An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

Her late husband's half-brother did not seem at all per­turbed by her hostility. He shrugged. "You wrote to me that you were in grave distress."

  "Oh! Yes. Well, I was. I have been so frightfully worried about Thomas, you see."

  "About Thomas?" He regarded her with faint disbelief.

  "But I have, Hugo, you have no reason to look at me like that." She pouted winsomely in his direction. "You know what a doting mother I am, and oh! the cares of motherhood." She sighed soulfully.

  Hugo, displaying a lamentable lack of gallantry, did not respond. She peeped a glance at him through her downcast lashes. His expression was cynical.

  "Dibs not in tune, eh, Amelia? Too bad. You'll not get a penny from me, so you may as well give up the play­acting."

  Amelia abandoned her soulful mien. "You are nothing but a penny-pinching clutchfist, Hugo!"

  Looking bored, Hugo strolled to the doorway and ob­served the dancers currently engaged in a cotillion.

  His sister-in-law was not fooled by this apparent interest in his fellow guests. She glared at his back. The sight he presented did, not at all meet her fastidious standards. His hair was cropped far too short and was not coaxed into a modish style, but simply brushed back from his brow. His shirtpoints were starched, but not high enough to be fash­ionable; his neckcloth was so plain as to be an affront to any person of taste. His coat fitted him perfectly, but it was of such a dark shade that it made him look almost as if he was in mourning, particularly in combination with his black pantaloons.

  The entire effect was too sombre for words, but Amelia was forced to concede that his attire, at least, did not dis­grace his family. It was the man himself who was the prob­lem.

  Those shoulders... She shuddered. More suited to a la­bourer than a gentleman. And his skin, which he'd care­lessly allowed the sun and wind to darken to an unfashion-

  able brown colour. She glanced at the hands holding the wineglass and sniffed. He could have worn gloves, at least! Those hands—tanned, and covered with nicks and scars— a shameful testament to a youth spent in manual labour.

  She averted her gaze from her brother-in-law's offending person and concentrated on his miserly habits.

  "Not everyone enjoys a life of monkish isolation and deprivation, Hugo. We have expenses, Thomas and I. The life of a fashionable person costs a great deal. You—" She cast a disparaging glance over his plain clothing. "You would have no idea of the demands on a gentleman's purse."

  The faint, disparaging emphasis on the word "gentle­man” did not escape Hugo. But these days he was indif­ferent to it. His mother had been old Lord Norwood's sec­ond wife, an heiress, with the stigma of trade attached to her. And Hugo was only the second son, after all, and with the blood of "dammed tradesmen" in his veins.

  Lady Norwood continued, "In any case, as Lord Nor­wood, Thomas has a position to maintain, and he has every right to the fruits of his inheritance! You have no business denying—"

  "Thomas's inheritance, madam," interrupted Hugo in a blighting tone, "was a shamefully neglected estate, a crum­bling manor house, mortgaged to the hilt and falling apart with disrepair and a mountain of debts to go with them! The fact that Thomas was left anything at all was no thanks to my father and my half-brother, but to whichever far-seeing ancestor of ours established the entail which pre­vented them gambling away every square inch of land."

  Amelia squirmed, uncomfortably. "Yes, I know, but that is all in the past, after all. And everything has changed now, and you have returned and can—" She broke off as she glanced at him and saw the look in his eye.

  She pouted and fiddled with her rings. "Well, I'm sure

  I am sorry about what happened to you, but it is not as if you suffered too badly—"

  "You know nothing about it, madam."

  "Possibly not, but I can see you are very far from purse-pinched, after all. From all I have heard, I'm sure you could pay Thomas's debts, and mine, and barely even notice it. We are family, after all." She did not meet his eyes.

  His lips thinned, and he inclined his head. "Indeed. Such...belated...family feeling does you honour, I am sure. But I am not going to pay Thomas's debts. Nor yours."

  "No, you will not assist us in any way—''

  "I towed this family from the River Tick, madam, if you care to recall. And I have expressed myself more than will­ing to teach Thomas how to manage his estate and—''

  "Oh, yes—you would make of him a tradesman like yourself!" Amelia sniffed scornfully. "How Thomas would ever find himself a decent bride with the stench of trade about him I declare I don't know!"

  Hugo stared indifferently at the wall above her head.

  "If you truly wished to help Thomas, you could settle a sum on him and then you need never worry about us again, but no! You will do nothing so straightforward! I think you enjoy having the power over us that you do!"

  Hugo's brows snapped together. There was an element of truth in her accusation, he realised. Not that he wanted power, but Thomas and Amelia's constant requests for money gave him some faint feeling of being part of a fam­ily. It was a pathetic thing to realise about oneself, he thought.

  "It would please me very well if I never had to see you or Thomas again." Hugo drained his glass of wine. "I would be delighted to be able to wash my hands of the boy, but he is my only relative, after all, and I have a duty to him."

  "Well, then, why will you not—?"

  "My duty is to ensure that Thomas learns not to get himself into the same spiral of gambling and debt that his forebears did!"

  "How dare you sneer at my son's forebears—they were, at least, all gentlemen bornV

  "And gentlemen born live in debt, is that it? Thank God I had some common blood, in that case. No—we shall not brangle over the past." He stood up and made for the door. "You have my last word on it, Amelia; you and Thomas must learn to live on your income, or find someone else to frank your vowels."

  "Well, and so we shall if only you will go back to York­shire!" hissed Amelia waspishly. "You could not have come to London at a worse time!"

  Mr Devenish turned. "What do you mean?"

  "Thomas and I have found a solution to all our diffi­culties, and if you would just take yourself away, we will bring the whole thing off."

  "What solution?"

  She did not reply, but concentrated instead on examining a small, dark oil painting.

  "What solution, Amelia?" he repeated in a deep, com­manding voice.

  Amelia tossed her head and looked mutinous. Her half-brother-in-law waited, his silent gaze boring into her.

  "Oh, very well, if you must know, Thomas is taking the same solution as your father did for his difficulties. But the girl is proving very lukewarm and he will not be able to bring it off if you blunder in with your jumped-up trades­man's blood and your ugly labourer's hands, trumpeting your connections with us. You know they always want ti­tles and the bluest of blood!" She sat down on her chair again in a flounce of silk.

  "Who always want titles and the bluest of blood?"

  Hugo's rather hard grey eyes narrowed. "You don't mean Thomas has decided to marry an heiress?"

  "Yes. Of course, he is far too young to have to make such a terrible sacrifice, but if you will persist in being so frightfully clutchfisted..."

  Hugo considered her announcement. It may not be such a bad solution, he thought. With the right bride, Thomas may be induced to learn to control his ruinous habits.

  As his financial advisor and uncle, Hugo could reason­ably be expected to have an influence in the drawing up of the marriage settlements. He would ensure that the bride and any children she had would be protected from the re­sults of Thomas's extravagance. It might work, he thought. It all depended on the bride.

  "So, who is this heiress?" he said mildly.

  Amelia, obviously relieved by his calm acceptance of the news, sat forward excitedly on her chair. “Well, of course, nothing has been settled yet—and it probably won't be un­less you go back to Yor
kshire immediately and not breathe a word to a soul!—but she has a diamond mine! She is—" Amelia's smooth complexion glowed in triumph "—a nabob's daughter!"

  Hugo frowned. "Which nabob? I've heard of no new nabob in town."

  Amelia rolled her eyes at him. "It is not generally known. Anyway, there is no nabob—"

  "But I thought—"

  "He is dead, at any rate, and a good thing too, I say, for nabobs are invariably loud and vulgar—the stench of trade is alwa—" She broke off. "Not that there is any question of vulgarity—the girl is quite sweet and demure, but it is providential that she is an orphan, at any rate. Thomas will have complete control of all her money from the start."

  Hugo's frown remained. "I have heard of no new heir­ess. Who is she?"

  Amelia pouted. "Well, but if you must know—not that it is at all your business!—it is the Singleton girl."

  "The Singleton girl!" Hugo looked appalled. "You cannot be serious!"

  She nodded.

  "Good God! I had no idea the boy was so desperate! Rose Singleton is as old as you are!"

  "Rose Singleton? She is not She's forty, if she's a day!—you forget I was the veriest child-bride! Why, Rose has been on the shelf for years and years. But what has Rose Singleton's age—you don't mean you thought—?" Amelia stared at him in stupefaction. Then she burst out laughing. "Rose Singleton? And Thomas?''

  "To my knowledge the only unmarried female among the Singletons is Rose," said Hugo, with some asperity,

  "You have forgotten the long-lost Singletons," said Amelia matter-of-factly, applying a wisp of lace to her eyes.

  Hugo frowned. "I didn't know there were any long lost Singletons."

  "No, nor did I. But then this girl arrived, and Rose is bringing her out, and oh, Hugo, with a diamond mine, she is exactly what Thomas was looking for!" She tucked the handkerchief back in her reticule.

  Hugo ignored that. "A long-lost Singleton, and a na­bob's daughter... You did say she was a lady?"

  "Well, naturally there is the trade connection, but of course she is a lady, Hugo, else Thomas would not wed the girl!" Amelia said indignantly. "The girl herself is an orphan and the father is safely dead, so he cannot return to embarrass anyone. And there is a diamond mine!"

  "Yes...the diamond mine," Hugo murmured. "You've had her investigated, of course."

  Amelia shrugged. "She is bound to have vulgar connec­tions, so what is the point?"

  Hugo sighed. "Her financial background, I meant."

  “Do you never believe a thing anyone tells you?'' Ame­lia snapped crossly.

  He bowed over her hand and strode towards the door. “Not usually. I find I prefer to ascertain the truth for my­self, wherever possible. If she is as wealthy as you say, it would be an obvious solution for Thomas's difficulties. I have numerous connections with the East India Company, so—"

  "Not India. New South Wales."

  Hugo came to a sudden halt. He swung around, staring at his sister-in-law in blank disbelief. "New South Wales? What do you mean, New South Wales?''

  "The mine is in New South Wales."

  "A diamond mine in a convict settlement?"

  Amelia looked puzzled. "And what is wrong with that, pray? I have heard tell New South Wales is very large."

  He snorted. "A diamond mine in a penal colony! Lord, imagine the problems—every rag-tag thief and criminal would be committing crimes in the hope of transportation to Botany Bay and a fortune in diamonds. The courts would be even more flooded than they already are. No, no, you are mistaken there, Amelia."

  "No, I am not. She quite definitely came from New South Wales—I am not stupid, you know Hugo!"

  "A diamond mine in New South Wales!" he repeated scornfully. "Such a thing could not exist."

  She pursed her lips in annoyance. "Obviously you wish it did not!" she said waspishly. "But apparently they have only quite recently crossed some impossible mountain range into the unknown interior, so who is to say there are no diamonds there? Certainly not a man who buries himself in rural fastness for most of the year and is odiously selfish the rest of the time!"

  "The whole tale sounds too smoky by half to me."

  Amelia shrugged pettishly.

  "I would be very interested to meet the owner of a New South Wales diamond mine," Hugo said slowly.

  Amelia glared at him. “This is nothing to do with you, Hugo! If you want Thomas to be settled comfortably, then take yourself back to Yorkshire! I won't have you meddling and putting the girl off our family."

  "I gather she is here tonight."

  Amelia hesitated, then shook her head in dramatic em­phasis. "No, no, she didn't come."

  "That little dark creature Thomas was attempting to hide from me on the dance floor?"

  "No, no, no! It is not her at all—that is some other girl! A completely different girl."

  Hugo smiled. Her feverish denial confirmed his suspi­cions. "I think it is incumbent on me, as Thomas's only male relative, to meet the girl, at least." He strode towards the door.

  "Hugo, you will not approach this girl, do you hear me?" Amelia shrieked. "I forbid it! You will ruin every­thing!"

  Chapter Two

  "Miss Singleton."

  Kit jumped and hurriedly turned. There was still the odd occasion where, if distracted, it slipped her mind that she was now Miss Singleton.

  A tall dark-haired gentleman stood at her elbow, frown­ing thoughtfully down at her. The impressive-looking man she had noticed earlier. Heavens! Up close he was even more impressive. Bigger. Darker. Colder. Examining her with a curious mixture of frigid intensity and detachment.

  Kit's heart started beating rapidly. She swallowed.

  The grey eyes met her gaze coldly. A frisson of deja-vu passed through her.

  Who was he? Why was he staring at her in that way? Did he know her from somewhere?

  "Will you honour me with a dance, Miss Singleton?"

  It was not a request, but a demand, snapped out in an arrogant, care-for-nobody tone. Kit did not care for it. She lifted her chin and rewarded the gentleman with a frosty look and a disdainfully raised eyebrow. She was not sup­posed to talk to anyone she had not been introduced to.

  "Yes, of course she will," Aunt Rose responded for her. Rose must have introduced them, Kit realised belatedly, but

  she hadn't caught it. Rose smiled, nodded approvingly at Kit and drifted off towards the card room.

  Kit silently held out her card. His dark head bent as he scrawled his name on it, and she peered surreptitiously to try to catch the name, without success. His hands were large, square, long-fingered and well-shaped. Oddly, they were scarred and nicked in a number of places. London gentlemen took great care of their hands; some had skin almost as soft as Kit's—softer, in fact, for she'd had oc­casion to work hard at times.

  Interesting. This man seemed to flaunt his imperfec­tions... no, not quite flaunt, he seemed indifferent to them. Or was it people's opinion of him he was indifferent to?

  She leaned back a little and allowed her gaze to run over him.

  Up close he still retained that aura of aloneness. He made no small talk. He simply claimed her for a dance. He was either a little shy in the company of women, or very arro­gant.

  His eyes flicked up suddenly, as if aware of her scrutiny. He held her gaze a long, hard moment, then he dropped his gaze back to the card. Kit fought a blush. Whatever else he was, he was not shy of women.

  His eyes were grey, though of such a grey as to be almost blue, although that could have been caused by the dark blue coat superbly cut to mould across his equally superb shoul­ders.

  Kit had not seen such shoulders on a London gentleman before. Like the mandarin class of China, the pashas of Turkey, and the highest castes of India and Java, the mem­bers of the ton strove to appear as if they had never had to lift anything heavier than a spoon—and a gold or silver spoon, at that.

  Fashionable London might believe a gentleman should not have the build of a stev
edore, but Kit could find no fault with it. London gentlemen padded their shoulders to achieve the correct shape, but if she was given the choice between muscles or padding... Unfashionable it might be, but such shoulders could rather tempt a girl to...to think thoughts she had no business thinking, she told herself se­verely.

  He had not the look of a man who'd had an easy life, not like many she'd met in the salons of the ton. He was not old—perhaps thirty or so—but lines of experience were graven into his face, and his mouth was set in an implacable unsmiling line. It was rather a nice mouth, set under a long aquiline nose and a square, stubborn-looking chin.

  Kit wondered again what he would look like if he smiled.

  His manner intrigued her. There was a faintly ruthless air about him, and the thought crossed her mind that he might be the sort of man Rose Singleton had warned her was dangerous to a young girl's sensibilities. Certainly he was most attractive, if not precisely handsome. And yet he was making no effort to ingratiate himself or to fascinate her. Kit was fairly sure that a rake would try both, else how would he succeed in his rakishness?

  He had made no effort to charm her. His manner was more... She searched for a word to describe it and, to her surprise, came up with the word businesslike. Yes, his man­ner towards her was businesslike. How very odd.

  A thought suddenly occurred to her. Was he doing the rounds of the Marriage Mart in search of a wife? Some men did approach marriage as a business...

  Kit swallowed and firmly repressed the thought. She was not here, like the other girls, to find a husband. She was here to fulfil her promise to Papa, her vow to retrieve the family honour. She was not interested in so much as look­ing at any man, unless it furthered her plan.

  Still, this man was most impressive, most intriguing. And she certainly looked forward to dancing with him. She had spent the evening dancing with effete aristocrats and an occasional elderly friend of Rose Singleton's—this man as like no man she had ever met before.

  He looked up, frowned, thrust her card back into her hand and strode off, very much with the air of a man who hand done his duty. She glanced down. His thick black writ­ing dominated her dance card, claiming not just one dance but two. The second one, the waltz, was the supper dance. So, he wished to take her in to supper, did he?