Lady Rogue (5 page)

“You’re an English chit,” he said absently, not bothering to turn away before he half unfastened his breeches and began tucking his shirt into them. “Speak English.”

The gesture was meant to shock her, no doubt, and she felt her cheeks flush. What she was feeling, though, was far from scandalized. Reluctantly she tore her gaze from the fascinating sight of Everton dressing, to glance at his valet, surprised that the earl had let her secret slip. The servant, though, simply continued trying to smooth the wrinkles out of the crushed cravat.

“
Vous êtes un grand boeuf stupide
,” she amended.

Alex looked up at her for a moment as he finished refastening his trousers, then turned to his valet. “Don’t just stand there, Antoine,” he admonished, “translate.”

The valet stopped what he was doing. “My lord?” he queried.

“Translate,” the earl repeated. “Exactly. And throw that damned scrap away and get me a new one.”

“Yes, my lord.” Antoine stepped over to the beautiful mahogany bureau and pulled out a crisp, snowy white cravat. “You are a…stupid ox, my lord,” he said, clearing his throat, and returned to the earl’s side.

Kit watched curiously as Everton turned away to run a comb through his wavy black hair. It was a little longer than the current fashion, curling slightly where it touched his collar, but it suited him. Her fingers twitched with an abrupt desire to tangle her fingers through it.

“
Un
grand
boeuf stupide
,” she repeated without heat.

“Antoine?”

“A big, stupid ox, my lord.”

Everton raised an eyebrow as he looked at Kit’s reflection in his dressing mirror. “You barge into my house, eat my food, dirty my carpeting, abuse my favor and my friends, and
I’m
a stupid ox.”

She nodded. “And a terrible host.”

“My dear Miss Brantley,” he said, turning to face her, “allow me to remind you once again that you are not my guest. Therefore I cannot possibly be your host.”

Kit didn’t recall that her father had envisioned quite this. The earl was as quick-witted as she had feared, and whether or not he was the fox she was here to hunt, she wouldn’t want him in her henhouse. “Yes, I am your g—”

“You are a debt I am attempting to repay, for a promise I never made.” She started to retort, but he jabbed a finger at her. “And you
will
follow the rules as I have set them out.”

“
Diable
.”

“Antoine?”

“Devil. My lord.”

Lord Everton pursed his lips, then finished buttoning his splendid gray waistcoat. “Where did you go today?” he asked much more mildly than she expected.

Kit could see no reason not to answer him. “Reg, Francis, and Lord Devlin took me to Boodle’s club for luncheon.” And great fun though it had been, she had only discovered that both Reg and Devlin shared her own dislike for Napoleon. Reg actually seemed too whimsical to be carrying out Prince George’s policies, but his friendship with Everton posed several questions. She hadn’t figured Devlin out yet, so she also remained wary of him. Francis simply had a puddle for a brain, but he was quite amusing. “But Wenton already told you where I’d gone, I’ll wager.”

“Yes, he did.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“I wanted to see if you’d lie about it.”

She glanced at him suspiciously, to find his eyes still on her. “Why would you think that I would?”

He shrugged. “You seem rather adept at it.”

She couldn’t deny that, and considering the way she’d arrived in his care, she decided it was a perfectly natural thing for him to be suspicious about. Antoine stepped up to tie the earl’s cravat, and Kit leaned sideways against the doorframe to watch. She had never seen the knot before, and rather liked it. She would have to try it. “You’re going to White’s,” she stated.

“I am.”

“Augustus invited me to come tonight as his guest, if you didn’t wish to sponsor me,” she informed him. Perhaps she could taunt him into taking her about London.

Everton scowled. “Augustus Devlin is not sponsoring you. And
I
am damned well not sponsoring you, at White’s or anywhere else, because you are not going anywhere!” he exploded. “Is that now abundantly, unmistakably, undeniably, irrefutably clear?”

Apparently she’d pushed him too far. “You’re not very nice,” she grumbled, not bothering to hide her frustration. If she couldn’t get out into Mayfair with a host
or a guide who had connections, this entire journey would be for nothing. The Comte de Fouché would make life considerably more difficult for them than it already was, if he didn’t try to kill them outright.

The earl took a deep breath and expelled it noisily. “No, I’m not,” he agreed. “And whatever you might have in mind, I’m going to keep you here, safe and quiet, for the next twelve days, and then I’m going to turn you back over to Stewart Brantley so neither of you will have an excuse to pester me ever again.” Antoine helped him into a blue evening coat, then handed over his white kid gloves. “Good evening, Miss Brantley.”

He paused beside her in the doorway, his gaze amused but otherwise unreadable, then brushed by her shoulder and headed down the stairs to bid Wenton not to wait up for him. She grimaced. This was absolutely not going to work. Her father would be disgusted with her for letting this English lord maneuver around her so easily.

“Was there something you required, Mr. Riley?” Antoine was busily cleaning up the earl’s dressing table, and he looked over at her curiously.

“No. Yes. Might I have that?” Kit queried, gesturing at the ruined cravat the valet was in the process of discarding.

“This?” he said, looking down at it. “I suppose so, Mr. Riley.”

With a smile Kit stepped forward and retrieved it. Even creased and wilted, it was in better condition than her own. “My thanks.” As she returned to her own bedchamber, she began untying her stained neckwear. Stay put in this drafty old mansion for twelve more days and not learn a damned thing, indeed!

“I’m telling you, Heathrow will be looking for a permanent residence in the Colonies by the end of the Season.” Francis Henning jumbled the discarded cards into a pile and shook his head at the dealer. “Do be a little more kind, m’boy,” he cajoled.

Alexander Cale chuckled. “You might try bribery. And even if Heathrow’s completely to let, he still has
the Oberlin Manor property to his name.”

“No, Alex, it’s entailed. Won’t do him a bloody bit of good,” Reg Hanshaw said, watching as their dealer rearranged the suit of spades on the table. “It’s going to be the seven this time,” he muttered, placing several coins by that card.

“You’ve been saying that all night,” Augustus Devlin noted. “But they’re correct about Heathrow, Alexander. It’s either the Americas or debtor’s prison for our destitute marquis.” He took a long swallow of port, emptying his glass, then poured himself another.

“And it’s his own fault if that’s where he ends up,” Reg continued. “Margaret Devereaux offered to marry him.”

Alex grinned, glancing at the far corner of the room where Miss Devereaux’s younger brother currently sat overflowing one of White’s gilded chairs. “I’d sooner face debtors’ prison myself than be leg-shackled to that substantial flower of womanhood.”

“English oak of womanhood, you mean,” Reg corrected, chuckling.

“That’s what Heathrow decided as well, apparently,” Lord Devlin agreed.

“I say, Alex, why didn’t you have your cousin here tonight?” Reg queried. He cursed as the dealer turned up the nine of hearts. “Seven, I said. Seven.”

The earl scowled. “Because he’s a great deal of trouble, and I want him out as quickly and with as little bother as possible.” With that he drained his glass, then motioned Augustus to favor him with another. Christine Brantley was indeed a great deal of trouble, and other than his obvious male stupidity, he still couldn’t figure out why he’d given in to the waif and allowed her to stay.

“I suppose that means you won’t be spotting me any blunt to play with this evening?” a low, lilting voice came from behind him, and a slim hand was laid on his shoulder.

A shock coursed through him at the contact, and he deliberately took another swallow of port. When he
twisted his head to look up at her, Kit’s green eyes were laughing down at him, daring him to do something about her being there. Holding her gaze, Alex reached out to lift a stack of coins from the table and handed them up to her. “Don’t lose them,” he instructed, hoping his companions couldn’t tell that the chit’s arrival, and her easy touch, had left him as unsettled as a schoolboy in a bawdy house.

“I learned to count by playing faro,” she answered, pulling up a chair and sitting between him and Devlin. With a swift, defiant glance at him, she reached for the bottle of port and poured herself a glass.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re any good at it, does it?” Reg asked, furrowing his brow. “Seven again, I think,” he muttered, placing another few coins by the offending card.

“Sweet heaven, Reginald, show a little imagination,” Augustus complained with a faint smile, placing his own bet beside the three.

“I am merely optimistic.”

“Which explains why you continue to believe you can convince Caroline to wed you.” Lord Devlin ran a farthing over and under his agile fingers, and back again.

“Of course.”

“Well, I’d call it demented, m’boy.”

“You want to sit out till we finish the deck, Kit?” Francis offered. “You’ve no way of knowing what’s been played.”

“I’m all right,” the girl answered, taking a hearty swallow of port. “What’s the minimum?”

“Francis is let out till the end of the month, so it’s small change until then. One crown in,” Reg explained.

Kit nodded, placing five shillings alongside the seven of spades in company with Lord Hanshaw’s coins.

“Not you, as well,” Francis complained, scowling at her choice.

“The deck’s nearly finished, and he hasn’t won it yet.” She shrugged, glancing at Reg. “Besides, if that’s all the blunt you’re playing for, it’s hardly worth it.”

She spun a groat on the table, and Alex reached over
and flattened it with his palm when the sound became annoying. “Just remember that it’s my blunt,” he reminded her.

“Not much of it, Croesus,” she replied.

Augustus laughed, sobering only a little when Alex glared at him. “Well said,” he chortled, rare color touching his cheeks. A coughing fit followed, and Alex reached over to refill his companion’s glass, watching as Devlin drained it.

The chit’s wager was actually a wise one, considering she had no idea which cards had been turned. Alex flipped a half sovereign at the queen, for there were still two left in the deck. He regarded Kit through half-lowered lids, noting the slight flush the port had brought to her cheeks, and admitting to himself that he’d made a mistake. He’d thought Kit Brantley would be trouble, but he’d had no idea how intriguing and compelling a challenge it would be to decipher her. And he was less than surprised when the dealer turned a seven of diamonds.

“Thank God,” Francis said vehemently as the dealer slid several coins toward Reg and then to Kit. “Now perhaps he’ll stop whining.”

“I wasn’t whining,” Reg protested, stacking his coins.

“I say, Alex,” Francis said, leaning forward, “when are you going to spring Kit on Lady Caroline?”

Everton frowned. “I told Barbara to leave off with that.”

“But she’s correct, don’t you think?” Augustus put in unexpectedly. “The slim, tail-haired, romantic look? Quite poetical.”

“Goose-brained and damned unfashionable, I’d say,” Alex muttered. Kit scowled at him venomously, and he stifled a grin.

“Even so, bring him to the Fontaine rout Thursday. I can’t wait to have Caroline set eyes on him,” Francis said, counting the scanty change left before him.

“I can,” Reg grumbled good-naturedly.

“Who in the world is this Lady Caroline you keep
saying is going to fall in love with me?” Kit asked, raising an eyebrow.

“My cousin doesn’t need to meet Lady Caroline,” Alex cut in, more bothered by the conversation than he cared to let his cronies know. “He’s not titled, so she won’t be interested, anyway.”

“I would hate to steal her from Hanshaw,” the waif noted confidently, reaching out to place a crown on the queen just as Alex moved to place his wager on the same card. Their fingers brushed, her skin warm against his, even through their gloves. After a second she pulled away. With a quick glance at their companions, she licked her lips, then chuckled and looked at him. “Which queens are left?”

“Hearts and clubs,” Lord Hanshaw supplied when Alex didn’t answer.

“I’ll make you a wager, Alex, that the next queen to come up is clubs,” she said, her eyes daring him again.

Alex shook himself, trying to put the curve of her throat and the line of her jaw out of his mind. He placed a put-upon scowl on his face. “How much, cousin?”

“Ten quid,” she responded promptly, giving him that fleeting grin again.

He glanced at Augustus, wondering how anyone could not see that she was a female. Hopefully none of his companions would have occasion to wrestle with her. “And where are you going to come up with ten pounds to wager?”

Wordlessly Viscount Devlin slid ten of his sovereigns over to her and finished off his port.

“Just a moment, Devlin,” Francis protested. “I asked you for five quid to put on a horse last week, and you told me to go to Jericho. Now you give this boy twice that, when he didn’t even ask?”

Augustus Devlin raised an eyebrow. “It’s all in the family,” he murmured. “Besides, I knew
you
would lose.”

“And what do you want with ten quid, Kit?” Alex asked, ignoring the exchange going on beside him.

“To see London,” the chit answered after a moment.
“Since you won’t take me about, and I’ll only be here a short time, I’ll hire someone to show me.”

He knew that was only said to annoy him. “All right.”

He nudged the dealer under the table with the toe of his boot, then nodded. The man began turning cards one by one. Beside him Kit was calm and aloof, except for the excited light in her eyes. Six of hearts, ace of clubs, three of hearts, then there were only four cards left.