An Honorable Thief (27 page)

He'd never met anyone more in need of protection in his life.

He'd never met anyone so determined to court the most horrifying of dangers.

And all for a set of baubles. What could drive her so hard that she would continue to risk her life over and over, in such a daring, bold, mad masquerade?

Hugo clenched his fists harder and glared at a Singleton ancestor.

It was so unnecessary. He'd offered to buy her whatever baubles she wanted. She hadn't considered it for a moment, confound it! What good was money when it could not protect the people you lo
—! He caught himself up on the thought.

The trouble was that Miss Kit Singleton was very emphatically not his. She had said so time and time again. He never thought he would ever offer marriage to a woman, and when he had she hadn't even considered it for a moment.

It was more than frustrating, it was...

She didn't want his money. She didn't want his protection. She didn't want his name. /
am not for the likes of you.

She didn't have to marry him. She didn't have to have

anything to do with him if she didn't want to
—just as long as she let him make sure she was safe. And happy.

He needed most desperately to see her safe and happy. He would give anything, do anything to have it so.

But she had made it more than clear that there was nothing she needed or wanted from someone like Hugo Devenish.

It was a very bitter pill to swallow.

Cousin George presided over the viewing; to Kit's dismay, he appeared to have an exceedingly lengthy and rather dry lecture to accompany each painting. Discreetly, she detached herself from the group and drifted ahead. The so-called Great Hall was, in fact, a long, narrow room, a little dusty, rarely visited. Sun shone through high, narrow windows, setting golden motes of dust dancing in the air. Having departed the group somewhere in the reign of Henry VIII, Kit steadily worked her way towards the present day.

Behind her the drone of Cousin George's voice faded. Footsteps echoed on the oaken floor.

Kit wandered along the line of paintings, inspecting the portraits with polite interest. Who were these people? It was really quite interesting, comparing their dresses, their clothes, the heavy and elaborate wigs. She was interested to see the things they considered important
—the possessions they had painted with them: the gold watch so carefully and lovingly rendered; the jewels first displayed on a stiff, proud young bride; then, a hundred years later, the same jewels adorning her great-great-grandson's new young wife. And, as Cousin George had promised, there was some discernible continuity in the family features...

She saw the children first. A young boy, aged about eleven, and a girl, about five years younger, a King Charles spaniel at their feet. They boy looked a little like... Kit faltered. No, it was coincidence. All young children looked a little alike. It was the chubby face of childhood.

Nevertheless, she looked hard at the painting, taking in the facial features. The little girl had blue eyes and long golden ringlets, the boy's hair was darker and his eyes were that indistinguishable colour between brown and green. Kit was haunted by a feeling that she knew these children...

The golden ringlets could have become the wispy flyaway hair of the adult Rose Singleton, but if so...

She moved on to the next picture. It was the same two children, only grown up; she could see that at a glance. The girl was seventeen or eighteen, and so very lovely. Her hair was a richer gold, her eyes just as blue, her features delicate and fine. It was a youthful Rose, before she'd had the vibrancy of youth and high spirits drained from her. But it was the young man with Rose who drew all of Kit's attention. A young man who looked uncannily like...

Papa! He looked just like Papa. But...

It could not be.

She felt suddenly light-headed. In silence, as if quite alone in the room, she delicately touched one finger to the painted face of the young man. And then moved across to that of the young woman, the young Rose.

Papa and Rose?
But how?

She moved back to the previous painting, her heart racing. The faces were chubbier, less finally formed, but the people were unmistakable. Papa and Rose.

Papa and Rose. Brother and sister in truth? It could not be.

Kit's mind reeled. She had assumed her imposture as Rose's long-lost niece was simply another of Papa's schemes, but if these pictures were genuine, and she could see no reason why they would not be...

But if that was the cast... What if Rose was
—her aunt?

Kit struggled to absorb the notion. The two paintings

called into question everything she had ever believed about herself, everything her father had ever told her.

If she was not an impostor...

If Rose was
truly
her aunt...

She'd thought she was alone in the world
—except for Maggie. If she was not...

Oh Lord, this changed everything!

"Kit, my love, do come here," called Rose. "This is your paternal grandmother, Matilda, the lady George mentioned. A particularly good portrait of her by Hogarth. See how alike your eyes are? What do you think, Mr Devenish? Are they not identical?"

Hugo glanced at Rose, then to Kit. To his surprise she didn't move. She stood in front of two paintings, staring as if transfixed, first at one, then the other.

"Kit, dear?" repeated Rose.

She didn't so much as blink. Whatever was in those pictures had completely and utterly gripped her attention, to the exclusion of all else, Hugo thought. He moved closer.

Good God! She'd turned as pale as paper. Her body was rigid and even as he watched, she started swaying on her feet. He leapt to her side and caught her under the elbow, just as her legs started to buckle beneath her.

He snatched her against him and swung her into his arms.

"Put me down," she muttered feebly, "I'm perfectly all right. Just
—"

"You were about to faint!"

"Oh, pooh, nonsense," she grumbled, in a pale imitation of her usual lightheartedness.

He looked down at her and his arms tightened around her, holding her hard against his chest.

"Be quiet," he said softly. "You will accept nothing else from me. At least allow me this one small thing."

She must indeed be feeling faint, he thought wryly, for she subsided with uncharacteristic meekness and laid her

head against him, in the hollow between his neck and his jaw. The weight of her hung heavy and right in his arms. Her tumbled curls tickled the skin of his neck. The scent of her clouded his senses...vanilla and rose...and essence of Kit. His brave, bold, mad little Kit. His woman in his arms...for one fleeting moment...

He longed to bring his cheek down to rest on her head, but Rose and the others had come running and were even now fluttering around with vinaigrettes and discussing burnt feathers.

"No, no, I am perfectly all right," Kit said, sneezing as a vinaigrette was thrust under her nose. "Oh, ptchaw! Take that vile thing away, please, Aun
—" She broke off and stared at Rose as if for the first time. “Oh Lord, yes—Aunt Rose."

Rose thrust the tiny crystal bottle back under Kit's nose. She shuddered violently and drew back, turning her face away from the gathering, her face against his chest. "No more, I beg you, Aunt," she said in a muffled voice and then added in a whisper, "Get me out of here, Hugo."

It was the first time she'd asked him for anything, the first time she'd used his name.

A crust to a starving man, but who was going to quibble?

"I think she just needs a little fresh air. I shall take her outside and she'll be right as a trivet in no time," he said firmly and strode towards the door.

"Are you sure we shouldn't send for the doctor?" said Cousin George anxiously.

"No!" said Kit against his neck.

"No, no. She has not eaten anything this morning, and is just a little faint," said the man who'd watched her devour three slices of bacon and two pieces of toast at breakfast. "Fresh air is what she needs at the moment. If she does not recover in five or ten minutes, then we shall send for the doctor."

"But I don't need
—" Kit began.

"Be quiet," he said to her softly. "You can argue the point as soon as you can stand on your feet and the colour has returned to your cheeks. Until then, you will do as I say."

She lifted a hand to her cheek. It was shaking.

"You're as pale as paper, you know. Now just be quiet and let me take you into the garden and you can tell me about what gave you such a shock in there."

Her eyes darted to his apprehensively. "How did you
—?"

"Oh, don't be silly. I notice everything about you," he said simply. "Those two paintings looked ordinary enough to me, but something in them has knocked you all on end, hasn't it?"

He looked into her eyes. They were blue, troubled and betrayed. "Yes," she said.

Disdaining the suggestions of the others to take Kit up to her room, Hugo carried her outside into the sunshine. He refused to let her walk, and strode purposefully to the north-facing side of the house.

In a few moments they reached a herb garden, laid out in a huge cartwheel shape made of mellow red brick, worn and smooth with age, A carved stone seat and an ancient stone sundial stood in the centre of the wheel. He made his way to the centre and finally, reluctantly, placed his pre-cious burden on the seat.

They sat, side by side in silence for a moment or two. He possessed himself of her hand, reluctant to break all contact with her. She seemed not to mind; in fact, she even allowed herself to lean a little against his shoulder. Her hands clutched his convulsively. She stared blankly in front of her, her eyes troubled and unhappy. Devastated.

The peace of the herb garden surrounded them. Many of the herbs were in bloom and the bees buzzed fatly from the purple spires of lavender to the small white flowers of the lemon balm. Thyme flowered at their feet, mingling with a drift of Sweet Alice, spreading around the base of the stone seat. Bruised thyme leaves sent up a clean, pungent fragrance. The perfume of the Sweet Alice teased their senses. Birds sang and chortled in the distance. The sun warmed the stone and the flowers lifted their faces towards it. A soft breeze danced in the dark curls of the girl by his side.

He was waiting for her to speak, but a part of him wished she never would. He would be happy if this moment could last forever.

His hand cradled hers, his thumb caressing the warm silky skin.

"It was my father in those paintings," she said at last.

He waited for her to explain. She said nothing more. Birds sang and chortled in the distance. Tiny butterflies fluttered back and forth across a clump of wallflowers.

"Yes?" he prompted.

"My actual, real father."

"Yes." Hugo was puzzled. "You mean in the Reynolds portraits?''

She shrugged against his shoulder. "I didn't look at who painted it
—but the subject was Papa!" She turned to look at him and he was stunned by the distress in her eyes. He wanted to caress her face, but she held onto his hand, hard, refusing to release him. She didn't even know she was doing it, he realised. If he hadn't seen into her eyes, he would still have known she was upset by the restive way she gripped his hand.

"It was Papa!" she said again, as if still unable to believe it.

"Who did you expect to see?''

"I don't know
—someone, anyone—just Rose's brother."

"But..." He trailed off. "You mean," he said slowly, "that until you saw those paintings, you thought that Rose's long-lost brother was someone else
—not your father?"

She nodded her head, chewing on her lip in distress.

"You didn't know Rose was your aunt."

She shook her head miserably. "Not my real aunt." She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Oh God, what have I done? Why didn't he tell me?"

"You mean your father?"

She nodded again. “All my life, there was just Papa and me. And then, when I was thirteen, Maggie, my maid."

He frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it. There was something, some mystery there. But this was not the time to ask.
  

"Papa always said I had no other relatives in the world
— only him—except perhaps some unknown cousin of Mama's, in Ireland."

Ireland. So that's where she got that colouring, he thought. Those blue, blue eyes, the creamy soft skin and the silky dark curls.

"But you came to Rose as her long-lost niece."

"I thought..." She blushed. "He did refer to her as my aunt, but..." She would not meet his eyes. "There were many women Papa told me to call 'Aunt'. They came and went, all through my childhood." She shrugged, shamefacedly. "I'd never heard of Rose. I thought...I thought..." Her hand tightened in his.

He put his arm around her shoulder and drew her even closer against him. "I understand."

She pulled away from him suddenly. "No, you don't! You know nothing, you understand nothing! You don't know what I've done!"