by Emily Larkin
“Oh?”
Her grin faded. “These aren’t the first animals I’ve found.”
He glanced down at Rufus. “Was he in a sack?”
Lady Isabella’s expression became sober. No, not sober; grim. “I found Rufus on the street. He was only a few weeks old. Half-starved and beaten and—” She bit her lip. Her face softened as she looked at the dog. She reached down to rub his ears. “By rights he should hate people. But he doesn’t. He has a very generous heart.”
As do you. “He was lucky you found him.”
“Yes.” She continued stroking the dog’s head. There was adoration in Rufus’s mismatched eyes as he gazed up at her. “He was so tiny, so frightened, so desperate . . .” She glanced up at him. “Sometimes I don’t like people at all. They do such terrible things!”
Her words triggered memory: the fall of Badajoz, the British Army gone mad, soldiers looting, raping, murdering—
Nicholas pushed the memory aside. “Human beings are capable of great cruelty,” he said, hoping that she would never experience more than she had: kittens drowning in a sack, a puppy starved and beaten. “But they’re also capable of great kindness.”
Lady Isabella looked down at the bundled blanket in her lap. She didn’t look convinced.
“Do you think they’ll live?” he asked.
“I don’t know. They’re very young.” She lifted her gaze to him again. “Do you mind, Major, if I don’t attend the Fancotts’ musicale tonight?”
“Not at all.”
Some of his relief must have made it into his voice. Lady Isabella grinned again, giving him a glimpse of crooked white teeth. The imperfection seemed somehow to accentuate her beauty: the flawless skin, the golden hair, the soft, rosy lips. “You can still go, Major, if you wish . . .”
“Heaven forbid!”
Lady Isabella laughed. As if in echo, one of the kittens uttered a tiny, muffled squeak. She looked down instantly, her hands curving protectively around the bundle in her lap.
Her animals are like children to her, Nicholas realized suddenly. She gives them her heart.
Having made that observation, he very much hoped that the kittens would live.
Chapter Seven
Isabella listened with one ear to the housekeeper. Most of her attention was on the kittens.
“I don’t know what to do about young Becky Brown, ma’am. Her mother has taken ill and she’s asking for leave—”
“Of course she must go! How much time would she like?”
“She asked for five days, ma’am.”
“Tell her she may have it.”
“Very well, ma’am,” Mrs. Early said in a dubious voice, as if the absence of a housemaid would cast the household into chaos.
One of the gray-striped kittens was busily licking its sister’s face.
“Is that all?”
“No, ma’am.” The housekeeper’s tone was ominous.
Isabella stopped watching the kittens. She shifted her attention to Mrs. Early’s plump face.
“I have reason to believe that one of the servants is stealing.”
“What? Surely not!”
“We’re going through the beeswax candles too fast, ma’am.”
Isabella was silent a moment. She didn’t need to be told that wax candles were both expensive and easily sold. “If your suspicion is true, then it must be dealt with.” A thief. In this house. It was a disturbing thought. She paid her servants generously—too generously some might say. And yet someone was stealing. “Where are they kept? The dresser between the butler’s pantry and the still-room?”
Mrs. Early nodded. “But I can lock them in my parlor, ma’am, if you wish.”
Isabella considered this suggestion, and then shook her head decisively. “No. I should like to catch whoever is responsible. They have no place in this house. Leave the candles where they are, Mrs. Early, but keep a close eye on that dresser.”
“I shall, ma’am.”
Isabella’s next visitor in the morning room was Harriet.
“The mail has arrived, ma’am, and there’s no letter from my aunt.” There was a quiver in the girl’s voice, and a corresponding quiver to her lower lip. She picked up a black kitten.
“It’s been less than a week,” Isabella said calmly. “It’s far too soon to worry.”
Tears brimmed in Harriet’s eyes. “But ma’am, what shall I do if—”
Isabella welcomed a footman’s entrance into the room. “Major Reynolds?” she said, glancing at the card he presented on a salver. “Tell him I’ll be down shortly.”
The footman bowed and retreated from the room, taking care not to step on a wandering kitten.
“Major Reynolds!” Harriet put down the kitten she was holding. The color drained from her face. “He’s here?”
“Don’t be afraid, child. He will have come to see about the kittens.” Isabella spoke calmly, but her pulse was beating slightly faster. “May I suggest that you go to your room?”
“Of course.” Harriet’s eyes were wide and dilated. She looked pale enough to faint.
“Don’t be afraid,” Isabella said again. “He has no idea that you’re here.”
“But the footman—”
“The servants all understand that your presence here is not to be mentioned to anyone.”
Harriet looked as if she didn’t believe these words. She fled the morning room.
“Foolish girl!” Isabella said to the kitten she was holding. “He’s not an ogre!” But the words were to herself, as much as to Harriet.
She placed the kitten in the basket with its kin and smoothed her gown. “Come along, Rufus,” she said, holding the door open for him. He preceded her, his tail waving. “He is not an ogre,” she repeated to herself, under her breath. But her heart beat even faster as she went downstairs.
The silent fear faded as Major Reynolds made his bow. There was nothing ogreish about him. The green eyes were smiling as he looked at her. “You look well, ma’am.”
“As do you.”
His expression changed, becoming faintly derisive. Isabella suddenly saw the scar. She hadn’t noticed it—broad and livid across his left cheek—until that slight lifting of his eyebrows.
“Dare I hope that the kittens survived the night?” He reached down to pat Rufus.
“They most definitely survived,” she said, smiling as Rufus licked the major’s hand. “Would you like to come upstairs and see them?”
Major Reynolds walked up the stairs alongside her, and she was uneasily aware of Harriet Durham one floor above their heads. Her deception had never seemed so precarious—nor so abhorrent. The compulsion to confess all seized her.
Isabella glanced at the major. She opened her mouth, and then closed it.
Major Reynolds’ eyebrows rose in enquiry. “Yes?”
Isabella bit her lip. His eyes smiled at her today, but two days ago in Hyde Park he had declared his desire to find Harriet’s benefactress. His eyes hadn’t smiled then; they had glittered with cold, hard anger. She had looked at him and been afraid. “Your boots,” she blurted out. “Are they ruined?”
“Alas,” the major said, with a rueful smile.
Isabella looked away from him. He’s smiling now, she told herself, but remember your first impression. He’s a dangerous man to cross. She opened the door to the morning room.
“Luxurious quarters,” Major Reynolds said. “I had thought they’d be in a box in the kitchen.”
The morning room was decorated in shades of yellow. The giltwood armchairs, the pale satinwood side tables, the fanciful ormolu clock on the mantelpiece with its bower of flowers, enhanced the feeling of sunshine, of brightness and light.
“The staff wouldn’t be happy with me if I gave them kittens to care for,” Isabella said. “We’ll be short a housemaid soon. I couldn’t expect them to care for kittens on top of their other duties.” She stepped aside for the major to enter. “And besides, I prefer to look after them myself.”
&n
bsp; Major Reynolds advanced into the room. “They’re eating?” he asked, with a glance at the saucers on the floor. “I confess, I thought they might be too young.”
“As did I. Major . . . do you mind if I close the door?”
The major glanced at her swiftly. He hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I imagine that we’re both of an age where we can be in the same room without being said to have compromised one another.”
Isabella closed the door. “Precisely my opinion.” She bent to pick up a tiny black kitten that was exploring the room on unsteady legs. Curiosity nibbled at her. She bit her lip, and then asked, “Major . . . if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?”
“Thirty-four,” Major Reynolds said. He politely refrained from returning the question.
Not old at all, Isabella thought. Only five years older than herself.
Rufus crossed to the basket. He nosed among the tangle of kittens. The kittens squirmed, squeaking for his attention. The major watched as the dog licked an upturned gray-striped face. “Extraordinary,” he said.
“Rufus is very good with kittens,” Isabella said. She stroked the kitten she held. Its purr vibrated in her palm. “He’s had practice.”
“As have you, I see.” He glanced at the accoutrements—the bowls of water, milk, and meat broth, the blanket-lined basket, the box of dry dirt. A laugh came to his lips. “What does your cousin think of this?”
“My cousin kindly lends me countenance, but the house is mine. If the curtains or the carpet need replacing, I shall do it gladly.”
Major Reynolds crossed to the basket and crouched alongside Rufus. “I have yet to meet your cousin,” he observed. “I understand she’s in mourning?”
“Mr. Westin died six years ago.”
The major glanced up. She saw his surprise.
“My cousin takes her duties as a wife very seriously,” Isabella said.
“Evidently.” The major reached into the basket and picked up a gray-striped kitten. It mewed piteously for a moment, and then quieted in the shelter of his cupped hands.
“You must have one,” Isabella said. “You’re their rescuer, after all.”
Major Reynolds put the kitten back in the basket. He stood. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’m not very fond of cats.”
“You could call it Boots,” she suggested hopefully.
His mouth quirked as if he suppressed a laugh. “No, ma’am. But I thank you for the offer.”
Isabella sighed. “Well, please let me know if you hear of anyone who would like a kitten.”
“Grace Washburne,” the major said promptly.
“Gussie would never forgive me!”
“I think Gussie and Lucas are resigned to another kitten,” he said, turning to examine the room. His gaze lighted briefly on the dainty Louis XV escritoire with its gilded ormolu mounts and floral marquetry, the pianoforte with its gleaming, polished wood and ivory keys, the low, comfortable sofas upholstered in cream and gold damask.
“Oh.” Isabella looked at the basket. A gray-and-black kitten was climbing determinedly over its brothers and sisters. “Perhaps . . .”
“Won’t you keep one for yourself?” he asked, turning back to face her.
“I would like to, very much.” The black kitten purred in her hand. “Every house should have a cat.”
A slight, awkward silence fell. Abruptly Isabella realized that she hadn’t offered him refreshments, or even a seat. “Please be seated, Major.” She sat, flushing slightly at her lack of manners. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Thank you,” Major Reynolds said, taking a seat across from her. “But no. I merely came to see how the kittens fared.”
“Very well, as you can see. My cousin tells me I have a way with strays.”
She was suddenly aware of Harriet in her room upstairs. Another of my strays. There was another awkward pause. “I’m putting together a party for the theater tomorrow,” Isabella said, rushing to fill the silence. “I hope you’ll come?”
The major inclined his head politely.
“Gussie and Lucas will be there.”
Major Reynolds nodded again.
Isabella bit her lip. She looked down at the kitten in her hand. “And the Worthingtons’ masked ball is the evening after, out at Islington Spa.” She glanced at him. “Have you given any thought to a costume?”
“Costume? Is it necessary?”
Isabella lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “A mask and domino would be acceptable, but for the Worthingtons’ masquerade one generally comes in costume.”
“Does one?” The major looked as if he had swallowed something distasteful. “What’s your costume to be?”
“You’ll have to wait and see, Major.”
His eyes narrowed on her face for a moment, and then he gave a shrug, too. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll attend the masquerade. But only if I may have two waltzes.”
Isabella was suddenly aware of his maleness and of the closed door to the morning room. “Then I shall expect you to come in costume,” she countered.
Major Reynolds nodded. “I will.”
Another awkward pause fell. She looked for Rufus. He was lying on the floor. Two of the kittens clambered over his outstretched paws.
“Do you intend to go to Hyde Park this afternoon?” the major asked. “The weather’s not particularly clement.”
Isabella glanced at the window and the gray, blustery sky visible above the rooftops. She shook her head. “No.”
“And what of tonight? The Alleynes’ ball, or the Warwicks’?”
“I shall be attending both,” Isabella said, looking at him. “Choose which one you’d like to attend, Major, and I’ll save two dances for you.”
The major looked as if he’d like to attend neither. “Do you enjoy it?” he asked abruptly. “London. The Season.”
“Yes, immensely.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”
Isabella blinked, surprised by the question. She thought for a moment. “The busyness,” she said. “The gaiety. My friends.” She shrugged. “There are many reasons, Major, but mostly it’s because I abhor being idle. In London I’m rarely idle. It suits me.”
Major Reynolds looked at her with a faint frown on his face.
“You don’t like it,” she ventured.
“No.” The word was an uncompromising monosyllable.
Guilt made her lower her eyes. “But if circumstances were different, Major, if . . . if—” I hadn’t called you an ogre.
“I would still dislike it.”
She glanced up. “Why?”
“The gossip,” he said, a faint, biting note of contempt in his voice. “The posturing and the pretension. The insincerity.”
“Those things aren’t confined to London, or to the Season, Major. One may find gossip in any town or village in England.”
“Perhaps.” He looked unconvinced.
“And as for posturing and pretension and insincerity, I’m persuaded those aren’t unique to London either. Where there’s society, Major, there’ll be foolishness. It is—unfortunately—part of human nature.”
Major Reynolds smiled. “Well argued, ma’am.” But the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Isabella looked down at the kitten she held, aware that the major’s estimation of her had shrunk in the past minute. Was she so vain that she cared? It appeared so.
Major Reynolds stood. “I’ve trespassed on your time long enough.”
“Not at all.” But she rose, too. The kitten, which had been asleep in her hand, woke with an indignant squeak. Isabella bent and placed the tiny creature on the floor. It shook itself, almost falling over in the process.
Rufus rose when she opened the door. He came down the stairs with them and politely licked the major’s hand goodbye.
“Which ball, Major?”
Major Reynolds accepted his hat and gloves from her butler, Hoban. “Both.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Both?”
�
��If one is to do something, one should do it properly.” The major’s tone was grim, as if he spoke of battle, not dress balls.
Nicholas walked home, deep in thought. Lady Isabella wanted a costume, did she? Inspiration struck as he turned into Albemarle Street. He uttered a laugh as he ran up the steps to the house he’d hired for the Season.
“Has Mr. Shepherd arrived?”
“No, sir,” the butler said, accepting his hat and gloves.
Nicholas glanced at the long clock in the hallway. It still wanted ten minutes to the hour. “I’ll be in my study. Send him in when he arrives, Frye.”
“Very good, sir.”
The house had come furnished, but despite the paintings on the walls and the library full of books it felt more like a hotel than a home. The study was the only room he’d made his own, clearing out all the knickknacks. The wing-backed leather armchair had, in the past few weeks, molded itself to fit him.
Mr. Shepherd was punctual to the hour. Nicholas put aside the letter he’d been writing and stood. “Mr. Shepherd. Thank you for coming.”
“Not at all.” Mr. Shepherd’s hand was dry, his hairline receding, and his gray eyes sharp with intelligence.
“I understand you do some work for Bow Street.”
“On occasion, yes.”
“You’ve been recommended to me as being both discreet and thorough.”
Mr. Shepherd made no reply. His expression was as impassive as his person was nondescript.
“I have a commission for you. Please be seated.”
The details were swiftly sorted. Nicholas was conscious of a sense of satisfaction as he watched the man leave. Soon I’ll know. And when he did . . .
He turned to look out the window, watching as Mr. Shepherd walked down the steps and along Albemarle Street. The man blended in with the other pedestrians, becoming almost invisible, so unremarkable as to be remarkable.
Nicholas lifted a hand to the scar on his cheek and let his fingertips trail over the smoothness and the ridges of hardened flesh. Ogre.
Soon he’d know the identity of Harriet’s kind benefactress.
His next task took him into the snarl of crooked streets around Drury Lane, in search of an establishment recommended to him by one of his footman, a Londoner born and bred. He spent an hour in conference with a plump gentleman possessing a shock of wiry hair and paint-stained fingers, parted with a not inconsiderable sum of money, and exited whistling.
