Lady Rogue (17 page)

Kit gave a reluctant, almost shy smile, an expression Alex found to be among the most enchanting he had ever seen. “Finding an impartial observer would seem
to be deuced difficult,” she offered after a moment.

“Kit, Alex says you’re only here another few days,” Reg broke in. “What say we round up Devlin and Francis to give you a proper send-off at the Society night after next?”

She nodded happily. “That’s sterling, Hanshaw.”

“You’ve been here such a short time,” Caroline protested. “Lord Everton, you’re not sending him away, are you?”

“Heavens, no,” Alex returned, glancing again at the chit and feeling something painful tighten in his chest. “His father’s returning for him.”

“Can’t you convince your father to let you remain through the end of the Season?” Caroline asked.

“He…no, I, ah, he has some business back in Ireland, and I’ll need to assist him with it,” Kit offered.

Alex wondered if she would be pleased to be leaving. She hadn’t spoken much of her father, and he couldn’t believe she could possibly be looking forward to returning to Saint-Marcel—unless that had been a lie, as well, so he wouldn’t be able to track them later. They took their leave of Reg and Lady Caroline, and he caught Kit turning to look after them. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” he ventured, clucking to the team.

She sat back and sighed. “I suppose not. Perhaps she doesn’t see much of her father, and doesn’t resemble him.”

Actually, the resemblance was rather striking. “You like her, you mean.”

Kit shrugged. “I could, I think. If she wasn’t who she was, and if I”—she glanced down at her blue day suit—“weren’t what I am.”

“So when you’re fifty, say, do you still intend to be Kit Riley, boy adventurer?” the earl queried as he guided the team out of Hyde Park.

“I don’t know,” she answered after a moment, facing away from him. “I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”

“You’ll be twenty soon, my dear. Perhaps you should begin.”

She sighed, keeping her gaze on the horses. “Perhaps.”

“You still planning on visiting Ivy?” Alex asked the next morning, taking a last swallow of tea and rising from the breakfast table.

Kit looked up at him. “Unless you have something else in mind,” she said after a moment, giving him another expression he had no idea how to read. He’d never had that problem before, he reflected. Telling what Mary was thinking had always been effortless, and deciphering the thoughts and wishes of his various mistresses hadn’t been exactly taxing. Of course, he’d never been as curious about a woman as he was about this one, either.

He shook his head. “More meetings.”

“Oh, blast it, Alex! You’re not a rakehell at all, are you?”

Alex gave a shout of laughter. “You sound completely disappointed.” He chortled, leaning back against the wall.

Her expression did make him think for a moment that she wished he were a rakehell. She wiped the corner of her mouth with her napkin in a dainty gesture, but he could practically see the gears turning in her head, and waited patiently for her next lie.

Instead, she tilted her head at him. “Are they important, these meetings? Might you skip one?”

He shook his head. “No. Important or not, with the slight problem of Bonaparte’s escape from Elba, meetings do seem to be in order, wouldn’t you say?”

“An army would be more in order,” she returned, rising as well.

That, coming from a Bonaparte sympathizer, was a surprise. “You wish me to lead an army to France?” he asked, studying her expression for anything that might give her true sentiments away.

“No,” she said hurriedly. “That would never do.”

“Why not?” he murmured, pushing away from the wall as she stopped in front of him.

She swallowed, a soft blush coloring her cheeks.
“Wellington can lead the army,” she said, and turned her back again.

Slowly he reached out and touched her arm, turning her around. “And what would you have me do?” he queried quietly. Her light green eyes met his, and his fingers twitched on her sleeve. He wanted to pull her closer, to touch her, to hold her.

She swallowed, then gave him a grin that didn’t touch her eyes. “You may lead your meetings.” She sighed theatrically. “Though I have no idea how the wives of peers can stand to sit about all day while their husbands attend meetings. It would drive me mad.”

He chuckled. “Most wives, I believe, gain their revenge by going about Bond Street and spending all of their husband’s income.”

“Well, I only have fifteen quid, so I suppose I must remain bored.”

Fifteen quid, and a lifetime of poverty in Saint-Marcel. With a forced smile Alex motioned her to accompany him to his study. He leaned over the desk and pulled a piece of parchment from a drawer, scrawled a quick note on the page, and handed it to her. “There you go.”

She looked down at it, and her eyes widened. “You’re giving me your note of credit?”

He nodded and smiled, wondering whether he was about to be sent to debtors’ prison, or worse, for his generosity to the chit. “Avail yourself of whatever you’d like to take back to Paris with you.”

“But…” she stammered, looking up at him again, “but I could ruin you with this.”

“You already have, my dear,” he said softly, and touched her cheek with his palm. “I shall have to trust you.” And while she was shopping, hopefully she wouldn’t be revealing any state secrets. Some strategist had once written that distraction could be as formidable a weapon as a direct attack, and it certainly seemed less painful.

Kit studied his face for a long moment. Finally she
grinned. “Thank you, Alex.” She folded the note and stuffed it into her inner coat pocket.

He raised a finger at her. “I
would
advise against estates or large vehicles,” he warned her, half-seriously, “and livestock.”

She laughed. “If you’d given this to me last week, you could have spent every minute in meetings plotting against Napoleon. That’s much safer for you, anyway.”

“Safer than what, Kit?”

A muscle in her jaw twitched. “Leading armies and such nonsense,” she said flippantly, and he knew that was not what she had meant. She lowered her gaze and turned away. “I’ll be spending your wealth on Bond Street if you need me, Croesus.”

Alex drew a ragged breath as she stepped outside. She truly didn’t sound as though she supported Bonaparte, but neither did she sound like the daughter of a man who was smuggling weapons for that very cause. For a moment he nearly gave in to the impulse that had been tugging at him all morning, to follow her out the door, damn all matters of state. He simply wanted to spend the day with her.

Reluctantly he headed upstairs for his gloves. With only a few days before she returned to France, he should be arranging to stay as far from her as possible. And he truly did have things to do, especially with muskets heading north somewhere along the coast, and Bonaparte beginning a march toward Belgium.

Kit and Ivy started at one end of Bond Street. Shopping for a gown with Mrs. Downing was very nearly as much fun as buying hats and gloves with Alex. Of course, a married lady shopping in the company of a younger man, even her cousin, was enough to elicit odd looks and even a few muttered comments, but Ivy didn’t seem to mind. And Kit was so intrigued with the clothes and fabrics and accessories that she barely noticed.

“Mr. Riley?”

Kit looked up quickly from the row of hair ribbons she was picking through. Mercia Cralling stood on the
far side of the table, looking at her curiously. “Miss Cralling.” She smiled, reaching out to take the girl’s hand. “Pleased to see you again.”

“But what are you doing here?” Mercia whispered, blushing and glancing about the small shop.

“Oh, Ivy’s been kind enough to assist me in bringing some things back home for my mother,” she answered offhandedly, casually leaning sideways to see how Miss Cralling’s hair was held up in the back.

“But I thought your mother was dead,” Mercia answered, a slight scowl crossing her pale, perfect features.

“Oh, yes, she is,” Kit returned smoothly, cursing herself. Alex would be furious if he discovered she was being so careless. She shook herself—her
father
would be furious. “My father remarried. This is for my stepmother, of course.”

“That’s so kind of you.” Mercia smiled, putting her hand out to rest it on Kit’s.

Kit bit her tongue to keep from laughing and smoothly pulled her hand free. Mercia Cralling would be in for something of a surprise if this flirtation went on any longer. “Well, she’s a good sort, really,” she responded, turning her head to look for Ivy, who was patiently trying to explain to the shopkeeper that her aunt-in-law, Kit’s mother, was actually rather tall for a female, and quite fashionable for someone of her age.

“Kit, do you think Aunt…”

“Celia,” Kit supplied.

“Celia would prefer a blue muslin, or a green and peach one?” Ivy asked, indicating the two gowns the shopkeeper was holding.

“The green and peach, I think,” she said, eyeing the creations and shivering at the thought of actually wearing a gown.

Ivy nodded at the shopkeeper. “If you please.”

Kit cleared her throat and strode up to the counter. “And these as well,” she stated, placing a pair of bone clips beside the dress and a pair of stockings Ivy had procured. Shoes were proving to be more difficult, as she couldn’t very well slip off her Hessian boots to try
on a pair. Finally they had settled on a pair of green, or rather, true verdant, slippers at a shop down the street, in hopes that even if they were too small, they would stretch enough to be passable.

“That is for your mother, Mr. Riley?” Lady Cralling tittered, stepping up to the counter and reaching past Kit to finger the material of the gown.

“Yes, my lady,” Kit answered, her fingers twitching with the effort of not slapping the woman’s hand away.

“Far too bold, I say. Undignified, as well. I’d never be caught in such a rag. I hardly think the earl would approve.” With a twitch of her brocade skirt, the woman waddled away.

Kit looked down at the dress again. “Mother will like it excessively,” she countered stoutly, handing Alex’s note over to the shopkeeper.

As had happened at the last three shops where they had made a purchase, the attendant immediately asked if there was anything else the young master wished to take home to his dear mother. “Thank you, that will be all,” Ivy returned, and instructed the woman to box up their purchases.

Kit lifted them and followed her mentor out the door and onto the street, aiming silent curses at Eunice Cralling’s substantial backside. Another blow to her confidence was not what she needed.

“Lady Cralling,” Ivy said, apparently reading her mind “is hardly the one to criticize fashion. Don’t listen to her, my dear. It might not be the very pink, but it will do for one afternoon.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Kit returned firmly, handing the packages to the coachman as they reached the Downing carriage. “I do wonder, though, what Alex will say when he begins receiving bills from all the women’s shops on Bond Street.”

Ivy flipped her hand. “You’ll be gone before he gets them. Besides, he told you to indulge yourself.” She turned to eye Kit critically. “Now. I believe we’ve taken care of all the unmentionables, and the stockings. I can’t think of anything else. Can you?”

“I really wouldn’t know, Ivy,” she admitted, already somewhat overwhelmed by her lack of knowledge in regard to women’s fashion. It was much easier to shop as a man, for then she always knew what was
à la mode
.

“Well, then,” her companion said with an expectant grin, “let’s get you back home and see what happens.”

The Comte de Fouché slipped back around the corner as the Downing coach rolled down the street toward Berkeley Square. It seemed that Stewart Brantley had overestimated his daughter’s commitment to the cause, after all. The girl was supposed to be spying for them, not going about buying fripperies while Napoleon Bonaparte risked his life for the betterment of France. And Kit was spending coin as though she had the contents of the Bank of England at her disposal. No doubt the Earl of Everton was paying well for the services he received. The comte sneered as the carriage vanished around a corner, and motioned for his two companions to join him as he headed back in the direction of Covent Garden.

“Come,
mes amis
,” he muttered, “we have someone to meet.” It was just as well that he hadn’t left everything to the Brantleys. And he would teach the daughter some manners, and some proper respect for a French nobleman, before this was finished.

“Well, what do you think?” Ivy asked, as she fastened the last button of the muslin gown and stepped back.

Kit swallowed, opened her eyes, and lifted her head to look into Ivy’s full-length mirror. Huge eyes black-ringed with face paint looked back at her. She saw arms bare from the elbows down, a gown that was a little too big and kept slipping off her left shoulder, a neck untouched by sunlight, a face that had seen perhaps a little too much sun, and a mop of blond hair held up on the sides by clips and hanging unevenly around her face. And worst of all, breasts that seemed huge, completely out of proportion with the rest of her anatomy. “I am
ridiculous,” she whispered, turning away, her eyes filling with tears.

“Oh, my dear,” Ivy soothed with a slight chuckle, taking her by the arm and turning her around again, “you are lovely. Don’t look at yourself as Kit Riley. You are Christine.”

Kit took a deep, despairing breath, and looked again. Nothing had changed. She backed away a few steps from the mirror, awkward and tripping in the thin slippers that covered her feet. Smoothing the muslin and squinting a little so she couldn’t distinguish her own features, she stared hard at the odd creature before her. If she pretended it was someone else she was looking at, perhaps the chit in the mirror wasn’t so ugly and ungainly as she knew her to be. Perhaps the arms and the neck were the elusive porcelain men so admired, and perhaps her figure wasn’t quite so hideous as she had thought at first sight. “The dress is too big,” she grumbled, turning sideways and looking at herself in profile.