An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

Maggie regarded her critically, then sniffed. "Not bad. Matches your eyes. What else have we got?''

  Kit rummaged around some more and drew out several gorgeously coloured, exotic small hats—caps they were, really, and not designed for women. She placed one at a rakish angle over her dusky curls. "A new fashion, per­haps?"

  Maggie adjusted the angle of the cap, frowned and nod­ded. "It'll do. And what about the young prince's jacket?"

  "Oh, yes!" said Kit excitedly. She went to a large chest of drawers and took from it a heavy dark red silk jacket, which she slipped on over her white muslin gown. The jacket was cut short, just to her waist, with long tight sleeves and a high collar of unusual cut. The thick silk gleamed with subtle richness. It was densely embroidered in a stunning black and gold design on the collar, cuffs, down the front and around the base.

  She gazed at herself in the looking glass. The white of the muslin gown did not look so insipid now; in fact, it provided the perfect background for the heavy gorgeous red of the jacket. She fetched one of the caps, a black one with a small tassel of gold, from her trunk, put it on and frowned critically at the effect. “If we got some slippers to match, and perhaps embroidered a reticule with the same design... What do you think Maggie?"

  Maggie pursed her lips for a moment, then nodded. "Might be the sort of thing a diamond heiress would wear—if she had unusual tastes, that is."

  "Unusual tastes! Yes! That's it! I am not your everyday, run-of-the-mill diamond heiress. I have unusual tastes!" agreed Kit enthusiastically. "And then we can use some of the things we have collected on our travels, and if I look odd—which of course I shall—it will only be a sign of eccentricity. What is odd in ordinary people is mere eccen­tricity in an heiress, I am certain. Oh, what a relief! For a while there I thought we would never be able to pull this mad thing off. But now, if I am to be eccentric and un­usual—well, that is so much easier. So, what else can we use?" She burrowed back into the trunk, while Maggie began to tidy things back into the wardrobe.

  “What about the peacock shawl?'' Kit drew out a large, very fine black Kashmiri shawl, upon which was embroi­dered two peacocks facing away from each other. Their embroidered feathers gleamed with iridescence in a thou­sand gleaming shades, almost as magnificent as the original birds. It was edged with a silken fringe, so long that it almost touched the ground. The insipid white gown could hardly be seen.

  "And this!" She pulled out a length of shimmering gold material, so fine and delicate that her skin glowed though the fine transparent weave.

  "And the Maharani's headdress!" She placed an intri­cately wrought silver headdress over her hair. It settled close, hugging the shape of her head, a row of dainty glit­tering silver pendants adorning her brow.

  Kit settled on her heels beside the trunk, a billowing tangle of exotic finery tumbled around her. "Oh, Maggie darling, what a good thing we brought all these bits and pieces with us. I thought only to keep them for a rainy day—to sell them to raise some cash, but they will be a godsend to us, now that I am a diamond heiress. A diamond heiress! Whatever was Papa thinking of?" She shook her head in rueful disbelief. "But if we use these as a basis, and have one or two more spencers and pelisses and per­haps a riding habit cut to a similar unusual design... I might, I just might actually look the part!"

  "And how do ye think we are going to pay for these extra pelisses and habits and whatnot?" said Maggie grimly. "A fine heiress you will look if the dressmaker comes a-dunning us and ye can't pay."

  "Oh, Maggie, my deah," said Kit, affecting a drawl very reminiscent of some of the society ladies she had met, "'tis terribly provincial of you even to consider it. One does not—positively not, my deah—bother ones head with tradesmen's bills. Your mantua maker should be grateful— positively grateful, my deah—that you consent to wear her offerings in such distinguished society."

  Maggie glared. "Don't tell me ye're planning to diddle some hardworkin' woman out of her hard-earned—"

  Kit giggled. "I knew you would be horrified, but indeed, that is how some of them speak. And of course we will pay the dressmaker. I remember, as well as you, how hard it is to earn a living as a seamstress. My thumb is still practi­cally scarred from the number of times I pricked it with a needle."

  "And what do ye think we will pay her with, Miss Op­timism?”

  Kit grinned cheekily. "Oh, we will be able to pay, Mag­gie dearest—do not fret yourself. By the time the dress­maker's bills come in, we will have plenty of money to pay her with."

  Maggie eyed her narrowly. "Miss Kit! I thought ye'd given up playing those tricks!"

  Eat instantly thought of a tiny gold phoenix with a glint­ing ruby eye. She squashed the guilty thought. "Oh ye of little faith," she said airily. "There will be no tricks in­volved—I promise you. But Aunt Rose goes to so many card parties and one thing I did learn from Papa was how to win at cards—and, no, I will not use his methods. I have no need of them. I have always been lucky at cards, you know that, Maggie."

  "Aye," agreed Maggie gloomily. "And ye know what they say about that, don't ye? Lucky at cards, unlucky at love."

  There was a small stir in Almack's when Kit and Miss Singleton arrived the next evening. Miss Rose Singleton was clad in one of her usual gowns, trailing a number of gauze scarves. However, Miss Catherine Singleton, who had only ever been seen dressed in white or the palest of pastels, was again wearing a white dress, but there her usual pattern ended.

  Tonight she positively caught the eye in a very exotic jacket of dark red silk with the most intricate embroidery in black and gold. An unusual tasselled cap was perched jauntily on her short dark curls. She wore embroidered slip­pers which curled to a point and carried a reticule to match.

  It was a most picturesque, not to say outlandish outfit.

  The ladies buzzed with speculation.

  Miss Catherine Singleton appeared oblivious of the mi­nor sensation she was causing on this, her first appearance at the hallowed Marriage Mart. She curtsied demurely to each person her aunt introduced her to and said very little, apart from the common politenesses. She prettily agreed to dance with whoever asked her. Apart from her bizarre costume, she behaved like any other young girl making her come-out.

  The discussion of the diamond heiress's eccentric attire, as Kit had predicted, lasted a short while, then moved on to more fruitful topics...

  "Did you hear about poor Lady Alcorne, Hettie?"

  Kit was seated in the main room at Almack's, watching the dancing and eavesdropping a little dreamily on a con­versation between three elderly ladies seated nearby. They had shredded the reputations of three of her acquaintances so far. Kit was finding their conversation quite entertaining.

  "Oh, yes, the Alcorne diamonds! No wonder she is not here tonight. Poor creature—her husband is reputed to be furious."

  Kit pricked up her ears.

  "Kit dear, why are you not dancing?" Rose came up from behind her, looking vaguely concerned. "You don't want to be a wallflower, now do you?"

  In fact, that was exactly what Kit wanted to be at the moment. What did it matter if she missed one dance? She glanced at Rose to tell her so, and stopped. Sweet concern for Kit's welfare was all Kit could see and her heart melted. She was so little accustomed to someone worrying about her happiness that she had no defence against it.

  Had Rose been a wallflower in her youth? Was that the reason she had never married? Had she ever had an offer? It was a pity, for Rose would have made the sweetest of wives and a truly loving mother.

  Kit grimaced faintly. "My new slippers pinch a little. Don't worry, Aunt, I will join the next set, after my poor toes have had a short rest."

  "Oh, dear, your poor feet." Rose peered at the odd slip­pers and nodded understandingly. “By all means rest for a moment or two, but it will not do if people see you sitting too long when all the other girls are dancing." She nodded encouragingly at Kit and floated off, trailing gauzy drap­eries behind her.

  Kit resumed her eavesdr
opping

  “In the family for generations, and you know what men are like. They'll blame whoever is convenient. And I heard she had neglected to lock the diamonds away."

  Generations? Kit wrinkled her brows.

  "But, Maud, I was certain someone said it was a high­wayman. The blackguard bailed her up on the way home from the Parsonses' ball."

  "No, no, Pearl, dear. That wasn't it at all—a robber broke in to the house in the dead of night. I had it from my dresser, who is first cousin to Lady Alcorne's house­keeper. Lifted the whole set from the dressing table in the very room where Lady Alcorne was sleeping."

  "Good God! She could have been murdered in her bed!" said Hettie, who was really Lady Hester Horton, Kit learned.

  "Oh, indeed! Quite, quite shocking! The state of the world today! A person is not safe in her bed."

  "No, indeed? And do you know what else?"

  From the corner of her eyes Kit saw the ladies lean closer.

  "They say he might have been a Chinaman!"

  "No! Good Heavens!"

  "A Chinaman, Maud! But how do they know? Did someone see him?"

  “No, but they found a torn scrap of paper near the win­dow the rascal climbed through—and it had Chinese writ­ing on it!"

  "Chinese! But was it not a Chinaman who stole the Pen­nington Black Pearls?''

  "Yes, that's right, Hettie. The Devenish boy saw him."

  Kit smiled to herself. The Devenish boy, indeed!

  "This paper, Maud. What did it say?"

  "Well, they called in some chappie from—"

  "All alone, Miss Singleton? Not dancing for some rea­son?"

  Kit started and glanced up. “Oh, Mr Devenish, how do you do?'' she murmured, keeping her face blank of all ex­pression. Drat! Apart from wishing to continue her eaves­dropping, he was quite the last person she wished to en­counter just now.

  She hadn't expected to see him tonight. From all ac­counts Almack's was by no means his cup of tea. And yet, here he was, looming over her when she least expected it. And when she had no other choice but to invite him to be seated on the vacant chair next to hers. Common politeness dictated it. Drat the man. She had no wish to be subjected to more of his questions, and after their encounter in the park, she was sure he would have more.

  If he'd recognised her, that is.

  She looked him over, feeling almost exasperated. How did he do it? He was the most plainly dressed man in the place, as if he could not be bothered with fashionable non­sense. He wore no rings, no fobs, no seals, no quizzing glass—not even a tie-pin, a small part of her noted guiltily.

  His coat was dark and plain, though subtly well cut across those wonderful shoulders. He was dressed, most correctly for Almack's, in knee breeches and his cravat was simple, though elegantly arranged. Every other man in the room had gone to more trouble to dress for the occasion than he.

  He should have looked like a plain black crow. And yet he looked magnificent.

  His hair was newly barbered: cut short and brushed sternly back with water. It seemed he disdained pomade. Kit was glad; she disliked the smell of pomade. And clearly he preferred neatness, rather than style. She wondered whether he realised that enough small rebellious locks had survived the barber and the brushing to spring up, giving a faint impression of the Windswept Style.

  A tiny smile quivered inside her. So that was why he had his hair cut so brutally short. It would not do for the world to know the stern Mr Devenish could grow a headful of curls any damsel would envy.

  "Another danth? Yeth, yeth, of courth. Are you enjoy­ing—?"

  "Odd, that," he interrupted brusquely. His cold grey eyes bore into her, a faint, disturbingly mocking light in them.

  She looked at him inquiringly.

  "My sister-in-law, Lady Norwood, is of the opinion that you lisp only when you are nervous. Are you nervous?"

  Kit did not know what to say. She gave what she hoped sounded like a nervous, schoolgirlish titter as a way of avoiding a reply. It sounded to her ears more like the whinny of a sick horse. "Oh, look," she said, "there's my friend Mifh Lutenth. I mutht—"

  "You didn't lisp at all in the park this morning."

  Kit froze. "Park?" she said vaguely, twirling a dusky curl in the most inane way she could think of.

  "After you'd been attacked by those footpads, I would have thought that if nerves had been in question, you'd have been lisping your head off then."

  "Footpadth? Good Heaventh! But I really don't know what—"

  "Doing it much too brown, Miss Singleton. I am not venturing a bow at random, you know. I saw your face when you hit me." Hugo smiled sardonically and raised his wrist. "And I bear your brand."

  To Kit's horror a faint, livid mark was still visible. "Oh, no, I am so terribly sorry, I didn't—"

  She caught herself up just in time. She could not admit to being out at dawn, unchaperoned. "I mean, you are mistaken about whoever you saw. It was not I.I slept until ten o'clock this morning, after the late night I'd had." She bit her lip and looked up at him remorsefully. "I don't know who did this to you, but I am very sorry you were hurt."

  He snorted. "It would take more than a cut from a vixen to hurt me."

  She flushed and, without thinking, reached out and took his wrist, cupping it between two soft hands. She peered at the thin red mark. "It looks rather red and angry. Did you put any salve on it?'' Her finger lightly traced a line just below the actual mark.

  A silent shiver went through Mr Devenish at her touch. He stared down at her, watching the soft, slender finger stroke gently back and forth across his skin. It was mes­merising.

  He glanced at her face, his brows drawn darkly together in unwilling suspicion. Her head was bent, the tassel of her cap falling forward. Her pale nape was curved and delicate, her dark curls wisping gently around it. Was this another one of her tricks? He wanted to pull his hand back away from her soft touch. He was unable to move, transfixed by her touch. He could feel his heart beating within his chest, pounding the blood though his body.

  He inhaled deeply to clear his head and found himself inhaling the scent of her, the faint citrusy tang of something in her hair, the warm aroma of—he inhaled again—was it vanilla and rosewater coming from her body? Whatever it was, her scent was ravishing. He loathed the way so many females drenched their bodies with strong-smelling per­fume. Not Miss Catherine Singleton. A faint hint of roses, and yes—he leaned forward imperceptibly and breathed deeply again—he was sure it was vanilla. Roses and va­nilla.

  She had removed her outlandish red jacket and he found his eyes drawn to the scooped neck of her gown, to the fine creamy skin. His gaze sharpened and he felt a tiny spurt of triumph as he noted several tiny faint freckles, which she had dusted with rice powder to disguise. She might try to hide them from the world, but she would not hide them from him.

  Mr Devenish felt a sharp of jolt of surprise as he caught himself on that possessive note. Good lord! What was he thinking of? She was a mystery to be investigated, that was all, and on his young nephew's behalf. He was here on business, no more. It was what he was good at.

  If he wished to be rid of the constant drain of his nephew and sister-in-law on his time and purse, he'd best make certain that any heiress Norwood snapped up would be rich enough to bolster the family fortunes sufficiently. It was not merely his nephew's interests he was pursuing here, it was his own. Once Thomas was safely buckled to a fortune, his uncle would be free.

  And this was the heiress Thomas had chosen; this crea­ture of rose and vanilla, who parried his questions with artless simplicity and went out to ride at dawn.

  An heiress with a lisp that came and went. A diamond heiress who never wore diamonds. A sheltered young in­nocent, chaperoned at all times—except when she was fighting off footpads alone at dawn. A girl who claimed to have beaten off robbers in Jaipur when she was fourteen. Who may well have stolen his tie-pin under the eyes of hundreds of London's finest. She looked barely seventeen now. B
ut he'd wager Sultan she was a good deal older than she looked.

  "How old are you?" he snapped.

  She blinked and looked up at him in surprise. And be­neath his sharp gaze her eyes turned from the clear depths of blue innocence, to glowing sapphires, glittering with mischief.

  Mr Devenish frowned. He had never been drawn to sapphires. Untrustworthy stones. But he was drawn to her eyes, even when they weren't innocent and clear, but sparkling opaquely as they were now.

  “I thought that was a question a gentleman never asked a lady," she murmured, releasing his hand.

  He caught hers in his, refusing to break the contact. “Yes, but I am not a gentleman. Ask anyone. How old are you?"

  Her eyes twinkled as she pretended to think for a mo­ment. "I'm as old as my eyes, and a little bit older than my teeth. And you, sir?''

  "I'm thirty-two," he said bluntly. And old enough to know he shouldn't be holding hands with a chit only just out in a place where anyone might walk by and see them. But he didn't let go of her hands. His thumbs moved back and forth across her skin.

  Her hands were not as soft as those of most ladies of his acquaintance. There were faint callouses, and not just from riding. If he didn't know better, he would have suspected she'd had to do menial work at some time. Interesting that. He would have to find out why. Another mystery to un­ravel.

  "Thirty-two," she said admiringly, quite as if he'd de­clared himself ninety-two. "That's quite old, isn't it? I sup­pose your children are almost grown by now." Her eyes danced, and he recalled her offer of a rusk the night before.

  "I don't have any children," he said brusquely.

  "I'm sorry," she said with quick remorse. "It was a thoughtless comment."

  Confound the wench! She was a minx and a baggage and a mystery! One minute the lisping innocent, the next a cool-voiced little Amazon wielding a whip in her own de­fence. And now, this soft-eyed, soft-voiced woman, with the not-quite-soft-enough hands.

  "I don't have any children because I have never been married."

  "Oh." She appeared to consider the matter. "So you have sworn off marriage." She nodded understandingly. "Many men do not care for marriage, I know." She smiled at him and he caught a glimmer of mischief again. “They prefer their, er, male friendships."