An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

  It was all most intriguing. She still had not the faintest idea who he was. What was his name? His name stood out against the others pencilled on the white card. A heavy black scrawl. She frowned at it. It looked uncannily like the word devil. How very melodramatic.

  She watched his retreat across the ballroom with nar­rowed eyes. He still looked, to her eyes, out of place in a ballroom, but she wasn't quite sure why. His attire was severe but extremely elegant and obviously expensive, from his dark blue, long-tailed coat to his black knee-breeches.

  Fastened in among the snowy fold of his cravat was a cunningly wrought gold tie pin; an exquisitely crafted bird, resting in what looked like a nest of flames, its ruby eye glinting. It was a phoenix, the fabled bird of ancient Egypt, who was destroyed by fire. But then a new bird rose, fully fledged, from the ashes of the old.

  A most unusual piece. She wondered whether he had chosen the pin for the significance of the design, or merely because it was pretty. He didn't look the sort to be attracted by the merely pretty.

  Who was the man? Why did he feel somehow familiar to her? And why, out of all the young girls arrayed in white, had he asked her to dance? For she had seen him ask no one else.

  If he had approached her with an eye to a possible bride, he was surely unique, for he'd barely glanced at her, except for that one icy, searing glance. Kit knew from her past experience that whatever the culture, men generally showed a great deal of interest in the physical attributes of the women they took to wife. In some places she had lived, even the woman's teeth were inspected as a matter of course—not that Kit would stand for being inspected like a horse at market! But a little interest would not have gone astray.

  Kit watched as he inclined his head ironically to someone on the other side of the room. She followed the direction of his gaze. An elegant woman in an exquisite lilac silk gown glared at him, stamped her foot and turned her back on him. Kit recognised the woman: Lady Norwood, the mother of Lord Norwood.

  Kit wrinkled her brow in perplexion as Lady Norwood, exuding indignation with every step, stamped away to join her cronies, leaving the tall dark man to saunter away into the crowd. What on earth was all that about?

  Lady Norwood was a widow, notorious, according to Rose, for keeping company with rakes and ne'er-do-wells. Was the tall man one of her companions? Had they had a falling out?

  Rake or ne'er-do-well? He did not seem to fit either de­scription. He seemed more like a big dark arrogant watch­dog; a little fierce, a little harsh, a little cold. But watchdogs guarded things. And people. Who or what was he guarding?

  And why was Lady Norwood so angry with him?

  She was not quite sure how she felt, but there was no doubt about one thing; she felt more alive than ever. The simple evening of pleasure before her had suddenly turned into a most intriguing event.

  "Devenish, old fellow. Didn't think to find you in Town. Thought you preferred rustification—know I do." The blunt, loud voice came from just behind Kit. She

  turned her head but could not observe the speaker. She was resting between dances, sipping a glass of sweet ratafia, while her partner went to fetch her an ice. Her seat was next to a pillar draped with netting and twined with droop­ing greenery; on the other side of the pillar,, two men stood talking.

  "Shockin'ly dull affair, ain't it? If I'd realised there was going to be so many of the infantry invited, I wouldn't have come. Lord! When did marriage-bait get to be so young— tell me that, Dev?"

  The other man laughed wryly. "I'm afraid it is not the debutantes who are getting younger, Marsden, but—"

  Marsden! Her father had mentioned a Marsden... Kit wriggled closer, eavesdropping unashamedly.

  "Devil take you, don't say it, man! Bad enough to realise I've been fifteen years leg-shackled—fifteen years—can you credit it?" Marsden signed audibly. "Reason I'm come to the Metropolis—promised the lady wife I'd escort her, celebrate the event in London—celebration! At one of Fanny Parsons's balls—commiseration more like!" He added eoaxingly, "I say, old man, you wouldn't care to slip out for a while and pop in to White's for a rubber of whist?"

  His companion laughed. "A tempting thought—but no, I cannot. I am engaged for the next waltz."

  "Good Gad! Who with?" asked Marsden bluntly. "Never took you for a caper merchant, Dev." There was a short pause. "Never say you're going to dance with one of those fillies in white—dlon't do it, man! Don't get your­self leg-shackled!"

  His companion snorted. "Were I in the market for a wife—which I am not—I would not put myself down for a waltz with a dreary little chit with more hair than con­versation."

  Kit listened to the two men laughing and frowned. Many

  of her fellow ingenues were a little dull but it was not then-fault. It must be very difficult to be one moment in the schoolroom and the next expected to entertain sophisticated men of the world.

  "Then what possessed you to ask one o' these chits to dance? And a waltz, too. You'll set the match-makin' ma­mas in a devil of flutter you know, and—''

  "Calm yourself, Marsden. I am here on a matter con­cerning my half-brother's boy."

  "Young Norwood? You mean he is—? Oh, well, that's all right then. Probably suit him, marriage. Chasin' a for­tune, no doubt, if you don't mind me sayin' so."

  Kit stiffened. Norwood! If Norwood was his heir, then who was this Devenish she had been listening to? She pressed closer into the flowers and peered around the col­umn. It was her tall watchdog! Not Devil, but Devenish— of course! She should have realised it sooner.

  Then it dawned on her. His name was down in her card for the next waltz. She was the chit with more hair than conversation! Kit unclenched her teeth and took a sip of her ratafia. It tasted flat and oversweet. She set the glass aside with something of a snap. It was one thing to mas­querade as a naive young girl—it was another to be called a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation^. She stiffened further as she caught the tail end of a sentence.

  "...I'm still the boy's trustee for a few more years, so if he is considering marriage, it's wise to look her over."

  Look her over! As if she was a horse or something! If he tried to inspect her teeth, she'd bite him!

  "It won't take me long to ascertain what I need from the girl..."

  Oh, won't it, indeed! Kit thought rebelliously. So Lord Norwood was chasing a fortune, was he? And his mother was sending the family watchdog to inspect Kit Single­ton—ha! Well, they were certainly barking up the wrong tree if they thought Kit Singleton would bring anyone a fortune. She could set them straight in a moment on that!

  But she wouldn't! That description of her rankled. She had an irresistible desire to teach the Watchdog a lesson about judging books by their covers. If Mr Devenish had decided Kit Singleton was a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation, then who was Kit Singleton to con­tradict him?

  She felt a pleasurable frisson at the prospect of their dance. It would be quite soon.

  "So, Miss Singleton, are you enjoying your come-out?" Mr Devenish swung her around masterfully.

  Kit kept her eyes demurely lowered. He was by far the best dancer she had ever danced with and his shoulders more than lived up to their promise—the sensation of twirl­ing in his arms was delicious.

  It was very clear, however, that he was unused to con­versing with very young ladies; he had made no attempt to charm her and his version of polite small talk was rather like being questioned by customs officers at the border. And as the dance continued, his tone, to Kit's immense pleasure, was progressing rapidly towards that of one ad­dressing a simpleton.

  "Your come-out, Miss Singleton," he rapped out again with a faint touch of impatience. "Are you enjoying it?"

  She murmured something indistinguishable to his waist­coat, managing, just, to keep a straight face. As a chit with more hair than wit, she was making him work very hard for his conversation. She'd barely responded to his ques­tions, and such responses she had uttered were give
n in a shy whisper.

  Her tactics quite forced Mr Devenish to bend his head continuously towards her simple but elegant coiffure. Thus, he was well able to compare the amount of hair she had with the meagre wisps of conversation which had drifted up to him from the region of his waistcoat. And her hair was very short—she'd cut it all off in the heat of Batavia. Still, definitely more hair than wit...

  "Did you say you were enjoying it, or not? I didn't quite catch your response."

  "Oh, yeth," murmured Kit. She was not certain where the lisp came from, but it seemed perfect for the character she had adopted, the simpleton he thought her. She had not yet looked him in the eye. Innocent debutantes were often bashful and shy. Miss Kit Singleton was the shyest and most bashful imaginable.

  It was working beautifully. Mr Devenish had very good, if brusque, manners, but there was a growing note of as­perity to his questions.

  "You have not been in London long. I understand you arrived recently from New South Wales?"

  So far she had offered him no fewer than seven "yeths" in a row. She expanded her conversational repertoire dra­matically. "Qh, New Thouth Waleth ith a long way from here," she murmured to his phoenix tie-pin. He really was very tall.

  "And was your father an officer there?"

  Kit managed a quiver and a sob without losing her step. "My papa ith... ith... dead."

  Above her head, Devenish rolled his eyes and danced grimly on, silently cursing the length of these wretched Viennese dances. It was worse than he had expected—get­ting information out of this little dullard was like getting blood out of a stone. Lord knew what his nephew saw in her. A man needed more in a wife than a pretty face or a fortune.

  Not that she was all that pretty—oh, she was well enough; small, dark-haired, which was the fashion just now, and passable enough features—a straight little nose, a curiously squared-off chin and slender arching dark brows set over a pair of very speaking blue eyes. Yes, the eyes were her best feature...so very blue...

  But Lord! If he had to look at that vapid smile and listen to those simpering "yeths" over the breakfast table every morning, he would strangle the woman inside a month! Less. He would infinitely prefer that he never had to speak to her again.

  But he had promised her another interminable waltz, he recalled gloomily. And then supper. At least there might be crab patties at supper to compensate. He was very fond of crab patties.

  "Well, Hugo?" Amelia glided up to him, a beaded silk scarf trailing behind her in elegant disarray. "What do you think? Have you learned all about the diamond mine in New South Wales? I hope you didn't tell her you were Thomas's uncle!"

  He glowered at her from under dark eyebrows. Five minutes' conversation with the Singleton chit had caused him more frustration and annoyance than he had experi­enced in a long time. But he was not going to give in so easily. He was loath to admit he had discovered almost nothing about the wretched girl.

  Yet.

  Hugo Devenish was not a man who would let himself be defeated by a pretty widgeon. Defeated? He blinked in surprise, and caught himself up. An odd word to use.

  Amelia tugged his sleeve impatiently. "Hugo! What did you tell her? If she discovers your tradesman's blood..."

  He withdrew his arm and smoothed the crumpled fabric in irritation. "The girl is a dead bore."

  "But—"

  "In fact, much more of Miss Singleton's company would drive me to Bedlam. Thomas must be desperate indeed to

  consider wedding such a dreary little simpleton, rich or not."

  Amelia looked at him in surprise. "Simpleton? I do not think she is simple, Hugo."

  He shrugged. "Well, either she is simple-minded, or so shy that it cannot make any difference." He rolled his eyes. "And that lisp! Infuriating."

  "What lisp?" said Amelia, confused. "Are you certain you have the right girl, Hugo? Miss Singleton has no lisp. And I've never thought her shy."

  Hugo frowned down at his cousin. "No lisp? Are you deaf? All I got out of the wretched girl was a dozen 'yeths'—addressed to my waistcoat."

  Amelia's eyes narrowed. "Did she indeed? How very intriguing." A faint worldly smile curved her discreetly painted lips. "Hugo, you've flustered the poor little crea­ture. How very, very interesting. She has never once lisped in my hearing, and Thomas has certainly never mentioned it—and I do believe he would have." She frowned sud­denly. "So...Miss Singleton is not immune to the charms of an older man, then—''

  "Older man!" snapped Hugo. "I am barely two and thirty, Amelia, as you very well know! And you, sister-in-law, have the advantage of me by more than ten years."

  "Nonsense, it is barely seven!" retorted Amelia in­stantly. "I am not yet turned fort—no, I cannot even say it. It was most ungallant of you to raise such an unpleasant subject." She waved away his objections. "The point is, Hugo, that I know how overwhelming a man of your age and experience can seem to a chit just out of the school­room."

  Hugo opened his mouth to argue, but Amelia continued, "She must have a tendre for you, else why would she lisp and behave shyly? Take it from me, she is not shy with anyone else. Quiet, pretty-behaved, yes. But I've found her

  perfectly ready to converse and not a hint of shyness. No, if she is developing a tendre for you, it is yet another reason why you must certainly stay away from her."

  "Oh, do not be ridiculous! How the devil can I investi­gate her background if I cannot go near her? You and Thomas would soon find yourselves in the suds if her for­tune was not as large as it is reputed to be."

  "We will find ourselves in the suds if the girl decides she prefers you to Thomas, too!" responded Amelia crossly. "Stop it Hugo! There is no need to roll your eyes at me in that disagreeable manner. I am merely stating a fact."

  "Rubbish! Believe me, there is no danger of me suc­cumbing to her simple-minded charms."

  "The girl is no more simple-minded than you or I!" Amelia stamped her foot. "She is young, yes, and innocent, but she is not the least bit stupid or shy."

  "But—"

  "And she does not stutter—"

  "Lisp."

  "Lisp, then." Amelia hurried on, her eyes narrowed with ambition. "But she's clearly smitten by your masculine charms, Hugo, and thus all our problems are compounded. I knew you would ruin everything! You must leave this girl, and take yourself back to your rural wastes and your horrid ships. Thomas and I will see to securing this fortune ourselves. I'll not stand by to see you dazzle the girl with your elegance, your worldly address and your—"

  "Steal my nephew's bride from under bis nose?" inter­rupted Hugo with asperity. "Apart from being ridiculous, I have no intention—"

  "She is not his bride yet; they are not even betrothed. And—"

  "Oh, well, if she's not even betrothed," he said provoc­atively. "Oh, don't look like that! I have no interest in the girl, or her purported riches. I merely wish to investigate her background—as Thomas's trustee! And that is all! Put those ridiculous suspicions from your mind! I have no need of a fortune, let alone a diamond mine of unproven prov­enance. And there is not the slightest danger of my suc­cumbing to the charms of the younger Miss Singleton. Far from it! I am more like to strangle the girl!"

  Kit frowned as she adjusted a curl in the mirror of one of the withdrawing rooms set aside for ladies. It was a puzzle as to why Mr Devenish was so interested in her. All those questions about her father. And New South Wales.

  Perhaps Lady Norwood and Mr Devenish thought Kit a fortune hunter, out to snabble a lord for a husband.

  She would have to allay their suspicions. It would be disastrous to her plans if Mr Devenish investigated her background too deeply and discovered that Miss Catherine Singleton was in fact Miss Kit Smith, actually christened Kathleen, and not a member of an aristocratic family at all. And that her father had been thrown out of New South Wales and a number of other places for cheating at cards. And worse.

  If that came out, there would be a frightful scandal, and poor Rose Singleton would
be the one to suffer for it. Kit would not permit such a thing to happen, not if she could prevent it. Whatever she had done in the past, Rose was an innocent, a kind and generous-hearted innocent, and Kit would not allow such a sweet-natured woman to suffer on her behalf.

  She would have to speak to Thomas as soon as possible and make it clear she had no interest in him. And if he did not listen this time she would be more firm; once Thomas was out of the picture, Mr Devenish would have no reason to enquire into her background.

  Foiling Mr Devenish's brusque, penetrating enquiries was much like fencing with rapiers—exhilarating but dan­gerous. To see much more of him would be dangerous not only to her plans, but to her peace of mind, she suspected.

  So she would allow herself one more encounter with the big dark watchdog and then—

  "Oh, I'm sorry!"

  Kit's thought were interrupted as a young girl came blun­dering into the withdrawing room and crashed into her.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  The girl, who was very young and very pretty, stared a moment at Kit, then burst into tears, clearly overwrought.

  Kit seated the young girl on a padded velvet bench and set herself to calming her. She had noticed her at a number of social events; like Kit, the girl was only just out.

  "Miss...Miss Lutens, is it not?"

  The girl nodded tearfully. "And you are Miss Singleton. I met you last week at Mrs Russell's recital. How do you do?" she sobbed, politely holding out her hand.

  Kit smiled at such well-drilled manners. She patted the girl's hand and took out a handkerchief. "Tell me what is distressing you?'' she said after Miss Lutens had calmed a tittle.

  "Oh, I cannot," she wept. "It is too mortifying, too foolish of me. I am just..." She wiped her eyes with Kit's handkerchief.

  "Come now, splash some cold water on your face and you will feel better. Would you like me to fetch your mama?"

  "Oh, no!" gasped Miss Lutens in distress. "Mama would be so cross."