The household retired early for, despite the lengthening spring days, it was still dusk by dinner time, and Mrs Goulding had strong views concerning the use of candles by under-servants. As soon as she was sure that the servants were all abed, Kit stole down the stairs and found her way to the nether regions of the house, where a side door was habitually left open for the convenience of the staff. Moving with stealth almost as skilful as that displayed by Wellbeloved in the pursuit of his profession, she reached the stables unchallenged and there saddled her mare with the ease of long practice. She could not help wondering at the apparent laxity of the Earl's grooms, for the mare had not allowed herself to be saddled in silence, and yet still no one had appeared to investigate. The truth was that none of the servants was inclined to ask the foreign young gentleman where he might be off to in the middle of the night, and having heard from John of his prowess with the small sword, they declined to interfere. So, although Kitty was not undetected, she was at least unmolested.
At any other time, that ride into London through the moonlit night would have delighted Kitty, for the countryside, always lovely, had taken on a strange fairylike quality in the moonlight. The road lay before her—a winding shimmering ribbon—down the hill and away towards the red glow in the sky, which was London.
She reached it one hour later, trotting through the deserted streets on her tired mare, unconscious of her own fatigue, only concentrating with painful eagerness on the task before her.
As she was a stranger to London, she was obliged to ask the direction several times and, more than once, was compelled to draw her sword as some passer-by sought to relieve her of her purse. Not for nothing had Kit roamed the cities of Europe with her father. She was more than a match for her assailants and was, indeed, rather invigorated by the encounters.
Eventually, she reached St James, where Lord Debenham's town residence was situated. She knew the house she sought, for Debenham had thoughtfully left his direction lest she should desire to communicate with him, and to a resourceful housebreaker it presented little difficulty. Someone had left open a window on the second floor, conveniently adjacent to a drainpipe. Within two minutes, she was inside the house.
The room in which she found herself appeared to be a dressing room, from which she deduced that the chamber next to it was probably Debenham's. Kit gently pushed open the communicating door, praying as she did so that his Lordship had not chosen to retire early, and slipped into the room. It was empty. With a sigh of relief, Kit set to work following very much the pattern of her predecessor, starting with Debenham's clothes and, from thence, to his drawers and valises.
It was not to be found, As she drew blank after blank, Kit became convinced that Debenham did not, in fact, have the paper at all, that he was innocent. She became more and more confident that Wellbeloved had deceived her, so that when she idly picked up a piece of paper lying conspicuously on a small table and found it to be the very paper Wellbeloved had described, the shock and distress she felt were intensified. She burnt with rage and, cursing under her breath in several languages, she turned to leave the room. As she did so, the door opened, and Debenham walked into the room. He halted on the threshold, pardonably startled.
“Good God, Kit, what the ...” he began, the words dying on his lip's as he found himself staring into the blazing eyes facing him across the point of a sword.
“On guard, Sir,” said Kit with deadly calm.
The Earl was bewildered, “If this is some kind of jest, I think it a poor one.”
“It is no jest, my Lord Earl,” she flung at him, “I told you, did I not, that my father was betrayed. You laughed at me. You shall see now if my vengeance is to be laughed at.”
“Kit, stop being so melodramatic,” answered Debenham acidly, “and put down that damned sword. I am not going to fight you.”
“Coward!” she cried furiously, “If you will not fight, I shall make you.” And with that, she lunged wildly at Debenham, who side-stepped swiftly and, seeing that she was beyond reason, drew his own pretty, jewelled dress sword and swiftly went to work to disarm her. If Kit had not been so hurt and angry, she would never have attempted to cross swords with a swordsman of his quality, and it was purely because she was not thinking that Debenham was unable to disarm her without hurting her. He was parrying each lunge with infuriating ease, but Kit had recovered from her first wild frenzy and was fencing with a technique that made it necessary for the Earl to look to his own protection. He began fighting with a certain nicety, enjoying the unusual sensation. Kitty feinted; he gave her credit for the attempt but made the obvious riposte. She, not knowing that particular trick, failed to make the response that any other duellist would have made automatically, and Debenham, quite unintentionally, found that the point of his sword had connected with his opponent's shoulder. There was the usual sickening sliding feeling as the point entered the flesh, and then, flinging the sword aside, he caught the unconscious form of his ward in his arms.
Never had the competent Earl been so wholly at a loss. He cradled her in his arms, distractedly calling her name until he saw with relief that the colour was returning to her livid cheeks, and the long lashes fluttered open.
“Thank God,” he murmured devoutly, smoothing back the tangled curls that had fallen across her brow. “My poor darling, thank God, I feared I had killed you.”
“No, no, it was all my fault,” she whispered tearfully clutching at his coat with a convulsive hand, “but, what did you call me?”
“My darling,” he murmured again, holding her yet closer, his cheek pressed against her damp curls.
She moved then in his arms, so violently that she wrenched her injured shoulder and cried out in pain. Restored to sanity by this, Debenham looked rather rueful, “Pray allow me to do what I can for that shoulder, I am a very tolerable nurse I believe.”
Kitty, however, was not concerned about her wound, which was indeed nothing more than a scratch. She was staring in horror at the Earl. “So, you did know, all the time. It is true.”
Lord Debenham frowned, “What is true, Kit, I do not understand you.”
“You knew that I was a girl all along, just as he said,” she hurled at him. “What did you plan for me, my Lord Earl, was I to be honoured with marriage, or was I simply to disappear? After all, you killed my father. One cannot expect that you would be over-nice about me.”
Lord Debenham was very pale. “I do not know what you are talking about,” he said curtly, “but whatever it is, explanations can wait until that shoulder is seen to. Come here.”
“I shall not,” she cried defiantly.
“Do not be a fool. Come here, or I shall be obliged to compel you.”
“You could not!”
Lord Debenham moved slowly towards his ward. He looked appallingly grim as he glared down at her. Then he smiled, a twisted little smile that made him look suddenly much younger. “I cannot, of course, compel you, but please believe me when I say that, at the moment, my only desire is to help you.”
Her blue eyes filled with tears. “Indeed, Sir, I do believe you,” she said.
The tension in the small room relaxed. Lord Debenham assisted Kitty out of the brave claret-coloured coat, which she noted with gloom was quite ruined. Without hesitation, he ripped open the fine lawn shirt to lay bare a long scratch in the hollow of her left shoulder, which was already drying to a rusty brown. He took a pitcher of water from beside the bed and carefully washed the wound. Then, from his pocket, he produced a flask of cognac, some of which he poured over the scratch, the rest being tilted, despite her tearful protest, into his ward's mouth. He then rummaged through a drawer, finally producing a cambric shirt, which, although very much too large, was at least of use in preserving the decencies.
Lastly, he lifted the slight figure onto the bed and seated himself beside her, saying, “Now, perhaps you will tell me what all this is about.”
It made, thought Kitty, a particularly silly tale when disclosed to this urba
ne guardian of hers, whom she had so readily cast as the villain of the piece. She could not tell what he was thinking as she stumbled haltingly through her account of her meeting with the stranger. She only knew that, with every fresh disclosure, he seemed to grow more remote from her. She could not have believed that it was the same man who, not so many minutes ago, had held her in his arms and called her his darling. At last, the shame-faced recital came to an end. The Earl began to speak and, as he talked, she felt herself growing smaller and more foolish by the moment.
“So, my ward,” he began, “you were willing to take the word of a chance-met and plausible stranger, and to believe me to be the vilest of men.” He laughed, but not as though he was amused. “Do you know, my dear, I really believe I was beginning to grow rather fond of you. I imagined that I had found what I had come to believe did not exist—a woman of courage, honour, and strength, all the qualities in which your sex is so conspicuously lacking. Instead, I am relieved to find that you are as stupid, heartless, and untrustworthy as the rest of your endearing sisters. I think that, after all, I prefer my betrothed to any of you. She at least never pretends to feel or to have a heart. Yes, I am very well satisfied after all.”
Kitty was crying quietly, her head bowed. She had no answer to make to the insults he heaped upon her. She supposed that she deserved them. She had been wrong, of course, blindly, stupidly wrong, but there had been some justification. She remembered now that he had known that she was masquerading. Why had he said nothing? Timidly, she put the question.
“Because, Kit, I believed that you would be frightened and embarrassed if you discovered I knew the truth while we were still comparatively recent acquaintances. It was, I am sure, foolish of me, but I had no desire to cause you any distress.”
“How did you find out, Sir?” she questioned humbly.
“When I carried you to your room the night we learned of your father’s death. It was not the first time that I have held a woman in my arms. I assure you it is a very different experience than that of carrying an adolescent boy.”
She could not but acknowledge the reasonableness of this and cursed herself for a fool for not having realized that it must be so. She wished almost that he would go on being furious with her, but instead he had withdrawn from her totally and was regarding the whole situation with a detached amusement that hurt her even more.
She ventured another question. “My Lord, why should that man have told me these things. Who can he have been?”
He answered readily. It would be as well that she should be on her guard. “I have reason to believe, from your description and from my own knowledge of the man, that it was a certain Mr Wellbeloved. He is an unpleasant creature, and dangerous. Be careful, my child. If you ever see that gentleman again, tell me immediately, send word if need be, and take great care.”
“I will, Sir,” she answered fervently, “but what can have been his object? Do you know?”
“I shall be very much surprised if his object were not that same piece of paper he sent you to recover. If, as he says, it is all the proof we need to have you named heiress to the Brabington estate, then he presumably had some nefarious use for it. What that might be, I fully admit, I cannot imagine.”
Five
It was on the twentieth day of June in the year of seventeen forty seven that Lady Horatia Willoughby, Marchioness of Chinley, took up her pen to resume her regular correspondence with her dear friend Madame de Longueville, at present residing in Paris.
“My dear, no doubt you are wondering at my long silence, but, my sweet creature, when you hear my excuses, I flatter myself that I shall be forgiven. In my last lengthy epistle, I fear that my ennui could not but communicate itself to you, try as I might to dissemble. But now, my love, that is quite at an end, for I have the most enchanting occupation imaginable. You will recollect that I informed you of my nephew's betrothal to that disagreeable Henshawe chit. Lord, why will the men be such fools? But I digress. Well, about three months since, when I swear I was about to perish with boredom, my dearest Anthony appeared upon my doorstep. He said he wanted my help and, as you know, I have ever had a kindness for my darling brother's boy, and so, of course, I promised to do my all. It appeared that he had been left the charge of a young girl; do not ask me how, for he clammed up whenever I ventured an inquiry on that subject. However, I vow it is the most delightful mystery, for the child, he told me, had been used to dress and behave like a boy, and had no more idea how to go on in petticoats than Anthony himself. This was the heart of the matter. I was to go down to Debenham, which I vow I have been longing to do this age, and there take the girl in hand and make her fit to be seen.
“It appears, my love, that my sweetest Kitty is an heiress; she is the most delicious creature beside. I swear she will break hearts, but I get before myself. Anthony described her to me in the coolest terms, but upon hearing that she was dark, with the bluest eyes I have ever seen, though to be sure I did not know that then, for Anthony would only say that he rather thought they were not brown, I instantly sent to Celine and ordered a great many gowns in pink, and blue—but not green or yellow, for, as you know, such colours cannot flatter a blue eye. When I saw her, I knew instantly that she would appear divine in white, so I commissioned Anthony to send us some pretty petticoats.
“You can imagine how my curiosity was whetted. I could scarce contain myself until I reached Debenham, although that could not be for another week, for I had dearest Louisa Malpert's Drum to attend. However I did at last arrive—and what a surprise was in store! I was greeted, my dear, by the most beautiful young man you can conceive of. Indeed, I was in a fair way to being in love with him 'til I discovered that 'twas my dearest Kitty, and no man at all. However, she greeted me with greatest politeness and said that she was truly grateful to me for helping her.
Well, the very first thing was to get her out of those dreadful clothes, though, to be sure, they became her prodigiously. I had had two of the loveliest gowns made up, one in a pretty pink damask, and an entrancing chintz saque in blue and white, which I had a mind to keep for myself until I saw how well it would become Kitty. We retired to her chamber, and then and there I divested her of those outrageous garments and, with the help of my faithful Sarah, arrayed her in the blue. My dear, I could have wept.
She put me much in mind of yourself, Marguerite, at the same age. Such black hair, and the whitest skin! Her figure is perhaps a shade too muscular but, with tight lacing, nothing is left to be desired. She will make a prodigious sensation when she appears. I wish I had the power to describe to you that child's face when she saw herself thus. She was radiant, I give you my word. Even I was surprised. As a boy, she had been handsome; but, if you will not think me extravagant, I must say that I consider Kitty to be the loveliest girl I have ever beheld. There, from another woman you cannot doubt that it is so.
And so, my sweet, for these three months past, I have been teaching Kitty everything I know, which is not inconsiderable, of the art of being a female. We began with such basics as deportment, curtsies, holding the fan, etc., and have progressed apace, to dancing and dalliance. Even after all my work, I cannot say that my sweet charge is truly womanly yet, for she has no notion of flirtation, nor of the vapours, and is painfully outspoken, which I cannot persuade her is a fault; but, even so, I predict that when we appear in Bath, which is to be next month, she will achieve a remarkable success.
My dearest Anthony has not been near us all this time. But we expect him today, and I am consumed with curiosity about them, for, between us two, I think 'twould be the prettiest thing imaginable if they were to wed. Yet there is the Henshawe girl in the way.
Touching the matter of the M. Clareville, of whom you requested news, I regret that I must inform you that the gentleman died in Newgate some time ago. I hope that he was not a close acquaintance, for he was dangerous to know. Oh, by the by, I have not told you my Kitty's name, have I? Well, if you should read in your journal of a Mistress Katherine
Brabington, then you will know to whom they refer.
Yr. loving friend, etc., etc.
Lady Horatia laid down her pen with a sigh of satisfaction. She was a kind-hearted and generous soul, and she had great pleasure in communicating to her friend all the delight she herself felt in this intriguing romance into which she had been drawn. In her youth, Lady Horatia had been a great beauty and had married for love the man of her father's choice, now unfortunately deceased. She therefore felt no envy of the young or the lovely, merely hoping that they would achieve happiness as perfect as her own had been. She was sincerely attached to her nephew and, although she made light of the matter to Marguerite, she had been distressed beyond measure to learn of his betrothal. She considered Amelia Henshawe to be a cold and insipid woman, but worse than that, she had watched her closely and was quite convinced that she felt nothing for his lordship and that, had she been uninfluenced by ambition, she would very much rather have married one Captain Markham, a dashing but impecunious officer, in whose company she had shown some faint sparks of animation.
No happiness could be expected of a match where there was affection on neither side, but in a marriage in which both parties were in love with someone else, there could only be misery. That my Lord was in love with his ward was an idea that had dawned slowly in listening to Kitty talk of him. He certainly seemed to have treated her with more consideration than she could remember any lady having enjoyed previously.
The Marchioness was musing thus when a sudden stir out of doors informed her that the object of her meditations had arrived.
She arose gracefully, her skirts over their enormous hoops billowing around her. She swept into the hall, where her dignity deserted her abruptly at the sight of her favourite nephew, and she threw her arms around him in an embrace that was returned as heartily.
“My dearest Aunt, how delightful you look,” smiled Debenham, as he held his aunt at arm's length to take in the full glories of her apple-green taffeta petenlair, much beruffled and worn with an exquisitely embroidered petticoat in palest gold.
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