Since Charisma gave a little, Belle did, too. “Besides, he’ll be harder than George.”
“Harder how?” Grace wanted to know.
“It’ll be a lot more difficult to make him fall at my feet—he knows me too well. As the saying goes, familiarity breeds contempt.”
“I don’t know,” Charisma said. “That didn’t look like contempt in his eyes the other night when you wore that green dress. In fact, he looked quite taken with you.”
Yes, he had, hadn’t he? Belle suppressed a wistful smile, remembering how taken he had been—and how she had almost let him take her. “But it didn’t last long.” Unfortunately, he was more worried about the consequences of his actions than repeating them. Darn it.
Grace looked crestfallen. “Too bad. But maybe you can find some other way to get him back.”
“Such as?” Belle asked apprehensively.
“Such as this investment he’s so intent upon,” Charisma said. “There’s something odd about that, don’t you think?”
“What’s odd about it?” Belle asked, honestly confused.
Charisma shrugged. “Well, it seems awfully important to him. Do you know why?”
“No. . . .” Belle had never thought to question it. But now that her sister mentioned it, Kit did seem rather single-minded about the subject.
“Charisma is right,” Grace said. “And he’s a remittance man. I know not all remittance men are the wastrels Papa makes them out to be, but . . . why is he living here in Little London instead of the real London?”
Belle shrugged. She didn’t know the answer to that question, either.
“Well,” Charisma declared, “he seems to know a great deal more about you than you do about him.”
Struck by the undeniable truth of Charisma’s statement, Belle nodded slowly. She had thought she knew everything she needed to know about Kit—his family background, his prospects, his lovely accent, the shape of his mouth . . .
But, as Charisma pointed out, Kit was a mystery to her. She knew nothing of his past, his deepest aspirations, or his plans for the future. “You’re right,” Belle said. “I don’t know as much as I thought. I really need to learn more.” To get her revenge, of course.
And what was the man about, anyway, to keep such things from her when he knew her every thought so well? Steely determination filled Belle. “Yes, I need to learn more.”
And I will.
Mama burst in then, triumphantly waving a folded piece of paper as if it were manna from on high. “Oh, Belle, you’ll never guess what I just received,” she said breathlessly.
“A personal note from Queen Victoria?” Charisma hazarded with a raised eyebrow.
Grace’s eyes lit. “No, I know. The deed to a long-lost gold mine!”
Mama cast them a withering glance. “No, but it’s almost as good.” She took a deep breath, the paper clutched to her ample bosom, and announced, “Mrs. Cora Bell has invited us on an outing tomorrow to view the wildflowers.”
“Wildflowers?” Charisma echoed with scorn. “She invited you to tootle around town looking for stray weeds?”
“Don’t be impertinent, dear,” Mama said, evidently too far gone in rapture to put any heat in that reprimand. “And, no, we’re not going to ‘tootle’ around town—where did you hear such a word anyway?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued with a rapturous expression, “It’s a full day excursion up Ute Pass toward Cripple Creek. They say the wildflowers grow in great profusion up there.”
Grace smiled wistfully. “That sounds wonderful. I know how much you’ve wanted to meet Mrs. Bell.”
Belle agreed. Mama sounded so happy, happier than she’d been in a long time, especially since she and Papa still weren’t speaking. “I’m so happy for you, Mama.”
“Oh, the invitation’s for you, too,” Mama assured her. “And she’s arranged for Lord Stanhope and Madame Aglaia to accompany us. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Yes, marvelous,” Belle agreed with a significant glance at her sisters. Just the opportunity she needed to learn more about Kit.
“Well, hurry then,” Mama said, fluttering her hands in agitation. “There’s so much to do. We must decide what to wear, what to bring, what to say . . . and we only have twenty-four hours left.”
Only twenty-four hours in which to come up with a plan to get Kit alone and get some answers from him. Belle just hoped it would be enough.
The Three Graces met for tea on Mount Olympus and Euphrosyne poured a cup with an air of elegance many envied. “Really, Aglaia, haven’t you granted Belle’s wish yet? I’m anxious to get started on Grace but have to wait until you and Thalia are done with Belle and Charisma.”
“It’s taking a little longer than I thought it would,” Aglaia admitted.
Charming as always, Thalia sipped her tea and asked, “Why is that? Her wish seems very straightforward.”
Aglaia shook her head. “It’s not as easy as you think. Her wishes are so muddled.”
“You mean because she wished aloud for beauty but silently for revenge?” Euphrosyne asked.
“Yes,” Aglaia said thoughtfully. “I’m doing my best, but I’m not quite sure which of her wishes to help her with—the wish she voiced, the unspoken wish in her mind, or the wish she holds deep in her heart. . . .”
Thalia raised an eloquent eyebrow. “Is there really any choice?”
Aglaia sighed. “No, I suppose not. You’re quite right. The answer is very clear.”
Arranging it, however, would be much more difficult.
The next morning, the closest Belle had come to a plan was to enlist Madame’s help to learn more about Kit. Luckily, the dressmaker arrived early to bring Belle a new walking dress she had just completed.
Mama was in raptures over the sunny jonquil outfit with its matching lace fan and parasol. Clasping her hands together in ecstasy, she declared, “You’ll be the very vision of spring. Do help her dress, won’t you, Madame?”
“Of course,” Madame Aglaia said with a smile and accompanied Belle to her bedroom.
Madame was already dressed for the outing herself, in a stunning outfit of royal blue that made her dark hair and olive skin look radiant.
“You look beautiful,” Belle said wistfully. No matter how well she dressed, Belle would never have one-tenth the sophistication and poise this woman displayed with such ease.
“Thank you, dear. And so shall you when we have finished dressing you.”
As Madame Aglaia chatted about the upcoming outing, she seemed so unsurprised by her invitation that it made Belle wonder. “Did you . . . do something to arrange this outing?” Belle asked once she was finally dressed.
Madame tugged at Belle’s cuff and eyed the rest of her dress critically. “Me? Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?”
She sounded so innocent, Belle couldn’t help but believe her. But. . . “Aren’t you surprised you were invited?”
“Not really. Somehow, the word has gotten out that I am a sort of cousin to Mr. Stanhope, and my shop has suddenly been besieged with women coming to ascertain my social standing.”
Belle was taken aback at the news. Feeling contrite, she said, “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
Madame’s eyes twinkled. “I’m not. It’s been very good for business.”
“But how is Mr. Stanhope taking it?” Belle didn’t think he had envisioned this sort of thing when he had casually passed Madame off as a distant relation to protect Belle’s reputation. “Is he angry?”
Madame smiled. “No, he appears rather amused by the whole thing.”
Of course. The man never seemed to react the way she thought he would. He was truly a man of mystery. “Madame, I wonder . . .”
“Wonder what, dear?”
“I know you’re not really related to Mr. Stanhope, but . . . how much do you know about him?”
Madame raised an eyebrow. “About as much as you do, I suppose. Why do you ask?”
Belle tried for a nonchalant shrug, but
suspected Madame wasn’t fooled. “Oh, no reason in particular. It’s just that he knows so much about me, and I’ve just come to realize I know very little about him.”
“And you would like to use this outing as an opportunity to get to know him better?” Madame guessed shrewdly.
Really, the woman was positively uncanny at times. “Yes, but I’m afraid Mama . . .” Belle trailed off, not wanting to be disloyal to her mother by finishing that sentence.
“Your mother won’t be a problem,” Madame promised. “You’ll see.”
Madame’s prediction came true. Though Mama gushed over Kit when he arrived to escort them, she didn’t have much time to embarrass Belle before they met the rest of their party—a half dozen or so open carriages with twice as many people—at the edge of town.
Mrs. Bell caught sight of them and beckoned them over to introduce them to the other occupant of her carriage, Mrs. Thurgood. “So glad you could make it,” she said to Madame Aglaia. “I’ve admired your gowns so often. It is really true you are related to the Stanhopes?”
It was blunt, but asked with such sweetness that one couldn’t help but forgive her.
“It isn’t for me to say,” Madame demurred, casting a mischievous glance at Kit.
Kit nodded gravely, though there was a twinkle in his eye. “I am certain the Stanhopes would be honored by such a connection.”
“I should have known you wouldn’t say,” Mrs. Bell declared, but seemed somehow satisfied that they had confirmed their relationship. Then she turned her attention to Mama. “So glad you could come as well, Mrs. Sullivan. I’ve enjoyed your lovely daughter’s company so much and, you know, I think we might be related.”
“Do you?” Mama seemed surprised but pleased.
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” Mrs. Bell declared. “Come, you and Madame Aglaia must sit in our carriage so we can discuss the matter.”
Mama looked torn. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want to leave Belle alone with Mr. Stanhope. . . .” But it was obvious she very much wanted a tete-a-tete with the leader of Little London society.
“Oh, pooh,” Mrs. Bell said and airily waved away Mama’s objections. “The young people will be quite all right by themselves. After all, they’re in an open carriage and won’t be out of our sight the whole way, now will they?”
“I suppose not,” Mama said doubtfully, though it was obvious she was more than willing to be persuaded.
Mrs. Bell beamed. “Madame will tell you it’s all right, won’t you?”
Madame smiled. “Yes, of course. I don’t see how anyone could have any objections if Mrs. Bell doesn’t.”
That was all Mama needed. With a beaming smile, she agreed and Kit assisted her and Madame Aglaia from his carriage to Mrs. Bell’s without Mama apparently giving her daughter another thought.
Soon, Mama and Mrs. Bell were chattering away as if they were bosom friends, trying to determine if they were related or not.
As the carriages pulled out. Belle shook her head in disbelief. “Only Mama would find Mrs. Bell’s reasoning that we are related totally logical.”
Kit laughed. “Well, at least it will keep them occupied for the remainder of the trip.”
“Good,” Belle said with a significant look at her escort. “I wanted to catch you alone.” And thank goodness the other members of this little excursion were too far away to hear their conversation.
“Oh?” Kit said, and suddenly the atmosphere was charged with meaning and undertones that Belle only half understood.
She felt her cheeks warm and spread her simple fan to cover her face so that no one else could see the betraying color. She didn’t totally comprehend how to play this flirting game of words and hidden meanings, but she was willing to try. Gazing coquettishly at him over the top of her fan, she felt a betraying flutter in her middle as she said archly, “I think you grasp my meaning, sir.”
“All, but I think I don’t,” Kit said. “And don’t try to play off your tricks on me—I’m the one who taught them to you.”
Closing her fan with a snap, Belle gave up on the idea of flirting. She sighed. Kit was just too prosaic sometimes. “I meant only that I wished to talk to you. Alone.”
“And what exactly does that gleam in your eye portend? Should I worry?”
He sounded amused, but Belle chose to take his words differently. “That depends.” She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have anything to worry about?”
Kit flashed her a half-smile. “Not that I know of. Unless you are referring to the other night. . . ?”
“No, of course not,” Belle said. “We agreed not to speak of that night.” But that flutter appeared once more in her middle at the memory.
“Oh, is that what we agreed to?” Kit said softly, though his eyes were on the road.
Well, that was certainly the impression Belle had come away with. Though, to be honest, she didn’t remember them arriving at any conclusion except that he would still take her to the Founders’ Day Ball. And, much as Belle enjoyed reliving the joyous moments when Kit had held her in his arms, she was afraid to hear his version of the events for fear he hadn’t enjoyed them as much as she had.
“Well, if we didn’t agree to it, we should have,” she said with asperity.
“Whatever the lady wants,” Kit murmured.
Belle squirmed. What she wanted and what she was bold enough to ask for were two entirely different things. “What the lady wants,” she said firmly, “is to know more about you.”
He shrugged. There isn’t much to know.”
She slanted him an exasperated look. “Of course there is. I know little about you save your name and the fact that you are conversant with all the latest fashions. Surely there is more to Kit Stanhope than that.”
He gave her a sardonic look. “A bit, I suppose. What do you want to know?”
“Everything—where you’re from, who your parents are, how many siblings you have. . . .”
“My family has an estate in Sussex, which is where I grew up. I have one mother, one father, one brother, and two sisters.”
What a dry recitation of facts. It told her nothing about him, really. “And your father is a lord?”
“He is Viscount Stanhope, or Lord Stanhope, yes.”
“What does that mean your title is?” she asked curiously, having heard various opinions on that subject.
“It means I am the son of a viscount, but have no title myself other than ‘Honorable.’ Nor does my brother.”
He said that with a curiously flat inflection which made her think there was more to it than he let on.
“And when your father is gone, will you be a viscount?”
“No, my older brother has that honor,” he drawled. “I am only a younger son.” Casting a sideways glance at her, he added, “Before you ask, no, I won’t be a viscount when my brother is gone, either. Not unless he dies without issue. And since his wife has already honored him with two sons, there is little chance of that.” Now his gaze turned curious. “Why? Disappointed that I won’t be a lord someday?”
“Of course not—why should I care?” It’s not as if she were expecting to be his bride, after all. “I told you—I just want to know more about you.” And she wondered how he felt about what he had just revealed, though he was careful to keep that to himself.
He gave her a wary glance. “So you said. But I don’t understand. Why the sudden interest?”
Belle felt her face warm and hoped he didn’t think this meant she was trying to secure his interest in other ways. “No reason, really. It’s just that it was pointed out to me that you know a great deal about me, but I know very little about you.”
“I see,” Kit said, and indeed, he did look enlightened. “You feel guilty.”
“No, not really,” she snapped, then relented. “Well, perhaps a little.” But she admitted it only because she was unwilling to reveal her true motives.
He relaxed. Evidently, guilt was a motivation he could understand. “What else do you want t
o know?”
“You seem to miss your home.” Or so she assumed from the longing that came into his voice whenever he spoke of it. “So why have you come here?”
He shrugged again, though she could see this subject bothered him more than he let on. “It is the duty of the younger sons to go out into the world and make money for the family coffers. And, since Colorado Springs is known as Little London, I hoped I might find an opportunity and congenial company here.”
“So that’s why you’re looking for an investment?” she asked, finally beginning to understand.
“Yes, of course.” He glanced at her, curious. “Why, what did you think?”
It was her turn to shrug. “I didn’t think anything. I had no idea.” And she hadn’t wondered about it at all. How incurious of her. “Some people call you a remittance man, but you seem so different from the others.”
He clenched his jaw, though his tone was mild. “I am and I am not. I receive remittances from home like the others, but unlike them, I refuse to squander the money. I use it to keep myself in funds until I can find a suitable investment.” He grimaced. “My father has ensured that.”
Oh, my. There was a great deal of bitterness in that last sentence. “Your father?”
“Yes. If you must know, he insists on seeing some return on his investment in me—rightly so,” he added in a grudging tone, “and has given me until the end of next quarter to do so. Unfortunately, I have had no success so far.”
“Why not?”
He grimaced. “Several reasons. First, my father’s expectations constrain me to invest only in those things a gentleman of his stripe would consider, which narrows the field considerably. He does not understand how different the opportunities are in America. Second, I don’t understand this country well enough to recognize a good opportunity, and too many have taken advantage of my countrymen’s ignorance. And third, there has been an unexpected drain on my resources.”
Well, she had hoped for a few revelations and she got them—though it wasn’t quite enough to satisfy her curiosity. From his clipped tone, it sounded as if the third was very important to him, but she didn’t quite understand why. “Drain on your resources? How?”
Belle of the Ball Page 14
