Belle of the Ball

by Pam McCutcheon

  On cue, Kit approached the group with a hand held over his heart. “Miss Sullivan, you wound me.”

  Belle pretended to ignore him as Alvina said her lines. “But how, sir? She said not a word.”

  He appealed to Miss Mattingly. “But didn’t you see, she accused me of being cruel.”

  “Why, no,” the gossip said. “She said no such thing.”

  “Perhaps her lips did not, but her fan did.”

  “Her fan?” Now Millicent Mattingly looked intrigued. “How is that possible?”

  Pretending to ignore her question, Belle looked coquettishly at Kit over her fan and improvised. “It is no more than you deserve, sir, for being so unkind as to distract me long enough so that Sheba was able to snatch the fan from my grasp.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of Kit’s mouth as he bowed slightly and said, “I do apologize for not being more vigilant, but I had no notion Madame Sheba was so inclined. Will you forgive me?”

  Belle smiled at Kit and let the fan speak for her as she closed it and let it rest on her right cheek in the sign for “yes.”

  Kit grinned. “Splendid.”

  Miss Mattingly stared at both of them and said in her penetrating voice, “But she said nothing. How did you divine her answer?”

  “Have you not heard of the language of the fan?” Kit asked. “It is all the rage in Paris.”

  Belle smiled to herself. Millicent Mattingly’s loud voice had caught everyone’s attention, and they all looked intrigued at Kit’s statement.

  “Paris? Do tell us all about it,” Miss Mattingly urged.

  “Not I,” Kit demurred, “but Miss Sullivan seems quite expert. . . .”

  Miss Mattingly turned her eager stare on Belle. “Oh, will you show us?”

  “I don’t know . . .” Belle said. Kit and Alvina had agreed she should appear reluctant, but now that it was time for the curtain to go up, Belle found her reluctance was no act. She had a bit of stage fright.

  “Oh, please do,” Alvina coaxed her, just as they had rehearsed. And several others chimed in with their agreement.

  So, Belle allowed herself to be persuaded and the men rearranged the furniture under Kit’s direction to put Belle at the center of a semicircle.

  Kit gave her an encouraging nod and said, “Come on, show us.”

  Belle calmed herself, remembering that this was the first stage in her plan to exact revenge. With a small quaver in her voice, she said, “There are thirty or so messages you can send with a fan.”

  But as they all watched eagerly, even approvingly, to learn the latest trend from Paris, Belle relaxed and felt her voice return to normal. Mischievously, she stared directly at Kit and transferred the fan to her right hand. “This gesture means ‘You are too willing.’”

  They all laughed and Belle felt herself relax even more. Staring at George now, she deliberately dropped the fan. “This means ‘We shall be friends.’”

  George smiled and retrieved the fan for her. “I hope so,” he said and returned the item with a gallant gesture. “Please, continue.”

  She held the closed fan to her heart and gave Harold a meaningful look. “This position signifies ‘You have won my love.’”

  Harold flushed and Belle realized she held a powerful weapon here. No longer did the threescum regard her as an object of pity or scorn, or even avuncular condescension. Now, with this little fan, she held their very emotions in her hand.

  But though Harold and George seemed fascinated, Kit merely looked amused. So Belle diverted herself by flirting with the other two, staring directly into their eyes as she demonstrated such moves as “Do not forget me,” “I love you,” or “I always long to be near you.”

  To punish Kit, she favored him with “I hate you,” “Do not be so imprudent,” and “I love another.” The rest of the guests seemed amused by these tactics, but Kit was becoming less and less so. Who cared? She was having fun, and no one was taking her seriously anyway . . . except, she hoped, for George and Harold.

  After she was done, everyone was eager to try their skills at performing or interpreting the latest fad, and Belle was thoroughly satisfied. Though the evening had started out a little rocky, she had achieved exactly what she had set out to do—gain acceptance in the society the threescum thrived in.

  She smiled. Tomorrow, word of her success would be all over Colorado Springs and Belle Sullivan would become a force to reckon with.

  Chapter Six

  The afternoon following Belle’s successful debut, Kit left his lodgings at the Colorado Springs Hotel and walked up Pikes Peak Avenue to meet her at the dressmaker’s as planned.

  Last night, Belle had done them all proud, even better than they’d hoped. He had never been quite so amused in his life as when he watched her try to ignore her cloud of feathers and attendant cats, but she had handled it with unexpected aplomb.

  So why did the triumph seem so flat? He ought to be happy that he was giving Belle value for her money—and seeing return on some investment, at least. But he didn’t quite feel as good about it as he had hoped. Could it be because the pupil seemed to have outstripped the tutor?

  Once Belle had faced her own roomful of eager students, her endearing schoolgirl traits had vanished and she had suddenly turned into a beguiling coquette. One, moreover, who had singled him out for some outrageous set-downs. The minx.

  He smiled at the memory. Ah, could that be the problem? Was he piqued that she had flirted with those callow youths and not him?

  No, he had seen through her game, so that wasn’t it. He supposed he had just wanted a little more . . . appreciation of his efforts.

  Suddenly, his musings were interrupted by two men who hailed him. “Lord Stanhope,” they called.

  Kit sighed in resignation as he recognized the callow youths in question—Harold Latham and George Winthrop. He had given up on trying to convince them he wasn’t a “lord.” They apparently enjoyed numbering a British peer amongst their acquaintances and it wasn’t worth the effort to convince them to address him otherwise. He smiled and nodded as they approached.

  George grinned at him with a knowing leer. “Quite an entertaining evening last night, eh?”

  Kit stiffened. Was he making fun of poor Belle and her feathers? “Yes, I enjoyed myself.”

  “Indeed,” Harold said with a smitten air. “I’ve never seen Miss Sullivan in such fine form. Why, she was positively bewitching.”

  Kit smiled tightly as he realized his apprehension was unfounded. Latham and Winthrop seemed full of admiration for the woman they had so recently condemned as beneath their notice.

  “We did well there,” George said with a smug expression.

  Puzzled, Kit said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, bringing her into fashion and all.” George puffed out his chest. “When we acknowledged her as a lady, it must have been just the thing she needed to improve herself.”

  “I . . . see,” Kit said slowly. Did they really believe they had that much to do with Belle’s transformation? Apparently so, since Harold appeared just as proud of himself as George. Dryly, Kit added, “You don’t know your own power. . . .” Truly.

  Harold laughed. “But she really gave you what-for last night, didn’t she? Guess you didn’t make quite as good an impression on her as we did.”

  Good Lord, was that really what they thought? Couldn’t they see Belle had been teasing him? Punishing him, no doubt, for not falling under her spell the way all the other gentlemen had.

  But if they couldn’t see it, he wasn’t going to correct their misconception. “I am devastated,” he drawled.

  George clapped him on the back in one of those hearty American gestures of bonhomie. “Well, I guess she just prefers plain old Americans to a fancy man like you. “

  Kit wasn’t quite sure how to answer that bit of rudeness, but fortunately Latham and Winthrop wandered off then, congratulating themselves and each other on how well they had brought Belle into fashion.

&nb
sp; Kit grimaced, but it was his own fault, really, for putting the idea into their heads in the first place. He tried to resume his walk up the avenue, but a pair of women rode by in their carriage and called out a greeting—Miss Mattingly and her bosom friend, Miss Gaither.

  Kit nodded politely to them and would have kept on walking, but Miss Mattingly had the driver pull over and called out in her shrill voice to beckon him over. “Mr. Stanhope, how nice to see you.”

  Kit murmured some pleasantries, and Miss Mattingly said, “I was just telling Miss Gaither about the soirée she missed last night. It was most diverting—do tell her how amusing Miss Sullivan was. I don’t think she believes me.”

  Though Kit was sure Miss Gaither thought no such thing, he solemnly confirmed Millicent Mattingly’s version of the events and continued to do so as Miss Mattingly enthused about Belle and her amazing language of the fan.

  Millicent tittered and gave him an arch look. “It was most instructive to watch the way in which she used the fan to captivate most of the men in the room. Don’t you agree?”

  Kit allowed as how he did, wondering how he could pull himself away politely before he had to endure much more of this gossip’s retelling of the previous night.

  Millicent used her own fan in awkward imitation, and Kit spotted an opening. When the closed fan paused by her left ear, Kit pretended he had read the message, “I wish to get rid of you.”

  Bowing, he said, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t wish to offend. I shall leave at once.” Then, trying not to laugh at the surprised expression on Miss Mattingly’s face, he strolled on as fast as he could politely do so.

  Miss Mattingly called out, “Oh, dear, I didn’t mean— Do wait, Mr. Stanhope.”

  Kit pretended not to hear, though how anyone could imagine he could miss her penetrating voice was a mystery.

  “Oh, dear,” she said to her friend in what she no doubt thought was a low, confiding tone. “Poor Mr. Stanhope. Insulted both last night and today—by two different women. I declare, the poor man must be feeling terribly slighted.”

  Kit walked faster. Good Lord, were all the residents of this town so unobservant? Did they really think Belle’s needling last night was anything more than teasing?

  Apparently so. Either that, or he was the one who had misinterpreted her actions, Could it be she really was angry at him? He frowned. Surely he couldn’t be that far off in his interpretation . . . could he?

  As he neared the shop, another male voice hailed him. Kit sighed in resignation. Colorado Springs had never seemed smaller.

  He turned to see who it was and found John Daltrey grinning at him. Kit stiffened, unsure whether to be annoyed that his blackmailer had tracked him down, or happy that this was one person, at least, who wouldn’t rib him about the events of last night “What do you want?” he asked, not bothering to be civil.

  Daltrey ignored his question. “Hmm, humiliated by women, are you?”

  So he’d heard that, had he? Kit grimaced. Of course he had—everyone in a two block radius had no doubt heard Millicent Mattingly’s piercing voice. “Nothing of the sort,” Kit said stiffly.

  “Really?” Daltrey drawled, apparently not convinced. “And who was the other woman who slighted you?”

  “No one. She was mistaken.” Kit’s eyes narrowed, and he wondered why he was bothering to explain. “It’s none of your concern, anyway.”

  Daltrey shrugged. “Perhaps not. But there’s a young lady back in Sussex you left feeling more than a little slighted. . . .”

  His innuendo made Kit s temper flare, but he kept it in check here on the public street. He didn’t bother to deny the slander again—he wouldn’t give Daltrey the satisfaction.

  But enough of this verbal sparring. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Daltrey assured him, oozing insincerity. “Say, when do you get your quarterly allowance again?”

  “Soon,” Kit said through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your money.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of that,” Daltrey said with a wolfish smile. “Tell me, how are you managing to eke out a living if your pockets are as empty as you claim?”

  “I manage.”

  “I see. With the help of a woman, perhaps?”

  Kit felt a tic start in his left eye. “What are you getting at?” he demanded tightly. Had the man somehow learned of his agreement with Belle?

  “I hear you are spending a great deal of time at a certain handsome dressmaker’s establishment. . . ?”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.” But though Kit relaxed, he was concerned nonetheless. It was obvious Daltrey didn’t have any more details or he wouldn’t be bent so obviously on a fishing expedition. But if anyone should learn Kit was meeting Belle there secretly, her reputation would be ruined.

  “The dressmaker seems a bit long in the tooth for you,” Daltrey admitted. “But do you think she might be interested in hearing of the young lady back in Sussex?” Daltrey watched Kit’s face avidly for his reaction.

  “I doubt it,” Kit said with a raised eyebrow, allowing a bit of amusement to color his tone so Daltrey would believe he was far off the mark. “She isn’t the type of woman who would listen to scurrilous gossip.”

  “Every woman listens to gossip,” Daltrey said with an insincere smile.

  Knowing he had to give Daltrey something or the man would continue to dig and find out what was really going on, Kit sighed heavily. “If you must know, we are related. She is my mother’s second cousin’s daughter.”

  “I never knew the Stanhopes had a Greek connection.”

  “We don’t speak of it,” Kit said curtly.

  Because it didn’t exist. . . .

  “Ah, a poor relation, then,” Daltrey said wisely. “So why bother to visit her?”

  Kit cast about for a reasonable explanation. “She and my mother have always corresponded faithfully,” he lied without a shadow of remorse. He also hoped Daltrey would get the implication that Madame Aglaia, being in his mother’s confidence, would already be fully cognizant of Kit’s reason for residing in Colorado Springs. Though he hated to appear vulnerable in front of this blackmailer. Kit let longing show in his voice. “It’s the only way I hear news of home.”

  Daltrey’s lip curled in contempt. “Very well,” he said, obviously annoyed that he was balked of his fun. “But I’ll expect to see some cash as soon as you get your quarterly remittance—or the rest of Little London will hear of your disgrace.”

  Hear the lies, he meant, Kit thought with annoyance. “Of course,” he said. Conscious of the curious looks of passersby, he schooled his features so as not to betray his feelings and took his leave.

  He continued up the short walk to Madame Aglaia’s and debated whether to go in. Was Daltrey still watching? Kit couldn’t risk a glance to see. But just in case the man was still lurking about, Kit passed the dressmaker’s, then made his way down a side street and approached the shop at the tradesman’s entrance in the back.

  Madame opened the door readily enough, but not without giving him a silent question in the form of a raised eyebrow. As Kit joined her and Belle in a back room, Madame said, “What was that all about?”

  “Yes,” Belle said with curiosity before he could answer. “Who was that handsome gentleman we saw you speaking with? Is he the reason you’re late?”

  “Yes,” Kit said shortly. Daltrey was to blame for many things, Kit’s tardiness the least of them. “That . . . man,” he refused to call him a gentleman, “lived on a neighboring estate back home.”

  “Oh,” Belle said with a smile. “Is he a friend of yours?”

  Kit scowled. “No. John Daltrey is a scoundrel and a wastrel. I suggest you stay far, far away from him.”

  “But why?” Belle asked, sounding all innocence. Innocence Daltrey would have no hesitation in shattering, given the opportunity.

  “He was trying to find out why I’ve been spending so much time here at Madame Aglaia’s.” He turned to the d
ressmaker with an apologetic expression. “Your pardon, ma’am, but I told him we were related and you corresponded regularly with my mother.”

  Madame smiled. “Quite all right. It won’t do me any harm to be thought a shirttail relation of the Stanhopes.” She glanced askance at Belle. “And it might do some good elsewhere. . . .”

  Thank heavens the woman understood. “Exactly.”

  “I don’t understand,” Belle said. “Why did you tell him that?”

  “To preserve your reputation,” Kit said baldly.

  Madame nodded and Belle looked back and forth between the two of them with confusion. “Is it in jeopardy?”

  “It might be if John Daltrey learned I was meeting you here secretly.”

  “Oh, I see,” Belle said in a small voice.

  He hoped she did. Her reputation was her most precious possession. “I think it would be best if Miss Keithley continued as your sole instructor.”

  “Because of this?” Belle asked incredulously. Then, with a thoughtful expression, she added, “No, it’s because of last night, isn’t it? But—”

  “Of course not,” Kit said with more annoyance than he had intended. Did everyone think him a simpleton? “You were a hit—a wild success with the entire party.”

  Belle flushed. “Well, except for the feathers, maybe . . .”

  Madame laughed. “I heard about the feathers. I had no idea the fan was so flimsy or I would never have sent it over.”

  “But I treated you abominably,” Belle admitted to Kit with a sheepish grin.

  ‘Think nothing of it,” Kit assured her. “I don’t.”

  “Then why do you no longer want to teach me?” she asked, obviously puzzled.

  Several reasons, but only one that he could voice. He felt a little foolish that he was developing an affection for his pupil, and worried that Daltrey would make her a target for additional blackmailing schemes. He gave her the only reason he could voice. “To protect you.”

  Then, before she could object again, he added, “Besides, you were quite the success last night. You don’t need me. Miss Keithley and Madame Aglaia can lend you any assistance you might require in the future. It’s best if we aren’t seen together.”