The Black Cat

by Hayley Ann Solomon

  His tone became slightly more imperious, slightly more in keeping with the vision of him that she had cherished for a year and a day and longer still.

  “You may return to your work, miss. When you are outfitted in more. . . habitable garb, you may attend me in the library.”

  He ignored the faint gasp of outrage and the flashing eyes. It appeared that Dwight had been hoisted by her own petard. If she wished to act the maid, then she’d be treated as one. With a faint nod, his lordship turned his back on her and continued a desultory—if slightly disjointed—conversation with Mistress Farrow.

  Having assured himself that the accounts were in order and that the head gardener had been ordered to plant thyme as well as other assorted herbs, he ambled slowly away from the servants’ quarters and up several flights. He emerged, at last, at the marble floors and mahogany balustrades that were a more fitting setting for his rank and fortune. He hardly noticed.

  He took a stroll through the gallery, through his prodigious art collections, outside through his rose and topiary gardens, to his aviaries, to his stables, and finally, at length, to his library. Anywhere, in fact, except where he fervently wished himself. Back in the warm, clean, heavenly kitchens.

  SEVEN

  It was perhaps a day later—maybe two—his lordship had quite lost track of the interminable hours of waiting—when there was a timid knock upon the door to his private apartments. Since it was not his valet—that individual had long since ceased observing such niceties—he rightly imagined it was Dwight.

  Venus leaped from her favourite statue and stood at attention, the hairs upon her sleek jet neck slightly erect as the priceless bracelet glimmered in the filtering afternoon sunlight.

  “Careful, Venus.” The words were low and warning. “You may sit upon my shoulder, but behave, I beseech you.” The cat leaped across two pieces of priceless furniture before settling herself comfortably. She made no sound, not even the faintest of mews, for the moment, had anyone but known it, was one she had been born to.

  “Enter!”

  The maid entered and she was more beautiful, more magnificent, than anything the earl had ever dreamed of. He had seen her wet, he had seen her wild, but never, in all of his life, had he seen her subdued. Subdued she was as she made the requisite curtsy, then looked full and deep into Guy’s mocking eyes. They were not mocking for long, for though her demeanour was calm, the aura emanating from her person was powerful enough to give his lordship pause.

  “The velvet suits you.”

  Melinda clasped at one of the deep green laces and bobbed yet again. “It should, me lor’. Cost ’alf a year’s wages, it did.”

  “That trumpery? Then you do not earn enough. I shall speak to Mistress Farrow directly.”

  Melinda shot him a puzzled glance. She had expected . . . she knew not what. Half of her had hoped for some rekindling of their former intimacy, but the other half would have scorned it, branding him a deplorable cad. This gentleness and generosity was out of keeping with anything that had happened between them previously.

  “Please, me lor’. Your wages are more than sufficient! Do you want me to stoke up that fire?”

  “Yes, Dwight. I do believe I want you to stoke my fires.” His words were alight with laughter and unashamed innuendo. Melinda felt herself reddening uncomfortably. The full enormity of what she had done was only just sinking in. Alone with this man in a private chamber, behind closed doors, masquerading as a maidservant—she was more than ruined. She was finished.

  Something inside her simply did not care. The day’s waiting for her gown had given her ample opportunity to reflect. By a trick of fate—or was it the inexorable, inescapable will of destiny?—her legal betrothed and the unnamed holder of her heart were one and the same man. Time would tell whether this strange twist was miracle or bane.

  Heavenly hope, hellish despair. The masquerade would continue until she knew—truly knew—the message of her heart. If the churlish note he wrote was in keeping with his prejudiced, toplofty character, she would return to Laura Rose and her heritage. After him, London society could and would not offer her anything but emptiness.

  If, on the other hand. . . But Miss Melinda would not allow herself to deal with ifs. She would observe, she would curtsy, she would kowtow, and she would behave. Only in this manner would she be afforded a fascinating glimpse into the soul of the man who so recklessly held her life, her desire, her very passions in the tips of his fashionably gloved hands.

  “Very good, me lor’, and beggin’ yer pardon, sir, I am not Dwight, but Dight. ”

  “A singularly unusual name. I shall endeavour to remember that, Dight! Rather mannish, I fear, but there, one does not always have the opportunity to select a name for oneself, I suppose.”

  Melinda looked at him suspiciously. Was he bamming her? Did he realise she’d chosen her serving girl name? How could he? Womanlike, she took him up on his previous point.

  “It is not mannish, me lor’! It is short for Aphrodite, which, I’ll ’ave you know, sir, is the—”

  “Goddess of beauty and love. Are you a siren, my dear? Do you lure me with your sinister charms only to hurtle me brutally against the rocks? How can you know that the classics are one of my abiding interests, that you select such a name—such an apt and perfect name—for yourself?”

  There was silence, as Aphrodite—Melinda—or whoever her soul cried out to be—stared at the earl. She wanted to drop all pretence and throw herself in his arms. But that would doom her, for she would never know whether he came willingly, or as a point of lingering honour. He had offered for her once in one persona; he had rejected her once in his other persona. The next time, there would be no turning back, no undoing, no changing destiny’s inexorable choice. She would—she must—wait until both were finally certain of the crossing or uncrossing of their mutual paths. Twisting and twining, unravelling or unwinding. There could be no middle path between them, for both, she knew, were creatures of deep and abiding passion.

  “Me lor’, I don’t know ’bout such roundaboutations, just that me name is Dight.” She added, softly, as a sad afterthought, that she’d had a pet once who’d shared the unusual name.

  “A cat?”

  She shot him a vivid glance. He knew then! Her heart danced and she felt the pulses leaping in her throat and along her thin, waiflike wrists. She trembled a little, but acquiesced only with a tiny nod as she fiddled with the tinder box close to the grate.

  The eyes of Venus were alert and followed her with silent yearning. Feeling this, she looked up, then put a hand to flushed cheeks.

  “Oh!”

  “Yes, unusual, is she not? Her name, peculiarly, is Venus. Since you are not tutored in such things, I shall have to explain to you that Venus was the Roman—”

  “Goddess of beauty and love.” She mouthed the words unthinkingly, for the shock of knowing that it was Camden who had purchased her kitten and Camden, too, who had so correctly, intuitively, named her made her forget her masquerade for just a moment.

  It was enough. The earl’s eyes lit in silent triumph, but his victory did not stop him from playing out the piece allotted to him. He could see the maid’s eyes, dizzy with shock, and he allowed a faint pity to wash over his features.

  “Allow me.” His hands closed over hers momentarily as he deftly lit a flame and allowed it to ignite. He was kneeling now, and she could not help thinking how handsome he looked in his skintight buckskin breeches, snowy coloured and complemented by a dark claret coat of impeccable tailoring. His arm brushed hers and she knew of a certainty that the taut muscles beneath the sleeves were not padded. Nor were his shoulders, for her eyes fell to them quite naturally as she stood up, allowing him to remain kneeling at her feet. It was an awkward, heart-hammering moment.

  Unthinkingly, she extended her hand to the cat, still perched upon his shoulder.

  “No!” He stood up and the cat sprang to the floor.

  Bewildered, Melinda stared at him, openm
outhed.

  “She scratches. Somehow I do not want you scratched.”

  “She’ll come to me.”

  “Venus comes to no one but myself. I am her master.” His voice rang with sudden, amused pride. Melinda lowered her lashes, for his words sent a strange tremor down her being—one she was not yet ready for him to notice. He could have been speaking of herself, for as surely as she was born with the gift of sight, she knew it to be true. He was her master, though she was a wild one and unwilling to be too easily tamed.

  “She’ll come to me.” The voice held a peremptory challenge unbefitting a maid of her station. The earl did not care, for he felt the power of her will. Their eyes locked, but he shook his head slightly.

  “She won’t, you know. But if you are lonely, my little maid, I shall see about a pet for you.”

  “I shall have Venus, my lord, or none at all.” Her lowly accents were entirely forgotten, for she could not endure the earl’s patronising tone.

  In a lilting, lyrical whisper, she addressed the most famed creature in all of London, possibly England, likely even the world. “Come here, my sweet, sweet Aphrodite. Come to me, my wondrous, wonderful, enchanted, enchanting creature.”

  Her voice developed a slight, soothing rhythm that caused the earl to look at her sharply. Who was this lady of the mists? There was something about her, something he was missing. . . .

  The cat regarded Lord Guy Santana a little too closely. Her emerald eyes blazed at the sharp, aquiline features, the tight jaw, the masculine chin, the familiar shoulder that had been her resting place for more than a year.

  Then she purred slightly, and took a flying leap into Melinda’s open arms. From there, she allowed her head to be caressed ever so slightly. She regarded the earl with complacency.

  “Good God!” He was shocked. “That beast has not left my sight in all of the time I have had her. What a fickle creature she must be, for I could have sworn she loved me.” His eyes were upon the maid when he uttered these words, and again, Melinda felt herself colouring quite unaccountably.

  “Come here, Aphrodite.”

  “Dight will do.”

  “Pshaw! Dight is for a groom, not for a siren, a gypsy goddess, an unbearable, impossible, willful slip of a thing on a horse! Why did you ride away like that?”

  “I do not know what you mean!”

  “No? Then perhaps I shall have to remind you. Shut the door, Aphrodite. It is my will.”

  “But—”

  “Do you wish to be turned off without a character? Do as I say.” His eyes were once again unfathomable, hard, and unbending as flint. Melinda took several judicious paces backward and closed the heavy oak door. There was a long silence between them, as the earl surveyed that which had haunted his dreams it seemed a lifetime at least. The black cat, blazing emeralds and shimmering diamonds, nestled serenely into the soft, velvet shoulder of the square-cut gown. Black on black. Green laces matched cat’s eyes, but other than the defiant sparkle in the maid’s own eyes, the shimmer of diamonds was missing.

  “The outfit is fitting for your position, Aphrodite. Call it a whim, call it a fancy, call it my will. You shall be a scullery maid no longer, for I elevate you to the position of . . . No, I shan’t say vixen. I should like to say kitten, but that is too tame. Forge the position yourself, my dear, but see that your livery is complete. Come here, for I have the final trim.”

  His tone brooked no argument, so Melinda nodded briskly and waited. She supposed he would have a new mobcap or some such thing, though Mistress Farrow had been extremely thoughtful and sewn up the velvet one that now graced her head. Again, the glory of her locks was hidden, but this fact did not concern her. Vanity had never had much place in Miss Melinda St. Jardine’s sentiments. She had always simply lived by the heart.

  “Close your eyes.”

  She hesitated, but the tone was so peremptory, she shut them quickly. Besides, she could feel him draw closer and her breathing had quickened far too greatly to put up much rational argument. Warm hands glanced across her neck, brushing aside slight strands of silken hair. He’d taken off his gloves then, for no material marred the extreme tactile sensation that coursed through her taut, expectant nerves.

  Something brushed against her shoulder, soft as a butterfly’s wings. My God! Could it be? But when she turned, his hands pushed her back and she realised she must have only imagined his lips upon naked flesh, the velvet sleeves momentarily pushed back. It seemed like an age before the silence was broken and she felt something icy pass across her throat.

  Her eyes flashed open to reveal, in the glass he’d conveniently provided for her, a choker of exquisite gems around her neck. The replica of Venus’s bracelet, only with some deep amethysts embedded in the sides, crisscrossing the emeralds and complementing fully the deep sparkle of diamonds.

  “Your eyes are violet. I had the amethysts set the day after our encounter in the park.”

  Melinda did not pretend to misunderstand him.

  “You are betrothed, my lord!”

  “I am not. I assure you, I dealt with the matter firmly and readily. It was a simple case of encroachment from some nobody relative of an aging nobleman. It had no significance, I assure you, for I have not even met the wench!”

  “Perhaps you should have.” It was all suddenly making sense and Melinda’s heart was soaring. The curt note he’d sent was not the result of arrogance, a calculated slight. It was proof that his heart was engaged elsewhere, with her. . . with his gypsy queen. She could not complain or blame him, for how could he possibly guess that Miss Melinda St. Jardine was one and the same as the heathen and spirited woman he’d met damp and bedraggled that fateful night?

  He had saved her reputation by offering her marriage—he would not have done that were there not some depth of feeling, some bond of intimacy. The earl—as she knew by his reputation and by the shattering letter he had written to her in that other guise—was too canny for that.

  The web was unravelling swiftly, far more satisfactorily than ever she could have imagined.

  “I cannot take this gift, my lord!”

  “Why ever not?”

  “A lady does not accept anything above trinkets from a gentleman, my lord. Even you must be aware of that!”

  “It is fortunate then that you are no lady—just plain Dight, my servant.”

  The voice was a challenge, for Guy, despite his growing obsession, was hurt that the lady had still not given him the gift of her true name.

  “I wish it were that simple, my lord, but life weaves strange twists and fancies. I think you know that I am a lady despite this disgraceful charade.”

  “Disgraceful? I have never been so intrigued in my life! For one glorious evening, my goddess, let us just pretend. You are my maid and you shall wear my bond. A garland of emeralds for my servant and my gypsy queen.”

  “My lord, I shall never be your servant, though if you let me, I shall be your willing slave. Destiny decrees it.”

  There was something powerful, prophetic, and slightly unreal in the quality of her conviction. Guy—who was longing to take her in his arms and kiss away all talk, all tears, all challenge, all mystery—was struck.

  “There is more to you than I know.”

  She nodded, then moved hesitatingly toward him.

  His embrace was crushing, not at all the tender, soft caress she had been half expecting, half dreaming of, half yearning for.

  It was wild and hungry and relentless. It engulfed her, tasted her, tried her until English reason transformed, once more, to deep, fierce, unearthly Romany passion. She felt the lightning and the rain and the storm swirl about her once more. She tasted the water and the moonlight and the salt of her tears, but in truth they had not moved beyond the portals of the cosy library with its warm, flickering fire and the cool, solid oak door.

  “I must stop!”

  It was the third Earl of Camden who finally came to his senses. It was not an easy thing to do and it entailed an
inordinate amount of cursing, convincing, temptation, resilience, and ultimate self-sacrifice, but at last it was done.

  Melinda, baulked of her heart’s delight, loathed the elegant cravat that was being neatly retied by deft, unthinking hands. She hated fingers that gently laced her bodice once more and set to rights the profusion of silver buttons that had somehow mangled themselves on her gown.

  She blinked, confused, as her passions slowly abated and she transformed once more into the proper miss—though not the maid—of a few long moments before.

  “I shall have to leave, my lord.”

  Santana nodded wistfully, but nor for long. “You shall be my bride this time if I have to drag you to the altar!”

  Violet eyes regarded him steadily. “I cannot marry you until you have closed a chapter in your life, my lord.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one in which you dismiss a young girl whom you have never so much as met as an adventuress and an encroacher. I expect—shall always expect—better of you, sir!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Think on it, my lord, and when you do, I shall come.”

  “Wait!”

  The earl dived for the door as soon as he divined the girl’s intention. He was too late. It slammed firmly in his face, and when his bemused anger abated slightly, he nodded slowly and sighed. He was not to be trusted with her on a night like this. It was several hours later that he realised that Venus, too, was gone.

  EIGHT

  Dight—or Dwight, as she was still referred to in the kitchens—did not appear for service the following morning. The earl had dreaded this scenario, but half expected it, so he was able to peel an orange equably and even welcome Lord Broadhurst into his home with relative calm.

  A tedious morning passed entertaining the man, who had a tiresome predilection for game hunting and would not rest until he had bagged several grouse, a pheasant, and some large, plump ducks off the earl’s estate. Be that as it may, Santana was able to retain his reputation for gracious civility to his peers, though his nerves were jagged and his muscles taut from a restless, sleepless, yet nonetheless dream-filled night.