An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

  Definitely this chit was no naive schoolgirl!

  Innocent, but not naive. The unselfconscious way she had taken the hand she'd marked had convinced him that she was inexperienced in the ways of the flesh. Guilt, rather than flirtation, had been behind that action. She had touched him more like a repentant child than a woman bent on seduction. So an innocent, but a worldly one, for all that.

  "But I do enjoy the company of women," he assured her grimly.

  She nodded artlessly. "Oh yes, many of the—er, many unmarried men do so, I know."

  The minx was deliberately teasing him! She could not truly believe he was a man-milliner, surely! But he couldn't help but retort sharply, "I'll have you know I have enjoyed a number of liaisons with women. Intimate liaisons."

  She turned her head away, suddenly the shy schoolgirl. "I do not believe you should be speaking of such matters to me."

  He was aware of the truth of that. Good God! What on earth was he about, discussing his mistresses with a gently reared young virgin! And a relative stranger, to boot! Quite disgraceful of him. He felt his face reddening.

  "Er..." he began awkwardly.

  "Oh, it is quite all right—Papa was a little too free with his tongue, too," she surprised him by saying. "I expect you will continue to be so, as well. It is difficult, I know, for gentlemen to change their habits after a certain age."

  "After a certain age—" he began wrathfully, but before he could bring her to a proper understanding of his youthful vigour, she had tugged her hand free and was waving to some other young thing.

  "Oh, there is my friend Miss Lutens and I must speak to her most particularly about something. I beg you will j excuse me, Mr Devenish, but I truly must go. It was very pleasant speaking to you, and..." she paused in her rush, and her voice lowered "... I am truly very sorry about what, er, what happened to your hand. Goodbye." And she curt­sied and hurried off to join a gaggle of young women in white.

  He watched her move gracefully across the room, baf­fled, annoyed and fascinated, despite himself. He still knew almost nothing about her. Oh, he was coming to know her in small ways...

  She had three or four tiny freckles just below the hollow in her throat. And that she tried to hide them.

  She sat a horse like the huntress Diana and faced unex­pected danger bravely and boldly.

  She could apologise with a liquid softness in her eyes that caused him to see another Miss Singleton hiding be­hind the mischievous girl with the quick and clever tongue whose not-quite-soft little hands held him even as she tied him in knots with her nonsense.

  But who the deuce she was, where she had come from, where she had spent her childhood, and where the devil that diamond mine was? About those questions he was no more informed than when he had first clapped eyes on the chit!

  Less! The more he knew of Miss Singleton, the less he understood about her.

  Mr Devenish did not care to play the ignoramus any longer.

  He strode to the card room and scanned its occupants quickly. Aha! Sir George Bancroft! Old Bancroft had been an intimate of his father. He was reputed to be "a very downy fellow, old Bancroft''. If anyone recalled anything about Miss Singleton's father, it would be Bancroft.

  "Oh, Miss Singleton, I am so very glad you are here tonight. Sir Bartlemy is being very...attentive!"

  Kit frowned. "And did you try to hint him away as I suggested?" She glanced at her young friend's distressed face. "Yes, I can see you have. Impervious, is he? Horrid old Octopus! Did you bring your hatpin?"

  Miss Lutens giggled. "Yes, but I am much too embar­rassed to use it."

  Kit nodded. "Yes, I can see that it is a little more stuffy here than I had realised. Still, merely because we are keep­ing the hatpin in reserve, does not mean we cannot act in some less drastic fashion."

  Miss Lutens sighed. "I feel so much braver when you are here."

  Kit glanced around. "I would very much like to teach Sir Octopus a lesson, and at the same time demonstrate my technique to you, but I cannot do it here. Aunt Rose has dinned into me a thousand times that I must behave per­fectly. Almack's seems to be her holy of holies, and I cannot think she would like it if I sent Sir Bartlemy to the rightabout on my very first appearance here."

  Miss Lutens looked horrified. "Oh, no," she agreed hast­ily. "It is of the utmost importance that we appear in our best light at Almack's. We could not do anything unto­ward—it would ruin our chances."

  Kit repressed a smile. Rose Singleton was not the only one who'd been dinning advice into young heads.

  “Yes, so we will remain together tonight and defeat Sir Bartlemy temporarily by our bosom-bowish refusal to be parted. Is your dance card filled?'' She peered at it. “Yes, well done. I have two here which I had promised to Lord

  Norwood and if we just scratch out this—'' she scratched out Sir Bartlemy's name from Miss Lutens's card and in­serted Lord Norwood's, then wrote Sir Bartlemy's name on her own "—now we can all be comfortable. There! Now the Octopus has no excuse to be bothering you tonight." She handed back the dance card to Miss Lutens.

  Miss Lutens regarded the dance card with wide, shocked eyes. "But, are you allowed to change the cards like that? I thought—"

  "A lady has the privilege of changing her mind, does she not?"

  "I suppose so, but will not Lord Norwood mind?"

  Kit laughed. “Now, how could Lord Norwood possibly object to dancing with a sweet, graceful creature like your­self?"

  Miss Lutens blushed. “Oh, no, please do not say so. But I thought you had an understan—''

  “No, no. That is just a silly rumour. And besides, Lord Norwood does not have enough adventure in his life—he will very much enjoy playing the gallant knight, rescuing a damsel from a monstrous octopus. And, speak of the devil, here is Lord Norwood come in good time for the next dance. Sir Bartlemy will not be far behind, if I'm not mistaken. Lord Norwood—" She beckoned him to hasten to her side.

  Lord Norwood, flamboyantly dressed in a tight bottle-green coat, pale yellow pantaloons and highly starched shirt points of extravagant height, lengthened his stride slightly. He reached her and bowed meticulously over her hand. "Miss Singleton."

  "Lord Norwood, there is no time to explain, for I can see him coming now, but Miss Lutens and I have ex­changed your name on our dance cards."

  "Exchanged my name—" Lord Norwood looked out­raged.

  "Oh, please do not take offence. It is quite urgent that j you play knight to her damsel. Miss Lutens has been very much distressed by Sir Bartlemy's style of gallantry," she said meaningfully, fixing Lord Norwood with a clear de-termined look.

  For the first time Lord Norwood turned to look at Miss Lutens. Her wide hazel eyes regarded him anxiously, show­ing both her innocence and her distress. She bit her soft pink lips worriedly. Lord Norwood blinked, and stared.

  Kit hurried on, "I am better able to deal with such things than Libby here, so if you will just escort her on to the dance floor—" She gave him a little push. "Go on my lord. Sir Bartlemy is coming!"

  Miss Lutens gave a little jump, cast a hunted look over ! her shoulder and shivered, which galvanised Lord Norwood into masterful action. He ushered Miss Lutens on to the dance floor with a protective air, bending over her in a solicitous manner, saying something in a low voice. Miss Lutens smiled up at him, tremulously.

  Kit watched them go, a speculative light in her eye. She smiled, then turned to greet Sir Bartlemy.

  "Oh, Sir Bartlemy, you are looking for Miss Lutens, I I know, but I'm afraid we have been very naughty, Miss Lutens and I," she began. "I did so much wish to dance with you and so I persuaded Miss Lutens to switch partners with me. Are you very angry?" She smiled winsomely.

  Sir Bartlemy looked a trifle put out for a second, then his gaze ran over her in an overly familiar manner that set her teeth on edge. He bowed and smiled in a self-satisfied manner.

  "Not at all. Miss...Singleton, isn't it? I do recall your dear aunt introducing us." He smiled aga
in. "I would be only too delighted to partner you in this dance." He took her arm in a hot moist grip, pulling her close to his plump, scented, none-too-clean person. His eyes delved into the neckline of her dress.

  Kit tried not to grit her teeth. She allowed herself to be escorted onto the dance floor, thanking goodness Miss Lu-tens was not yet approved for the waltz. A country dance would be bad enough with Sir Bartlemy for a partner. No wonder Miss Lutens found it so difficult to deal with him.

  "You're a naughty little puss, aren't you, to trick Sir Bartlemy like that, but I forgive you." He leered and ran his hand up her arm, just brushing against the side of her breast.

  She calmly slapped it away. "Keep your roving hands to yourself, Sir Bartlemy."

  He chuckled and moved a little closer. “Sorry, my dear, forgive an old man's short-sightedness." His hand returned.

  Kit slapped it away, hard, and much less discreetly.

  He chuckled again. "Prudish little vixen, aren't you? But as sweet as honey. I like a spirited filly." His hand squeezed her arm suggestively.

  Instantly all Kit's good intentions of behaving perfectly at Almack's flew out of the window. No wonder Miss Lu­tens had had so much trouble. This man was in dire need of a lesson! She allowed herself to be led towards a set that was just forming and glanced around the room, wondering where Mr Devenish had gone to. He was nowhere to be seen. Good, she didn't want him to witness what she was going to do next.

  Mr Devenish wended his way between the crowded card tables and the rooms which were set aside for those who preferred cards to dancing. He was making slow progress across the room. Common politeness forced him to stop at almost every table, greeting this person or that, parrying avid questions and broad hints about the cause of his unexpected appearance at Almack's. His good humour was rapidly decreasing.

  "No, no, Lady Enmore, just here to speak to Sir George over there."

  The devil take it! Every old tabby in creation seemed to be here, eying him in that speculative, knowing way that old ladies had developed into an art form.

  “No, Mrs Bunnet, I have no intentions—yes, it probably has been ten years. A matter of business, you know. Yes, I have seen my cousin. I believe she is dancing."

  "How do you do, Mrs Peake? No, I haven't been here for a long time. No, no." Falsely hearty laughter. "The Marriage Mart? Good God, no! And how is Mr Peake? Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know. Please accept my condolences." He gritted his teeth into a sympathetic grimace and pressed onwards, feeling stifled by the heat and the clash of per­fumes and the stench of elderly curiosity.

  It was his own fault. He hadn't been seen in the hallowed rooms of Almack's since he was a young sprig who didn't know any better. It had been a good ten years or more. No wonder a buzz sprang up at every table after he passed. The whole world imagined he had come, at last, in search of a wife.

  Finally he reached Sir George Bancroft.

  "If it isn't young Devenish!" exclaimed the old man, as Hugo bowed. “Sit down, young feller, sit down. Will you have a glass of something?"

  "No, thank you, sir, I just—''

  "Quite right! You know what I've been reduced to?" The old man glared at him, his bushy white eyebrows twitching in indignation. "Orgeat! Orgeat—would you be­lieve it!" He glared at the glass at his elbow. "Frightful swill! But that's Almack's for you. Nothing decent to quench a fellow's thirst and only chicken stakes at the tables, but there! It makes the ladies happy if I escort them on the odd occasion... But orgeatl" He shook his head.

  Mr Devenish turned and saw Lady Bancroft and her un­married daughter bowing and smiling across the room at him. He bowed in return, but ventured no closer. The Ban­crofts' daughter was a devout woman of grim aspect and saintly utterances, and though he'd known her all his life, he was damned if he was going to speak to her under the eyes of the tabbies and have them all in a frenzy of spec­ulation over it. He was not going to talk to any unmarried woman unless he could not possibly avoid it.

  He drew Sir George aside where they could talk with relative privacy.

  "Sir, what can you tell me about Miss Catherine Single­ton's father?"

  "Singleton? What's that? I don't know any Catherine Singleton. You mean Rose Singleton. Fine girl, Rose. You thinking of making her an offer? Bit long in the tooth for you, I'd have thought, but a devilish fine girl, all the same. Pity she never married."

  Mr Devenish gritted his teeth. Was marriage-mindedness a disease everyone at Almack's had? "No sir. I am speak­ing of Rose's niece, Miss Catherine Singleton."

  The old man stared at him from under beetling brows. "Niece? Never knew Rose had a niece! Never heard aught about a niece before today." He frowned, looking rather puzzled. "How can Rose have a niece? Her only brother died years ago."

  Now it was Mr Devenish's turn to look puzzled. "Died years ago, you say? How many?"

  The old man shrugged. “Must be more than a score of years now, but I can't be sure. Forced to leave England, don'tcha know. All hushed up, o' course, but that was the nub of it. Died soon after, in Italy or some such place."

  "Are you sure, sir?"

  Sir George Bancroft shrugged. "Well, that's what we heard. Some feller from the Embassy wrote to Singleton's father, had him buried out there. Of course, all this was before that scoundrel Napoleon got his hands on the place. I suppose he could have had a daughter out there...but..." He shook his head doubtfully. "It was a long time ago but I remember it well—Singletons are related to me, don'tcha know. I'd have heard if there had been a daughter—on the right side of the blanket, that is. Family wouldn't have bothered with a by-blow—sent a bit of money perhaps, but that's all. No, Rose hasn't got any niece I've heard of."

  Hugo didn't know what to think. He was sure Miss Sin­gleton was older than she appeared, but doubted very much that she was close to twenty years old. And if this tale was true, she had to be at least twenty-one or so to be Single­ton's legitimate daughter.

  A half-Italian by-blow raised in obscurity? He could not imagine it. There was touch of quality about her that was impossible to fabricate. And she could not have been brought up in Italy: her English was too pure for that. Be­sides, he doubted very much if a lady like Rose Singleton would have the temerity to introduce her bastard niece to society. It just didn't make sense.

  "Rose's brother, sir, what was he like?"

  Sir George Bancroft stared down his nose for a long moment and sighed. “Charmin' likable sort of chap, Jimmy Singleton. Tragic, when he died, you know. Cut down in the prime o' life! Ah, well, that's life for you, eh, Devenish. Never what you expect, is it? Now, must get back to the game. Delightful chat." He stumped away back to his card game, leaving Mr Devenish frowning.

  If James Singleton died more than twenty years ago, then why had his daughter implied he'd died recently? And if he'd died in Italy, what was her connection with New South Wales?

  Chapter Five

  Kit was enjoying herself. The Sir Roger de Coverley was one of her favourite dances. She caught Miss Lutens watch­ing her, from the next set. Kit winked. "Watch this," she mouthed silently, and turned back to her partner.

  Sir Bartlemy Bowles oozed oily satisfaction at the thought of a pretty young girl being so taken with his manly charms that she would forsake her own handsome young partner. He smirked as he pranced forward and back, taking advantage of the movement of the dance to peer down the front of Kit's dress. It was by no means a fashionably low decolletage, but Sir Bartlemy's hot gaze made Kit wish to tug her neckline up to her chin.

  Kit smiled artlessly back at Sir Bartlemy. He had ad­dressed every word exclusively to her bosom. The trait was not an endearing one. He had leered, ogled, squeezed, stroked and whispered nasty, suggestive comments in her ear under the guise of sophistication. His breath was bad, his clothes reeked of body odour and perfume and he danced with mincing perfection.

  Kit, demurely correct, skipped lightly forward and took his sweaty hand for the chassez movement.

  "Ouch!" Sir Bartlemy
winced as her foot accidentally collided with his shin.

  "Oops, sorry, Sir Bartlemy," Kit murmured and skipped back.

  Sir Bartlemy pranced back into place, a little less lightly, then frisked forward to take her hand again for the chain, keeping a wary eye on her feet.

  "Oof!" Kit's closed fist encountered his cheekbone. Hard.

  "Oh, dear. Sorry, Sir Bartlemy, I wasn't watching," Kit murmured. "This is such a complicated dance, is it not?" She twirled daintily around and skipped back.

  Miss Lutens was watching, her eyes wide with mingled horror and delight. Kit grinned and swung into the next movement.

  "Bloody H—ouch!" Sir Bartlemy cursed as one dimin­utive slippered foot stamped surprisingly heavily on his in­step.

  "Oh, dear, how clumsy of me," cooed Kit prettily. "Poor Sir Bartlemy, being partnered with such a Clumsy Clara."

  Sir Bartlemy gritted his teeth in a smile, muttered some­thing gallant and hopped back into place, favouring his left foot.

  It was their turn to twirl down the line. "Oof!" gasped Sir Bartlemy. Her foot had accidentally smashed against his ankle bone.

  "Ouch!" She'd missed her step and crashed heavily onto his other instep.

  "What a difficult dance it is. Oh, Sir Bartlemy, you poor thing! I'm not terribly good at this, am I?" called Kit apol­ogetically, as she floated lightly and gracefully into the next movement.

  "Yeouw!" A hard little heel had accidentally ground down on to masculine toes.

  "Ouch—damn—er!" An ankle bone received a second sharp blow.

  "Oh, dear! Poor Sir Bartlemy!" she wailed each time in pretty concern, and danced enthusiastically on. The Sir Roger de Coverley was, after all, one of Kit's favourite dances.

  At last the dance finished. Kit felt exhilarated, quite ready for her next turn on the floor. She glanced at her dance card as Sir Bartlemy escorted her off the floor. Oh, yes. The supper dance, a waltz with the Watchdog. She looked around, only to find him watching her, a slight frown on his face.