A Kiss at Midnight (13 page)

“I’m fairly sure that my breasts, the wax parts, are melting,” Kate said desperately, “because my wig is so hot that I’m sweating. Plus I’d rather not have the dogs with me.”

Henry looked her over. “You do look rather hot. The cherry-colored wig doesn’t help.”

“I’m going to my chamber,” Kate said, making up her mind. “Here, give me Coco.”

“I’ll keep her,” Henry said, rather surprisingly. “I like the way she walks. You can tell just by looking at her that she’d rather be out here showing off her jewels than closed up in your chamber.”

Kate looked down to find that Coco had positioned herself just next to the hem of Henry’s gown, as if she knew how well her multicolored look complemented striped silk. “Send her back whenever you wish.”

“Wear a different wig this evening,” Henry said. “I’ll have that handsome devil Berwick seat us together with Dante. Do you have a wig that you actually like?”

“No,” Kate said. And then she added, a little desperately, “My hair is my only asset, Henry. Please, could I just avoid Lord Hathaway until I can meet him as myself?”

“Your hair is your only asset?” Henry snorted. “Look at Coco.”

Kate looked.

“She’s the most vain scrap of animal I’ve ever seen, and she’s utterly irresistible as a result. No one’s going to undervalue her. Do you suppose that she thinks she has only one asset? But you . . . if you tell yourself that hair is all you’ve got, then that’s all you’ve got. Among other things—and I don’t have time to enumerate them all—you have utterly devastating eyes. That’s Victor’s color, of course; he had gorgeous dark yellow hair, like some sort of lion, and then the green eyes. He was a sight to behold.”

“Victoria sent along a pale green wig that looks better with my eyes than this red one,” Kate offered.

“Wear that one, then. I’ll deal with Berwick, and you screw your courage to the sticking point. Dante is ripe for the plucking and I don’t want Effie to grab him before you.”

Seventeen

G
abriel was fantastically annoyed. He had tramped off to meet Lady Dagobert, and managed to extract himself from a crowd of ladies only after a young woman practically importuned him on the spot. She’d powdered her face so heavily that her eyes glowed like bits of coal, desire smoking from her white face.

He only managed to escape by grabbing Toloose’s arm as he strolled by and pretending that they were bosom friends.

“Miss Emily Gill,” Toloose said. “You can’t blame her, poor thing. She got her materialistic side from her father, and the jowls from her mother.”

“I didn’t even notice any jowls,” Gabriel muttered, walking fast. “Her eyes had me backing up until I was about to fall into the lake.”

“She made a dead set for me last year,” Toloose said cheerfully. “She gave up only after I told her that I was planning to leave all my money to the deserving poor.”

“Do you have money, then?” Gabriel asked.

“Yes, isn’t that lucky for me? Not much at the moment, but someday I’ll be a viscount, though I fully expect my papa to live to one hundred. That gets me the attention of ladies like Emily Gill; she looks at me and sees a pile of golden ducats. ’Course, she looks at
you
and sees ducats with crowns on them, so you’ll have to be even more repellent than I was, at least until you are safely married to your princess.”

“Have you seen Miss Daltry?”

“She disappeared into the maze with Lady Wrothe. I have to say, I do like Henry. She’s inexpressibly vulgar, but it’s the kind of vulgarity one expects in a queen. Too bad she’s not twenty years younger; she’d make a great princess.”

“Let’s go through the maze,” Gabriel said.

Toloose raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t give me any more of your clever comments,” he growled. “This castle is crammed with people making witty comments.”

“Simpering cleverness is our ladies’ stock-in-trade,” Toloose said, turning obediently toward the maze.

Which explained, to Gabriel’s mind, why Kate was so fascinating. She wasn’t sugary, or simpering, or particularly pretty, especially in that ridiculous red wig she was wearing today. She wasn’t a lady, either.

So why was he pursuing her into the maze? He wouldn’t—would he?—make her his mistress after her absurd masquerade was over?

She wouldn’t want to be his mistress. She was too fierce and sharp-tongued to settle into a lush little country house somewhere. And yet he could see himself riding there, throwing himself off the horse, throwing himself onto her . . .

By the time they reached the center of the maze he was walking so fast that he’d left Toloose behind. But there was no one there, only a quiet patch of sunshine housing a little fountain. Water plashed from the mouths of the laughing mer-horses ringing its edge.

He sat on the marble rim, in a patch where he wouldn’t be sprinkled by the horses, and wondered what had come over him.

Of course he wouldn’t make the illegitimate sister of his nephew’s fiancée his mistress. Not that she had shown the faintest interest in that position. He considered himself a decent man, on the verge of marriage.

The sooner Tatiana showed up, the better. A wife would stop him from hungering after women with fierce smiles and laughing eyes, women who adorned themselves in red wigs and pretended to be debutantes.

Toloose finally strolled into the clearing and gave the fountain a disappointed frown. “I would have hoped for something far more decadent after all this walking,” he said, pulling off his gloves and then his coat. “Christ, it’s hot.”

“What sort of decadence did you envision?”

“A few chaises longues wouldn’t go amiss, even if they were made out of stone. With lounging beauties,
not
made from stone.”

“You’re talking bachelor fare,” Gabriel said. “I’m taking a wife.”

“I hear tell there are wives who take to a bit of decadence,” Toloose said.

“Are you looking for a wife?”

“Absolutely not,” Toloose said, throwing himself down on the broad marble ledge around the fountain. “Lovely, the spray’s blowing on my face. I don’t see what you’re doing trolling amongst our English maidens anyway. Though I hate to mention it, you
are
holding a betrothal ball for yourself in a few days.”

“I know,” Gabriel said, unaccountably depressed. “My fiancée should be arriving tomorrow or the next day.”

“Were you sent a miniature?” Toloose inquired.

“No.”

“So you have no idea what your future wife looks like? That’s so desperately medieval. I shouldn’t care for it.”

“I don’t,” Gabriel said. “My brother fixed it all up after I sailed for England.”

There was a moment of silence. “Looks aren’t everything,” Toloose offered. “Take Miss Daltry as an example. When I first met her, I thought of her as a fluffy, giggly type. But that illness must have given her backbone. She’s far more appetizing now, even though she’s little more than a twig. You should have seen how juicy she was a few months ago.”

“No,” Gabriel said. His voice came out a rumble, from somewhere deep in his chest.

Toloose didn’t notice; he was waving his hand happily through the fountain spray. “I take it that you’re perfectly aware of her charms, given the way you sprinted through the maze after her. She must have been at death’s door, the difference is so marked. Only thing still the same is her bosom, which makes me suspect—”

Without thinking Gabriel lunged over and pinned the man flat against the marble. “Her bosom is not for you.”

Toloose froze. “Let me go,” he said slowly.

Feeling a bit foolish, Gabriel raised his hand.

“Jesus Christ,” Toloose said, sitting up. “If you plan to steal your nephew’s bride, then do it. There’s no need to play Wild Prince from the Steppes. I saw that play and didn’t like it the first time around.”

“I’m an ass,” Gabriel said. “Sorry.”

Toloose got to his feet and retrieved his coat. “You just surprised me, going all masculine and provincial.”

“Surprised myself as well. And I’m not stealing my nephew’s bride.”

At that Toloose turned around and stared at him. “Why bother defending her bosom, if not?”

It was a good question. Just some sort of madness induced by Kate, he decided. “She doesn’t like me.”

“I hate to destroy your illusions,” Toloose said acidly, “but she’s probably not the first person you’ve met who would fall into that category.”

Gabriel gave him a rueful grin; it was no more than he deserved. “Perhaps I’m having a nervous reaction to Miss Gill’s pursuit.”

“From here, it looks more as if you’re having a quite different reaction to Miss Daltry’s proximity.”

Gabriel didn’t know what to say to that, so they set off through the maze without another word.

Eighteen

W
hat do you mean, I have to sit with the Lady Dagobert?” Gabriel said. “I don’t want to.”

Wick lit a cheroot and glared at him over the trail of smoke. “You’re acting more like a four-year-old child than a grown man. Of course you’re sitting next to the countess. She’s the highest-ranking individual in the castle barring yourself; she has known you since you were a child; she will be to your right.”

“I want to sit next to Kate,” Gabriel said, ignoring the truth of Wick’s statement. “Like last night. I’ll dine
en famille
.”

“You will not,” Wick stated. “Miss Katherine Daltry, sometimes known as Victoria, is to sit with her godmother, Lady Wrothe, as well as Lord Hathaway. I don’t want to puncture whatever pleasant dream you’ve having of transforming the illegitimate swineherd’s daughter into a princess—or something less respectable—but her godmother is clearly planning to match her to Lord Hathaway.”

“Kate can’t marry a lord. She’s illegitimate.”

“All I can say is that Lady Wrothe gave me two guineas to put them together, and since she’s not a brothel keeper, my guess is that she’s found some way around Kate’s irregular birth. It could be that she’s not as illegitimate as I am.”

“Nothing about Kate makes sense,” Gabriel said. “Why are her hands callused if her godmother is Lady Wrothe?”

“The only thing completely clear about the situation is your infatuation,” Wick said. “Let me sum it up for you: Kate, very sensibly, shows no interest in you. Frightened by the imminent arrival of your bride, you are now running shrieking in the direction of the one woman who not only doesn’t want you, but isn’t eligible. Really, could you be a bit more original?”

“I almost took off Toloose’s head for an ill-considered remark about her bosom,” Gabriel said moodily. “He was decent about it, but he was angry to the bone. Damn it, and I like him.”

“Then stop this ridiculousness,” Wick said. “You’re chasing the girl to distract yourself. It’s not kind to her, since you couldn’t marry her anyway. She’s already got competition; Lady Starck gave me four guineas to put her daughter and herself next to Hathaway, so the man’s in demand. Kate will need all her wits about her.”

Gabriel frowned. “Lady Starck, whose daughter is Miss Effie Starck? She’s no competition! Kate will crush her into the parquet.”

“Miss Starck is presumably of excellent birth, and likely has a dowry,” Wick pointed out.

“I’ll give Kate a dowry,” Gabriel said instantly.

“One minute you want to seduce her, and the next you’re championing her marriage to Hathaway? And just where do you plan to get the money for a dowry? I’m worried about feeding the lion, for God’s sake.”

“I’m just saying that Effie Starck is a monkey’s arse compared to Kate.”

Wick sighed. “Forget Kate.”

“
You
should dower her,” Gabriel said moodily. “Six guineas from that table alone . . .”

“The going rate is much higher to sit at your table,” Wick said, grinning. “I gather all the young ladies are hoping Princess Tatiana’s ship will founder.”

“So it’s to your benefit to keep me unwed.”

“I know you don’t really want your Russian bride, Gabe,” Wick said, his voice softening.

Gabriel glanced up at his brother. Wick never called him Gabe anymore; it was always Your Highness or, more often, Your Heinous, occasionally varied with Your Knaveness. “It’s not that I don’t want Tatiana. I don’t want any bride.”

“So run off to Carthage. We’ll all survive here, and you wouldn’t be the first bridegroom to flee before your wedding night.”

For a split second Gabriel actually considered it, imagining himself dropping all responsibilities and promises, running for Carthage like a man with a devil on his tail.

Then he shook his head. “Promises were made, and we need the money,” he said, hoisting himself up. “I’m aiming to be a prince rather than a total ass. I’d better hie myself off to Pole. He gets twitchy if I don’t give him at least an hour.”

A
s the castle now held nearly one hundred gentlepersons, Wick had removed the vast oak table that usually spanned the dining hall, and placed tables for six and eight around the room instead. He himself met every person at the entrance to the hall, and with the seating arrangements safely stowed in his head, dispatched them to the appropriate table in the tender care of a footman.

The whole system was working more smoothly than did most military regiments, Gabriel thought, moving to the head of his particular table, Lady Dagobert on his arm. “What a pleasure to meet your daughter, my lady,” he said, bowing to Lady Arabella.

Arabella smiled at him with the guileless charm of a young lady trained to bag eligible gentlemen at fifty paces. He sighed and let the conversation wander where it would, and the table was quickly embroiled in a discussion of the French blockade’s influence on hemlines.

He didn’t let himself look over to Kate’s table. Not even when he actually heard her laughing. One had to assume that Lord Hathaway was amusing.

Lady Arabella gave him a startled look when she heard the low growl that came from somewhere in his chest, but he controlled himself and smiled at her, and she melted.

Like snow hitting a steaming pile of horseshit, he thought to himself.

Across the room, Kate would have agreed that Lord Hathaway was amusing. He wasn’t a wit, not in the way that Mr. Toloose seemed to be. But she liked him.

She liked the sturdy set of his shoulders, and the way his hair curled over his forehead, as if he were a little boy. He was charmingly boyish, really, while managing to be very much a man. The only problem was Miss Effie Starck, who was seated to his left.

As Henry had warned, Effie was making a dead set for Lord Hathaway. And it looked to Kate as if she was likely to succeed, given the way she kept putting her hand on his arm, as if they were as close bosom friends as Henry and her wax companions.

Effie was quite pretty, in a mouse-eyed kind of way, Kate thought uncharitably. She had soft yellow curls, a round chin, and straight little teeth. She wasn’t stupid either.

“You’re very fortunate,” she said, smiling lavishly at Kate, who, of course, she thought was Victoria. “I wish I were celebrating my betrothal in a castle. It’s just so romantic!”

“I am very privileged that my uncle is so kind to me,” Algie put in, just to make sure that everyone remembered his relationship to royalty.

“Of course,” Kate said a bit sheepishly. Victoria would have loved to sit at this table, accepting accolades for her betrothal. She felt as if she were stealing flowers that had been sent to her sister.

Effie turned to Lord Hathaway. “Do tell me more about the blackbirds, Lord Hathaway.”

Kate blinked.

“That came out of the blue, didn’t it?” Lord Hathaway said, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes,” Kate said. “It’s oddly fascinating, though. For example,” she said to Effie, “if you had said,
Tell me more about the crows
, it would have a rather sinister tone, whereas blackbirds make one think about pies.”

“And queens and counting houses,” Lord Hathaway said. “Now what if Miss Starck had said,
Tell me more about the Minotaurs
. What would you think of me then?”

Kate laughed, and Effie tittered uncertainly. “I’d think that Miss Starck was five years old, and you were telling her fairy tales. But not everything fantastic would have the same ring. What would you think if she asked,
Tell me more about the giant
?”

“I wouldn’t think about children’s stories,” Hathaway said, “but about the men who wrestle each other at the fair.”

“But
Tell me more about the giantess
?”

“I’d think you were talking about Lady Dagobert,” Henry put in, with a wicked grin. The countess could not be described as slender.

Lady Starck shifted uneasily; her own figure rather resembled Lady Dagobert’s. “I think,” she interjected, “that my dear Effie was merely fascinated by your account of a plague of blackbirds, Lord Hathaway.”

“A plague of blackbirds,” Kate said, before she could stop herself. “It sounds like divine retribution, which is ominous. What have you been up to, Lord Hathaway?”

Hathaway laughed again, and Kate thought about how very
nice
he was. “It may be divine retribution,” he said, “but if so, I’m not sure to which of my many sins to attribute it. And it wasn’t a plague of frogs, may I point out.”

Effie turned to Kate, her eyes cool. “The blackbirds are causing a serious inconvenience to Lord Hathaway, Miss Daltry. They are roosting in his eaves and diving at the servants when they enter the kitchen gardens. And now they’ve started attacking his guests.”

Kate couldn’t suppress the little cynical smile on her face. It was one thing when birds attacked servants . . . but
guests
? “It’s unlike blackbirds to be so aggressive,” she said to Lord Hathaway. “They’re acting like bluebirds. Could you have disturbed their nests somehow so they had to relocate to the eaves?”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I hate to admit it, but I never gave the birds much thought, though there were some complaints from the housekeeper. But last week the vicar came to call and I’m afraid that . . . well . . .”

“What?” Effie asked, confused. “Did a blackbird swoop at his head?”

Lord Hathaway had turned a little red.

“I suspect they shat on the vicar,” Kate told Effie, putting His Lordship out of his misery. “All that black, marked with white. The man must have looked like a chessboard.”

Lady Starck drew in her breath with an audible sound of displeasure. “Well, I never!” she said.

Effie’s pink mouth formed a tiny, startled circle, but Henry laughed and said, “It proves that the plague of blackbirds wasn’t the work of heaven. I assume that the vicar did not react in a pious manner.”

“This is a remarkably vulgar conversation,” Lady Starck said, her eyes fixed on Kate.

“I shall make the birds into a pie,” Lord Hathaway said, coming to the rescue. “Thank you for that suggestion, Miss Daltry.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it,” Kate cried, feeling a pang of guilt. “You mustn’t shoot at them, Lord Hathaway. The creatures have no idea they were upsetting your servants; they were probably just protecting their babies. Nesting season must be over, so you could send up a man to clean out the nests.”

“They’ll build them again,” Algie said, affecting as authoritative a voice as his eighteen-year-old self could muster. “You’ll have to take a gun to them, though of course the young ladies will dislike the idea. My betrothed has very delicate sensibilities,” he stated, staring hard at Lady Starck.

Kate gave him a rather surprised smile; it was nice of Algie to come to her defense.

“Would you feel the same if I had suffered a plague of frogs?” Lord Hathaway inquired. “The French eat frogs as a daily affair, you know. They would likely count a rain of them as offerings from heaven.”

“I think,” Kate said, “that you should cook up any frogs that hop—or fall—onto your property, Lord Hathaway.” She added with a grin, “Just please don’t invite me to supper.”

“I don’t think the French put frogs into pies,” Effie said seriously.

Lord Hathaway looked at her and smiled. It was clear that he liked her earnestness. “In point of fact, I don’t like the idea of shooting around my house.”

Effie gave a little squeal. They all looked at her. “Well,” she said, “you might strike someone dead.”

“He’d presumably use birdshot,” Kate told her. “One of my footmen took a load of birdshot and he couldn’t sit down for two weeks, which caused a great deal of amusement in the household. His name was Barsey and—” She broke off.

“You have a lively sense of humor, Miss Daltry,” Lord Hathaway said, showing that he had realized exactly how close
Barsey
was to
arse
.

“I don’t inquire as to the names of my footmen,” Lady Starck said loftily. “I call them all John, which suffices well enough.”

Kate was appalled, but she bit her tongue. It was the last seven years, of course, living as half a servant and half a family member . . . it had changed her attitude toward the household. It took an effort of will not to snap at Lady Starck.

“I know all our footmen’s names,” Miss Starck said, showing that she wasn’t nearly as blind as her mother. She curled her hand around Lord Hathaway’s arm again. At this rate the man was going to start feeling as if he were wearing a mourning band. “Don’t you think that it is our providential duty to care for all those below us, whether they be birds or unfortunate degenerates?”

“Are your footmen unfortunate degenerates?” Henry put in cheerfully. “The only one of those in my household is my darling Leo.”

They all glanced over at Henry’s husband, seated opposite her. Leo gave Kate a naughty wink and said, “It takes a degenerate to keep track of my wife, I assure you. No one else would have the imagination.”

Lady Starck sniffed in horror, but Kate liked Leo, for all Henry’s complaints about his drinking. True, he seemed to be enjoying the champagne more than the fish, but for that matter, so was she.