still as if waiting for him to realize that this, this magic, was his for the taking.

If he was willing . . .

Suddenly he was back in that secluded spot by the side of the road and she was once again in his arms, her lips on his, her lithesome body up against him, and all he'd wanted was to . . .

He nearly dropped his teacup when he looked up and found both ladies studying him. Birdie looking murderous and Mrs. Spenser with a knowing smile turning her lips.

“Yes, well, you were about to tell our hostess about your day—­” He blew on his tea and then made a show of stirring the two lumps of the sugar she'd added.

He hadn't asked for any, but Birdie had put them in anyway.

How she'd known, he didn't want to hazard a guess. But one word did prod at his chest.

Fate.

“Major Kingsley took me to the boxing match,” Birdie announced.

“The boxing match?” Mrs. Spenser asked, sounding a bit shocked. Considering this was London's most notorious courtesan, Kingsley was surprised anything took the woman aback. “Not the bout with Wilson and Cormack?”

Oh, how wrong he was. The lady was hardly shocked, more like jealous.

“I adore boxing,” Mrs. Spenser added on her next breath.

“You do?” Birdie leaned forward.

“Decidedly,” the woman declared, leaning forward as well. “How did Wilson appear?”

“In good form,” Birdie told her, and in an instant the pair of them had their heads together, discussing the sport with unrivaled enthusiasm.

“What did you think, Major Kingsley?” Mrs. Spenser asked. “Was Wilson in as rare a form as Birdie opines?”

“I wouldn't really know. I've been away so long—­”

Mrs. Spenser turned to Birdie. “He was far too distracted by your beauty to notice the fight.”

“I was—­” he began, only to have Birdie pick up the story and carry it forward, much to Mrs. Spenser's delight.

“He actually told his friend I was Flemish and that I spoke not a word of English.”

Mrs. Spenser began to laugh, so much so, she had to put her cup and saucer down. “I'm certain Lord Kingsley only meant—­”

“Major Kingsley,” he corrected.

Mrs. Spenser sat back. “If you say so—­”

“I do,” he told her.

The lady nodded slightly, conceding the point.

For now.

Then it struck him. The wily courtesan knew exactly who he was.

Instead of giving him pause—­that sent his thoughts moving in another direction. Birdie's. If Mrs. Spenser knew who he was, she must have an excellent notion as to who the lady seated next to her might be.

Kingsley sat up, feeling the tide shift slightly in his favor. Birdie had more to lose in this game than he did—­and right now she sat like a robin out on a fence post—­cocky and cheeky—­but more to the point, unwitting game for the hawk.