His speech too marked him as a peer. His tone was urbane, even suave. And he had displayed a sure and intimate knowledge of fashion. Madame Feille mentally rubbed her hands together as he demanded more of her skill as a dressmaker. Gown after gown was purchased for the statuesque young woman.
The auburn-haired beauty must be his mistress, she concluded, and he so careful a protector! Nothing too outré, too shameless. All tasteful and yet, at the same time, intensely provocative. Why, the gown of bronze and black silk tissue alone would make any impure’s reputation. And it appeared he was going to escort her amongst the ton itself!
The eager modiste foresaw a windfall of orders from this unlikely source. She redoubled her efforts to provide just the flavor the huge gentleman seemed to want.
However, with each gown, with each creation of restrained enticement, the black-eyed giant became more withdrawn. The beauty’s teasing comments provoked less and less of a response until finally, as she modeled a gown of gold tissue satin that displayed to full advantage her remarkable endowments, he rose and said, “This grows tedious in the extreme, Cat. And no doubt Hecuba is bestirring herself in the coach, interrogating poor Bob about his love life. Buy whatever else a lady needs to act as foundation for these fripperies, and I will see you presently.”
“But won’t you stay for the petticoats?” the girl asked, surveying herself in the mirror. Her tone seemed to Madame Feille a genuine display of confused innocence.
Apparently the big man thought so too. He looked at the beauty with such a sudden flare of ill-disguised longing that Madame Feille caught her breath. But the girl had turned away to pluck a pin from her waistband. Unfortunate, thought Madame Feille; the beauty might have made good use of such knowledge for both herself and Madame. Another dozen gowns at the least.
The dark man collected himself. “Oh, I think I can leave that in Madame’s capable hands. Just stay away from the coarse linens, do.”
But his eyes, Madame Feille noted with interest, still burned.
Chapter 7
The man was waiting in the suite when Thomas returned to the Old Ship Hotel. He sat on a chair pulled up toward the window, his hands folded in his lap, his expression one of infinite patience. Though far from old, he was a seasoned man, a contemporary of Thomas’s.
He had a military bearing, his slender physique held rigidly attentive, his dark blond head angled proudly. But his trappings were that of a gentleman: the ebony cane, the conservatively tied cravat, the dark coat and top hat.
“Damn,” said Thomas, “I must speak to the management about allowing uninvited chits to wander into one’s private rooms.”
The man rose, shrugging with Gallic indifference. “But, Thomas, management knows nothing about it.” His voice was low and rasping, as though his throat had been injured at one time, his pronunciation careful.
“Of course not,” Thomas acknowledged. “I suppose it was too much to hope that I had seen the last of you.”
“Entirely too much,” Colonel Henry “Jack” Seward agreed politely. “Comes of making yourself too useful. Sir Knowlton would never happily let go his premier—what shall we say?—consultant?”
“Say spy. It’s what you mean.”
Seward continued as though he hadn’t heard Thomas. “Not with the conferences in Vienna going on. Not with Napoleon plotting away on his little island.”
“And whose fault is that?” Thomas asked angrily. “I advised, repeatedly, against furnishing Napoleon with a fortune and a pet army.”
The blond gentleman raised a hand. “And there were some who listened. But not enough, Thomas. And those who did weighed the benefits of this fine, diplomatic gesture against potential public outrage. Censure the populace, Thomas, if you must. The ton itself has made a darling of the little emperor. And who is to say the decision was not justified? Nothing has come of it yet. There are only rumors, after all. And London, Thomas! Have you been to London? The entire city is celebrating.”
“I did my celebrating after Salamanca.”
Colonel Seward’s cold eyes met Thomas’s steady gaze. “Yes. That’s right. You purchased a commission shortly after that unfortunate affair with the Leons woman. Her son died, didn’t he?”
An awful silence met his soft query.
“I’d heard you were with Wellington in Spain,” Seward continued. “Your friend, Lord Strand, was there, too. Tell me, did fighting help assuage the guilt you felt over the boy’s death? You blamed yourself entirely too much, you know. It was as much her responsibility as yours. He was, after all, her son.”
He was a little boy who’d died because his mother had had information Thomas had wanted. “You overstep yourself, Seward. What do you want? I can hardly believe you have come to deliver an invitation by hand to one of Prinny’s debauches.” He gestured toward the folded paper Seward was holding.
“In fact, it is an invitation. To the Friday evening affair at the Pavilion. Many dignitaries will be there, many of your old friends, including Prinny himself. He misses you now that Brummell has alienated himself.”
“In Paris I always reported to Sir Knowlton. I was never a confidant of the Prince Regent’s, nor a member of Brummell’s circle.”
“Ah, but you had just as distinct a reputation when you were first recruited.” A hint of bitterness surfaced beneath the even timbre of Seward’s soft voice. “I was there, if you recall, and you thought it all very intriguing and not a little amusing to be enlisted as a spy by Sir Knowlton himself. At what point exactly did you lose your sense of humor, Thomas?”
The flesh around Thomas’s mouth grew white.
Seward smiled, a slight stretching of his lips. “But they all do, all the fine young blades. You weren’t the only one, only the best. And success always has a price. You have made yourself invaluable, Thomas. Sir Knowlton has need of you.”
“I am here as escort to a respectable young lady. I have no intention of once more dancing on the end of your leash.”
“Ah, yes. The beauteous Lady Catherine. The favor Sir Knowlton begs should not interfere with your other obligations,” Seward said, a note of entreaty barely discernible in his urbane tone. It was this that prompted Thomas to reply. He had never before heard it in Seward’s voice.
“What is this favor?”
“Merely meeting with an old acquaintance, exchanging information, pleasantries.”
“Who?”
“Daphne Bernard.”
“What is she doing here?”
“She has taken the opportunity afforded by Napoleon’s exile to leave Paris and come here to visit her sister and her brother-in-law, Viscount Addler. You remember. That is why she was originally induced to betray her French military lovers: her familial ties to England.”
“English gold is the only thing that has ever had any influence over that woman.”
“Whatever her reasons, they need not concern us. We need only know that her latest lover was a commander under Napoleon’s regime. She claims she can deliver reliable information about the number of troops still loyal to him.”
“Anyone can get the information from her. Why me?”
Seward shrugged. “How am I to know? She heard you were in Brighton and demands you be the courier for her information. Maybe she has fond memories of earlier meetings. Perhaps she is sentimental.”
Seward’s mouth tightened as he noted the expression of disgust that Thomas quickly conquered. He stood up. “I will extend your regrets to Prinny and Sir Knowlton.”
“You finally have justifications for your bigotry, haven’t you, Seward?” Thomas asked.
The expression of surprise on the other man’s features was genuine. “Justification? Before I ever met you, I had justification for my ‘bigotry,’ Montrose. I knew you before I ever set eyes upon you. Eight years ago you were a cocksure hell-raiser. Untitled, true, but still a pink of the ton, as easy with a Cyprian as a duchess. For whatever reason, whatever ennui that particular season had induced in you, you chose to m
ake yourself useful to us. And you were.”
Seward dusted an imaginary speck from his coat sleeve, controlling the anger that had uncharacteristically erupted. When he looked up, his expression was once more carefully bland. “It was amusing, wasn’t it? All the intrigue, the French mistresses, the dark lure of danger. What happened? A friend died? Was tortured perhaps? And then it was not so amusing and, finally, not fun at all. And now you have adopted this provincial moral rectitude. Because it isn’t fun any longer. Or,” he said, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, “is it Lady Catherine?”
Seward cocked his head, noting the flare of Thomas’s nostril, the unnatural stillness of his body. Seward shrugged.
“You take exception to being used,” he said. “Well, there it is. Of course, your sudden attack of conscience might prove unfortunate for those to whom this is more than a game to assuage boredom. But it is no more than I expected. I am only surprised that it has taken so long for you to cry off. But it is, of course, your privilege.” He sneered the last word and bent to pick up his hat and walking stick.
“God damn you, Seward.”
“Quite likely. Good-bye, Thomas.”
“Leave the message,” Thomas clipped out as Seward passed him. “I make no promises. I will consider it, that is all. But know this. I am not drawn into this business by any need to elevate myself in your estimation. Your antipathy is a matter of indifference to me. I consider your superiority and social prejudices a handicap to the natural intellect you might possess. A shame. I am not manipulated in this by you, Seward.”
Seward dropped the missive on a small table by the door. He turned only after he was standing in the hallway. “Of course not, Thomas. I may not like you, but I have never underestimated you.”
Chapter 8
The biweekly affair that the Old Ship Hotel sponsored for its guests had begun in earnest. Most of the members of the aristocracy in residence at private homes or as guests of the hotel were present. Swarming the room in their elegant silks and brilliantly colored muslins, they were avaricious and bold with the license of the Prince Regent’s alternate society.
Thomas, dressed in an outdated blue evening coat, looked about. He was familiar with these people. Once, he had been an ultimate example of this self-indulgent, pleasure-seeking lot. There was nothing they would not dare, no lengths to which they would not go in order to stimulate their jaded senses. Cat would become one of them. Thomas felt his jaw tighten even as he spied her exchanging pleasantries with another woman at the top of the staircase.
If she pursued the proper course, Cat could eventually reign supreme amongst the ton. She would never be a classic beauty. She simply wasn’t beautiful enough. Her eyes were that bizarre color. Her hair was neither titian nor ginger but an odd golden sort of nutmeg. Her features were regular enough, but her figure was all wrong. She was full-breasted, with a small waist that flared into a decidedly round, compact bottom. Not at all the current fashion.
Proper beauties had white, soft, sloping shoulders and long, narrow forms. Elegant trifles best imagined at a dining table or in an assembly room. But Cat… A man looked at Cat and could only see her tousled, warm, and welcoming in his bed. His body reacted to the image and he forced his gaze to her face.
She displayed none of the nervousness one would expect of a young, unmarried woman entering a crowded ballroom. She was completely self-possessed. Her head was tipped questioningly on her slender neck. Her gaze traveled the room, bright with curiosity. She had all the attributes of a social hostess, but none of the single-minded ambitions that often went with it. Cat was autocratic, imperious, regal.
Thomas had watched her intimidate, order, and high-hand his own small staff in just such a manner. And yet no one displayed the least reluctance to serve her. She commanded with complete equity. The lowliest stableboy was domineered with as much impartiality as toplofty Mrs. Medge.
But more important still was her sense of humor. Many acknowledged toasts sprinkled their conversation with clever bon mots, but these women could seldom take what they dished up, being too concerned with their own consequence to appreciate another’s wit. Cat reveled in wordplay. A well-delivered quip brought a delighted glow to her eyes. When she was the object of teasing sallies, she was the first to dissolve into throaty laughter, acknowledging a “palpable hit.” Cat appreciated her own consequence, thought Thomas, but she appreciated others’ more.
Ah, he thought, she has spied “the green man,” an inhabitant of Brighton who forswore wearing or eating anything that was not some shade of green. The corners of her eyes tilted up. Her sense of the ridiculous had been provoked. He alone saw her mouth curve before she managed to suppress the impulse to laugh.
And then she saw him. Damn, he thought dispassionately, she is so very easy to read. Her face lightened with delight and she cocked a dark brow at him as she turned her palms outward at her side.
Cat had a right to frame her silent, teasing question. She looked elegant, lovely, happy. She was dressed in an awe-inspiring creation she had managed to bully Madame Feille into having ready this evening. The bishop’s violet confection set off the deep rouge highlights in her hair and acted as a foil for the brilliance of her moss green eyes. Her shoulders were bare, a single emerald pendant encircled her creamy, slender throat.
She descended slowly, fully aware of the picture she made but not, he’d wager his last coin, on the effect she had on him.
It was tantamount to madness, this captivation. He was too well versed in matters of the flesh to discount his feelings as pure lust. Too old, too knowing, certainly too worldly, to find himself so eager for her words, her laughter… her. He had forced himself to play the avuncular host. But each day the masquerade grew more strained.
He had returned from the Continent hoping to reacquaint himself with decency, having grown as familiar with deceit as he was well versed in baseness. It was laughable, really, that a woman who applied to him to teach her artifice should have set fire to his long-chilled blood. It made him nearly believe in a God, and one with a wicked sense of humor. For Thomas did not only want to physically possess her—and God help him, he did—he wanted a great deal more. He wanted her running thoughtlessly out into muddy fields because an idea appealed to her, to bully ragged brats in a kitchen garden, to tuck her inebriated great-aunt in bed at night with a gentle kiss. He wanted to keep her from all the influences that would twist her spontaneous, practical, intelligent spirit into a societal caricature. God yes, he wanted her. In all ways.
But honor, Thomas conceded wryly, born late blooms strong. For too many years he had bartered himself “for the good of the empire.” In too many instances, his flesh had been at the disposal of the crown, given to whomever the crown offered it. Two nights hence, the crown planned to offer it to Daphne Bernard.
Bile rose in Thomas’s throat. He would call out any man with his history were he to so much as dance twice with Cat. Besides, he reminded himself brutally, she had set her sights on Giles. A wise choice.
Giles had enough experience to appreciate her, but not so much as to preclude a decent union. No, Thomas had to remain detached from her. By God, he thought as she approached him and placed her fingertips lightly on his proffered arm, he must.
“Am I not grand?” she whispered teasingly.
“Don’t beg for sweets.”
“Lah! ’Tis a rhetorical question, Thomas. I am grand. And I owe it all to you, kind sir.”
“Beware of kind sirs who tog you out in expensive finery, chit.”
Cat looked at Thomas in surprise. “Thomas?”
He forced himself to relax. “Ignore me, Cat. These affairs bored me eight years ago. They bore me more now. Now, smile, m’dear. Prepare to scintillate, but do so covertly. Aunt Hecuba approaches.”
Hecuba tottered over and wordlessly pointed her black lorgnette toward a large chair to one side of the room. With a grin, Thomas leaped gallantly forward to escort her. Once interred, the old dame fixed the amassed co
mpany with a deadly glower. Cat took up a position standing behind the chair, her fan languidly waving as she casually studied the room. Within a short time, several splendidly clad young bucks were bending over Hecuba’s hand while their eyes sought the enchanting creature behind her. Finally Hecuba snorted an introduction, and the first of many led Cat out onto the dance floor.
Thomas stood back and watched, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his black eyes hooded. More than one beauty cast interested glances his way, but he was blind to them.
Cat declined a second dance with a military-looking fellow before he reluctantly returned her to Hecuba’s side. “Won’t you dance with me?” she asked him saucily.
“What? And risk hurling you through yon balcony windows? I should say not. No, no, you run along, little Cat. I shall critique.” He turned upon seeing the wistful expression steal over her face.
But soon she had whirled in the arms of any number of gentlemen, playing the role she had set out to learn and discovered, no doubt and with no little surprise and a great deal more delight, that she was quite good at it.
And all the while Thomas would allow himself to do no more than watch.
Therefore he witnessed the moment when, her waist captured in the clasp of some would-be dandy, the pup’s head bent too close to the gleaming waves of auburn, her lips just parted in a laugh, her color high, quite suddenly, the smile died on her face and her color drained away.
In a trice, Thomas was at her side, suavely cutting in on the young fool, who mustered a complaint. The look Thomas sent the idiot was such that his protest sputtered to a halt and he fled.
Thomas led Cat through the final steps of the dance then returned her to the side of the room. “Well, m’dear. Do I have to call that young ass out or shall we let him continue to draw breath?”
Promise Me Heaven Page 6
