by Rakes Reward
Marina could only nod.
‘And with your figure, miss, this simple cut will be ideal. You wait and see. I promise you will be amazed at what I shall do for you.’
‘Good evening, Kit.’
Kit was not surprised to be met by Méchante, almost on the doorstep. She had an uncanny knack of knowing exactly who was in her gaming house and where she was likely to be least welcome. After his last rejection of her advances, he should have known to expect a further assault, the moment he set foot in her house again. She was not a good loser.
He forced himself to smile down at her. ‘My dear Méchante,’ he said in a light, playful tone, ‘how delightful to be welcomed by one’s hostess. On the doorstep, no less. To what do I owe this singular honour?’
She smiled up at him with glowingly sensuous green eyes. She was trying very hard to provoke a reaction. She seemed to need to prove that she could.
He continued to smile with the same studied friendliness. She did not light even the tiniest spark of desire. She must know it, too. He caught the moment when her expression changed from seduction to calculation.
‘Are you for Faro tonight, Kit?’ she said abruptly. ‘Your favourite opponent is here.’
Kit raised an eyebrow. ‘Is she, indeed?’ He did not need a name to know precisely who was meant by Méchante’s remark. ‘I must own I am a little surprised, considering…’
Méchante laughed. It was a rather brittle sound. ‘Considering that she has only just rid herself of last week’s debts. Was that what you were about to say?’
Kit gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘No. I was not about to say anything of the kind. If you wish for information about my dealings with the Dowager, you must address your questions to her, and not to me.’
Méchante tried again. ‘Come, Kit. You can tell me, can’t you? After all, it was in my house that the debt was incurred.’
He shook his head again, more forcefully this time. ‘No. If she wishes you to know, she will—no doubt—tell you.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Méchante said testily. ‘But if you wish to enter the lists against her in future, I shall insist on knowing everything. From now on, that is a condition of entry to my house—devised especially for you, Kit.’
He bowed slightly. ‘I shall—of course—take note of your wishes, though I do not promise to frequent your house if you insist on such terms. As it happens, I have no intention of playing Faro tonight. It is a night for skill, I fancy. A simple hand of piquet will suffice. Will you join me?’
‘Thank you, but no. Piquet is not my game. I wish you good fortune.’ With an elegant curtsy, she led the way up the staircase to the landing and disappeared into the hubbub of noisy guests in the main reception room.
Kit strolled thoughtfully up the stairs, looking around him. There was no one about. The upstairs hallway was empty. The piquet room was beyond the main reception room. He looked towards the door to the Faro rooms. It was closed. He paused with his hand on the newel post. He might just stroll in to see how the game was progressing. If Lady Luce was there, he would resist the temptation to take a hand against her. She would be desperate to challenge him, and even more desperate to win, but it would not do to indulge her.
The first Faro chamber was empty. Surprising, Kit thought. Normally, both tables would be full. He strolled through to the inner chamber. There, every chair was taken. Lady Luce was seated immediately opposite the banker, a man Kit did not know. Judging by the pile of coin in front of her, she had been winning. She was not ‘Lady Lose’ on this occasion.
Kit propped himself casually against the side of the archway, watching the play. The game would soon be over.
As soon as the last card had been dealt, a player at the far end of the table hailed Kit with a drunken wave. ‘Kit, old fellow. Won’t you join us? Just the sort of man I like to play against. Generosity itself, what?’
Lady Luce’s shoulders tensed visibly but she did not turn round. She seemed to be studying her fingernails.
Kit moved across to the table and leant a hip against it, spreading the fingers of one lean hand on the green baize, only inches from the Dowager’s elbow. ‘Not tonight, I thank you,’ he drawled. He paused, watching Lady Luce’s rigid figure. She seemed determined to ignore him. He would not permit that.
‘Good evening, ma’am,’ he said in a voice of the utmost politeness, but without altering his careless stance. ‘I note that you appear to be rather more successful this evening than…on previous occasions.’
The Dowager raised her head a little and looked sideways at him through her lashes. ‘Good evening, Mr Stratton,’ she said sourly. ‘You are not prepared to hazard your reputation at the Faro table, I collect?’
‘I see no need, ma’am. I have nothing to prove there. My reputation is safe enough.’
‘Indeed?’ said Lady Luce with a tight smile. ‘I had heard—’ She broke off, looking round at each of the players in turn, gathering their attention. In the sudden hush, she said, ‘I had heard that, in the matter of fidelity at least, reputations were becoming…just a little tarnished.’
What on earth did she mean by that? What could she have heard? The slight murmurings around the table suggested that the rumours—whatever they were—had already gone beyond the Dowager.
Slowly, Kit straightened, making her a tiny, mocking bow. She really was a very small woman. ‘I have no doubt, ma’am, that the application of a sufficient quantity of gold will restore any lustre that may be missing. You need have no concern on that account. I will bid you good evening.’ Before she could reply, he turned his back and sauntered out of the room.
On the far side of the archway, Méchante was standing, holding a glass of champagne and smiling with satisfaction.
Kit nodded towards her and continued on his way. He refused to let either of those confounded women see even a hint of weakness.
But underneath Kit’s studied nonchalance, his fury was mounting. Lady Luce had suggested he was being unfaithful to Katharina. How dare she? It seemed that the old harridan would stop at nothing to inflict injury on Kit, even downright untruths. He had not been unfaithful to his Baroness, except— Miss Beaumont. That must be it. The Dowager must have learned about his clandestine meetings with Miss Beaumont and put her own interpretation on them. It was extraordinary, but what other explanation could there be? He would need to find a way of quashing the rumours before Katharina heard them, as she doubtless would. Lady Luce must be persuaded to—
No. Lady Luce was not the person most at fault in this case. Hugo had been sworn to secrecy on the subject of those meetings. Apart from him, no one knew that Miss Beaumont had visited Kit. There was only one possible source of the rumour that the Dowager had been spreading—Miss Beaumont herself.
If the woman had been naïve enough to confide in the Dowager, she would soon learn to regret her lack of discretion. And Kit would take the greatest pleasure in telling her exactly how foolish she had been.
‘She is to play later. And to sing. She is not in the least retiring in that respect. I fancy she may be quite accomplished. She looks remarkably well this evening, too. Do you not agree, Hugo?’
Following his wife’s gaze, Hugo murmured something that could have been assent. ‘Something different about her. Cannot quite put my finger on it. She looks…younger.’ His voice had a questioning note.
‘Men,’ said Emma with a laugh. ‘Of course she looks different. She has a new hairstyle. Much more flattering than that tight knot she used to wear.’
‘You are probably right, m’dear,’ agreed Hugo. ‘She is not exactly handsome, but she looks like a woman of breeding. Something to do with the way she holds herself, I fancy. She will turn heads, in spite of her lack of conventional beauty. Pity she is so tall.’
Emma nodded slightly. ‘I am too short, and she is too tall. There is no pleasing you gentlemen. However, you are right. There are very few gentlemen here who would be tall enough to look her in the eye.’
Hugo
chuckled wickedly. ‘What you need, my dear, is a visit from brother Kit.’
‘Heavens, no! If Kit were to show his face here, half the ladies would faint from shock and my reputation would be in shreds.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Hugo softly.
Emma closed her eyes and nodded, as if the picture was too painful to contemplate.
‘In that case, my love, I suggest you prepare to be shredded, for your brother-in-law has just walked through the door.’
Emma’s softly voiced cry of ‘Oh, no!’ was the only sound to be heard in the sudden and complete hush pervading the huge white and gold reception room of Fitzwilliam House.
Kit Stratton stood in the open doorway surveying the assembled company as if his arrival were the most natural thing in the world. He was wearing immaculate black evening dress, with no jewellery save for a gold pin in his intricate neckcloth. He looked bored. He did not smile even when his eye lit upon his brother and his beautiful sister-in-law. He strolled easily across the crowded room, the guests standing aside to make way for him. Some of the older ladies stepped back very smartly indeed, as if afraid that his nearness might taint them. Kit appeared not to notice.
He bowed gracefully to Emma and then raised her hand to his lips. ‘My dear Emma,’ he said, ‘my apologies for arriving so late. I trust I have not disrupted your entertainment?’
Emma frowned warningly at him, but Kit was not in a mood to accept her hints. ‘I am surprised that you have chosen to attend such a dull affair, Kit,’ she said smoothly as he let go of her hand.
Over her shoulder, Hugo added, in a voice intended for Emma and Kit alone, ‘Especially as Emma definitely did not invite you, brother.’
Kit suppressed a smile. ‘Perhaps you would care to introduce me to some of your guests, Emma?’ He knew that her immediate reaction would be confusion. She would be well aware that many of her guests would be affronted to have Kit Stratton presented to them.
But Emma was more than ready to pick up the gaunt-let that Kit had thrown down. ‘I am sure, dear brother,’ she said, ‘that I shall be able to present you to some of my guests, at least.’ She tucked her hand through his arm. ‘Come.’
Kit glanced sideways to see that Hugo had a very knowing look on his face. He clearly believed that his wife would have the better of Kit in this encounter.
Emma led Kit directly to Lady Luce, whose tiny figure had been hidden by those around her. He had barely a few seconds to compose his features. After last night’s little encounter, it was unlikely that the Dowager would be in the mood for exchanging polite nothings.
The grey companion seemed to be missing on this occasion, which was a pity. Kit had hoped that Emma’s soirée would provide him with an opportunity to confront Miss Beaumont with what she had done. He had determined that she would not learn just how furious her indiscretions had made him. After all, she had probably done more harm to her own reputation than to his. None the less, he did not care for any woman to make free with his name or to interfere in his private life.
‘Ma’am, I think you are already acquainted with my brother-in-law, Mr Stratton?’
Lady Luce frowned up at Kit’s bland countenance. ‘So, young man, you have decided to create another scandal, have you?’
Kit bowed without a word.
‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ continued the Dowager. ‘Half your sister’s guests will be finding that they suddenly have pressing engagements elsewhere. You will ruin her party. You mark my words. Is that not so, Lady Blaine?’ she added, half turning to her companion.
Lady Blaine tried to look down her long nose at Kit.
‘You will allow me to present Mr Kit Stratton,’ said the Dowager mischievously, visibly relishing Lady Blaine’s discomfiture. In normal circumstances, Lady Blaine would never have permitted such an introduction.
Kit reached forward and impudently took Lady Blaine’s hand, raising it as if for a gallant kiss. He restricted himself to another elegant bow. ‘Delighted, ma’am,’ he said coolly.
‘Mr Stratton,’ said Lady Blaine, in the coldest, most arrogant voice he had heard in years. ‘Ma’am,’ she went on, turning back to Lady Luce, ‘as it happens, I do have another engagement—’
‘Balderdash,’ said Lady Luce rudely. ‘This is a musical soirée and the entertainment has barely begun. You cannot leave just because this young…ne’er-do-well has appeared uninvited.’
Kit was having difficulty in keeping his face straight. He did not dare to meet Emma’s eye. Lady Blaine looked as if someone had placed a bad smell right under her nose.
‘Besides,’ continued Lady Luce, ‘did you not say that your Tilly was about to perform? I do hope she is in good voice. Can’t abide those screeching females who never know when to stop.’ She looked round for the young lady in question. Everyone else followed suit.
Miss Blaine was standing by the instrument, dressed in a white muslin gown that was not in the least flattering to either her complexion or her thin figure. Her eyes were wide. She was absolutely immobile, as if she were transfixed by a beautiful vision. And her gaze was resting adoringly on Kit. It was a look he had seen too many times, on too many impressionable young females.
‘Not sure that she looks capable of performing,’ said the Dowager loudly. ‘Looks to me as if she were about to swoon…or perhaps she is wandering in her wits.’
Lady Blaine choked and started across the room towards her daughter, but it was too late. Too many of the guests had heard Lady Luce’s caustic words and had turned to look. A low murmuring had begun. In a few hours, the tale of Miss Blaine’s infatuation would be all over London. Only the young lady herself seemed oblivious to what was going on in the room. She continued to gaze wide-eyed at Kit. Her lips had fallen open on a tiny sigh of delight.
Her mother took her by the shoulders, giving her a little shake. Her low angry words were inaudible but their effect on Miss Blaine was clear. She flushed bright red, hanging her head as her mother ushered her out.
Lady Luce snorted eloquently. ‘Can’t abide missish females with highty-tighty mothers,’ she said, ‘especially ones who never seem to lose at the card table.’
Emma quickly looked away, trying—Kit fancied—to hide her amusement. ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ she said. ‘I must find someone to take Miss Blaine’s place. She was just about to sing.’
‘Oh, Marina will do that,’ said the Dowager airily, stopping Emma with a hand on her arm. ‘She won’t disgrace me, I promise you that. Where on earth has she got to?’
Marina? A most unusual name. Could she be referring to the grey companion? Kit had never learned Miss Beaumont’s given name. But her initial was certainly M.
Emma was looking round the room. After a moment, she pointed with her fan. ‘Over there, ma’am. If you will excuse me, I will go and ask her if she will favour us with some music now, rather than later.’
Kit watched Emma make her way through the press of guests, with a word here and a touch there to clear her path. She had the happy knack of charming everyone, almost without effort. Hugo was a lucky man.
Emma stopped beside a tall lady who was almost completely hidden by a pillar. She was dressed in a kind of filmy creation of pinkish-gold, with dark hair dressed high on her head, making her appear even taller. After a moment, she stepped out and, moving with exquisite grace, made her way calmly across to the instrument. Kit could not take his eyes from her. She seemed to be floating across the room.
It was only when she sat down at the instrument that the light fell full on her face. The Dowager’s grey companion was not beautiful. But there was something about her that drew the eye. She looked…
Kit could not find the right words. He was seeing something in Miss Beaumont that, for all his experience, he had overlooked before. It was very strange.
And then she began to play.
Chapter Thirteen
Miss Beaumont played beautifully. Under her fingers, the instrument seemed to sing. Kit found her performance
strangely moving, though he was careful to ensure that anyone watching him would conclude that he was thoroughly bored. It would do no good for Miss Beaumont’s reputation if the polite world suspected that Kit Stratton had even the slightest interest in her.
It was rather more difficult to maintain that bland façade when she began to sing, for her voice was even more remarkable than her playing. He tried to remember whether her speaking voice had had that mellifluous, caressing quality. He did not think so. It had been low, cultured, pleasing—but it had not touched a chord in him in the way her singing voice now did. Was it because of what she sang? He was not sure. Both the words and the simple melody were new to him. She sang of the beauty of nature, of wild open spaces—like her home in Yorkshire, he supposed—and of the joy of being alive. He felt he could smell the heather on the moors as she sang. And she looked almost beautiful, too, seemingly transfigured by the simple act of making music. He would hardly have believed it possible. All thought of berating her vanished from his mind.
Emma took his arm as the first song ended. ‘How can you, Kit? You are listening to the most ravishing performance you are ever like to hear, and you make no attempt to hide your boredom. Do you have a tin ear? Or are you merely a barbarian?’
Kit looked down into Emma’s teasing face. He must not admit the truth, even to her. There were too many people around who might overhear. On the other hand, he was not prepared to lie about the beauty of Miss Beaumont’s singing. That would be unworthy. ‘Apologies, m’dear,’ he said absently. ‘I fear my thoughts were quite elsewhere. I was not listening. But if you tell me that Miss er…that the lady’s performance was ravishing, I shall of course agree with you. It would be ungentlemanly to do otherwise.’
