An Honorable Thief (18 page)

Just then three more ladies arrived and, feeling their inquisitive gazes boring into him, Hugo decided he could take no more of the company of respectable tonnish females. He left them speculating over the mystery of the Chinese Burglar.

"I have come to a decision," said Thomas, Lord Norwood. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

Hugo felt an odd tension steal into his body. He'd been feeling on edge ever since his butler had announced his nephew's visit. His nephew had never visited him before, not without his mother. Hugo raised an eyebrow in cold enquiry.

"I have
—" Thomas broke off and ran his finger around his collar. "I have decided to take a bride."

"Indeed?" Hugo's voice was freezing. "I gather you have overcome all the dictates of common sense and finally proposed to the girl."

"Yes," croaked Thomas defiantly. "I am a man after all, and I make my own decisions. And that is why I have come to you
—"

"And did she accept you?" Hugo forced his fingers to unclench as he waited for his nephew's answer.

Thomas blinked. "Of course she did. We are in love."

"In love!" Hugo's voice was scathing. "In love with her inheritance, more like!"

Thomas blinked. "But she has no inheritance."

"Yes, I told you so!"

"But how did you know? I have told nobody about it. Even my mother does not know."

Hugo frowned. "What the devil do you mean, even your mother doesn't know! She has been nagging you to this point for weeks!"

"But she hasn't. She wanted me to marry Miss Singleton."

Hugo felt a sudden lightness in the region of his heart. "And you are not marrying Miss Singleton?''

"No. It is Miss Lutens that I am now betrothed to. Miss Singleton introduced us. Only it is a secret."

Hugo blinked. He did not in the least care what his nephew did, as long as he didn't marry Miss Singleton. "A secret? Why?"

Thomas drew himself up with dignity. "I will not marry Libby
—Miss Lutens—while I am encumbered by debt." He ran his finger around his tight collar again. "I have come to ask you if you would be so good as to teach me how to go on in business."

Hugo stared. "You don't care that you may be subjected to slurs about being in trade? You will, you know, and it can hurt."

Thomas shook his head firmly. "My wife and family's future security is more important than any remarks passed by small-minded people." He eyed Hugo warily. "So, Uncle, would you help me to learn how to care for my family?"

Hugo felt a sudden lump in his throat. He could not respond.

Thomas added, "If anyone can do it, you can. You saved our family from financial ruin before; will you not teach me how to prevent it ever happening again?''

Hugo held out his hand. "I will."

His nephew had become a man at last.

And Hugo was a member of a family.

Chapter Seven

"Mr Hugo Devenish."

The butler's announcement caused a flutter of interest among the various ladies gathered in Miss Rose Singleton's front morning room.

"Two visits in two mornings!" hissed one of the ladies.

"He is very rich, I believe," whispered another.

Kit almost giggled as Mr Devenish stared in hastily concealed alarm at the number of ladies in the room, all avidly staring at him; a collection of hungry hens eyeing a large, tasty grain of wheat.

He greeted each lady with correctness, if not ease of manner.

Kit smiled as he forced himself to make small talk. His cold, brusque manner should have been off-putting, but the ladies were not the least put off; they obviously regarded Mr Devenish as quite a catch and the more gruff and glacial his answers, the more effusively they tried to draw him out.

The gushing feminine responses disconcerted him, she noted. The man clearly had no idea of his own attractions. He was looking faintly hunted. It was rather endearing, Kit felt. This overheated morning room, filled with respectablefemininity, was the first social situation in which she'd seen him where he wasn't all cold self-assurance.

Mr Devenish glanced across at her. "I actually came
— besides wishing to pay my respects, of course—to ask Miss Catherine Singleton if she would do me the honour of accompanying me on a drive in the park," he said. "It is a beautiful day and quite mild. Miss Singleton?"

Absolutely not, thought Kit. She had no intention of being alone with him
—even in public—again. He would be given no opportunity to question her again. She opened her mouth to refuse him prettily.

"Of course, Mr Devenish, she would be delighted," Rose Singleton responded. “It is a lovely day, and since I got rid of our antiquated landaulet, she has had little opportunity to go out for drives."

"Oh, but, Aunt, I am not dressed for driving," said Kit instantly.

Rose laughed. “Well, run upstairs, my dear, and change. Mr Devenish will not mind waiting, will you, sir?''

"Not at all," concurred Mr Devenish smoothly, a sardonic gleam in his eye the only indication that he was aware of Kit's reluctance.

"But, er, is it proper?'' said Kit desperately.

A room full of ladies tittered.

"I imagine Mr Devenish has his groom with him, and a drive in an open carriage in the public eye is perfectly proper. But I meant you to take your maid with you, of course," explained Rose kindly. "Now, run along dear. Gentlemen do not like to be kept waiting."

Gritting her teeth in a smile, Kit ran along.

She rang for Maggie and began to strip off her muslin round gown. There was no sign of Maggie, so she rang again and, without waiting, started to change into a walking dress in blue with knots of red, black and white ribbon around the hem, cuffs and shoulders. It was a straggle to button the dress herself and she could not reach the last three.

Where on earth was Maggie? Her half-day off was not for several days yet. She was becoming almost unreliable. It was most unlike her.

"Oh, Miss Kit, sorry I'm late." Maggie rushed into the room, looking flushed.

"What kept you?" Kit asked.

Maggie busied herself with the buttons. "There, that's it, all finished. Going out, miss?" she asked, turning Kit around to inspect her.

Kit hastily explained that she and Maggie were going for a drive with Mr Devenish. Maggie's face fell.

"Me too?"

Kit frowned. "Yes. Do you not wish to go? I'm sorry, but I need you to chaperon me."

Maggie glanced at the door indecisively. "Oh, no, it's all right, Miss Kit, my dear,'' she said, making up her mind. "You need a chaperon and who better than me? I'll...I'll just fetch my coat." She hurried out.

Kit stared after her. Maggie was hurrying downstairs, not up the narrow servants' stair to where her room was. She was behaving almost...furtively. They would have to have a little talk after this drive.

A few minutes later Kit came downstairs, tucking a few stray curls under a blue Turkish cap, embroidered in black with a long silver tassel hanging from the crown. Maggie, looking smart in a grey coat and a plain grey bonnet, was waiting in the hallway, looking flushed again.

Mr Devenish was also waiting in the hall. His eyes ran over Kit and she felt a frisson of pleasure, feeling approval in his gaze, and knowing that she looked quite in vogue. Not that she wanted his approval, of course. Still, it was nice to know you looked all right. Especially when you

fashioned some of your clothes yourself, with Maggie's assistance,

A smart-looking carriage awaited them in the street. A tall, wooden-faced man in grey and black livery stood by it.

Behind her, Maggie gasped and halted suddenly. She muttered something and Kit glanced around enquiringly. "What is it? Forgotten something?"

Maggie shook her head grimly and thrust Kit forward, a black look on her face. Puzzled, Kit put out her hand to allow Mr Devenish to help her up the steps. Around the back, Mr Devenish's groom did the same for Maggie.

"Oof!"

Kit looked around.

Mr Devenish's groom was hunched over, gasping for breath like a fish. Maggie, looking like a militant, dignified queen, climbed into the back of the carriage without any assistance from the groom.

"Cheeky jackanapes!" she muttered. She caught Kit's eye and blushed. "Teach him to lie to a decent woman!" She cast a fulminating glare in the direction of the tall groom, whose face was suddenly wiped of all expression.

Kit's heart sank. Maggie's big handsome jackanapes-he must be Mr Devenish's groom. It all fell into place; the flushed and excited look on Maggie's face sometimes, her lateness, the odd times she slipped out. Poor Maggie had thought she'd been meeting her beau, but instead Mr Devenish had set his groom to spying on them.

Oh, there were times when she
hated
this masquerade!

Still, she supposed it was better for Maggie to know his true purpose now than to discover the deception later.

She cast the groom a withering glance before she turned back in her seat. His expression was still wooden but his eyes were worried; at least he wasn't gloating.

Mr Devenish had observed the exchange. He leapt lightly up beside her, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "An independent creature, your maid." He took the reins in his hands. "She has a very handy left hook, I see."

Kit ignored him. She would very much have liked to box his own ears for setting his groom to spy on them in the first place, but she could not quarrel with him in such a public place.

As she watched, he unconsciously lifted a hand to feel the back of bis head, gingerly.

Kit tried to ignore the pang of guilt.

"Let 'em go, Griffin," Mr Devenish said. The groom released the horses heads and then, to Kit's perturbation, climbed nimbly into the back, beside Maggie.

She heard Maggie sniff disparagingly and out of the corner of her eye, saw her move pointedly aside, gathering her skirts away from the groom's contaminating presence. Kit smiled to herself. Maggie was more than capable of dealing with the man. Kit need have no concern for that. It was almost in her to feel sorry for Griffin; he, presumably, had only done his master's bidding.

The horses moved off at a smart pace, tossing their heads a little and shying skittishly at passers-by and blowing leaves.

"They are a little fresh," explained Mr Devenish, "but do not be alarmed. They are very sweet goers."

"I am not in the least alarmed," said Kit coolly.

"Ah, no, you are an intrepid horsewoman, I had forgotten."

Kit bit her Up. He had never officially seen Kit Singleton ride, only a mysterious veiled lady.

"I would not say intrepid," she corrected him, "and since you have never seen me ride, I must only conclude that you say so to be polite. Please do not do so; Spanish coin has never interested me."

He glanced at her deliberately. "Does it not?"

Kit smiled brilliantly. She was not going to bandy words with him about counterfeits. "What a glorious day!" she gushed. "And how blue the sky is. I do not ever recall seeing the sky so blue in London before."

"Yes, and how very white are the clouds, do you not find," he responded affably. "So white they look freshly laundered."

"Yes." His ready response rather took the wind out of Kit's sails. She'd expected him to try and force the topic back to Spanish coin and counterfeits.

"Extremely fluffy. Such white and fluffy clouds I have very rarely seen in London, either." His lips twitched.

Kit glowered at him. She knew when she was being mocked.

"My maid, Maggie, has found the incessant rain a little wearying," she said after a moment.

"Does she now, and she a Yorkshire woman?"

"How do you know that?" Kit flashed accusingly.

He smiled slightly. "We chatted a little in the hall, earlier. Her accent is pure Yorkshire, for all that she has spent years abroad."

"Oh."

"India, was it not?"

Kit parried his question airily. "Oh, I do not know all of Maggie's history. Nor would I
dream
of prying. Some of us respect our servants' independence and privacy." It. was as direct an attack on his setting his groom to spy on them as she could manage, given that she could not admit that there was anything unusual or mysterious about her or Maggie's background.

"But you yourself lived in India." It was not a question.

"Why do you say that?"

"So many of the exotic items of clothing you have become noted for are from India. And not generally available here, I think."

Kit shrugged. "I do not know what is available in the London shops. I am more familiar with Paris."

"So, that explains the elegance of your gowns," he said at once. “And the decidedly up-to-the-moment air of fashion you have."

“
Merci du compliment, monsieur,''
said Kit, cursing her unruly tongue.
She should not have mentioned Paris. She wanted him to know nothing, nothing at all, about her background.

And why on earth was he still making his inquiries? she asked herself suddenly. She had sent Thomas away. So why was he still asking her questions? And taking her for drives. Had he not spoken to Thomas yet?

"How did you find the Channel crossing? It is often quite rough."

"Oh, that would not bother me," she said, neither confirming or denying that she had arrived in England via the Channel. "Luckily I am an excellent sailor; I never get seasick. Poor Maggie, however, suffers most vilely from it. How is your nephew, Lord Norwood? I have not seen him in an age, you know."

"He is well."

"Yes," Kit continued chattily. "I have not seen Lord Norwood in such a long time
—I have been so busy, you understand, with other matters. He is a pleasant enough boy, but one cannot keep up with every chance acquaintance." There, Mr Watchdog, she thought, that should clarify your precious nephew's position in my life—a chance acquaintance.

They drove on in silence for a short time. He lifted his hand to touch the back of his head again. She felt another twinge of guilt.

"Is your head very sore?" she said unguardedly.

“My head?'' His gaze fixed her, piercing in its intensity. 'Why do you ask?"

Recalling she was supposed to know nothing of his bout with the Chinese Burglar, Kit shrugged. "Oh, just that you have several times touched it." It sounded lame, even to her ears. He turned to look at her with a peculiarly intent gaze and, to her horror, she felt a guilty flush beginning.

"Oh," she cried, seeking another distraction. "Do watch out for that dog!"

"As the dog is chained to the lamp-post, I hardly think I am likely to run it over," said Mr Devenish drily.

Kit ignored the sarcasm. "Oh, I did not see the chain. 'Tis just that I am very fond of dogs." She felt her flush intensifying and hoped he would put it down to her error. Drat him! Men did not usually put her out of countenance so easily.

"That must have been difficult for you, growing up abroad. I believe in some Asian countries they are considered a tasty delicacy."

Kit knew that very well, having rescued several hapless creatures from a cruel fate, but his blunt words had provided her with the very opportunity she needed. "Oh, Mr Devenish, how could you ask such a frightful thing," she shrieked genteelly. "To eat dear little doggies! Oh! I feel ill at the thought!" She covered her face with a kerchief. "Horrid, simply horrid," she wailed from time to time, shuddering eloquently, waiting for her flush to die away and struggling, now, with the desire to giggle.

She peeped out at his face once, when his attention was taken with a carter trying to turn his wagon in too narrow a space, and decided he was not the least deceived by her ladylike distress. However, since it would hardly be gentlemanly of him to call her bluff, he had no recourse but to put up with it, as the compressed line of his lips confirmed. He glanced down at her, a penetrating dart of grey, and she hurriedly buried her laughing face in the handkerchief and uttered a small provocative moan of distress.

Mr Devenish's lips thinned even further, she noted. They were rather nice lips. Not that she was the slightest bit interested.

Before long they passed through the gates of Hyde Park and Kit abandoned her genteel horror over the horrid fate of foreign dogs, and sat up to see and be seen, for such was the purpose of driving in Hyde Park.

Hugo shot her a sideways look as she lowered the handkerchief from her face to reveal a pair of bright, interested, clear blue eyes. Not a sign of the distress she'd supposedly been labouring under for the last ten minutes. And with a very suspicious twinkle lurking there.

Women did not usually make fun of him. He was not used to it
—but he discovered he quite enjoyed her teasing. His lips twitched at the neat way she'd parried his questions, keeping him well at bay with her faux horror.

To think he'd once thought this girl a simpleton, a dead bore. The little minx had played him like a fish. For a few seconds, he'd actually felt guilty about his brutal dog question. He'd hoped to surprise her into revealing some of her mysterious past, but she'd routed him. And was now laughing up her sleeve at him.

The saucy wench. She needed a good spanking and he itched to provide it. No, what he itched to do was...

No! Curse it! He was
not
thinking about kissing her!

Besides, he did not dally with respectable women of the
ton.
He had no interest in them at all. None!

Not that it would be possible out here in the open, anyway. Particularly with her maid and Griffin seated a few feet behind them.

There was a great deal of murmuring going on there, he suddenly realised. The maidservant was a comely woman, to be sure, but she was buttoned up to the chin and down to the wrists and ankles. Respectable to the eyebrows. She'd tossed her head and given Hugo and his groom the sort of look that women generally reserved for cockroaches and rats. Respectability outraged.

Her disdain had amused Hugo. Women of the servant class generally looked at both himself and his tall, well-made groom with quite a different expression.

Griffin wasn't the talkative sort, either, yet the rumble of a deep voice coming from the back of the carriage sounded very much as if Griffin, at least, was conversing a great deal indeed. The maidservant, on the other hand, seemed to have some sort of a cold; all Hugo could hear from her was the occasional sniff and once or twice a scornful-sounding snort.

Griffin was wasting his time there.

Hugo allowed his horses to drop from a smart trot to a walk. There was less traffic than in the streets but it was almost as chaotic. The glorious weather had brought a great many people out, even though it was not yet the fashionable hour for promenading.

Miss Singleton had few acquaintances but she seemed as interested in the servant girls out walking with their beaux as in the members of the
ton.
He watched her covertly as she observed the strolling groups and the passing vehicles. Her unfettered enjoyment in the sights stirred something in him. She was full of mysteries and contradictions; unmistakably quality, yet so unpretentious. The paradox fascinated him.

“Your name is Catherine, yet I believe your family call you Kit."

"Yes," responded Kit unexpansively. She wasn't going to explain any more. She had no idea how much he knew about the true James Singleton and whether or not he'd ever had a daughter. It was lucky that both Kathleen and Catherine could be called Kit for short.

"Yes, I've heard both males and females called Kit. Not

that there is anything masculine about you, Miss Singleton," he added gallantly.

Kit kept a straight face. Little did he know.

A light racing curricle shot past, tooled by young bloods and going rather too fast for propriety or for safety. He watched her knuckles whiten as she gripped her reticule in anxiety for their safety. She relaxed as the curricle slowed and then stopped for the driver to greet a friend.

"Do you know one of those young men?" he asked curiously.

"No. But I was worried someone would be hurt. They were going much too fast, didn't you think?"

He shrugged. He was not concerned with strangers. But he found it interesting that she was.

Two ladies trotted past with a groom in attendance. The ladies chattered and laughed self-consciously, watching others watching them. One wore a smartly tailored riding habit, frogged
a la militaire,
with a starched stock. The other wore a sumptuous, pale green velvet habit. A lace jabot frothed down her long, elegant neck. Their hats Hugo privately considered ridiculous; one a mass of ostrich plumes, the other a silly little military-style shako covered with knots and ribbons.

He glanced at the young woman beside him, noting the almost hungry way she examined their outfits.

She ought to have any number of elegant riding habits and yet the one time he'd seen her riding she'd worn an old and faded plain blue outfit. An heiress who was a magnificent horsewoman yet wore a shabby old habit. Another mystery.

“What do you think of those horses?'' he asked casually.

She grimaced. "Showy-looking slugs, for the most part, though that pretty little bay mare looks to be a sweet mover."

"If the velvet-clad potato sack on her back ever decided to go faster than a walk,"

She laughed. "You are unkind. Not a potato sack, surely. She has a very elegant figure."

"And a most inelegant seat."

She laughed again. "Well, she looks very pretty, nevertheless, and not everyone has been lucky enough to grow up on horseback."

Her comments revealed an excellent knowledge of horses. He wondered where she'd lived, to have "grown up on horseback". He wished she would admit that it was she he'd encountered in the park that morning. Not that he had any doubt of it, but he did want her to admit it to him.

He didn't mind her having secrets, as long as she had no secrets from him. He caught himself up on the thought
— Good Lord! What was he thinking? He forced the thought aside and willed himself to pay attention to what she was saying.

"There are some beautiful creatures here, but most of the ladies' mounts have no real spirit, by the look of them. The black one is a trifle sway-backed, don't you think? And I do not approve of people chopping poor horses' tails off
—apart from looking undignified, it is not good for the animals."

"You prefer the tails to be left long, then," he murmured, his mind still wishing to explore the mystery of why her secrets disturbed him so much.

"Oh, look, is that not the Princess Esterhazy? The wife of the Austrian Ambassador
—that small dark lady in the green walking dress. There, next to the lady with half an ostrich on her head—now that's another thing I much dislike—the excessive use of ostrich feathers. Don't you agree?"

Hugo glanced in the direction she was indicating. "No, it is not the Princess, though it does look a little like her. How old were you when you were taught to ride?"

"I forget. Where were you brought up, Mr Devenish?" she asked brightly. "We always seem to be talking about me, and I know so little about you."

She'd changed the subject again, the little minx. And if he wasn't to appear boorish, he would have to respond to her question. “I spent the early years of my life in Shropshire," he said unexpansively.

She cocked her head at him in an interested manner. "The early years? Do you mean you moved somewhere else? Or do you mean you were sent to school at an early age? I must say, I think for the most part English boys are sent away to school far too young. Were you sent to school terribly young, Mr Devenish?"

"Not school
—I was sent to sea."

"Sea? How very unusual
—it is unusual, is it not? I have heard of few other gentlemen's sons sent to sea as youths."

"It is." He paused, as he was forced to make a wide detour around a cluster of people gathered around a carriage. "But as I have told you before, I am not the usual gentleman's son."

"Whatever do you mean? Do you mean your father was not a respectable person?" Though she spoke casually, she stared at him with an unusual degree of intensity, Hugo felt. Why would his father's respectability be of such interest to her?

"Not my father
—my mother."

"Oh, and in what
—no! I am so very sorry, Mr Devenish. I have been vulgarly intrusive. I should not have enquired into so personal a matter. Do you not think we shall have an early winter this year? Some of the trees are beginning to change colour already."

He smiled at her swift change of subject. "And how many winters have you spent in England? Would you know when the trees are supposed to change colour?"

She laughed. "Oh, ungallant, sir. Indeed, I never have seen an English autumn, but so many people have commented on the early onset of the changing colours that I thought it a safe remark to make. Well, then, tell me about Shropshire
—I'm sure that is a perfectly unexceptionable topic of conversation."

He smiled. "Very well, then. Shropshire...let me see. It is one of the north-western Midland counties, close to the border with Wales. Its principal town is Shrewsbury, its principal activities are dairying, agriculture, with some forestry and mining."