The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (15 page)

On the night of the masquerade, if she had thought Kathryn had any real chance of attracting Blackshire’s sincere attention, she would have bound and gagged the stubborn girl with Blackshire’s own blue satin cravat to keep her from insulting him as she had. What had got into her grand-niece? Why had Kathryn taken such a sudden dislike to the marquis?

And what was that business with that Northam chit? Now there
was
a piece of work! If the two of them had been feeding some mongrel kitchen scraps, then Ophelia was a giraffe.

And she would have sworn on a stack of diaries that Blackshire had been in on that outrageous Banbury tale about feeding the mongrel, too. How she wished she’d been able to pry some answers from Kathryn at breakfast the very next morning!

She sighed with frustration. Any fool could see the two of them would suit each other very well. But Kathryn would not be convinced, of that Ophelia was certain.

It was a pity, too, for even if Agnes Marchman found Ophelia’s diary, she would not expose her secrets if Ophelia were connected to Blackshire. Blackshire’s influence was too great. Agnes would not risk disgracing
him
.

Which meant Ophelia had to orchestrate a betrothal, or at least some public understanding between Blackshire and Kathryn straightaway. She simply had to bring the two of them together somehow, and without delay. But how? Ophelia bit her lip and thought hard.

After a while, a smile spread across her face and she clapped her hands together, startling John, who was staring into his empty teacup.

“Wipe the crumbs from your lip, and answer me a question, old man. The moon was but only approaching full last night, correct?”

“Aye, an’ what’s the matter wi’ that? Not bright enough to bay at yet?”

For once, Ophelia did not take umbrage. She flashed a rare smile at John and tapped him on the hand. “I’m going to see that marquis is brought up to scratch!” Ophelia suddenly felt as giddy as a tot on Christmas Eve. Her insides were bubbling like a glass of sweet champagne. She gave a fruity chuckle. “With any luck, my dear, we shall both have to curtsy to Kathryn by the first snowfall of winter.”

His eyes widened. “You’re serious, ain’t ye? What do ye ’ave in mind?”

She laughed again. “Oh, dear, you don’t want to know.”

John gave her a pinched, sideways look and regarded her a moment with narrowed eyes. Finally, he nodded his head. “Ye’re right. I don’t.”

Ophelia was a little disappointed. Not about being unable to confide in John about her plan. He was a man, after all, and he just would not understand. But she still found the urge to tell someone irresistible—and she would need an accomplice to carry it all off. But who?

The answer came to her suddenly.

Literally.

A footman entered the room to announce Miss Lydia Northam, who was urgently desirous of an audience with Miss Ophelia Palin.

Ophelia nodded her consent, and the footman went to fetch the visitor. As Ophelia waited, she slid a look over at John. “I was overset with excitement a moment ago. Do not think that because I called you ‘dear’ that I look on you with any charity at all.”

“I know that, woman! Think me stupid, do ye?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.” John snarled.

“Humph!”

John waved off her rude disdain with an equally rude gesture. “Crikey, woman, let’s stop arguin’ for once. We’re wastin’ time. I don’t know what you got planned, but if it gives Kathryn a clear shot at that fine gentleman, then I don’t care.”

“For once, John, we are in complete agreement.” Too late, Ophelia realized she had used John’s given name. But he appeared not to have noticed her blunder, so she rose to retrieve her writing materials.

Behind her, John said smoothly. “Kinda feels nice for once, agreein’ about somethin’, don’t it . . . Ophelia?”

“Humph!” Ophelia plopped down on an Egyptian-styled chair as Miss Northam entered the room. The girl dropped a nervous curtsy, and John, gauchely declaring himself uncomfortable with “woman talk,” excused himself.

Then Ophelia fixed her gaze on Miss Northam, and for the next half hour, her eyes never left the gel. She’d come asking what everyone else had been asking Ophelia since the night of her masqued ball: the identity of the fairy queen. Ophelia pinned her with her most intimidating stare and asked Miss Northam the very questions she should have asked Kathryn on the morning after the ball. She was merciless. Direct, blunt, abrupt, and unyielding. Miss Northam was surprisingly resistant, quite adept at verbal deflection and even outright lying, but at last she crumbled under Ophelia’s assault, and her story tumbled out. Ophelia discovered Miss Northam had a good heart. She’d come to thank the fairy, she said. She’d made a terrible blunder that night. She’d known the marquis did not want her, and really she did not wish to wed him, either, though she respected and admired him. She’d tried to compromise herself only because she feared her uncle would soon force her to wed someone she cared for not at all, just to be rid of her. She ended her tale, saying she was grateful to the marquis and the fairy, and she wished she could make it up to them somehow.

A slow smile spread across Ophelia’s face. She’d found her accomplice.

“Lydia, my dear,” she said slowly, “you were not successful at trapping the marquis the first time, but perhaps, with my help, you shall be on the second.”

“Oh, but I have no desire to marry him,” Lydia protested.

Ophelia almost laughed aloud. “Then you will not object,” she asked quietly, though she knew the answer, “if the fairy queen is compromised instead of yourself?”

Lydia’s eyes widened. “Go on,” she said.

Ophelia rang for more tea and settled in to explain everything to Lydia: the fairy’s identity, the cut she had dealt to Blackshire, Blackshire’s interest in her—and finally her own plan to bring the two together. Lydia was more than happy to help and went on her way with a promise to return early the next evening.

Ophelia sipped her tea with satisfaction. How she would enjoy the look on Agnes Marchman’s face when she realized the Marquis of Blackshire was to be Ophelia’s nephew!

Settling back onto her flaming orange couch and sighing with anticipated relish, Ophelia was disturbed by something crinkling under her. It was the letter Bendleson had delivered earlier. Somewhat absently, she pulled it free and broke the seal. Quickly, she scanned the letter and her hand fell, the foolscap fluttering to the floor, forgotten. “Oh dear!” she said.

“What’s it?” John demanded, sauntering back into the room unannounced and uninvited.

But Ophelia was too stunned to complain. The letter was from Kathryn’s loving parents, who had not fully approved of their daughter’s visit to London in the first place. Kathryn’s cautious parents, who thought London was a bad influence. Kathryn’s distrustful parents, who thought Ophelia could not be relied on to maintain a proper atmosphere for their daughter’s first Season.

Kathryn’s dratted parents, who were en route to London even then.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“A
RE YOU QUITE
certain?” Mary Gant asked incredulously, looking at the papers Agnes had just handed her. “Why would Madame Briand do such a thing?”

“I do not know, Mary, but do it she did. I saw her reflection myself, in the glass of the library window. She was behind us you see, and . . . well, you are holding the evidence in your hands.”

“I cannot make any sense of it. This appears to be a map—” She traced the lines with her fingertip.”

“Of France. Yes I know. And there are snippets of words and phrases in French, though few of them rhyme.”

“Why should they rhyme?”

“Yvette is quite fond of composing poetry and fonder still of reciting it for me. At first I did not think she was a very accomplished poet, but I have heard her poems so often that they have grown on me. I confess I have even repeated a few of them to my friends. French poetry is so en vogue, you know.”

“That explains what the papers are, then,” Mary said, refolding the sheets of foolscap and laying them aside, “they must be her poetry composition notes. But why did Yvette hide them in the library?”

“I am sure I do not know.” Agnes turned out the light and punched a comfortable nest into her feather pillow. “I would like to ask her, but I am not sure it was entirely polite to remove them—even if they were hidden in my own library without my permission. Do you think I should put them back?”

“Let us sleep on it, Aggie.”

LIGHT STABBED KATHRYN’S eyes and a tremulous, soprano voice sang out, “It is a fine morning, Kitty. Rise and greet the world.” Lady Marchman threw open the windows to admit not only the blinding light of late morning, but also a fresh spring breeze.

“Morning?” Kathryn asked groggily.

Lady Marchman laughed. “Yes. Well, it is almost afternoon, really. Lady Jane informed us you had gone for a walk yesterday. It must have tired you, for she found you asleep here just before dinner last evening.”

Morning! Kathryn suppressed a groan. Why, she’d slept the whole night through and wasted a chance to search the library unobserved. She wasn’t turning out to be much of a burglar. Poor Auntie!

Lady Marchman tied the heavy green woolen curtains back and turned around. “When I saw you sleeping so peacefully, I was torn between your need for sleep and your need for nourishment. But since sleep won and you missed supper, I expect you are rather peckish this morning. Nicolette will be up with a fully laden breakfast tray presently.”

“Nicolette?”

“One of the upstairs maids, dear. Oh my, your clothes are in a state.”

Kathryn looked down at her borrowed blue dress. It was wrinkled beyond belief from having been slept in and on, and she had drooled as she slept, so a large, dark spot spread embarrassingly across her bodice. Her hand flew to her hair, which was a tangled mass of blue satin and flattened, knotted curls. “Not exactly fit to appear at Carlton House, am I?”

“Or any house,” Lady Marchman said and chuckled.

“How about a gaol house?”

“They would refuse to keep you.”

“A dog house?”

“He would bury you.” They both laughed, and Kathryn wondered not for the first time at what Great-aunt Ophelia could possibly have found to dislike in Lady Marchman. The kind woman treated Kathryn more as a beloved niece than she did a mere boarding student. She had a warm and gentle way about her.

“It is no matter,” she said, gesturing toward Kathryn’s dishevelment, “for a package has just arrived for you, and unless I miss my guess, you will be pleasantly surprised at the contents.” She smiled enigmatically and tugged on the bell pull. Almost instantly a maid appeared, carrying a large, white box. She placed it on the bed.

Kathryn looked up at Lady Marchman questioningly.

“It came this morning. I’m not sure whom it is from. Go on, child. Open it,” she said. And Kathryn did.

In the box lay a lovely walking dress of white muslin sprigged with blue delphiniums. A matching shawl, dainty lace gloves, and a small bonnet trimmed with a spray of the blue flowers nestled on top. There was no card. Ophelia was responsible, but of course Lady Marchman would assume the dress came from Lord Arborough.

Lady Marchman smiled kindly and left.

The maid Nicolette supervised the filling of the hip bath and remained to help Kathryn dress. Kathryn encouraged the lively young woman to chat, and soon she was telling Kathryn of her latest beau—the dancing master, she confessed to Kathryn—who often visited her after hours, when they strolled together outside. They’d even talked of marriage. Nicolette was in raptures.

Kathryn was more confused than ever.

Breakfast, bathing, and dressing in her new ensemble took a surprising amount of time, and as she had been allowed to be such a slug-abed, she passed into the library well after twelve o’ the clock. Her heart beat a furious staccato rhythm as all afternoon she waited for an opportunity to climb the tall library ladder and see if the papers were still there. But students and teachers came and went, downstairs maids passed the open double doors, and a gardener worked trimming the rhododendrons outside the windows, which Kathryn had thrown open to receive the cool breezes and dancing sunlight. She contented herself with surreptitiously searching the library for the diary by casually wandering amongst the shelves and untidy stacks, feigning interest in first one volume and then another. By teatime, when a maid came bustling in with a tray, Kathryn was almost certain the diary was not on any of the lower shelves. Neither was it in one of the stacks of books piled on top of or underneath the tables.

The maid closed the window. “Drafts are bad for you, miss. So says me mum. She alus has me wrapped up tight when I’m sick-like. You’re lookin’ better, but if you don’t mind my sayin’, you’d best keep that window closed till you’re sure you’re over your fainting spells. And her ladyship said you’re to eat every speck, miss.” The maid indicated the laden tea tray, smiled, and left. Kathryn’s stomach rumbled its obeisance, and yet she did not sit down to tea just yet.

Everyone else was at tea, too. The library was empty. Now was her chance to get at those papers! She could see the book from where she stood.

Soon she was teetering on the topmost rung, reaching for the book she thought was the correct one. Her fingertips had just brushed the aged leather cover when she sensed, rather than saw, a movement behind her.