An Honorable Thief (3 page)

Kit stepped from the coach and turned to assist Rose down. She felt a thrill of pleasure and anticipation. Tonight she would not think of anything except the ball. Tonight she would let herself be the carefree young girl everyone thought her and enjoy all the pleasures London society had to offer.

No doubt she would pay for it later, but then, that was life.

"Is this not delightful?" whispered a young girl sitting next to Kit. "I never thought there would be so many people. I have never been to a ball in London before," she added confidingly.

Kit smiled. "Yes, it is quite new to me also."

"Are not the ladies' gowns beautiful?"

"Yes, very," Kit agreed. "So many beautiful colours."

"Kit, my dear, here is Lord Norwood, wishing to be allowed to dance with you. Give him your card, my dear," said Rose, smiling meaningfully at Kit.

Thomas, Lord Norwood, bowed punctiliously over her hand. His fair hair was elaborately pomaded and carefully coaxed into the “Nonpareil' style. He wore knee breeches of a nice shade of biscuit, a heavily embroidered waistcoat and a coat which fitted tightly across narrow shoulders; his shirt points were so high and so heavily starched he could barely turn his head. His neckcloth was a complicated affair involving several knots and loops. Added to this was a collection of fobs, pins and a quizzing glass. All in all, Lord Norwood appeared the very epitome of a dandy.

Kit handed her card over, hiding her reluctance. She had been hinting Lord Norwood away for several days now, but he seemed utterly impervious to her hints. She was not sure whether it was impregnable self-consequence which enabled him to overlook her indifference, or whether he had some other motive for making her the unwilling object of his attentions
—a wager or some such. For unwilling she was: her plans did not allow for friendships of any sort, male or female. Her promise to her father was her paramount concern.

Lord Norwood scribbled his name on her card, bowed gracefully and handed it back, saying in world-weary accents, "Miss Singleton, my night is complete. The joy of securing my name on your dance card is all I have hoped for, or even dreamed of."

Kit smiled sweetly. "Does this mean we do not actually need to dance, then, now that your name is safely on my card?"

He blinked in surprise, then laughed indulgently. “Such pretty wit," he murmured. "I look forward to our dance." He bowed again and disappeared into the throng.

"You are so lucky," whispered the girl next to her. "He is very handsome."

"Mmm, yes," agreed Kit. "He is handsome."

"And he dresses so beautifully."

"Yes."

"I think he likes you," the girl whispered coyly.

"No," said Kit thoughtfully. "I don't think he does. I must confess I am quite at a loss to know what he sees in me at all." She frowned as she noticed Lord Norwood disappear into one of the anterooms. It was one of the rooms reserved for those who wished to play cards, rather than dance.

"Oh, but
—" began the girl.

Kit smiled quickly. "No, no. Take no notice of my foolishness," she said. "I have a touch of the headache, that is all. I am sure Lord Norwood is everything you say he is. And I am very lueky to have been asked to dance with him. Now, I have been meaning to say, ever since you sat down, what a very pretty dress you are wearing. And such an interesting reticule. Wherever did you get it?''

Successfully distracted, the girl entered into a discussion of clothes and the various shops she and her mama had searched to obtain just the right fabric. As she extolled the delights of the Pantheon Bazaar, Kit's attention wandered.

Lord Norwood was not the only man who had shown Kit a degree of flattering attention and her unexpected popularity disturbed her. It was not as if she was anything out of the ordinary
—at least, she was, but nobody in London knew about her unconventional background, so as far as

appearances went, she looked very much the part of any young lady making her come-out.

And it wasn't as if she was beautiful or anything; there were many much prettier and more attractive girls who had been brought out that season, not to mention several diamonds of the first water. Kit had planned to move through London society with barely a ripple, attracting little notice. Anonymity was vital to the success of her plans. To this end she had tried to ensure that her personality, in public at least, appeared fairly bland and colourless. And she had certainly made no effort to attract male attention; in fact, she had tried very hard to deflect it.

And yet almost from the date of her arrival in London, she had been solicited to dance, invited to go driving, had flowers sent to her, and so on. Even the ladies had been exceptionally friendly, inviting her to soirees, musical afternoons, for walks in the park, to balls, routs and pleasure expeditions; in short, to all the many social events on the calendar of the London
ton.

All this, for an unknown girl, sponsored into society by her not particularly distinguished "aunt". Perhaps this was the reason people referred to "polite society"...?

"He's just come in and don't you think, Miss Singleton, that he's the most elegant-looking man you've ever seen?"

Kit glanced across to where her young friend was looking. A knot of people stood in the entrance, exchanging greetings. Only one man stood out of the crowd, as far as Kit was concerned; a tall dark man in severely cut evening clothes. Elegant would certainly describe the clothes, Kit thought, but as for the man himself...

He stood out like a battle-scarred tomcat in a sea of well-fed tabbies. Tall, lean, rangy, sombre. Detached. A little wary and yet certain of his prowess. His eyes ranged over the colourful throng. Kit wished she could see the expres-

sion in them. His very stance expressed the view that he could not care the snap of his fingers for the lot of them.

He looked more like a predator than a guest.

His hair was dark, midnight dark and thick, she thought, though cropped quite brutally close; not quite the Windswept, not quite the Brutus. A style of his own, Kit thought, or perhaps he disdained to follow fashion.

She wondered who he was. He did not seem to fit in this colourful, pleasure-seeking crowd. He stood, a man apart. Indifferent.

His face was unfashionably bronzed, the bones beneath the skin sculpted fine and hard. A long aquiline nose, just slightly off centre. A long lean jaw ending in a square, unyielding chin.

Not elegant: arresting.

His mouth was firm, resolute, unsmiling. She wondered what it would take to make him smile.

A woman hastened to greet him: their hostess, Lady Fanny Parsons. Kit watched him bend over her hand. He was not a man accustomed to bowing
—oh, he was graceful enough, but there was a certain hesitation, she noticed, a careless indifference.

Lady Fanny was laughing and flirting. As Kit watched, the man shrugged a pair of very broad shoulders. The hard mouth quirked in a self-deprecatory grimace. She wondered what they were discussing.

"Miss Singleton?" came the youthful voice at her elbow. “Is he not the most divinely beautiful man you have ever seen?"

Kit blinked. Elegant she could accept. Striking, certainly. Even a little intimidating. But divinely beautiful? Never.

She turned to her young friend, only to find her looking at some other, quite different man, a very pretty young fellow in a pale blue velvet coat, striped stockings and pantaloons of the palest primrose. Sir Primrose had been stand-

ing beside her man of darkness, Kit realised. She wanted to ask her young friend if she knew who the dark stranger was. Such a distinctive man would surely be well known.

"Who is
—?"

But he had disappeared.

Just then, Lord Norwood came to claim his dance with Kit. And soon the music started and Kit was too busy dancing to think of anything except the delightful sensation of being a young girl at a fine London ball.

She would think about the tall dark man later.

"Hugo Devenish! How very unexpected," gushed Lady Fanny Parsons, surging forward in a froth of satin and lace. "I was certain you would ignore my invitation as you usually do, you wicked man."

"Ignore you? Never, Lady Fanny." Hugo bent over the hand she offered him. '"Tis just that I am so rarely in Town."

Lady Fanny laughed and rapped him playfully with her fan. "And I hear you have been doing battle with frightfully dangerous criminals, you hero, you! So brave, such a risk you took. I heard the latest fellow was a desperate great ruffian armed to the teeth!"

Hugo quirked an ironic brow. "Rumour does me too much honour. It was a small, unarmed Chinaman."

"A Chinaman! Good Heavens! I hadn't heard that! What on earth would a Chinaman be doing breaking into the Pennington house
—?''

"Black pearls are highly prized in the far east, I have heard."

"Of course, the famous Pennington Black Pearls! Poor Eliza is just devastated, you know, and her husband is furious! An heirloom. Worth an absolute king's ransom!"

Hugo nodded. "Yes, I was unable to save them, unfortunately."

"Oh, but think how much worse it could have been if you hadn't disturbed the blackguard!"

Hugo shrugged, but said nothing. He had already explained to Pennington that he felt the thief had already completed his depredations when Hugo arrived.

"Oh, you are so wonderfully modest, dear Hugo. I am so glad you are here
—you can protect me tonight, in case any nasty Oriental thieves break in." Lady Fanny giggled girlishly and rapped his arm with her fan again.

Hugo bowed again, then took his leave of Lady Fanny and made a leisurely way across the crowded room to where a lady had been glaring at him since his arrival.

“What the devil has brought you to London just now, Hugo?'' said Lady Norwood, leading him into a small anteroom.

Hugo observed her coolly. "I was under the impression that you had written me no fewer than eleven missives, stating in terms of utmost urgency that you required my immediate attendance."

"Yes, but I wrote you at least six more after that telling you most expressly
not
to come!"

He smiled and raised a glass of champagne to his lips. "Yes, that is what decided me. I arrived this afternoon and when I presented myself in Portland Place, your butler informed me you were attending Fanny Parsons's ball. And since Fanny had sent me a card..."

Lady Norwood stamped a foot. “Well, it is most inconvenient of you. I beg you will return to Yorkshire tomorrow morning without delay. Your presence is not needed here any longer, and to be frank, Hugo, you are very much in the way."

Her late husband's half-brother did not seem at all perturbed by her hostility. He shrugged. "You wrote to me that you were in grave distress."

"Oh! Yes. Well, I was. I have been so frightfully worried about Thomas, you see."

"About Thomas?" He regarded her with faint disbelief.

"But I have, Hugo, you have no reason to look at me like that." She pouted winsomely in his direction. "You know what a doting mother I am, and oh! the cares of motherhood." She sighed soulfully.

Hugo, displaying a lamentable lack of gallantry, did not respond. She peeped a glance at him through her downcast lashes. His expression was cynical.

"Dibs not in tune, eh, Amelia? Too bad. You'll not get a penny from me, so you may as well give up the playacting."

Amelia abandoned her soulful mien. "You are nothing but a penny-pinching clutchfist, Hugo!"

Looking bored, Hugo strolled to the doorway and observed the dancers currently engaged in a cotillion.

His sister-in-law was not fooled by this apparent interest in his fellow guests. She glared at his back. The sight he presented did, not at all meet her fastidious standards. His hair was cropped far too short and was not coaxed into a modish style, but simply brushed back from his brow. His shirtpoints were starched, but not high enough to be fashionable; his neckcloth was so plain as to be an affront to any person of taste. His coat fitted him perfectly, but it was of such a dark shade that it made him look almost as if he was in mourning, particularly in combination with his black pantaloons.

The entire effect was too sombre for words, but Amelia was forced to concede that his attire, at least, did not disgrace his family. It was the man himself who was the problem.

Those shoulders... She shuddered. More suited to a labourer than a gentleman. And his skin, which he'd carelessly allowed the sun and wind to darken to an unfashion-

able brown colour. She glanced at the hands holding the wineglass and sniffed. He could have worn gloves, at least! Those hands
—tanned, and covered with nicks and scars— a shameful testament to a youth spent in manual labour.

She averted her gaze from her brother-in-law's offending person and concentrated on his miserly habits.

"Not everyone enjoys a life of monkish isolation and deprivation, Hugo. We have expenses, Thomas and I. The life of a fashionable person costs a great deal. You
—" She cast a disparaging glance over his plain clothing. "You would have no idea of the demands on a gentleman's purse."