The Black Cat (4 page)

Would he countenance the admittance of Venus? London was abuzz with speculation and several of the very de rigeur gentleman's clubs set up a cautious bet on the issue. Odds were
not
in favour of Venus—few thought Santana had the gumption to appear with a cat creasing his elegant Weston-tailored pockets—but doubt still prevailed. Alas for some of the loftier noblemen! Several gold guineas were lost as the little goddess strutted in on a leash, quite at ease with her sumptuous environs and
equally
sumptuous master.

Santana, in a blaze of rubies, looked remarkably elegant as neckerchief, finger and shirt cuffs glittered in a shade that exactly matched the rich thread running through his tight, superbly fitting superfine coat. The sumptuous satin of his knee breeches were, to the discerning, of a slightly
darker
hue, but a tolerable match nonetheless.

The lackeys hardly blinked as they took my lord's card and announced him in ringing tones that caused a hush all through the ball room.

“His lordship Guy Santana, third Earl of Camden, Viscount Lansborough and his. . . and . . . well, and . . .
Venus,
your highness.”

There was a general gasp as the prince plodded jovially across the room. He eyed the cat warily—for in the past, she had shown a discomforting propensity to hiss at him. Tonight, however, she was apparently prepared to be perfectly graceful. Accordingly, the prince decided it would be churlish—not to mention downright rude—not to return the favour.

In a rather loud undertone that was guaranteed to be overheard by the most auspicious of his guests, he politely regretted that Venus had not received an invitation herself, hence the rather clumsy announcement by his manservant.

“Be assured, my fair Venus, the mistake shall not again occur.” He grinned wickedly at Santana and accorded him an unregal wink that spoke volumes for their friendship and secured Venus's place in society forever more.

 

 

Guy Santana, though he was loath to admit it, was now rather fond of his feline. He liked her loyalty, he liked her startlingly intelligent eyes, and above all, he liked her perspicacity. When she hissed at Colonel Bridgewater and purred at the ancient and charming Miss Denby, his lordship was heard to utter, in tones of astonishment, that the little vixen was “the most discerning creature alive.”

Thus it was that the strange alliance progressed. If it seemed, at times, that the cat repined, the earl set it down to ill humour. After all, did he not, himself, have fits of the dismals?

A clear image of the glorious gypsy girl flitted like lightning in his mind. In that moment, he could sense her keenly, taste those cherry lips, smell her wild, untamed gypsy scent, which mingled with the rain in tantalising profusion. When he closed his eyes, he could almost hear her mocking laughter. He burned from her goading eyes. If he knew that his pet could—and did—conjure up those self-same images, he might have been shocked out of his habitual complacency. Fortunately for him, he had no notion of the circumstance. It was left to Venus—goddess of beauty and love—to watch and wait.

Mr. Daniel Pelliat murmured quietly under his breath. The earl—alerted to the fact that his lawyer must have something of great moment to discuss with him, since that gentleman did not
habitually
interrupt his morning's review of the House speeches—set down the rather tedious paperwork and bade him enter with a smile.

“Come in, Pelliat! Shall I ring for tea?”

The lawyer shook his head emphatically. “Indeed not, my lord! It is merely that I wish—”

“Boring legal documents, Pelliat?”

Pelliat nodded, though he was not certain that boring was the correct description for the documents he carried.

“My lord. . .”

“Guy, Pelliat! Or if you must,
Santana
will do! I cannot
abide
niceties in my own home.”

This was obviously not a new matter to the very correct Pelliat, who merely bowed rather gruffly and endeavoured not to bring his lordship's name into the conversation again.

“Uh . . .”

“Yes, Pelliat?”

“I feel certain that you shall wish to see this yourself.”

“What is it?”

“It is a last will and testament, my lord.”

“Indeed? How very exciting, Pelliat! Not my own, I hope?”

Pelliat could never
quite
detect the twinkle in the third earl's mischievous eyes, so he almost always failed to note when the earl was funning.

“No, indeed, my lord! In a manner of speaking, my—that is, Santana, ahem.”

He concluded on a choke that caused his employer to chuckle in amused sympathy.

“Manner of speaking? How cryptic, Pelliat! So tell me—if it is not mine, have I been left a worldly fortune?”

“No. . .”

“No? You disappoint me. A watch then? A keepsake?”

Pelliat shook his head.

“Come, Daniel Pelliat! Do not seek to slumguzzle me, I beg! If that is a testament you are waving in my face, there must be something bequeathed. Not so?”

The lawyer nodded.

The earl was patient. “Exactly
what,
Mr Pelliat, have I inherited?”

“You appear to have inherited, my lord, a debt of honour.”

The earl's face, for the first time, clouded slightly.

“Beg pardon?”

Patterson cleared his throat a trifle nervously and wished himself outside on the castle lawns. Even, if necessary, in the well-tended moat—anywhere, in fact, other than where he now found himself.

“Cut to the quick, Daniel! Or better yet, give me that damn paper!”

The earl stretched out his hand and unceremoniously removed the document from his lawyer's hand.

“Good God! I cannot be reading this correctly!”

“I am afraid you are, my lord.”

“The gall of the man! Even in death he is the wiliest, most unscrupulous. . .”

“Quite, my lord.”

“What is to be done, Pelliat?”

“Are the contents veracious, my lord?”

The earl glared at him. “You are not actually contemplating
upholding
this drivel?”

The lawyer shifted uneasily onto the other foot.

“Well, my lord. . . It is just—well. . . Venus, you know, is famous!”

“Venus is a
cat,
Pelliat! I fail to see any material connection.”

“No, but. . . Well, it seems a remarkable coincidence that you acquired the feline at the very time that the marquis specifies in his testament.”

“I am not disputing the origins of Venus, Pelliat! I am quite happy to admit that Fotheringham ceded her to me in payment of a gambling debt.”

“And the girl?”

The earl frowned. “Gracious, my good man! Do you think me a
monster?
I won her, it is true, but I
immediately
waived my right to the prize! I am not so desperate to get myself leg shackled that I must needs throw a dice to acquire a wife! Why, I do not like to boast of it, but I daresay there might be any
number
of young women willing to oblige me on this score.”

Pelliat did not dispute this. He would have been a veritable greenhorn if he had tried to do so. The earl's eligibility was obvious and not a matter of contention, as he rather sternly tried to point out.

“What troubles me, your lordship, is what is to become of the chit?”

“Heavens, I have not the foggiest notion! It is not, after all, my concern, and I refuse to marry on grounds as flimsy as these. Old man Fotheringham evidently took a gamble from his grave and it has not paid off. There is an end to it. For I assure you, if I sponsor her in any
other
way
,
I shall be guaranteeing her ruination. I am not so abominable as that.”

“You would not consider acting as her guardian, my lord? The terms of the marquis's will are sufficiently vague, I feel—”

“No, I will not!”

“You will not even meet with her. . . ?”

“Jumping Juniper, Pelliat! How many times do I have to spell out the same thing? If the wench is out of pocket—and I cannot imagine that she
can
be—I can possibly help out in some entirely anonymous manner. Beyond that, my goodwill and tolerance has been stretched far enough for one morning, I believe.”

Pelliat bowed. “Very good, my lord. I only inquired because there is no question of the young lady being an adventuress. She has been left
all
of Fotheringham's unentailed fortune, which, as I understand it, is far from inconsiderable.”

“Excellent, Pelliat, you relieve my mind, for I now no longer have to act as benefactor. And now, if you please, I suggest you return to your rooms in town.
I
should like very much to return to these speeches.”

Daniel Pelliat knew when he was beaten. He bowed perfunctorily and stepped with great precision out of the chamber. The earl had just thrown away the catch of a lifetime. Miss Melinda St. Jardine was worth a cool forty thousand pounds a year. He sighed. Such matters, he knew, would not weigh with the likes of Guy Santana.

 

 

In an office not too far from the one where Daniel Pelliat's plaque gleamed gold in the morning sunlight, another man of law was soothing a ruffled client that morning. Miss Melinda St. Jardine was elegance itself in a dark merino morning dress with long sleeves and only a very narrow flounce visible on the petticoat. The simple, but stylish, attire was finished by a sash of deep black, tan gloves, and a filmy gauze veil that obscured the eyes yet somehow presented, to the town-weary solicitor, a certain mystique that he had hitherto found lacking in his female clients.

Of course, the garb could not
quite
be considered full mourning and the spectacled man at the chestnut work desk had to frown, slightly, at this show of whimsicality—he hoped not levity—on the part of Miss St. Jardine.

True, though, her fortune would no doubt compensate for this slight lapse in traditional etiquette. Besides, she looked
charming
in her garb. Yes, he would describe it as half mourning, even if a little unconventional in style. He smiled.

“Miss St. Jardine, his lordship was most specific on this point. He requires you, if possible, to fulfill the terms of his wager. He believed that his honour was quite grounded in this point and I am certain, my dear, you would not wish to disrespect a man who has bequeathed you so much.”

“No, indeed.” Miss St. Jardine's tone tinkled with precisely the correct amount of humility. Her eyes, however, were flashing ominously. It was fortunate that the man at the desk was too shortsighted to notice.

“What kind of a person, I wonder, would accept such stakes? I am a
person,
not a chattel!”

The lawyer firmly shut his mouth. He would
not
retort with the obvious corollary. What kind of a grandfather would
offer
such stakes? He merely shook his head mournfully and suggested that there was not much to be gained by pursuing this lugubrious line of thought.

“Ah, but I think, perhaps, that there is.” Melinda looked thoughtfully at the lawyer. “Is he handsome—this paragon I am supposed to be betrothed to?”

Mr. Pendleton set down his quill pen and eyed her thoughtfully. “You really know very little about society, Miss St. Jardine!”

“My upbringing was unusual, as you know, sir. I have spent the last year adjusting to my new life and becoming . . . accustomed.” A tear sprang suddenly into her strange, rather beautiful eyes. She brushed it away fiercely before remembering her black embroidered handkerchief and dabbing in a more civilised manner.

“My grandfather thought it wise to delay my presentation at Court for at least a year. I was privately presented last fall, but what with the season at an end and the marquis rather housebound . . .” She did not need to finish her sentence. The gentleman understood her perfectly. Whilst Miss St. Jardine was officially out, she was, as yet, an unknown quantity to the
ton.
He wondered how she would take, then smiled. The combination of her beauty, wealth, and unconscious charm would undoubtedly stand her in good stead, even with the high sticklers.

His thoughts clouded, suddenly, with the notion that an innocent like her was bound to become the target of every fortune hunter in the book. He relaxed, suddenly, as he finally understood the intention behind the marquis's bequest. Wily old fox! By marrying her off to Santana, he was at once providing for her safety, her reputation, and the perpetuation of her wealth and lineage. He only hoped the earl would fall gracefully into the trap. By all accounts, he was a wily one himself.

Miss St. Jardine leaned forward curiously across the desk and repeated the question. “What is he like, then, this wagering wastrel?”

“Wagering wastrel?” Certainly, he would not
himself
have referred to the third Earl of Camden in those terms, but under the circumstances, he could understand why the
lady
did.

He cleared his throat portentously. It was not for him to enlighten her as to the manner in which the earl was circumstanced. If Fotheringham had desired her to know the extent of the earl's fortune, he no doubt would have told her so at length himself.

Melinda politely repeated the question, though Mr. Pendleton, accustomed to human foibles, could see that she was slightly impatient.

“His lordship is excessively fortunate in his features, ma'am. I would be hard-pressed to describe him to you precisely, but since I am in regular correspondence with my colleague Mr. Daniel Pelliat, his lordship's own council, I believe I might be able to secure a miniature likeness of him if you so desire.”

Miss Melinda St. Jardine suppressed a passionate snort. Likeness! The man should be presenting himself to her door at the very least! A little piqued at his obvious negligence in this matter, she tilted her chin ever slightly and declared she could have no possible interest either in a miniature or in the original itself.

Mr. Pendleton was not deceived. He could see his client burning with a natural feminine curiosity and pressed his lips together in a complacent smile. All, then, was as it should be. When she stood up, he was wise enough not to press the point. It was in this precise manner that the whole singular interview was brought to a close.

 

 

Much, much later, in the stillness of the canary room—a little salon set aside exclusively for the comfort of the Marchionesses of Fotheringham—she allowed her thoughts to wander to that
other
gentleman that destiny had decreed peculiarly her own. She had felt it in her heart, in her wild, intuitive soul, though there could be no reason or logic attached to the instinctive belief.

And now, she was ordered to ally her fate to one Guy Santana on not so much as a
meeting,
let alone a chance encounter in a storm. She smiled, for the inclement weather had only been
half
as violent as the tumultuous sensations she'd experienced in that other man's arms.

It made perfect sense—her cool English blood told her so. Marriages of convenience were commonplace—almost
expected
in her proper new world. If Fotheringham had ceded her to Santana she had no doubt he had a reason. In the year Melinda had come to know him, she knew that her grandfather by blood did not make mistakes.

If she were a gambling debt, it was a debt the marquis had undoubtedly intended to incur. She wondered yet again what kind of a man would agree to such stakes. She closed her eyes but her thoughts were not helpful. They led her directly as always, to the mocking, amused, passionate, and blazingly angry gaze of. . . She knew not whom.

Perhaps, when she took her place in society, she would come across him. That had always been her hope—her one reason for submitting to the transition that had been foisted upon her. Her eyes fluttered gently closed and the book lying open upon her lap slid to the floor unnoticed. When her breathing had deepened considerably, the shadow at the window slipped silently from sight. Laura Rose was certain her daughter would make the right choice. Destiny, after all, was no small thing.

 

 

Miss Melinda St. Jardine looked with bemusement at the many greetings and flowers that cluttered Dewhurst Manor's two large receiving rooms in a profusion of colour, card, and scent that certainly had not been precedented in the marquis's lifetime. She had inherited her grandfather's shrewdness along with her mother's intuition, so she was neither gratified by this show of favour nor particularly relieved by the understanding that she was now regarded as a diamond of the first water by London's celebrated
ton.