Testing Miss Toogood

by Stella Cameron

  He stopped a moment, and stared at her. “That’s not your decision.”

  “I won’t be a nuisance,” Fleur insisted.

  “I am going to do it.”

  “No, I absolutely won’t allow it.”

  He sat down, suddenly and hard, beside her. “I’m going to explain something to you. Watch my mouth and listen carefully. Concentrate.”

  Crossing her arms, Fleur used one of her best frowns but said nothing.

  “It isn’t for you to allow or not allow anything around here. Mother is anxious to help your family. Mostly she wants to help her old friend, your mother. I know I said this is too great a burden for you—that is what will happen. And I’ll do my part because my mother rarely asks me for a favor.”

  “This is a burden to you. I don’t care to be any man’s burden.”

  He actually smiled again. “Of course you do—that’s why you’re here. I have—”

  “Some men may not find a wife a burden,” she said and heard her own sharpness. “Some may find her a helper, a supporter, a partner in all things.”

  She got another long stare before he said, “As I had started to say before you interrupted me, I have an idea. Why not allow me to pick out a few likely fellows for you to meet? It would eliminate all the fussing around.” He raised a long-fingered hand and actually appeared enthusiastic. “That’s exactly the thing. Why on earth isn’t this marriage business always dealt with sensibly, the way I propose?”

  “How exactly would you pick out these gentlemen? Since you have no idea what kind of a person would suit.”

  “Suit you?” he said, as if the idea of her having an opinion on the matter amazed him. “Far better for you to allow my experience to be the judge of who might suit. I know the background details, m’dear, the depth of the pockets and the family history. And any reputation I may not know I will find out. Don’t give it another thought—leave everything to me. You may be sure I’ll do well by you because Mother wouldn’t allow less.”

  He really wanted to avoid spending time with her. Fleur slipped off her bonnet and ran the brim through her hands. Since Lord Dominic obviously didn’t find her appealing, why should he think any other man would? What a pickle.

  Fleur, you are a silly. You aren’t attracted to him, either…are you?

  “I see you’re considering my idea. Wise of you. I’ll talk to my brother, Nathan—he’s the middle brother of the three of us—and ask him to make some suggestions. And I have several good friends who could be useful, too. Between us we’ll work something out and make sure we all have a wedding to attend as soon as possible. The sooner the better. Of course the trousseau won’t be a problem. Between whatever the modiste starts on today and then with Hattie’s help, you’ll be well fitted out.”

  Fleur didn’t trust herself to speak. He thought she would enjoy having a committee appointed to marry her off. Why couldn’t he see how mortifying that would be?

  “I see you are overwhelmed. Think nothing of it. In my business I spend many hours thinking my way through problems.”

  “What is your business?” So now she was a problem. Ugh, this was hateful.

  “I run this estate on the Marquis’s behalf but I have other work that isn’t something I can discuss. Other than to say it leaves me little time for frivolous things.”

  Like me?

  “My lord,” she said and put another inch or two between them. Once again he was too close for comfort. “My lord, I am grateful for your kind consideration of what you see as my problems, but I cannot accept the type of assistance you offer. I don’t think I should be at all comfortable to have a number of gentlemen harvesting unsuspecting males for my perusal. In fact, I should be deeply embarrassed.”

  He snorted. “Your inexperience shows. I assure you this will be done in a way that will not embarrass you. Each man we present to you will come because our descriptions of you make him want to.”

  “Unfortunately I will be the one to watch the contenders’ disappointment when they find out they have been deceived. Unless, of course, you would explain that I am penniless? That there is absolutely no dowry?”

  “That would come later,” he said. “After the man is besotted with you.”

  Fleur looked away before he could see her bitter smile. “I doubt if the Dowager Marchioness would be amused to learn you decided on such an unconventional approach. I suppose you would have me receive these people and try to engage them in lively conversation while you look on.”

  “Only until Hattie gets here.”

  Fleur stared at him and he had the grace to blush.

  “And when your mother discovers you have devised a plan different from her own?”

  “Mother doesn’t have to know all about it. She will think I’m going the extra mile to make sure you do some of your socializing in the safety of this house.”

  Best not point out that he was admitting an intention to hoodwink his parent. Fleur imagined the rectory, worn but with every piece of furniture polished to a high sheen. A fire in the parlor fireplace and her sisters sewing or playing a game, or perhaps even writing to her. How she missed them. If she could find a good man who was also well fixed she could have the other girls do better for themselves, and ease Mama and Papa’s way. Letitia was in love with the local Squire’s son but it remained to see if anything would come of that.

  “Come.” His Lordship got up and offered her his hand, which she held. “Up you come. It’s just about time for lunch. Cook is a genius.”

  “I ate breakfast and I agree,” Fleur said. And now, for her own sanity, there must be a change in plans.

  “Lunch is to be served in the garden room,” his lordship told her. “In fact the garden rooms run the entire width of the front of the house. They were built to bring in more light. My great-grandfather had a hand in designing the place and he was a man of vision.”

  She must speak now and speak firmly. “Lord Dominic,” she said as they walked out onto a balcony which surrounded the third floor and opened onto a view of beautiful flights of stairs descending to the first floor. “Please don’t make any moves on these plans of yours until I have time to consider them. Whatever happens, I know I must have some suitable gowns made so that I will not mortify your mother. Today I will concentrate on that since I’m not accustomed to so much attention.”

  “Indeed,” he said. “Very important and I’ll speak with my friends later.”

  “You aren’t listening to me.” Fleur took a breath and let it out slowly, allowing her annoyance to calm down. “I just want to make sure you understand what I said about preferring you to wait before doing anything about…men, for me.”

  He pushed out his very attractive mouth. “If you’re sure,” he said faintly. “But I should have thought the sooner the better.”

  “We are discussing a lifelong commitment and I don’t want, nor can I afford, a mistake.”

  On the second floor, where the ballroom and many receiving rooms were located, Fleur took her hand from Lord Dominic’s arm. “My room isn’t far from here. It’s at the end of that corridor and to the right. I’m going to return there now and rest awhile.”

  “But lunch—”

  “You are a big, strong man who must eat well. I’m sure cook will not mind if you eat my lunch also. I couldn’t possibly touch a bite of it. And please don’t let me keep you from your own important affairs any longer. I could tell you were horrified at the thought of accompanying me to the modiste. Quite unnecessary, I assure you. The modiste knows all about these things, I’m sure. And your mother gave her a list so I will rely on her assistance.”

  She backed away. “Thank you so much for looking after me. I promise to be as little bother as I can. Goodbye.”

  “Fleur,” he said, startling her by using her first name. “I’d really like to have lunch with you.”

  Oh fie, his eyes were sincere. A piece of his hair had come loose and fell forward to outline a lean cheek with a dimple beside the mouth. Why di
d he have to be such a heart-stealer? Not, of course, that he’d stolen her heart but she did feel herself softening toward him.

  Which was exactly the trap he intended her to fall into, the wretch.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I am awfully tired. Or perhaps I should say overwhelmed. I’ll feel better if I rest.”

  “You disappoint me, but I understand. I do want you to meet my brother, Nathan, soon. He is a good man, a brilliant man but with a tendency to waste his talents. He is kind and generous and I think you may enjoy him.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting him,” Fleur said.

  “Yes, yes, and meanwhile I’ll have a tray brought up to you. You can’t get through a whole day on breakfast alone.” He took her hand and held it. “You have courage. I like that. We still have a great deal to see at Heatherly. Promise you will allow me to complete our tour.”

  Fleur swallowed and wondered if he heard the faint sound from her throat. “That will be lovely,” she said.

  He lifted her fingers to his lips and rested them there. Looking directly at her, he parted his lips the tiniest bit and allowed warm breath to drift over her skin. Then he bent her fingers gently down and softly kissed each knuckle. She thought she felt his tongue on each dip between bones.

  Lord Dominic was a practiced lover and she was too easily seduced by his fine wiles.

  “I’ll go now,” she said. “Have a wonderful lunch.” Without thinking, she brought his hand to her lips and lightly kissed its back.

  Dominic murmured. “In any other woman I should consider that practiced flirtation but you, my dear, are a natural—if impetuous—charmer.”

  She was a woman adrift with nothing but a List, and she’d best study it well and quickly, before she made more stupid mistakes. “Goodbye,” she said and sped away along the corridor. This was a dreadful pickle.

  5

  He had been anonymous long enough—not that his true identity would ever be revealed.

  His name—the name he had taken—needed to spread throughout the world of his enemies. He would not rest until mention of him made them tremble.

  “Are you awake, boy?” he said to the twelve-year-old who lay on a pallet behind a rich curtain. “Pay attention! You live at my pleasure. Never forget it.”

  “Yes, sir,” the boy said.

  “I want them all to whisper about me, to make believe that the danger I bring will always be for someone else, never for them. Even those who have already felt my sting and paid a ransom for their daughters will pretend otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yes, he wanted the unspeakable spoken of, and lied about.

  Aha, he couldn’t ask for things to go better than they were now. The plot was remarkably advanced—especially since his inventive informant had as large a thirst for revenge as his own. Almost as large. There would never be a more determined, more malevolent pair of ill-wishers visited upon the ranks of the haute ton.

  Fiddlededee, fiddlededum, who would have thought the ambition of a malcontent would bring him his most valuable ally?

  Freedom. He was free, free, magnificently free and day by day his fortune grew. The fattest pigeon was in his sights and, when he got what the bird was worth, she would be his last adventure, his last victim—unless he decided to remind London of the horrors of ’15 during future Seasons—just for fun.

  But it wasn’t quite time for his most spectacular, his most daring abduction. First he intended to snatch another valuable virgin or two—just until the ransom rolled in, of course. Their families would pay, just as the others had, for his promise that no one would know their darling daughters had been taken and held by a man—alone.

  The parents feared for the loss of their girls’ reputations, and any chance of a brilliant marriage. And he, Le Chat Soyeux, was only too glad to put their minds at rest by accepting generous gifts for his silence. He clapped and spun on his toes. The Silken Cat. His name was perfect.

  But now it was time to start rumors of the abductions, to set Society atwitter while “his girls” and their families trembled and sweated for fear their names would be revealed.

  His spirits knew no calming. A gilded circular staircase wound upward from the receiving room to the glorious music box salon. Who would ever guess that inside a large, rundown warehouse with soot-coated windowless windows, a jewel of a residence had been built? Small, it was true, but perfect. After all, the builders and craftspeople had been brought from the Continent and returned there once the job was complete. A brilliant deception.

  “Don’t follow me,” he told the boy on his pallet, and went to give him a sharp kick through the curtain.

  Harry-the-bastard all but swallowed his cry, but not quite. “No, sir,” he said, very low.

  The Cat would forget the boy until he needed him again.

  Whirling, whirling, he circumnavigated the room, hesitating an instant before each shadowy mirror to admire this, his most flamboyant costume. The maquillage didn’t entirely please him so he rushed to the pots of paint and put a brush into some white paste. Holding a hand mirror high, turning a little to capture more light from the only candle burning, he put another coat on his cheeks, forehead, nose and chin—whited out his mouth and sat, tapping the toes of his high-heeled red-and-gold shoes while he waited for his face to dry.

  Next came the pot of dark red rouge and he applied this precisely in two slashes over his cheekbones. He painted on the dear little rosebud mouth. A large black beauty mark made a fabulous addition and he drew thin arches for his eyebrows. The last touch to his face was an application of white powder on his eyelashes. The Pink-Eyed One had emerged to ready himself for the evening’s games. He had considered publicizing his pet name for himself, but since only his victims got close enough to shriek at the sight of his inhuman eyes he’d decided to discard the notion.

  The Silken Cat lived and would soon be a name on every pair of lips.

  The wig, row upon row of tight white curls that reached his shoulders, and a short, curving fall over his forehead, delighted him. White silk stockings showed the fine shape of his calves and his thighs bulged in white satin breeches. His red-and-gold waistcoat fitted his admirable torso like a glove. His jacket of embroidered red silk clung to his wide shoulders and accentuated his muscular chest. He was not the tallest of men but his height was commanding enough.

  Taking the ringing metal stairs several at a time, he sprang to the top and flung a leg over the bannister. Away he went, shooting down, around and around, shrieking aloud, his legs spread wide.

  His informant was late. The Silken Cat pouted. His expectations must not be thwarted and if this inconvenience happened again, he might have to show his darker side—again. Apparently twice had not been enough.

  The details he expected tonight would be essential, but he filled the time while he waited by studying his next marriageable heiress, and setting a fat price for her “untarnished” return.

  And this time the whispered gossip would begin. He laughed aloud at the thought of how her family would join in the gossip about The Silken Cat even while they knew he held their daughter. They must if they hoped to protect their darling. Wheee!

  Oh, the fabulous fun of it all. Tonight, tomorrow at the latest, would bring the start of a new era. There might be as many as three more young women invited to his gilded cage—at different times, of course—if for no other reason than to make his technique even more flawless. Above all, his mission must be to spread fear for the safety of England’s most precious daughters.

  He craved the money.

  He relished the power.

  6

  Standing in the middle of her bedchamber, Fleur studied a fashion plate the modiste, Mrs. Neville, had produced for consideration.

  “Perfect for the evening,” the woman said. “The gathers at the back are very popular. And the half sash.”

  “Mmm.” Fleur felt another rising blush, one of several since she’d been so flustered as to kiss his lordship�
�s hand. Just as he had shown her, he could be polite, too. She should have had lunch with him instead of behaving like a child and running away. What could have got into her?

  Neville waited and Fleur managed to smile at her. “I’m sure I will be delighted to have a dress like this,” she said, tapping the paper. “Is that all? May I go now?”

  “Go? We’ve hardly begun, miss. We have several outfits to choose and we haven’t even taken measurements yet.”

  “Of course we haven’t. I wasn’t thinking.” She was, in fact, thinking a great deal too much.

  “A bit overwhelming, is it?” the modiste asked, her kind face all sympathy.

  Fleur nodded. Why shouldn’t this woman know she was dealing with an inexperienced country girl—everyone else here did?

  “Yes, well, I took the liberty of making up some things for you to try and if you like them, we’ll make the necessary alternations. The Dowager Marchioness described you to me. A marvel, she is. Such an eye, but that would come from her painting.”

  “Have you seen any of her paintings?” Fleur asked eagerly. She hoped to be invited inside Lady Granville’s studio one day.

  “Oh, no. I’ve made her clothes for years and I’ve never been in that room she likes so much. Her ladyship’s very private about all that. But I do believe she gave me a fair idea of your measurements. See what you think of this.”

  From an oversize cotton bag she produced a dress made of a shiny fabric in pale, multihued stripes.

  “A new material. French washing silk, they call this. Pop it on.”

  With Neville’s help Fleur shed her own simple frock and wriggled while she was tied and pinned into an evening dress. “It’s the one in the picture,” she said. “How clever you are. But don’t you think the neckline is a little…” It was a lot…

  “No,” the modiste said shortly. “With a figure like yours, why not show it off? Now stand still while I make some adjustments.” She placed Fleur before a long mirror.