by Lynne Barron
“Now you’ve gone too far,” Harry argued with a gasp of laughter.
“Withy’s rumored preference for young, athletic men adorned in frilly undergarments in no way lessens his standing as a rake.”
Harry lurched to her feet, flummoxed by the notion Lilith had laid before her.
“Honestly, even your cat is a rake.”
Harry couldn’t come up with a single argument to the contrary, considering Precious Pincushion had arrived home only that morning after four days of absence. Plopping back down, she absentmindedly tapped a finger on her bottom lip, contemplating the possibility Lilith had the right of it.
“Have you kissed them all?” Lilith asked, her voice breathless with the remnants of her laughter.
“Of course not,” Harry retorted. “Only Teddy, Cedric and Steven…but it was before he married. And it was only the one time each.”
“Why did you kiss them?”
“As you so kindly pointed out, they are rakes,” Harry replied, unaccountably aggravated by her sister’s amusement. “And as such, kissing women is simply what they do.”
“It isn’t the reason they kissed you which confuses me, but why you kissed them.”
“There came a time with each of them, on average somewhere around the seventh week of acquaintance, when it became necessary.”
“Necessary?” Lilith chortled.
“Anticipated to the point of distraction, stupidity and irritability.”
“Yours or theirs?”
“I am hardly the sort of woman to be rendered distracted, stupid or irritable by anything so inconsequential as a kiss.” Never mind she’d been rendered all of that and more these last seven days. “I only kissed them to get the anticipation behind us so that we might move on.”
“You kissed Teddy, Cedric and Mr. Simms to keep them in your circle of friends?” Lilith asked with a final, soft puff of laughter. “And now you’ve drawn Lord Knighton into the mix.”
“I most certainly did not draw Knighton into the mix.”
“No? Then what were you about, staring at him that way in Dun’s ballroom? You, of all people, know a rake can no more withstand a dare than he can withstand the siren’s call of an ill-advised wager. And yet, you all but dared him to approach you.”
Harry would have liked to argue the point, only she wasn’t entirely certain Lilith’s words didn’t contain a grain of truth. Had she drawn him in? Not in the back room of the Pickled Prince, as that bit of lunacy had been purely accidental. But later that same night, had she lured him across Dunaway’s ballroom?
She had been in unfamiliar territory and feeling decidedly off-kilter and out of sorts because of it. A combination she knew from experience was likely to cause her to act more rashly than she might otherwise have done.
“I’ve often wondered if you haven’t set about collecting your motley assortment of rakes and reprobates simply to prove to yourself you are immune to their charms,” Lilith continued, her voice infinitely gentle. “Why else would you surround yourself with men of a certain ilk, ignore their dishonorable—and in some cases downright despicable—behavior, and call them your friends?”
“They are just that, my friends,” Harry protested. “And in Charles’s case, my family. If I ignore their faults, it is no different than my ignoring Annalise’s annoying habit to prophesize doom and gloom. Or Sissy’s aggravating penchant to repeat Thomas’s every utterance as if it were written in the Bible. Or even your treacly sweet disposition when carrying a babe. None of those foibles changes the fact I am fond of you all.”
“Yet you adamantly refuse to contemplate the possibility Dunaway might deserve the same care and consideration.”
“Dunaway will get precisely what he deserves,” Harry muttered, “and then I can get on with my life.”
“Oh, Harry, is that why your heart has remained too long untended?” Lilith’s voice warbled alarmingly. “You’ve been waiting until Dun gets his comeuppance? Oh, my poor darling, have you not yet learned only the good get what they truly deserve?”
Chapter Sixteen
After years spent hiding behind outrageous bonnets and ludicrous gowns, Harry found it rather liberating to toss off the shackles of fussy, feminine garments in favor of a pair of buff breeches, a powder-blue waistcoat and a gray brocade jacket with absurdly over-padded shoulders.
“Tell me again why you are sneaking into the House of Lords?”
“They are awarding the contracts for the expansion of the railway between Leeds and Liverpool.” Harry adjusted her hat, pulling it low in hopes of hiding her eyes and a good portion of her face in the shadow of the brim. “Charles has assured me it is only a formality as he has greased the necessary palms. Still, I would like to be present all the same.”
“Why are you concerned with the expansion of the railway?” Kate asked as the carriage on loan from Lilith turned the corner onto Abingdon Street. “Has it something to do with Mr. King and his mines?”
“There are no ore mines in Leeds, only coal, and we… That is, The British Consolidated Mining Corporation doesn’t muck about with coal. A ghastly business, coal mining.”
“Then why the interest in the railway?”
“I suggested Charles invest in a scheme to provide grain to the railway company.”
Miss Mary Katherine Price was nothing if not quick. “Lord Knighton’s grain?”
“Nearly two thousand acres of wheat upon which the viscount has wagered his future,” Harry replied with a strangled laugh at her own foolishness. “Irrefutable proof no good deed goes unpunished.”
“Harry, you haven’t set in motion a plan to ruin Knighton, have you?”
“The thought did cross my mind.” But only because Charles, bless his loyal, vengeful soul, had suggested it just the previous night. “Except Lord Knighton will not be ruined should the contracts be awarded elsewhere. After all, the grain will still be his to harvest. Surely whatever measly profits he garners from the sale will hold him over. Leastwise, until he marries an heiress and commences wasting, wagering and otherwise wiping out her fortune on wine, women and whist.”
“Still, it isn’t like you to turn the other cheek when you’ve been wronged,” Kate replied with her customary persistence. “Why, just look at the lengths you’re willing to go to in order to give Dunaway the comeuppance he so richly deserves.”
“Alas, I haven’t the wherewithal to add yet another plan to the numerous and varied plans I am currently juggling. As it is, I’m not entirely certain I am up to the task of keeping in the air all the balls I’ve got spinning just now.”
“If you aren’t intent upon vengeance and you haven’t a financial stake in the expansion of the railway, why have you dressed as a young dandy in order to sneak into the gallery and watch a roomful of lords with greasy palms make a show of debating a foregone conclusion?”
“If you must know, I have nothing else to do this afternoon.” The words might have been spoken in a foreign tongue, so wieldy did they feel on Harry’s lips.
Apparently, Kate found them foreign as well, for she frowned as if attempting to translate them into something approaching English. “You have nothing else to do?”
“Madame Broussard is unable to accommodate my altered schedule until Friday next,” Harry explained. “Honestly, I had half a mind to insist upon Wednesday afternoons, never mind the odds I will one day find myself face to face with the Duchess of Montclair should Her Grace’s fittings ever run long. As it stands, I’ve had to move my French lessons to Wednesday mornings, fencing to Tuesday afternoons, minding the bookshop to Monday, and give up the cello altogether.”
“You’ve given up the cello?” Kate asked with a little hitch in her voice. “Oh, Harry, not the cello.”
“It was either the cello or tea with Auntie Alabaster. There really was no choice to be made. Especially as I’ve yet to master a single tune from start to finish after three years of practice. But giving up the cello is hardly the worst of it.”
“I don’t think I want to know the worst of it,” Kate whispered, reaching across between the seats to take hold of Harry’s hand. “But I suppose you’d best tell me, just the same.”
“Tuppence Tuesday has been re-christened Thruppence Thursday, which in and of itself has been long overdue, the cost of pulp paper being what it is,” Harry replied, giving her sister’s fingers a little squeeze to fortify them both. “But that change necessitated rescheduling the boxing matches held at the Pickled Prince to Monday evenings and the parade of castoff courtesans to Wednesdays.”
“What of your visits to the museum?” Kate asked. “When will you visit the museum, Harry?”
“Friday evenings.”
“But I thought the museum closed at sundown.”
Harry shrugged as if the idea of traversing the empty chambers didn’t bring to mind all the nights she’d paced the warped boards of a ramshackle little cottage in Shropshire with only her hopes and fears to keep her company. Much like Precious Pincushion, Jimmy O’Connell had been prone to turn a single night of revelry into three, to come and go as he pleased, never mind the lonely, motherless little girl awaiting his return.
“I could go with you to the museum,” Kate offered as the carriage drew up before the Palace of Westminster. “You needn’t go alone.”
“I would be pleased to have your company, but won’t you be returning to Price of Folly soon?”
“I could stay a bit longer, at least until… Well, until you rearrange your schedule so that you needn’t visit the museum alone.”
“I hope I’ll have no need to rearrange my schedule again any time soon,” Harry protested, panicked by the mere thought of it. “You’ve no idea the favors I had to call in, the favors I extended on credit.”
“Can one extend favors on credit?”
“I’ve made something of a life for myself extending favors on credit,” Harry replied tartly. “How else do you think I managed to gain entrance to the House of Lords?”
“I rather thought it had something to do with the cravat and boots,” Kate replied with a grin. “Not to mention that outlandish coat.”
An hour later, Harry was sorely tempted to remove said outlandish coat and put it to better use as a cushion for her poor, bony backside.
Bruised bottom and unforgiving wooden benches notwithstanding, Harry might have found it entertaining to witness the lords of the realm dickering over the minutest details of the bill up for debate. Never mind the bill had already been agreed upon behind closed doors, likely at some gentleman’s club, gaming hell or brothel.
As it was, Harry found herself distracted by Phineas’s presence within the tight circle of peers surrounding the Marquess of Marchant on the chamber floor below.
Harry would not have attended today’s session, but for the fact Charles had assured her the viscount had yet to take his seat since inheriting the title.
Phineas alternately fidgeted and stared off into space throughout the proceedings. At one point, he got up and paced along the back wall before returning to his seat to fiddle with his lapels and tap his hat on his thigh.
A week ago, Harry might have felt some sympathy for the man, what with his future hanging in the balance of the day’s session. Now she found his nervous twitching irritating.
What had he to be nervous about, after all? In a month or two, he would marry some silly girl with more money than brains. Within a year, he’d be back to carousing with Teddy, bedding actresses and opera singers without a thought for the wife who’d made it all possible.
As if her steady regard had somehow alerted him to her presence, Phineas lifted his gaze to the gallery above the Lords Chamber.
Harry ducked her head and pulled her hat low. Holding herself perfectly still, she counted to ten, then to twenty, before sneaking a peak at the chamber below.
Phineas’s seat was empty, but for his hat and gloves. Charles and his friends were chatting amongst themselves, as were most of the gentlemen on the floor, while two old windbags continued the needless debate. All was as it ought to be, but for the viscount’s sudden disappearance.
Surely his lordship hadn’t recognized her in the sea of faces peering over the balcony. The distance was too great and her disguise far too perfect.
And people tended to see only what they expected to see.
Phineas had no reason to expect to see Harry in the House of Lords.
Perhaps it was merely a coincidence, his looking up so suddenly only to disappear seconds later. Maybe he’d simply been staring off into space yet again. In all likelihood, he’d simply left the chamber in order to pace the hall or make use of the privy.
He might have even departed Westminster Palace altogether.
Harry had very nearly convinced herself of the possibility when someone tapped her on the shoulder. Startled, she let loose a yelp.
Heads turned, men young and old craning their necks to see who had uttered the unmistakably feminine sound.
An officious little man with thinning hair and rheumy eyes stood beside Harry.
“Sir, kindly come along with me, if you would,” he said, his voice brooking no argument.
Keeping her head lowered in hopes she might yet preserve her disguise, Harry followed along meekly behind him.
Was she to be escorted out of the gallery and into the waiting shackles of a constable? What sort of punishment was a lady likely to face for sneaking into the House of Lords? Imprisonment? Transportation? A fine, perhaps? If so, she sincerely hoped it was no more than the nine pounds she currently had stashed away for an emergency.
Only it wasn’t a constable waiting in the dimly lit hall, but rather a rake too handsome for his own good.
Phineas was leaning against the wall, booted ankles crossed and his coat open to reveal a waistcoat of amber silk the exact shade of his eyes. With his ebony curls tousled and his lips curling up at the corners in amusement, he was the very picture of masculine perfection.
Harry’s heart gave a queer little quiver, the sensation rather like the fluttering of a bird’s wings beneath her breast. As if that flutter had set match to tinder, warmth blossomed in her chest, spreading outward until heat raced through her limbs and climbed up her neck to settle upon her cheeks.
I’ve often wondered if you haven’t set about collecting your motley assortment of rakes and reprobates simply to prove to yourself you are immune to their charms.
Lilith had been wrong. So dreadfully wrong.
Harry was not immune to Phineas’s charms. She was as susceptible as the next woman. Susceptible to his smile, to the laughter lurking in his eyes, to the keen intelligence and skewed brand of honor he hid beneath the handsome façade of a carefree fribble. Worst of all, she was vulnerable to the promises he offered without speaking so much as a single word.
Friendship and affinity. Affection and fidelity. Loyalty and love. False promises. Each and every one of them.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?” asked the officious man who’d escorted her out of the gallery.
“That will be all, my good fellow,” Phineas replied, plucking a shilling from his pocket.
Harry watched the coin arc through the air until it landed in the man’s hand. Apparently, the going rate for being rid of a troublesome girl wasn’t what it used to be.
When the little man had disappeared around the corner, she returned her attention to Phineas and lifted her chin. “I’ve as much right to be here as anyone else.”
“Actually, you don’t, sweetheart.” His words were a taunt, his gaze a tease as he took in her attire from the too snug breeches to the feather in her hat. “Though you make a fine noble rogue. Or were you going for an honorable rake? Either way, that old relic gave you away.”
Harry pulled the hat off her head and held it between her hands, unsettled by the notion. Not that the old cocked hat had given away her identity, but rather by the notion that her grandfather had been the catalyst for all her current woes.
The Duke of Montclaire
had been a noble rogue and an honorable rake. And for the seven months, six days and five hours of their acquaintance, Harry had adored him. More importantly, Monty had adored Harry. It hadn’t mattered that she was living proof of his only child’s ruin. He hadn’t cared that she was all gangly limbs and awkward manners. He’d not found her broad Shropshire accent ugly and unintelligible, her need to manage everyone and everything around her irritating, her razor-sharp tongue and crafty intelligence unbecoming.
Was it any wonder she’d surrounded herself with the same sort of men? Teddy, Charles, Steven, Cedric, even Withy with his peculiar predilections. She’d naturally gravitated toward them, pulled by a force she’d never thought to resist, charmed by their easy companionship and ready acceptance of her oddities and idiosyncrasies, of her dubious origins and unsavory history.
The fact that she’d been so foolish, so bloody stupid as to believe Phineas Griffith, third Viscount Knighton to be cut from the same cloth infuriated Harry.
The feather on her hat twitched and shimmied as if riffled by an errant breeze.
Except there was no breeze in the hallway; the air was warm and stagnant.
Phin’s negligent pose was entirely at odds with the anticipation that had been wreaking havoc with his heart rate since the moment he’d spotted Harry in the upper gallery. He would have been hard-pressed to explain how he’d known Harry was somewhere within the Lords Chamber. But known he had, from the moment he’d taken his seat.
Perhaps it was the weight of her gaze following him as he paced around while two elderly gentlemen debated his future.
Maybe it was the fact he’d not seen the lady in three days, not even from a relatively safe distance. It made an odd sort of logic that if he knew precisely what the loss of the lady felt like, he would recognize its opposite.
Or perhaps it was the notion he’d seen her mocking smile on Marchant’s lips as the man greeted him with the assurance he’d greased the necessary palms to insure the contracts for the railroad expansion would be awarded to the company he’d chosen.
