The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (10 page)

“Nigel, why is it that I am too old to stay alone without becoming scandal-broth, but I am too young to have a come-out?

“If you would prefer, you could go to stay in Northumberland. I shall be traveling there in late autumn, and—”

“No! Uh . . . no,” Jane moderated her voice, “Lady Marchman’s School is good for me. I need exposure to all sorts of people. You said so yourself.”

“So I did.” Nigel shook his head. In spite of her initial, vehement protestations, Jane was obviously unwilling to leave Lady Marchman’s. The thought gave him pause.

He knew the last year had been hard on Jane, living with him as guardian. Jane was always being banished to one or another of his country estates at a moment’s notice whenever Sir Winston called Nigel to service. She had no constant friends her age, and since Nigel had no family and little time to entertain, he worried she was lonely. Though she was canny and wild, she was also a girl about to become a woman, and Nigel believed Jane needed female guidance.

Inevitably, the thought of marriage needled Nigel again. His marriage could provide Jane with a steadying influence. His marchioness might even make it possible for Nigel to make his way from one side of a ballroom to the other without having to assist some delicate young lady who happened to swoon in his path. And in spite of his protestations to the contrary he’d tossed at Jeremy, he did feel a certain responsibility to the title. But finding True Love seemed more and more improbable as the years passed. He would soon be thirty—his bloody birthday was once more creeping up on him like a great black spider.

Maybe he should just give up and choose one of the current crop of Diamonds. He couldn’t think of one unmarried female who wouldn’t walk willingly, even eagerly, into a loveless marriage with the Marquis of Blackshire.

Or could he?

The fairy queen certainly hadn’t been eager to further their acquaintance. He wondered, remembering that one, hot kiss they’d shared, if he might be able to convince her otherwise. But the point was moot, for Titania’s true identity was unknown to him.

Nigel sighed and rubbed the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. He grew tired of waiting for his bride to walk into his life. Perhaps he should marry now and start a family. He could find a woman he could admire, even if he could not find someone to love, and he was certain to love their children. Would it not be better to marry now and put an end to his uncertainty? What was he waiting for, a leprechaun to appear and lead him to the lady at the end of the rainbow? A fairy to wave her magic wand and—

A fairy. A wand.

His mind kept returning to the fairy queen.

He dwelled upon her gallant and clever rescue of Lydia and her violent indignation—however undeserved—over Nigel’s role in the matter. He pondered her kindness to the pirate and her cunning escape from Nigel in the garden. He savored the memory of their embrace. Of how her hesitancy had given way to full participation. Of how she had melted into his arms. She stirred something inside Nigel, something which left him bemused and . . . and wanting.

When this mission was over, he’d find her. And then he’d . . . he’d . . .

He’d do nothing at all. He couldn’t. He could not persuade her that he wasn’t a blackguard—that he had done nothing wrong to Lydia—without dishonoring the blasted chit, and that was something he would not do.

Impossible. Devil take it!

On just one mission in service to his country, he’d broken out of a French dungeon, single-handedly ambushed four military couriers, and ridden halfway across France, stopping only to seduce a general’s wife in order to gain access to vital information—all with broken ribs and one eye swollen shut, and that mission was proving to be far easier than solving his personal problems. He sighed and bent his mind to Jane once more.

“Of what were we speaking?” he asked.

“The people at Baroness Marchman’s School.”

“Meet anyone interesting?”

“Oh . . . yes. Yes, I have. Most of the girls seem rather vapid, actually. But there is one who is . . . very interesting. She is my roommate.”

“Your roommate? I thought you have been given a private room.”

“I was, but a new student arrived. I do not mind sharing, though. She and I are alike, I fancy.”

Nigel watched as Jane’s gaze became unfocused again and, staring off into the sky, her mouth molded into a slow, lopsided grin. Obviously, what Jane had found was another girl with the heart of a trickster. Were Lady Marchman exonerated, as Nigel fervently hoped she would be, though the facts thus far were damning enough, Nigel would feel sorry for inflicting Jane upon her and send her roses in apology.

“Jane, do behave at Lady Marchman’s. You must not give her cause to dismiss you. If you do, I promise I shall banish you to Northumberland.”

“Bankham hates Northumberland.”

“Good. Then you will certainly stay out of trouble, though I know it will take considerable force of will for you to do so.” Jane was a trouble magnet, just as an unguarded meat pasty was a street-urchin magnet; she was pulled to it naturally.

A clap of thunder boomed and echoed in the distance, and Nigel pulled the carriage in a tight circle. The clouds had been scudding in from the South since he’d left the buildings of the Home Office. The distinct, biting promise of a cold rain had crept into the air, and Hyde Park, normally filling with fine carriages at this fashionable hour, was emptying rapidly. He urged the horses into a brisk trot and headed for Lady Marchman’s. “Would you care to return to the park tomorrow?”

“Oh . . . no thank you, Nigel. That is unnecessary; the ride was just long enough. Besides that, Bankham only drives here twice a week, Tuesdays and Sundays.”

Perhaps I should introduce Jane to Sir Winston
, he thought testily. She was obviously a better spy than he was.

Nigel blinked.

By the devil!
Jane would make a very good operative at that. She was clever, loyal, brave. Too impulsive, perhaps, but she knew how to temper her natural impulsivity when the need arose. Nigel realized, too, that Jane would be safer if she were aware of his mission at the school and the danger they could both fall into if he took a wrong step. If he suddenly were forced to tell her to flee, he did not want her to plant her hands on her hips and demand to know why.

That decided the matter. He set his jaw. Sir Winston would definitely not approve of what he was about to do, but it would not be the first time. Jane was already a covert operative, whether she knew it or not.

It was time Nigel told her some things.

CHAPTER EIGHT

K
ATHRYN HAD READ
the note from Grosvenor Square as soon as Jane had left the room that morning. As she’d suspected, the message was not of any real importance. It was full of Ophelia’s dire predictions for the outcome of this “outlandish misadventure” as well as multiple venomous assaults on the character and disposition of John, who had scrawled across the bottom of the missive a warning that using Thomas to carry messages put her at risk of exposure. He urged her not to send Thomas again unless it was absolutely necessary.

Poor John. Kathryn doubted he was enjoying his stay in London very much at all.

With the students at the museum, the school was empty apart from Kathryn and most of the servants. Lost in thought as she searched through the stacks of books in the library, she was startled by the bell at the front door. Quickly, she retreated to her window seat with a book and glanced at the mantel clock. Seconds before four o’clock, and Lady Marchman and Miss Gant were not expected back with the students for another hour. Kathryn hoped the bell signaled a simple delivery or the arrival of a calling card.

As the clock began to strike the hour, Kathryn noticed a small looking-glass on a swiveling stand next to the domed mahogany clock on the mantel. Smiling, she tiptoed over to the mantel and angled the mirror so that, from her perch at the window, she could look into it and see the front door. She was not disappointed. As the clock finished announcing the hour, Cook, a fat, floury woman with a red face, bustled down the hall from the kitchen, passing the library without glancing inside. She opened the front door and two figures entered, one tall, broad-shouldered, and commandingly upright, the other slight and lithe. It was impossible to see more, for the day had once again turned gloomy with rain, and the single lamp in the foyer outside the library provided little illumination in the entryway.

Cook grumbled something unintelligible, but decidedly French, and turned on her heel.

“
Enchante’
,” the man intoned when Cook had passed out of their hearing. He bowed and then helped his female companion off with her pelisse.

The lady giggled. “Do try to be understanding about Cook’s tart nature.”

Kathryn knew that voice. It was Lady Jane, which meant the man with her could only be her guardian. “From what I gather,” the girl told the man, “she has a husband who is always leaving her in London to roam the countryside, where, it is rumored, he visits a light-skirt who wears red—”

“Jane!” the man cried. “You will quit such talk. At once!”

Kathryn’s blood froze. That voice . . . it sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. Who was he? Lady Jane hadn’t said his name. Was he friend of her parents? Or worse, someone she’d met briefly at Ophelia’s ball? Thank goodness for the concealing curtain of the library’s window seat! It would be a disaster to be recognized!

“I am glad I placed you at Baroness Marchman’s School,” he said quietly. “It was indeed a good move.”

“You had no choice,” Jane answered him. “You had to bring me into this. It was the only way you could—”

“Jane!” He shushed her. He lowered his voice even further, and Kathryn strained to hear his next words. “Be careful of what you say. The servants . . . “

“Oh! Yes . . . yes, I shall! I shall be observant, too—as you instructed. And careful.”

“Good. Remember, pet, you must be careful not only of what you say, but of what you do. You are not to take an active role in this. You are only here to keep watch and report anything unusual you see here to me.”

Kathryn wrinkled her brow. Jane’s guardian had instructed her to be observant? To report “unusual” happenings? What could it possibly mean?

“Come along!” he said. “We shall adjourn to the salon and ring for tea and amuse ourselves observing Cook’s bad temper until Lady Marchman returns. Or perhaps we could adjourn to the library. Lady Marchman has a spectacular collection, I hear.”

Kathryn’s heart beat wildly in her chest, and she huddled deeper into her window alcove.
Oh, la!
What was she going to do if they came to the library? Jane was a Lady, not a Miss. She was part of the
ton
—and so would her guardian be. She’d certainly meet them both as she moved in Society—
if
she ever did! Jane would perhaps keep her secret, but what about her guardian? If he saw her face now, he could recognize her later. Recognize her and know that she’d carried out this outrageous schoolgirl masquerade. He’d certainly ask her about it. And he might tell others what he’d seen. What was she going to do? There wasn’t even time to find a better place to hide!

Jane’s guardian’s voice boomed down the hallway. “The main salon is this way, I believe. Yesterday, I saw a card table there. Where is the library?” Kathryn said a quick prayer that they would move away from the library.

But God, it seemed, was in a perverse mood that day.

The pair came straight toward the library. The only way to conceal her face was to toss her skirts over her head—which was unthinkable—or to run for the stairs and hope he did not see her clearly.

“Feel like losing your pin money again?”

“
Ohh
!” Kathryn moaned her panic, splayed her fingers over her face, and bolted for the stairs.

“How about a game of—
umph
!”

Kathryn had misjudged their proximity. As she rounded the wide, open doorway of the library, she slammed into the tall, surprisingly solid and robust person of Jane’s guardian.

On top of everything else, she’d just been caught eavesdropping.

His strong arms were curled lightly around Kathryn’s back to keep her from falling. She was embarrassingly close to him, but she did not wish to step away. She peeked through splayed fingers at Jane, whose amused expression was enough to make Kathryn truly nauseated.

It was imperative that she secure this man’s goodwill. How else could she persuade him to keep her masquerade at the school a secret? Being exposed as an eavesdropper was not an auspicious way to be introduced to him.

Kathryn dreaded seeing censure in the eyes of Jane’s guardian.

Yet even if her success at finding the diary had not hinged upon his good opinion of her, Kathryn would still have been embarrassed. Eavesdropping was impolite, to say the least, and she was mortified at having been caught. She felt her cheeks burn as color rose to fire them.

The last time she had eavesdropped was in that awful closet when she’d had to endure listening to that devil Blackshire savage the innocent maid Lydia, the poor darling. The image of the black-eyed marquis danced in her mind, and Kathryn was sure she felt the color in her face rise even higher, if such a thing were possible.

Perhaps she could yet bolt for the stairs. She hadn’t looked up, and he hadn’t seen her face. Perhaps she could cover her face with her hands and—

“Nigel, allow me to introduce Miss Kitty Davidson.”

Nigel
?! A toll of warning clanged in her head. That name . . . that voice . . . no, it could not be!

Reflexively, Kathryn did look up, and her mouth dropped open.

The devil was staring back at her.

A mixture of surprise, amusement, and suspicion marched across the sharp planes of his handsome face as he towered over her. As she watched, his grin turned from amused to sardonic. The wispy seeds of recognition swept over his features. Kathryn felt herself blanch. If he identified her as Titania, poor Aunt Ophelia truly would be ruined. Blackshire would expose Kathryn to Lady Marchman without delay, and Ophelia’s diary would never be rescued from her clutches. Then, if whatever secret it contained did not entirely ruin Aunt Ophelia, the story of Kathryn’s shocking masquerade as one of Lady Marchman’s students would—for Kathryn had no doubt Blackshire would delight in maliciously telling the tale, were he to discover that it had been she who had witnessed his attack upon Lydia.

That it had been she dressed as a fairy at the masquerade.

That it had been she who had swatted his rump with her wand.

That it had been she who had delivered him that insolent, malicious, and very public cut direct.

That it had been she who had melted into his arms and kissed him like a strumpet at twilight and then escaped him without even letting him see her face.

And, Kathryn realized, her heart sinking, even if Blackshire did not recognize her as Titania, and even if she were able to recover the diary, she would still be at his mercy. For, if she were ever to enter London Society, he would see her sooner or later and know she had posed as one of “Baroness Marchman’s young ladies.” She would have to rely on his honor as a gentleman not to give her secret away. And Kathryn already knew how little honor Nigel Moorhaven, the Marquis of Blackshire possessed, the demon.

Not a shred. Not an ounce. None.

Yet how much pleasure could one such as he extract from besmirching the reputation of a plain miss from the country?

Yes. She would be beneath his interest, she reasoned wildly. She could still have her Season. She would avoid him, attending only the less fashionable balls, perhaps. She would scan rooms as she entered and keep careful watch for him, leaving immediately if he made an appearance. She would avoid the park, Vauxhall, and St. James’s. The opera, Astley’s, and Almack’s. With any luck, she would find her true love and be safely and happily married by the time Blackshire recognized her as the waif from Baroness Marchman’s School for Young Ladies.

But—
oh
!—what if her luck did not hold?

What if she careened headlong into him, as she just had today, in some other, horrifyingly public venue? And what if he chose that horrifyingly public moment to expose her—and poor Aunt Ophelia—to all?

The only saving grace was that Blackshire had seen nothing of her face at Auntie’s masquerade ball but her eyes. Thank goodness she had not been unmasqued! It was bad enough that he’d seen her eyes. They were a distinctive ice blue, but she doubted he could guess her identity from that alone. Though their color was rare, it was not unique. She and Aunt Ophelia would be safe from his venom until Kathryn took her bow to Society.

Jane moved to touch Kathryn’s elbow. Once again, Kathryn St. David—with an assumed identity—found herself being formally introduced to the despoiler of innocents as Jane said, “Kitty Davidson, may I present my guardian, Nigel Moorhaven, the M—”

Jane did not finish announcing Blackshire’s title, for Kathryn startled her by doing the only sensible thing under the circumstances. She closed her distinctly colored eyes tightly shut, pretended to swoon, and fell at Blackshire’s feet.