Lady Rogue (24 page)

She chuckled, treasuring the amusement in his eyes. It was impossible to imagine that in a little over two
days he would be out of her life forever, that in all likelihood she would never see him again, never have him look at her as he was right now—as though he was trying to memorize her features. As she had already memorized his. “No, I’m still unattached,” she whispered.

He hesitated again, then twisted, sliding down one step to turn and face her. “One more piece of news for you, my dear.” Alex took her hands in his, his gaze still holding hers.

“Oh, lud.” She sighed, wanting nothing more than to lean forward just a little and kiss him. He could never be her enemy. Never.

“Furth is in town.”

Abruptly alarmed, she would have pulled free, but he tightened his grip. “Why? I thought he never came to London!”

“Almost never. Apparently he received word that his daughter was smitten with an untitled Irishman. He wished me to inform you to stay away from her.”

Feeling rather faint, she did lean forward, tucking her forehead into his shoulder. Slowly he rubbed his cheek along her hair. The scent of Barbara Sinclair’s expensive French perfume clung faintly to his collar, heavy and cloying, to mingle with the tantalizing mixture of shaving soap, leather, and Alex. It would be very easy to just turn her head a little to the side and kiss him, kiss the line of his jaw, and his ear, and his cheek. There was only a short time left, though, and then she would have to tell her father about the Earl of Everton and hope they could come up with something less deadly than involving Fouché. Unless she told Stewart Brantley nothing at all.

Surprised she would even think such a thing, she straightened and pulled away. Alex’s gaze followed her, his expression curious and concerned. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, swallowing. “I…I don’t want to see him.”

The earl ran his index finger slowly along hers. “You
won’t have to,” he murmured. “I believe we can manage to avoid him for forty-eight hours.”

“And then what?” she whispered.

He shrugged, then abruptly looked away from her and stood. “Were I a gypsy, I could tell you,” he returned, and lowered a hand to pull her to her feet. “I’ll see you in the morning, Christine.”

“Good night, Alex,” she murmured after him, as he disappeared into his bedchamber and softly shut the door.

The dress was completed on schedule, just as Mrs. Adams had promised.

After her fight two days before with Alex, Gerald had assisted her with dancing, and finally declared her a nonpareil at the waltz, the quadrille, and five different country dances. Ivy likewise seemed more than satisfied with her walk and her manner of speech, and only reminded her again not to say “deuced” or “blast” for the duration of the ball.

And so Christine Brantley spent the morning of the masquerade ball pacing. Alex had an afternoon session at the House of Lords, but promised to return in time to participate. She thought about taking the opportunity of his absence to track down Thadius Naring and interrogate him again, but she stopped that idea as soon as it was born. She was looking for excuses, trying to convince herself that she was wrong, that Alex couldn’t possibly be who she knew him to be. And it was far too late for that, just as it was far too late for her to deny that she was in love with him.

The day, then, seemed to drag on forever. Fearing that if she continued pacing, her feet would swell and she wouldn’t be able to fit into her new burgundy slippers, she finally sat herself down in the library and thumbed through Alex’s copy of
A Comedy of Errors
. Though she’d never read it, the title, at least, felt appropriate.

The front door opened to the accompanying sound of Wenton greeting the earl, and Kit’s eyes snapped up to the clock on the mantel. Only a few hours remained until
the Thornhill ball, and her heart began beating with a nervous, excited rhythm which Alex’s entrance into the library didn’t help at all.

“All right.” He smiled, tossing a few letters onto his desk and dropping into the chair opposite her. “What is the plan for the evening?”

She knew he still wasn’t pleased with the whole idea, and was grateful that he was at least making an effort to be genial about it. “Well,” she said, setting aside the play, “I don’t think we should arrive together.”

“That would be rather unwise, yes.”

“So I believe you should go, and then I will take a hack to the Downings’. After my transformation”—she scowled at him when he chuckled—“I will make my way to the ball.”

“With Gerald and Ivy.”

She shook her head. “No. That won’t do, either.”

He sat forward and jabbed a finger at her, the humor swiftly fading from his eyes. “Proper chits do not go to balls unescorted,” he said flatly.

“Alex, the whole idea is that I’ll be wearing a mask. No one will know who I am, ever. So it won’t matter if I go alone. It will only add to the mystery.”

He was still frowning. “And afterward?” he queried skeptically.

“I’ll return to the Downings’, on my own, change, then take a hack back here.”

“I don’t like it.”

Kit sighed heavily. “Alex…”

He tilted his head at her and sat back again. “I know, I know. Don’t be a bore, Everton.” His fingers beat a restless drum on the arm of his chair. “At least tell me what you’ll be wearing, so I’ll know which chit to flirt with.”

With a relieved, delighted chuckle she shook her head. She hadn’t been all that certain he would give in. “You have to guess.”

Something touched his eyes for a moment, and he looked toward the window. “And tomorrow?”

“And tomorrow my father will be here. I’ve already
packed, so I won’t need to worry about that.” In fact, she was worried about something else entirely, for it had been nearly a week since she had last seen Stewart Brantley—a fact that had only belatedly begun to dawn on her. The time had flown so swiftly, she could scarcely believe it.

“Kit,” he began, but she stood and turned for the door.

“Don’t, Alex,” she said. Hearing him ask her again to stay would break her heart. And so would having him say nothing of the kind. “Shouldn’t you go bemask yourself?”

“Your wish is my command,” he commented after a moment, and she heard him stand. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. You’ll be no headstrong young lad tonight.”

He was genuinely concerned about her. Touched, she turned to grant him a smile. “Don’t worry.”

“It’s far too late for that.” The fleeting look he gave her as he moved past her made her blush, and very nearly made her lose her nerve about the evening.

Alex changed into his black evening suit, collected his black wolf’s-head mask, and returned downstairs to retrieve his hat and greatcoat from Wenton. “Behave yourself, cousin,” he said over his shoulder for effect, and then stepped outside.

As soon as the front door closed behind him, Kit took a deep breath and raced upstairs. From the window of his darkened study she watched him step into his coach. The vehicle trundled out of the drive and up the street while she counted to fifty as slowly as she could manage. Then with another breath she made her way back downstairs. “Wenton, I’m going out for a bit,” she informed the butler.

“Very good, Mr. Riley,” he returned, helping her into her own greatcoat.

With one last deep breath, Kit stepped out the door, down the front steps, and out to the street to hire a hack to take her to the Downings’.

The Earl of Everton lounged against one wall of the Thornhill ballroom and stifled a smile. Lady Wentworth glided by in a gilded mask that, given the white plume of feathers on the back of her head, was obviously meant to represent a swan. As the feathered neck atop her chapeau rather resembled a pachyderm’s trunk, and her figure the rest of the beast, she looked a different animal entirely.

Kit would have been highly amused at some of the more elaborate masquerades of the evening, and he glanced toward the main entryway again. He’d been in attendance for over an hour, and was fretting like, well, like an idiot, waiting for the chit’s arrival. He sighed behind his black wolf’s-head mask and folded his arms.

“Everton.”

Alex turned his head to view a rainbow peacock mask bobbing toward him. “Good Lord, Francis, you are resplendent,” he said admiringly.

The peacock stopped beside him. “Dash it, Everton, how’d you know it was me?”

“You’re still wearing your faux ruby ring.”

“Can’t get it off my demmed finger,” Mr. Henning complained, lifting his hand to examine the offending bauble.

“How is your grandmother?” Alex asked amiably, grateful for the distraction.

“Oh, she’s going like a racehorse,” Francis grumbled. “Fawned over her for nearly a week, and she gives me fifty quid. ‘You’re a good boy, Francis,’ she says, ‘but you need to be more independent.’ I told her if she’d give me a thousand pounds a year, I’d be as independent as a damned Virginian.”

The earl chuckled. “And what did she say to that?”

“She said the colonies were far too unpleasant a place for her grandson, and gave me a shilling to go buy her some chocolates.”

He’d have to remember that to repeat it to Kit, wherever in blazes she was. “Is Hanshaw here?”

The peacock plumage nodded. “He’s over with Car
oline and her parents. You know Furth’s actually in town?”

Alex straightened and looked in the direction the ruby ring was indicating. Masked in plain black, Martin Brantley stood listening with apparent impassivity to what was likely one of Hanshaw’s humorous tales of London life. His Grace didn’t look particularly amused, and in fact, once the baron had expressed an interest in Caroline, Furth’s sense of humor toward poor Reg had become noticeably absent. Alex admired the lad’s fortitude. Caroline stood nearby, her eyes hidden behind a pretty blue veil of Indian design.

“Good Lord,” Francis whispered heatedly from beside him, and he looked back at his friend in some concern, wondering if one of the peacock feathers had put Mr. Henning’s eye out. Francis, though, was staring toward the ballroom’s double doors.

Alex turned to look as well. And stopped breathing. “My God,” he murmured.

She was…glorious. Christine Brantley, standing in the doorway waiting to be announced, was absolutely exquisite. There was no other way to describe her. Tall, with curling blond hair styled into a delicate, perfect tangle at the top of her head and wispy strands caressing her high, faintly blushing cheekbones, she politely conversed with the Marquis of Hague while at the same time coolly surveying the room through a black, glittering half mask. The mask picked up the beading that ran through the burgundy gown, which was daringly cut to set off porcelain shoulders and an exquisitely pale throat, and an equally perfect bosom and slender waist.

“Who is she?” Francis asked, lifting his mask onto his forehead in order to get a better look. “She come with Hague, you think?”

“Quiet,” Alex murmured, as she stepped forward to hand over his invitation, the name carefully darkened, and to be introduced to the Thornhills.

“My lord and lady,” the butler intoned, “may I present to you…Lady Masquerade? My lady, Lord and Lady Thornhill.”

“By God,” Francis breathed. “Lady Masquerade.”

Such presumption of address would have been tolerated nowhere but at a masquerade ball, and out of the corner of his eye Alex noted that her choice of title elicited chuckles and nods from several intrigued members of the
ton
. Christine stepped forward and smoothly accepted the proffered arm of the Marquis of Hague, and Alex realized that the nickname of Kit had somehow vanished from his mental description of her.

“Who in the world is she?” Mr. Henning queried with a baffled expression. “Not Peningfield’s niece, do you think?”

Desdemona Peningfield couldn’t hold a candle to Christine Brantley. “She’s still in India with her brother,” Alex said absently, watching as the vast majority of males in the room began to drift in her direction. He narrowed his eyes, fighting the urge to stride across the room, grab her, and remove her from their presence so he could have her for himself. A slow burn began to wind its way along every nerve in his body. Tonight was going to be absolute torture. And she was going to pay for it later, the tormenting chit.

“Damnation,” Francis grunted, lowering his mask again. “They’ll have every dance, the buzzards.” He squared his shoulders and pushed into the crowd, his peacock feathers cutting a swath in the direction of Lady Masquerade.

For a long moment Alex simply watched her, watched the easy elegance with which she moved and talked and gestured. Francis finally reached her, and from the quick bob of the peacock feathers, Alex could tell he’d succeeded in securing a place on her dance card. The earl was trying to decide whether he was willing to give her the satisfaction of watching him clamoring for a dance with all the other fools when she looked up over Francis’s shoulder, and her eyes behind the glitter of her black mask met his.

Electrified as he generally felt in her presence, it was…magnetic. He was halfway across the room before he had gathered his wits together enough to stop, and by
then he had decided as long as he had come this far, he might as well ask for a waltz. As he reached the fringes of the crowd around her, though, the orchestra began a country dance, and that bastard Hague, taking unfair advantage of his temporary acquisition of her arm, led her out onto the floor. A slight, teasing smile curved Christine’s painted ruby lips as her gaze held Alex’s for another moment, then she turned to view her dance partner. She and the other participating females curtsied, and the dance began.

With another scowl Alex shook himself, and changed direction to head over to the laden refreshment table. The chit might be enjoying herself, but she was killing him. And he needed to warn her that Furth was present. A moment later it occurred to him that he should have been concerned with warning his mentor that one of their smugglers was present. Just as swiftly he quashed that thought. Not tonight. Tonight was Christine’s.

Reg was fetching an armful of glasses of punch, his expression a comical mixture of hope and despair. “Alex.” He nodded, glancing back in the direction of the Brantleys.