by Eva Devon
Mostly especially because she wanted him to be.
Even more so when poor Arthur turned as red as a winter radish when Caledonia separated herself from her mother, and went straight to him. “Arthur. So nice to see you.” She kissed her step-brother on the cheek without waiting for a reply. “Do introduce me to your friend—you know how much I like making new acquaintances.”
Arthur’s mouth opened to protest, but Cally was already reaching out to shake hands with the handsome stranger, so her step-brother reluctantly complied. “Caledonia, may I present Mr. Ansel Smith of America, a man of business from that country, whom you chanced to find me with the other day.” Arthur gestured to her. “Mr. Smith, my step-sister, Mrs. Caledonia McAlden Bowmont.”
“Ah.” The gentleman—for that was his appearance in a beautifully tailored, if somewhat austere suit of midnight dark evening clothes—invested a world of understanding in that simple syllable. “Mrs. Bowmont.” He bowed deeply even as he smiled up at her through his blunt lashes. “I am honored.”
“Gracious, what an introduction, Arthur. How do you do. Mr. Smith, was it? And all the way from America?” Oh, this was already such fun. “We’re honored. Though I thought your accent was rather more distinctly Scots.”
The gentleman’s eyebrows rose infinitesimally before he schooled his expression back to blandly social. “How clever of you to notice. I was originally from Scotland, ma’am, but emigrated as a child.”
“How very interesting. But let me introduce you to my mother, for I am sure you’ll want to know her.” Especially as Mama was wearing her Balfour diamonds.
Wasn’t this the most delightfully rum to-do!
Cally quickly closed the distance to her mother’s small circle. “Mama, I should like to introduce you to a new friend of Arthur’s. Mr. Ansel Smith is from America, Mama—quite the exotic.”
Her mother responded to Caledonia’s cheek with a raised eyebrow of delicate warming—which Cally ignored. “My mother, Mr. Smith, the Viscountess Balfour.”
If Mr. Smith found it hard to bow over her mother’s hand without ogling the exquisite confection of pearl and diamond stones that made up her necklace, it didn’t show—he didn’t hesitate in the least or flicker so much as an eyelash. Which were rather more thick and dark than ought to be allowed on what was otherwise so masculine a face.
But nature was cruel and capricious in that fashion—Caledonia’s own hair was as fair as all the McAldens’, yet her brows and lashes were distinctly darker. It was a look quite out of fashion and therefore entirely vexing.
As was the intriguing Mr. Smith, who rather vexingly gave Cally entirely too little regard.
“An honor to make your acquaintance, my lady,” he was saying to Mama.
“I do hope you’ve come prepared to dance, Mr. Smith.” Caledonia inserted herself back into his notice. “The young ladies shall all want an introduction to someone of such intriguing foreignness.”
“Alas, I do not dance, though I thank you for the invitation. I am a man of business, as Mr. Balfour so kindly said, and I rather prefer the card room, where more business might be done.”
“Excellent.” Caledonia refused to be thwarted. “I do like a game of chance myself.”
She set off for the card room without looking to see if he followed, and went to a table with only one chair available for vingt-et-un, the advantage of which was her clear view of the rest of the card room, whereby she could watch the so-called Smith do his best to play the less-than-polished colonial.
He did do his best, bless him—hovering at the hazard table as if he had never played the game before, looming over the Dowager Marchioness of Queensbury rather gauchely to place his bets upon the table. He appeared entirely oblivious to the affronted looks and pointed huffs that lady sent in his direction, but after about four plays of the table the most interesting thing happened.
Mr. Smith drew attention to his bluff colonial self by rather adroitly—or clumsily, depending upon one’s vantage point—dropping a gold coin directly down the dowager’s rather considerable décolletée.
The Dowager Marchioness promptly let out the kind of shriek one might assume she would loose upon seeing a mouse in the marquessorial residence, and clasped her hand across that copious bosom.
And then, in the best aristocratic tradition, she carried on playing as if nothing had happened.
Which caught Mr. Smith out flat-footed. “But my dear lady,” the erstwhile rube protested while he actually peered down the dowager’s gown for the missing coin. “That was a gold guinea piece.”
Caledonia didn’t even try to stifle her laugh—it rang out across the room.
Which had the desired effect—Mr. Smith’s gaze found hers, as did his frown.
The dowager was so outraged and flustered all at the same time, that she shoved several guineas in his direction without even looking. “Just go away, you odious man.”
And he did exactly that.
Cally naturally followed him. “Well, sir, that was educational.”
He did not look best pleased to find her on his heels, but he did his best to keep his civil veneer in place. “That was rather badly done of me, I fear.”
Cally was having none of it. “On the contrary, I think it was rather cleverly done. I am quite in awe of your sleight of hand—the control—that enabled you to position the coin just so it would slide without obstruction down the deep vee of the dowager’s bosom.” She gifted him with a smile of congratulations. “No one would suspect your actions were rehearsed—you’ve established yourself as the dreaded but tolerable colonial. Well played.”
His eye brow gave the tiniest quiver—as if he had to physically exert control over it—but he maintained his smile. “I detect, Mrs. Bowmont, that you are a cynic.”
“Oh, not at all.” It was no trouble to give him back her widest smile—she was so enjoying herself. “Rather more of an enthusiast—that is to say I have an enthusiasm for the diverting and the ridiculous.”
“And you find me ridiculous?”
“I find you ridiculously intriguing, and the others, ridiculously gullible.”
He played his part to perfection, allowing his forehead to crease into the barest of quizzical frowns. “I can’t think what you mean.”
“Can’t you? Well, you had better dance with me so I can explain it.” She held out her hand so that the poor man had really no other choice than to accept it.
“Had you not rather dance with Mr. Bowmont?” he asked with an off-putting frown.
“I had, but as dear Mr. Bowmont is unfortunately deceased, you’ll have to do. So fear not, Mr. Smith—you’re quite safe with a widow.”
“How reassuring.” But he smiled, and he said no more as he led her out to the dance floor for the entire couple of dances.
To be fair, they were lively dances that both kept them in close proximity to others and required such attention to the figures that she had no chance to talk to him either. But she got the measure of him in other ways—of his hands, which were beautifully articulated, with long, fingers that displayed a fascinating strength when they took hers. Of his eyes, which were a divine glittering green, and which never stopped roving about the room, taking in all sorts of other details, but never once strayed to her bosom and the rather expensive Tudor-era pearl cross hanging there. And of his bearing, which was graceful and elegant without sacrificing an ounce of honed masculinity.
In short, Mr. Smith was a handsome man. Remarkably handsome. A man to admire.
And admire him she did—he fascinated her, just as he had done since the first time her older brother Hugh had mentioned his name in a letter all those years ago. She had rather made a hero of McTavish in her mind, buffing him up to a glossy shine without the benefit of actually knowing anything about him beyond his “fine mettle and loyal heart.”
But after all those years, she was delighted to find the reality was very near as good as the adolescent fantasy.
So Cally made sure to
keep him near to her side by a number of different subterfuges—introducing him to her friends, encouraging him to dance with them so there was no way for him to politely refuse, and being at the precise point to meet him when he came off the dance floor. “Dear Mr. Smith, do be a lamb and escort me back to my mother, would you? And she’s talking to Lady Godolphin—who is, you’ll note, wearing the famous Godolphin emeralds. They’ll match your eyes.”
He turned to her with those remarkable green eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Bowmont, is this some sort of ham-handed attempt to flirt with me?”
“Indeed it is, Mr. Smith.” Cally nodded encouragingly. “How kind of you to notice.”
He appeared both genuinely shocked—his entire face cleared—and genuinely pleased—his eyes crinkled beautifully at the corners. “I’d have to be blind not to notice.”
“And you’re not blind, are you? Not with that exquisitely timed shot down the dowager’s décolletée. I’ll also wager you’ve weighed out the value of my mother’s necklace right down to the last stone, though no one would suspect you of doing so, clever man. And here she is.” Caledonia kissed her mama on the cheek. “Mr. Smith was kind enough to offer to escort us out to our carriage with Arthur, Mama, now that the evening is through.”
So much easier to take what one wanted instead of asking for it like a good girl.
“And of course, we must offer them the use of our carriage, as Arthur’s bachelor quarters are so close to Balfour house.”
“Indeed,” was all her smiling mother said publicly. But while they were fetching their heavy evening cloaks, she took the moment to whisper directly into her daughter’s ear. “Whatever game you’re playing here, Cally, mind your fingers—you’re playing with fire, and I shouldn’t like to see you get burned.”
As Cally didn’t particularly want to catch fire, she minded herself for the time being, staying carefully mum all the way out the door and through the colonnade where the carriage awaited them.
“Thank you for your offer, my lady,” Mr. Smith demurred as he handed her mother into the carriage. “But I am going entirely the other way. Mr. Balfour will no doubt see you home. I bid you good evening.”
“Thank you, Mr. Smith, and good evening. Thank you, Arthur.” Mama let her step-son see her within.
Caledonia refused to be daunted or out-maneuvered—she used the moment her mother’s back was turned to edge into the deep shadow of a column, and grasp Mr. Smith by the cravat. “Come riding with me tomorrow. The park. Ten o’clock sharp.” She didn’t wait for him to agree, but then, to induce his confidence and compliance, she kissed him.
And while she guessed it wasn’t the most experienced kiss Mr. Smith had ever received, it was all she had. And she gave it to him.
The moment his hands came up to clasp her arms, she pulled away—discretion was the better part of valor. “Thank you, Mr. Smith. You’ve been a delight.”
At which point she smiled and turned away, and left him staring after her in the dark.
Chapter 8
Toby’s first thought, as the Balfour carriage trundled out of sight, was that he had never met a more provoking woman. Or one who intrigued him more.
If he weren’t so bloody busy trying to keep his head out of a noose, he might be having fun. And it seemed such a devilish long time since he had had any real fun. Perhaps he ought to frequent aristocratic circles more often.
His second thought, was that Mrs. Bowmont had been right about one thing—her mother’s jewels were a tempting lure for the damned impostor thief. Between the two of them, the Balfour mother and daughter had been wearing something of a fortune in very old, very valuable jewels. Perhaps not as valuable as the Godolphin emeralds, but Lady Godolphin was rumored to wear her jewels all the way round the clock, never taking them off—a problem for even the most accomplished of jewel thieves.
It were best if he kept his eye upon the Balfour family—he owed it to his friend Captain Sir Hugh McAlden to stay one step ahead of the thief who might target his sister. It had nothing to do with the fact that the provoking woman had kissed like an angel.
An over-exuberant, bossy angel, but an angel nonetheless—he could still feel the soft press of her lips against his.
She was also quite extraordinarily beautiful, in an unconventional way—her coloring was full of contrast, dark and light. And her eyes, such a clear, crystalline blue he could fall into like the sea. Exactly like her brother, Captain McAlden’s. But they weren’t calm and restful, Caledonia McAlden Bowmont’s eyes—they were likely to be turbulent those seas, an uncomfortable passage for a man who wanted nothing more of drama or excitement in his life.
Caledonia Bowmont was the sort of lass who could lead a man far, far astray. And make him enjoy the journey. But it was not a journey Toby could afford to take at present.
He turned away from the colonnade, and walked way into the night.
In the morning he wished he had walked even further than the Inn of the Three Kings, because he awoke with Caledonia Bowmont on his mind—and upon his body, if the rude state of his arousal was any indication. But there was no denying either his attraction to her, or her intrigue for him.
And so he listened to his well-honed instincts, and then ignored them as he went to meet the stunningly attractive Mrs. Bowmont, who, equally stunningly, appeared to be attracted to him.
She began talking the moment he was within earshot of where she sat, dressed in a superbly fitted habit of lush purple velvet, atop her mare at Hyde Park Corner. “Have you heard,” Mrs. Bowmont—he would not allow himself the pleasure of even thinking about her as Caledonia—asked as soon as he reached her. “But of course you know—you picked her out especially.”
“I beg your pardon?” His mind was rather taken up by calculating the proportions revealed by the close-fitted riding habit—all long, lovely curves and uplifting—
“The Dowager Marchioness of Queensbury. Whose bosom—”
Toby’s mind was now entirely taken up with thoughts of another bosom—smaller, and perfectly proportioned to fit in a man’s hand.
“—you so artfully intruded upon.”
Toby shook his head to clear it, and recalled himself to his persona. “I did apologize to her. It was an honest, if gauche, mistake.”
“Dropping a guinea straight down her bosom last night, or relieving her of all her jewels this morning?”
“What?” He couldn’t keep the near bark of astonishment from flying out of his mouth, while his gut fisted up tighter than a turk’s head knot.
So much for his crass, colonial persona.
“Relieving her of all her jewels this morning,” Mrs. Bowmont repeated patiently, as if he were a particularly dim child. “They—meaning the broadsheets, whom one assumes have been informed by the magistrates or the Runners, or possibly both—cannot decide who might have done it, the one they call the Vauxhall Vixen, or the old Scottish Wraith. I suppose you are to be congratulated, though I must say I am astonished. I was only teasing you last night, since I was sure you were reformed.”
There were many things that Toby was supposing at that moment, with uneasiness crawling up his neck like a spider, but none of them were congratulatory. Several were blasphemous. All were alarming.
He had been outwitted—but so had they all.
“Mama will be next, I assume, though I must wish she wasn’t.” She was all blithe openness, as if she didn’t have an unexpressed thought in her head.
Provoking, dangerous woman.
And damn his eyes, but this thief seemed to have it in for him particularly—almost as if they were setting him up to take the eight-foot fall on purpose. “You should warn her to safeguard her jewels—have her husband take them to a vault.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
“It is no more than I should tell anyone who had a fortune in jewels to lose.”
“Yes, they do say this thief is particularly ambitious. And avaricious—no one in Mayfair is safe.”
Toby couldn’t decide if Mrs. Bowmont was teasing again, or if she was simply giving him gum. And as much as he would normally have liked to trade clever witticisms with a beautiful woman, they were in a public park, where anyone might hear her chatter and make unfounded assumptions.
Anyone, including the particular urchin who was approaching them in the guise of selling flowers—Bolter’s daughter, Betty. “Violets for the lady, sar? Posey for ha’penny.”
“No, thank you,” he said automatically, not wanting to have anything to do with the troublesome girl. But then he immediately thought better of it—had Bolter, or more likely Grindle, sent her with a message? “On second thought, violets would suit you and that particular shade of royal purple you’re wearing this morning,” he told Mrs. Bowmont.
“How kind you are,” she said. But her sharp gaze was shifting cutty-eyed between him and Betty in a way that made him uneasy.
“If you’ll but give me a moment?” He did not wait for a reply, but dismounted, and turned his horse to stand between the girl and Mrs. Bowmont. “What is the message?”
“Message?” the gamine replied. “Here’s a message for ye—Ain’t ye the swell, lording it about the Hyde Park while we sweat and toil with Runners breathin’ down our necks.”
They had sent her to tax him. “You may tell them I’m not the one who set the Runners there.”
“Certainly y’are—everyone is talkin’ ’bout the robbery from last night—the Marchioness of Queensbury’s jewels snatched right outta her house on Green Park. An’ ye, hanging about the Three Kings yard, so close by.”
“News travels fast.” As did Grindle’s spies—the man had eyes and ears everywhere, it seemed. And why was that?
“Almost as fast as yer gonna have to travel to the continent. But I’m all packed and ready to go wit ye. Ye just say tha’ word.”
“I am not going to the continent.”
“No? Ye gonna waste yer last moments o’ freedom to go ridin’ with that upper crust tart?”
Mrs. Bowmont was not, technically speaking, upper crust—she was not a titled noblewoman—though she certainly looked the part seated so magnificently upon her tall black mare. But the distinction would undoubtedly be lost upon a creature like Betty who appeared bundled in rags to ward off the cold. And he didn’t have to justify himself either to Betty, her father, or Grindle. “I am.”
