Queen of Diamonds (18 page)

“Who lived…?”

“Too short a life, although he was not a young man even then. Oh, you mean where. His vineyard was in the south of France, but he was in Paris, trying to raise enough money to restore the fields and the buildings. He was a clever man who taught me much about finances and investments, and not waiting. He waited, and never got to see his efforts, or his vines, bear fruit. A heart seizure, they said. The money went to his family, of course, for the grapes. He had grown sons from his first marriage, which is why he could take a baseborn wife with no dowry.”

Harry felt better knowing Lescartes was already an old man when he wed his beautiful young second wife. How much could Denise have loved a man old enough to be her father? Lud, he had not suffered his heart attack while making love to her, had he? Harry almost missed her next words, as the thoughts flashed through his mind.

“I stayed with his sons and their wives for a time, but I had no place there. I had no reason to wait, either, and every reason to make something of myself after seeing how fleeting life could be. I decided to go back to England to seek my fortune because the English were hungry for French fashions.” Queenie was relieved to be able to tell the truth for a change. “First I went to Paris to seek more experience, credentials and references in my chosen vocation. It was hard for a woman in London—or in France, for that matter—to rise above seamstress or dressmaker. I wished not merely to sew, not only to have a shop of my own, but to design beautiful clothes. I found a position under Monsieur Gautheme.”

How far under? Harry wondered, now that he was not half as jealous of Monsieur Lescartes. Even he had heard of the couturier's vast sexual appetites. A young widow, one as beautiful as this one, would have been a choice morsel landing on the Frenchman's plate.

“When I felt that I had learned all I could, I came to London. Again, life is too short to waste in wondering what if. One has to say, what now.
Voila
, here we are.”

Rourke had been scribbling notes in his Occurrence book. He looked up. “I will not bother to ask if you know Lady Charlotte Endicott. But what about Queenie Dennis?”

“Ah, that is what I wished to discuss with Captain Jack Endicott, which is why you are here,
non
?”

The Runner nodded. “There were too many coincidences and connections.”

“I understand, and now you will have to also. You see, I heard rumors when I left my husband's family. There was talk in Paris of a beautiful blond English girl, a seamstress. When I applied to various dress designers, I was asked if I knew this Queenie Dennis from my days in England, for she had no references when she sought a position, although she sewed a neat hem and spoke adequate French. A quiet girl, she also had no friends, it seemed. I do not know if she found a job. I meant to seek her out when I was more settled at Gautheme's, because I spoke her language and could possibly help her, but then I heard she had consumption. A few months after that I heard she had died.”

Rourke sucked in a deep breath.

Browne groaned. “Captain Endicott will be so disappointed.”

Rourke said, “I am disappointed you did not come to me with this information, ma'am. I could have had someone in France weeks ago.”

“But the rumor was mere repeated gossip and hearsay. I believed I should tell her brothers myself, in case this Dennis woman was indeed Lady Charlotte. And I thought they could wait a month or two until they came to London, after they had waited all those years.” She waved her hand in an arc that encompassed the store and the large gentleman who sat beside her. “And I did not need to come to you.”

“Need?”

“For the reward. I needed money to establish myself when I first saw your posters. But now I have the store.”

She also had Lord Harking, Rourke thought bitterly as closed his book, who would stand by his
chérie amour
against a more…intense interrogation at Bow Street, damn him.

“And my dressmaking and fashion-designing are making profits. I am a success.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Do not be so sure,
chérie
,” Harry said after Rourke left. He hated to destroy her obvious sense of relief, but he had to. With a jerk of his head he had indicated that Browne should also leave. Since he could not see Hellen that night, the younger man took the hint and walked out after the Runner.

“What do you mean?”

“About being a success. Your skills as a modiste are not in question. Your skills at lying, at hoodwinking an officer of the law, are less certain. I do not think Rourke believed half of what you told him. And why should he, when he could drive an ox cart through the holes in your story. He will be back.”

“But not for a while.” That was all she had wanted, time.

He raised her right hand and brought it to his mouth for a polite salute. His other hand touched her soft black curls, then he turned her hand over. “It was a good thing the officer did not see your fingers without their gloves.”

They were dark from dye.

Queenie stepped back and put her hands behind her. “That was from Hellen's gown. You know, the one that had blood on it from the night at the opera. Your blood. Now that I think of it, we should check the wound to make sure it has not turned putrid.”

“Here? Now?” He started to remove his jacket.

That would be more dangerous than letting the conversation continue. Harry without his shirt, in the lamplit shop? Queenie could touch him, and look at his muscles and marvel at the hair on his chest, the way she could not do when they'd simply cut his shirt sleeve off. And if the wound was healing, which it must be since Harry did not seem to be in any pain, then Queenie could throw herself into his arms.

She was so relieved at having the Runner gone she would have kissed Harry there and then, shirt or not. He'd given her confidence with his smile, with his very presence. She felt relief, gratitude, and oh, an ache just to be in Harry's embrace! And he would kiss her back. In all her heart, she knew that. They would both want more, and heaven knew where that would lead.

No, the devil knew precisely where that would lead, and Queenie was not going to take that path, not even with Harry, not even with her whole body wishing to press itself against him, to be surrounded by him, to be filled by him. She was no harlot. “On second thought, someone at the hotel can help you, or you can see a surgeon if it looks red or swollen.”

He looked disappointed, but did not unfasten another button on his coat.

“As for Hellen's gown, we could not get the stains out, so we tried to dye it.”

“Ah,” was all he said.

No matter what Harry believed, Queenie thought she had told enough of the truth to keep the Runner from pouncing. The business about Lescartes and the Le Blancs would take far longer to check. She had time now, time to decide to flee yet again, or meet with the Earl of Carde, who could protect her from Ize by prosecuting him. No one else had been so affected by the snake's sins, and no one else had the wealth, power, connections—or cause—to get rid of the viper before he struck.

Yet there was a poison seeping through Queenie's heart already. “You do not believe me?”

“I do not know what to believe. Do you know that when I lie my cheeks turn rosy? They always have, to my despair. My tutor merely had to ask a question and he could tell whether I was guilty or not. I learned to tell the truth early, for it was useless to try otherwise, and I seldom play cards for high stakes for the same reason. But you give yourself away by folding your hands in your lap.”

“
Ma mere
taught me a lady always sat thus.”

“But not to keep her hands from trembling, and not holding them so tightly that the knuckles turned white.”

“I was anxious about speaking to Mr. Rourke, that was all. He does not appear a very comfortable gentleman.”

“No, which is why he is so good at what he does. Like a bulldog that never lets go, no matter what.”

“He might not let go, but he has not found your brother-in-law.”

“After one conversation? I should think not.”

“Or the missing lady, or the other girl. He has not located that woman, Queenie, after how many years? And she was living her whole life right here in England, they say.”

“I do not believe he was on the case since the beginning. He is far too young. But he was the one who unraveled some of the connection between that female and the earl's half-sister once new information came to light. He will not stop until he has found her, or proof of her death, you know. That is what the earl is paying him for.”

Queenie bit her lip. She knew. But she had given the bulldog enough to chew on. He would have to send messengers to France, at least. Letters would take weeks. Tracking down the rumors Queenie had planted would take longer.

When she did not reply, Harry softly touched the lip she was nibbling. “You can trust me, you know.”

Queenie looked up into his eyes, that soft brown a woman could sink into like a fur wrap, and be warmed and cherished. She might trust him, but she could not trust her own feelings. She lowered her eyes so she would not see the tender concern in his. “Can I, my lord? When you do not trust me?”

“I trust you. I simply do not understand you.”

She tried for a laugh. “I believe men have been saying that about women since Adam and Eve.”

He did not laugh back. “With cause. But I can help with whatever is troubling you now. I can see that you might not wish to confide in Rourke. He is a stranger, and has his own goals and purposes and loyalties. But I have nothing but your interests at heart. Surely you know we are friends?”

“Friends, my lord? A shopkeeper and a viscount?”

Harry nodded. “A man and a woman. Friends. And that is Harry,
chérie
.”

“Not Denise or Madame Lescartes?”

“They do not suit. But we do. You came to my aid at the opera. I would come to your aid now.”

“Then believe me,” she nearly begged. “Do not ask me for more than I can give. Believe what I told Rourke. Much of it was true. Much of the rest is impossible to confirm or deny.”

“But why?”

“You see, if you trusted me you would not ask.”

“But I want to—”

She touched his lips to stop his talk. “No, not even to help. I am not yours to protect, my fine and noble friend. And they are not all my secrets. You have to accept that.”

“You are protecting others who might be guilty of something?”

“I am protecting myself and others from danger the best way I know how. If that is a crime, then yes, I am guilty too. But know this, and believe it above all else: I never intended to hurt anyone. I never knew that anyone
was
hurt until I was full grown. Now I am trying to make amends in the only way I can, in my own time. I am not a criminal.”

“I never thought you were, my dear. I never, ever thought that. But if someone is threatening you, I could—”

“You could be killed. These are people who carry knives the way you carry handkerchiefs and fob watches.”

Harry did not mention the pistol he had tucked in his boot since encountering his dastardly brother-in-law. “I am not afraid.”

“You should be. They hire assassins do to their dirty work. You might be the strongest, bravest man I know”—she patted the blush that instantly came to Harry's cheeks—“but you would not prevail against a group of thugs paid to waylay you in an alley or on your way back to your hotel. I will not chance it. This is not your battle, and you are too important to me.”

Harry took her hand and kissed it, the fingers, then the palm. “But you are important to me, too. I think I love you,
chérie
.”

He only thought so? Queenie was certain. Her heart ached when she said, “Friends, Harry. That is all we can be.”

“No. I could take you away where you would be safe. I could find a cottage for you near my home where no one needed to know who you were, ever. Another name. A different look. I always fancied redheads.”

What, become yet another person who had no past but lies? Queenie could not do it, not even to be with Harry. Not that way.

“A red-haired woman tucked away on your estate? What would people think but that I was your mistress? That would be a hundred times worse for me.” She looked around at the shop. “I would have no life, no work, no income but what you provided. I would have no friends, no companions but you. I would not even be welcome at church or the nearby shops, a fallen woman to be avoided. Perhaps most importantly, I would have no way to make amends for the past, which I am sworn to do. I would have no respect for myself. Soon, you would not either.”

“I am sorry if I offended. I had not thought that we would be lovers, only of keeping you safe.”

She laughed. “Now your cheeks are flaming red with such a whopper of a lie. Silly, you have thought of little else. Do you think I do not notice where your eyes stray? How often you try to stop your hand from reaching out to me, and how often you fail? I am not a green girl, my lord. Paris cures that innocence and ignorance, especially for a woman on her own. And,” she hastily added, purposely keeping her hands at her sides, unclenched, “I have been married.”

He raised one eyebrow.

Queenie went on, before he could ask about Lescartes, how old he was, how long they had been wed, why she married him. “I admit I feel the attraction between us too, as I have never felt for a man who would look at me that way. But no, life in a cozy love nest is not for me. Nor for the children I would hope to bear.”

“I had not thought of children.” He did now, and knew he would cherish any blue-eyed babes this woman bore.

“Men seldom do. But a woman must. I would not have a daughter like Hellen, with so few choices but to follow her mother's footsteps.”

“You have guided her down another path.”

“As best I am able. But what paths could an illegitimate son take? Oh, I know honorable men pay to educate their by-blows, find them posts or buy their colors. But they are forever bastards. No child of mine shall be, no matter what else I have to do. Besides, children need a father as well as a mother. I know, for I never had one. My mother did her best, and raised me with scruples I shall never sacrifice, no matter how desperate things get. Please, for the sake of our friendship, do not ask me again, for selfless reasons or for satisfying the urges we both feel.”

They both knew that Harry had nothing else that he could offer, no wedding ring, no title, no home and family. No forever.

“Dinner?” he asked, grasping at straws. “You cannot still be full from the refreshments at Lady Jennifer's. And we never had our meal after the opera.”

Eat? After facing Rourke, hearing that Harry thought he loved her, and telling him she would not be his mistress? The man must be insane. She knew he was, for still liking her, still wanting to spend time with her, knowing she was hiding her past. Then again, he was so large he must always need sustenance.

“No, thank you. I am not hungry, and I would not leave Hellen here alone, asleep. I shall wait for Charlie to return and send him for a meat pie for our supper. I have much to think about.”

“Will you think about me,
chérie
?”

“Too much, I fear.”

Harry gathered his hat and his gloves, but he could not leave, not that he had been invited to stay. He'd never told a woman he loved her—or thought he loved her. It was not enough, he knew, but he had no other words. He was no practiced flirt, no silver-tongued rake. He was a simple man who did not even believe in keeping a mistress, in stirring scandal, in letting lust rule his life. But he could not go home.

“It is not just wanting, you know.” He had to make sure she understood.

“I do know that. You are a good man, Lord Harking.”

But not good enough to leave. “You are a good woman, Madame Lescartes. I do believe that, with every fiber of my being.” He tapped his chest. “I know it, here.”

“Thank you.”

If she was a virtuous woman, and he a principled gentleman, he had to get out of the shop, out of her life before he caused her more woe. He managed one step. Somehow, it was one step closer to her, not to the door.

“I…I do want you. I would be a fool to deny that.” If not for his coat, she could see the evidence of his desire all too clearly. “But more, I do want to keep you safe and see your business a success. And I want to see you smiling. You have a smile the angels could envy.”

He touched her lips, and the corners turned up.

“You see? One smile and it's as if the sun came out.”

“Harry, you mustn't.”

“I know. What I must do is go back to my dreary hotel, alone, eat my supper, alone, and worry all through the night that you are in trouble, alone. How can I do that,
chérie
? Tell me and I will go.”

“You can do it by knowing that I have handled worse problems, and I shall handle this one, by myself. Do not worry, for then I would fret for your sake. Good night, my good friend.”

He said good night. And then he leaned closer.

The dog growled.

“Hush, silly. It is only Harry and nothing is going to happen.”

The dog was wiser than both of them. He gave up and went into the rear room.

Queenie could have backed away. She knew that Harry would never coerce her or force her to anything she did not wish. Oh, how she wished. She was a healthy young woman, just coming into awareness of her own passions, and she was curious. More, she was as drawn to her gallant companion as he seemed to be to her, and not merely as a physical attraction. She wanted to be held by him, enfolded in his strength, making him a part of her that could never, would never go away. Harry was the best, the finest thing that had ever happened to her. How could she let him walk out of her door without knowing how much she cared for him? What if he never came back?