The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (12 page)

“What I meant to say was ‘imp.’”

“Imp!” Her expression clouded over and Nigel could have sworn he heard thunder.

“Yes,” Nigel affirmed with satisfaction. “A mischievous little spirit-being. A sprite. A fairy.”

“
F
—
fairy
?” she repeated.

“Yes. You know, Queen Mab . . . Titania . . .” Nigel watched as her face blanched suddenly and she swooned again, her curl-festooned head and shoulders slumping to a rest on a pink silk pillow.

From the doorway, Jane giggled. “Ha-ho! Twice in one day. Nigel, you must turn down your wick. Your charm lamp is burning out of control.”

Nigel rolled his eyes. There wasn’t a frog or rearing horse in sight. It had to be him. What had he said? Cherub, imp, sprite, fairy. All harmless. Certainly, he’d said nothing so noxious as to cause a swoon. A thrill of fear ran up his spine. Perhaps Miss Davidson was truly ill. Nigel stood and cleared his throat to mask his alarm.

“You are correct, Jane; you and Miss Davidson do indeed have something in common. You are both shameless eavesdroppers.”

Jane wrinkled her nose. “Well . . . Kitty is an eavesdropper, to be sure, but I do not believe she is shameless—though she is a quick learner, I’m certain. I don’t know . . . do you think I can teach her to be shameless?”

“You could teach Oedipus to be shameless. Is the water ready upstairs?”

“The basin is being filled now. You may carry her up in a minute or two—as long as she hasn’t clawed your eyes out, in which case she will probably be more than willing to lead you upstairs and then, I suspect, to nurse you back to health herself.” She laughed wickedly.

What the deuce did she mean by that? “Are you implying Miss Davidson has formed some instant
tendre
for me?”

Jane nodded, already ascending the stairs.

“Rubbish!” Nigel muttered. Miss Davidson did feel strongly about him, that much was certain, but what she felt was obviously not affection. As he carried her upstairs, she roused enough to glare at him, which satisfied him that nothing serious was amiss, though he’d report her fainting spells to Lady Marchman anyway. He left her in the care of one of the maids—and Jane, who expressed a desire to help see Miss Davidson settled.

Waiting in the front parlor below, he concentrated upon the case, until a sudden cacophony of muted, high-pitched voices gave him notice that Lady Marchman and the students were back, and Nigel rounded the corner just in time to see Lady Marchman pass out of sight through a doorway down the long hall. He also caught the sweep of Miss Davidson’s shabby blue dress as she ducked into the library. She had not followed his orders to stay in bed. Nigel’s eyes swiveled upward. If Kitty were downstairs, then where the deuce was Jane?

JANE, QUITE NATURALLY, was at that moment bent over, squinting through a keyhole and listening to a most interesting conversation. Lady Marchman and Miss Gant were speaking alone. Unfortunately, she was forced to avoid discovery by a passing servant before she got all of the details. But she left well satisfied anyway. It seemed one of the girls at the school was expecting a visit from the fairies. It was not something she would tell Nigel, both because Jane could see no relevance to his case and because she was sure Nigel would be scandalized by the knowledge that Jane had any inkling of—or interest in—where babies came from. And she certainly wouldn’t tell anyone else, either. No, the knowledge would be her secret. Hers and Lady Marchman’s and Miss Gant’s, Jane amended.

CHAPTER TEN

W
ITH JANE GONE
, Kathryn was free to return to the library. She had to find that blasted diary. She had no time to lose. Jane said her guardian—her “dear sweet Nigel,” as she’d called him—took a great interest in her education and planned to visit the school often, which meant chances were good Kathryn would be thrown into his company again, a circumstance she must avoid. For the longer Kathryn was in his company, the greater the chance that he would recognize her as Titania from Ophelia Palin’s ball.

If he connected her to Ophelia, it would not be long before he found out who she was, which would be disastrous for poor Ophelia.

And the longer she was able to pull the wool over his eyes and masquerade as a schoolgirl in front of his nose, the angrier he would be if he discovered her true identity. Kathryn cringed, thinking how such a wicked man might react to having been so easily deceived.

He would be enraged.

Not that Kathryn intended to let him discover her ruse.

She wasn’t going to let him find out. She would avoid him, and as soon as she had Auntie’s diary in hand, she wouldn’t just hire a coach back to Grosvenor Square, she’d hire one to take her all the way back to Heathford.

She knew she could never have her London Season now. Never take a place in Society. Blackshire would recognize her. He would know about her masquerade at the school. From there it would be easy for him to discover her connection to Ophelia. And it would not take a great mental leap to realize that Kathryn was Titania. The one who’d slapped him with her wand, given him the cut direct, and kissed him alone in the garden.

Oh yes! He would certainly have enough tales to tell!

He wouldn’t even have to embroider them. He’d ruin her reputation, her Auntie’s, even her parents’. And what about poor Lady Marchman, whom Kathryn had begun to suspect was not as vile as Aunt Ophelia liked to think she was? Would Blackshire’s black-hearted venom ruin her as well?

Kathryn had no choice but to retire to Heathford forever, once she’d found the diary.

Drat Blackshire!

It galled her to accept defeat at his hands. He was cheating her of her Season, of her chance at finding a loving husband. He was disappointing Auntie and her parents, who would not be happy to see Kathryn’s youth fade into childless spinsterhood. And of course, she would have to give up what could have been a great friendship with Jane as well.

After placing a line of pillows under the covers to make it look as though she were still in bed, she crept downstairs. The girls were at tea, and the school was relatively quiet, but the buzz of a muted conversation emanated from the library. Drat! She listened at the doors, recognizing Lady Marchman’s voice and a man’s voice—Blackshire’s perhaps?

A sharp rap of the knocker sounded on the heavy wooden front door of the school, and a servant hurried past to answer it. Kathryn crouched behind a large chair, concealing herself as a lady swept inside and toward the library with a soft rustle of silk. She trilled a greeting to Lady Marchman in the musical syllables of a French accent, and Kathryn smelled the sweet tang of lilac perfume carried on the draft from the open front door.

There was no chance of searching the library now, and Kathryn didn’t wish to spend any more time cooped up in her chamber. She dashed for the front door, taking her cloak from its peg as she passed.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and she strolled the grounds over shaded paths winding amongst large tree trunks and manicured hedges. The air was chill and an almost unnatural stillness gripped the world, as though all of London, both men and beasts, had sought shelter from the elements. She looked down the street, toward where it disappeared into the mist.

Was her own true love here in London at that moment? What did he look like? What was he doing? Was he even now thinking of her? Or wondering when they would meet?

“I am sorry,” she whispered into the air. It was unlikely they would ever meet. Heathford was out-of-the-way, and her parents did not seek friendships outside their country circle. Kathryn and her true love would never meet now. No matter how much she desired a Season in London, she would not take the risk. Blackshire was too much of a menace.

A shiver of loneliness crept miserably up her spine.

Kathryn allowed herself a moment to wallow in self-pity. Though she had always denied any real interest in the fashions and fripperies so popular with other ladies, secretly she had wondered what she might look like dressed in a beautiful gown with her curls drawn up on the sides and pinned like a crown high on her head. She had dreamed of dancing until dawn and being regaled by the sweet poetry, songs, and flowers of a stream of ardent suitors. But it was not to be.

Lady Marchman’s beautiful French visitor glided through Kathryn’s consciousness, and Kathryn could not help comparing herself to the elegant lady. Kathryn’s skirt did not swish with silken luxury around her ankles. Her hair, which had gone unwashed since the night before her departure from Heathford, did not smell of lilacs. Mild jealousy stabbed her. She hadn’t even seen the lilac lady. Hiding behind the chair, she’d had to rely on her other senses. She’d heard the silk and smelled the perfume. Now she wondered what the lady who wore silk and perfume must look like. Kathryn would wager that the lady would never be able to masquerade as a girl of fifteen! She would never be dismissed as a child by handsome strangers. She would be beautiful and sophisticated, a sought-after beauty. A woman who would catch the eye of every eligible young man—including the Marquis of Blackshire.

Kathryn looked up at the house. The library jutted out into the garden. He was in there, still. And so was the lilac woman. Unbidden, Kathryn’s feet took her off toward the tall, narrow library windows. Camouflaged beneath the cover of a large, purple rhododendron bush, she peeked into the marble-framed window and froze.

Blackshire’s polished black Hessians were only inches away from her nose! If the window had been open, she could have reached out and touched him. Her heart pounded madly enough to shake the house off its foundation.

Resisting the urge to shrink toward the water-soaked, leaf-strewn ground, Kathryn willed her heart to still. She was close enough to see warp and weft of the fine material of his deep blue coattails. His legs were closely encased in buff-colored breeches, and Kathryn could see his sinewy strength clearly outlined—as well as a good deal of everything else the man possessed. Heaven help her, she could not look away. Blackshire was not the pudding-bodied dandy her parents had led her to expect all privileged London males to be. One’s legs did not acquire that kind of muscle with lazy disuse. No, Blackshire was an active man, like her father.

If only he were like her father in other respects!

If he were, he would be gentleman enough to keep her secrets, but Kathryn doubted Blackshire would forgo the sinful pleasure of plunging her and poor Aunt Ophelia into disgrace without some greater reward than keeping his own sense of honor intact. No, Blackshire would need some stronger consideration than that.

Wait . . . perhaps Blackshire could have it both ways. Perhaps she could strike some sort of bargain with him to keep her secrets for but a Season. Then, even if Kathryn did not find a husband, she could still go home with Ophelia well satisfied and none the wiser. But what had she to offer him? Kathryn had nothing of value to offer in exchange for his silence. Nothing save her feminine honor, and giving that to him was unthinkable.

Her mother had explained that husbands and wives undressed to . . . to be together. He would have access to more than her lips, then. It would mean having his hands on her skin, his eyes taking in every contour of her naked form. Dear Lord, it would mean the marquis would take off his clothing as well, and she would see his long arms, his long legs, and his long—

Dear Lord! Where were her thoughts taking her?

In the wrong direction, that was certain. If they . . . were together, Blackshire would not be her husband, she told herself sternly. He would not take his clothes off at all. He would unbutton his pantaloons and toss her skirts clumsily over her head. They would meet in a closet somewhere, or in a pantry, or if she were really lucky, in a stable . . . with sweet-smelling hay, and a soft woolen blanket to lie on, and a soft rain pattering on the roof close overhead . . .

Her senses went a-begging as images of what she and Nigel Moorhaven might do together sifted languorously through her mind, and Kathryn realized suddenly that she had forgotten where she was and what she was doing. She was standing there quite still, staring with unfocused vision into the leaves of the rhododendron. Perhaps it was her mental distress at the thought of poor Auntie’s suffering, perhaps it was a sudden, cold wind that wafted around the outside corner of the library, but Kathryn felt a swath of gooseflesh form up her spine.

Or perhaps she was just a little fascinated with the images she had conjured, fueled as they were by the memory of his strong arms curled about her shoulders, his hands curved possessively around her waist, his sweet breath sending chills skittering up and down her spine, his warm lips coaxing, demanding, taking.

She shook herself.

The man was like a great, black spider, and she had been caught in his web, just like all of the other, innocent, unwise chits. But she was not innocent—or not entirely, she told herself—and she would free herself.

She
had
freed herself.

She stamped her foot upon the cold earth as though to prove the point and looked around her. Blackshire had moved closer to the lilac lady. Kathryn assessed him coolly. No, he was really nothing at all like her father. Her father had acquired his strong body through honest toil, working alongside his own men, his hands in his own clean earth. Kathryn doubted Blackshire had ever worked a day in his spoiled, miserable life. Perhaps he got those muscles riding to the hounds or swimming in the sea at his estate in Brighton. Perhaps he sparred regularly with Gentleman Jackson.

Or maybe his legs had grown strong chasing after fleet young girls and eluding the devil.

Kathryn tore her gaze away and looked for the visitor, but a glimpse of Lady Marchman’s gray serge skirt and Blackshire’s legs were all the vista afforded. She moved over to the next window. This time, she had a view of Blackshire’s profile and a full view of the visitor’s face. Kathryn frowned. The lady’s delicate features were made even more fragile-looking by long, straight blond hair that shone in spite of the poor light. The pink silk walking gown she wore, with its matching, fur-trimmed pelisse, was of the first stare of fashion. Her skin was flawless and her posture regal. Kathryn doubted if her expensively shod feet had ever touched the bare earth, and she would certainly never be caught stooping under dripping wet rhododendron bushes spying on her betters.

If she had any betters. She looked like a princess.

Kathryn glanced at Blackshire to gauge his reaction to the lady and was stunned. His face was transformed. He smiled at the lilac lady with even, white teeth, his sculpted lips turned up in a disarming, boyish manner. By the light of day, he did not look at all like a devil. In fact, he looked more like an angel. But as she looked at him listening to the lady speak, Kathryn tingled with an intimate awareness, and she was certain his smile did not go deeper than his features. Despite his merry, carefree expression, Nigel Moorhaven was wary, unsettled.

But not half as unsettled as Kathryn was. She was jealous! Jealous of the attention Blackshire was paying the lilac lady. She pushed away the emotion with violent denial. It was unwanted. Unwarranted. Unbelievable.

And undeniable.

The marquis had been smiling at Kathryn just that same way barely an hour ago. And he’d smiled at her in a very different—and even more compelling!—way when he’d kissed her in Auntie’s garden. But Kathryn was sure that when he’d smiled at her his smile had come all the way from his heart.

His black heart, she reminded herself.

His smile now was a facade. But by the sound of Lady Marchman’s muted laughter and the lilac lady’s gay expression, Kathryn was the only one who was aware of Blackshire’s current perfidy. She stood, silently fixed on the tableau before her, until a movement at the far window opposite hers caught her eye.

A red felt hat bobbed up and down, peeking over the sill. Suddenly, the hat rose a little higher and a pair of gray eyes popped into view for a split second, meeting squarely with Kathryn’s, before bobbing out of sight once more. It must be the gardener. Kathryn hurried away, avoiding any possibility of being caught spying.

Too bad she could not as easily escape the green-eyed monster that followed her with teeth bared.

Jealous? Yes, she admitted to herself. She was jealous of the French lady, but must the reason be Blackshire?

She had reason to envy the lilac lady, who was no doubt free to search the world over to find her one true love. Kathryn was envious of the lady’s opportunities. Of the attention of men in general and not of Blackshire’s in particular. Jealous of the attention the lady was receiving from Blackshire? Rubbish! It was nonsense. She had no reason to be jealous over anything Blackshire did. She did not desire his attentions, after all!

Drat that miserable diary! Where was it? She wanted nothing more than to get away from Blackshire, from the school, from London altogether. She wanted to lose herself in the solitude of the hills.

Kathryn stamped her foot again and strode away from the library defiantly. For someone who desired solitude, she suddenly found what little of it she had was making her feel much too . . . alone.

NIGEL WATCHED AS the fashionably dressed young woman laughed gaily. Her name was Madame Briand, and she was French, so of course Nigel feigned amusement as she and Lady Marchman shared the latest
on
-
dits
.

“Ah, Agnees, my dear friend!” Madame Briand exclaimed after a particularly spicy bit of gossip, “I so look forward to calling on you.”

Lady Marchman beamed. “Ah, Yvette! Not half as much as I. How very glad I am you were able to call again so soon this time.” She turned to Nigel. “Yvette and I have often remarked that we seem more like sisters to each other than friends. From the day we were introduced, not a week has gone by when Yvette has not called here.”

“Who introduced you?” Nigel said, trying to make it seem as though he were feigning polite interest, when in fact he was alert to every syllable. “A mutual friend?”

“Oui, my lord.”

“A lady of my acquaintance,” Lady Marchman supplied. “Celestine Jenoit. She has since moved back to France.” A note of sadness trembled in her voice. “We were quite close—quite like Yvette and I, but now I never hear from her.” She launched into a verbal cataloging of all the disasters that may have befallen her “friend,” Madame Celestine Jenoit.