The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (5 page)

“The ground is muddy. My valet will have an apoplexy.”

“Would you rather I ruin my gown?”

“Yes,” Nigel said, kneeling in the mud and poking his upper half under and into the prickly hedgerow. Suppressing the string of oaths that came easily to mind, he stretched out his hands blindly groping about and finally locating the cat’s nest. Their watchful mama was right behind, supervising and then nudging his hand. The kittens tumbled toward her, and he couldn’t get an accurate count, though he spent a moment trying. “Well,” he said, at last, backing out and wiping off his hands, I found them. Five, maybe six of them. I’m sure their mama would appreciate a little help getting—” He looked up.

The fairy was gone.

She had most of three minutes’ lead. He knew enough not to bother charging into the stable yard or back into the ballroom. She wouldn’t be either place. She wouldn’t be anywhere he’d find her. She had more sense than that. Much more. He sat heavily on the ground. “Bloody, blasted hell and back!” he swore, but then he after he thought what had just occurred, he began to laugh instead. She’d bested him. She’d tossed down a gauntlet. He had to find out who she was, now, and that was that.

“
Prow
?” The cat emerged from the hedgerow and sat next to him.

“That’s right,” Nigel told her. “Titania has tricked me and run away, and I don’t know her name, and it’s
all your fault
.”

The cat rubbed up against him, and Nigel patted her absently. She was horribly skinny, and she had a collar of sorts—a dirty, matted bit of string tied crudely that was much too small for her. If the collar didn’t tell him she’d once been someone’s pet, her calm acceptance of his presence did. She was too friendly to be wild, too thin and dirty to belong to someone now. “Well, I suppose I owe you a meal.” He pulled the drawstring from his cape and tied it to her makeshift collar. “I’ll take this off once we’re safely arrived at my town house. Don’t look at me like that. Your babies are invited too.” Nigel went back under the hedgerow and extracted the kittens from their nest, then wrapped them and their mama securely in his cape.

His valet was going to have two apoplexies.

“FEELING BETTER I see,” Ophelia said cynically the next morning as Kathryn entered the breakfast room, limping a little after dawn.

“Much,” she lied. She really felt awful. She hadn’t slept well. She’d retreated to her chamber after her escape from Blackshire, and, much later, she’d gone to take a dish of cream to the mother cat and her litter, but they were gone, so she’d searched the grounds and the square to no avail. When at last she did manage to make it to her bed in the weary hours of the morning, she’d dreamed of
him
. His voice, his eyes, his touch—his kiss! Her behavior last night had been deplorable. Distressing. Disastrous.

Well . . . almost disastrous.

One more second, and Blackshire would have had her masque off. And at the time she hadn’t cared one whit! What had come over her? Oh, she knew exactly what had come over her. And so did he.

“You are up early,” she told her Great-aunt, changing the subject.

“No, I am merely late in getting to bed. Really, Kathryn, you must attempt to keep Town hours.” She coughed.” Your sudden disappearance caused quite a stir last night—especially since Blackshire pursued you out into the garden.”

“Oh?” Kathryn asked. “Were we followed?” She tried to appear calm, but her heart was pounding.

Ophelia waved her fork in the air. “When you slipped away, I was surrounded by a crowd of dashing young hopefuls. A great number of people heard you insult Blackshire, and those who did not hear it directly heard of it within seconds.” She waved her fork some more. “You did not see Blackshire on the way to that back door, did you? It was obvious he was following you.”

“I hurried, Auntie,” Kathryn averred. “I got to the back door as fast as was possible.”

“Too bad. I rather hoped he’d find you. You are the only female ever known to rebuff the Marquis of Blackshire’s advances, you know, and a man like that cannot resist a challenge.”

Is that what Kathryn was to him? A challenge?

“Of course, you’ve no real chance with him. You had none even before you insulted him, though that’s not meant as a discredit to your looks or pretty manners, my dear. No chit has any chance with Blackshire this Season, methinks. But I congratulate you, nonetheless, for the cut you dealt him has secured the fascination of the entire
ton
. You are an instant success.”

“Not me, Auntie. Titania.”

“One and the same.”

“Perhaps so,” Kathryn allowed, “but that does not signify, for you must promise not to reveal Titania’s identity to anyone.”

It was already a quarter of eight. By now, Lydia would have been besieged by a flurry of inquiry regarding her “friend,” the fairy Titania, and Kathryn had no way of knowing what tales Lydia would tell regarding their imaginary acquaintance. She couldn’t risk ruining Lydia’s deception with the revelation of her true identity.

Kathryn turned to Ophelia. “No one must ever know Kathryn St. David appeared at your masque as Titania.”

Ophelia started to protest vigorously, but she stopped, mid-sentence. Clapping her mouth shut, she waggled a conspiratorial eyebrow at Kathryn. “Aha! I see. You sly gel. You’ve got your cap set at Blackshire after all!”

“No, I—”

“O-ho!” Ophelia held up her palm. “Do not deny it! What other reason could you have for holding Titania’s true identity secret?” She clicked her teeth together. “That’s my gel! Can’t set your sights too high, I say.” The lady plunked down her fork. “Very well. I shan’t utter a word to Blackshire or anyone else. Your secret is safe with me—until your betrothal. Then I shall let the matter slip, and it won’t matter to whom you are wed; you’ll still be the Toast of all London. Oh! And what if you manage to bring Blackshire himself up to scratch? Wouldn’t that be amusing?” Her eyes glazed over and she stared, unfocused.

Leaving Auntie to her pleasant speculations, Kathryn pulled off her riding gloves and helped herself to the steaming plates of food at the sideboard. As she was riding in the park that morning, she had done some thinking of her own.

She had no reason to be ashamed of her behavior. Kissing the Marquis of Blackshire had been unavoidable. He was powerfully attractive, and he was an expert at seduction. Armed with a perfect physique, a charming smile, and an excellent brain, he wielded a potent ability to fix a young lady’s regard. Or any lady’s regard, judging from Ophelia’s overt fondness for the man. Kathryn couldn’t be blamed for allowing him to kiss her last night. He was wicked. He’d even used that poor baby bird to confuse her.

Thank goodness she’d escaped him when she had!

She had no desire to marry Blackshire, of course, but she couldn’t tell Auntie the reason why. Ophelia was fond of the man, and since Lydia was none the worse for the experience, Kathryn would not relate the sordid tale of the marquis and Lydia to her Great-aunt. She could not see what good exposing him as a licentious despoiler of innocents would do, and it might cause poor Auntie distress. No. She had best try to forget the matter entirely—except when Blackshire was near, and then Kathryn would be on her guard.

It did not signify now, anyway. Blackshire would never know Kathryn St. David had been involved in the matter in any way.

The sun had been up only an hour, and the garden outside the open window was alive with birdsong. Kathryn broke off a piece of biscuit and tossed it onto the granite-pebbled pathway. Auntie’s eyes refocused, and she examined Kathryn’s worn riding habit with distaste. “Egads, have you been out riding in that?”

Kathryn laughed. “Why, yes, Auntie, my foot—which, you’ll remember was trod on by a clumsy pirate—is fine.”

“Do not be pert,” Auntie said with a smile. “It is not becoming. No one wants to associate with a lady who is pert.”

“But, Auntie, you are pert and fare well enough.”

Auntie ignored her. “How is your poor foot?”

“It is throbbing, and I had a devilish time dismounting. We rode in Hyde Park this morning.”

“Hyde Park! In that?” She eyed Kathryn’s worn old habit.

Kathryn laughed. “Do not fret, Auntie. It is not the hour to be seen in Rotten Row. John and I were the only ones there.”

“John? I did not know I had a groom named John . . . or is he a footman?”

“No, I meant John from back home in Heathford.”

Aunt suddenly looked as though the sausages on her plate had just come to life and begun squirming around. “Surely you do not mean that . . . that ruffian employed by your parents?”

“The very same!” John said cheerfully from the doorway. He strolled jauntily into the breakfast room, took off his cap, and mopped back a lock of thick, gray hair. Handsome even in old age, John was a friendly and sincere man, and Kathryn had often wondered why he’d never married. He plucked a sausage and a biscuit from the sideboard as he went past, then plopped down onto a chair next to Kathryn. “‘Ow’re you doing, you old dragon?” He smiled at Ophelia.

“The servants eat in the kitchen,” Ophelia said.

“I’m sure they do,” John said around a large bite of sausage, “but I ain’t a servant.”

“Poppycock! Out!” Ophelia pointed toward the door. “Out!” she ordered again, but John just sat there grinning at Kathryn.

John lifted an eyebrow at Kathryn. “The dragon ain’t changed a lick, I see,” he said. He smiled over at Ophelia. “What’s the matter, old girl, run out o’ little children to breakfast on?” He smacked his lips maliciously.

“Humph!” Auntie rose abruptly and sailed out the door.

John laughed. “I ain’t seen ’er that mad in years.” He stood, another sausage in hand. “Think I’ll go needle ’er some more.”

Kathryn chuckled and called after him as he quit the room, “Have a care, John! Sometimes, dragons breathe fire!” She shook her head and chuckled. The two of them, Ophelia and John, had been swapping venomous insults for years, and Kathryn was not truly alarmed. Alone now, Kathryn was soon lost in thought.

Here she was on the morning of her first full day of her Season and she’d already had an adventure. Kissed by a rake! She supposed no harm had come of it even if she had found herself—momentarily, stupidly, inexplicably!—enjoying it. But she’d saved herself in time, and if she could save herself and another young lady from the likes of that demon, what couldn’t she do? Perhaps finding a husband to love wasn’t out of the question after all.

What was next?

By all accounts, there would now ensue an endless whirl of balls, routs, operas, ballets, picnics, and balloon ascensions . . . shopping, fittings, and more fittings . . . silks, sprigged muslins, and fine lawns . . . invitations, love letters, and odes writ to her eyelashes . . . heaven! Kathryn sighed with satisfaction, clapped her hands together, and then hugged herself. She could hardly contain her excitement.

Just then, the mantel clock struck ten, and Ophelia hurtled back into the room. Her cheeks were stained with tears, and she sniffled as she dismissed the footman with a wave.

“Dear Auntie! Whatever is the matter?”

“Oh, Kathryn,” she wailed. “Dearling . . . we are
ruined
!”

CHAPTER FOUR

O
PHELIA PLUNGED HER
hand into the pocket of her voluminous purple morning gown and rummaged through its contents. “Oh, where is that blasted vinaigrette when I need it?” Two folded squares of white handkerchief linen flew from her hand and fluttered to the carpeted floor, punctuating her indignant complaint, and Kathryn’s spine wilted in relief.

If Great-aunt truly needed the vinaigrette to ward off a swoon, she would not be so robust in her search for the pungent little sachet. No, Auntie was just being a little theatrical, that was all. Thank goodness!

Another square of linen flew into the air. Landing unnoticed on top of Ophelia’s chartreuse-and-lavender-striped turban, it hung there precariously as Ophelia’s head bobbed. Kathryn suppressed a chuckle and stood. “Auntie, ‘ruin’ obviously means something quite different to you than it does to me,” she said, placing her napkin on the table. “What is the matter? To which ball have we not been invited? Which modiste has closed her shop?” Kathryn asked, unable to keep from smiling just a little.

To her shock, Ophelia rounded on her with an angry expression. “The time for frivolity was last night, my gel, and I hope you enjoyed it, for it will be the last taste you get of it! We are in genuine trouble here. I am not being overly dramatic.”

Kathryn winced, for it was the first time Auntie had ever been truly sharp with her. “I’m sorry, ma’am!” She sat down numbly. “I meant no disrespect!”

Instantly, Ophelia looked contrite. “Oh . . . I am sorry, dearling,” she said miserably and gave up her search for the elusive vinaigrette. She patted her niece’s shoulder and kissed the top of her head before lowering herself into the chair next to Kathryn’s.

“Dear Auntie, whatever has happened?” Kathryn asked, though her hands trembled in her lap as a vision of Blackshire swirled into her head. Had the blackguard done something to Auntie?

Ophelia moaned, and a sigh of torment issued from the old lady’s lips. She looked suddenly quite frail and tired, and Kathryn felt a thrill of alarm.

“I’ve done us in, Kathryn! I made a horrible blunder.” She closed her eyes for a few moments as she gathered her thoughts. “I left my diary at Baroness Marchman’s School for Young Ladies,” she explained at last. “I stopped there the day before yesterday on my way back from Bath, and—”

“But, Aunt, I thought you and Lady Marchman were bitter enemies.”

“We are.”

“Then why did you pay her a social call?”

In spite of her real distress, Ophelia smiled. “I acquired a little trinket in Bath—a gift from a friend,” she said coyly, “a very handsome friend. The ring belonged to his mama. Very old, it is . . . a family heirloom, in fact, the principal stone of which is fabled to have once belonged to Queen Matilda, who chose to bestow it upon the first Duke of—”

“Yes, yes. But the diary, Auntie.” Kathryn shifted impatiently. “How came the diary to be at Lady Marchman’s?”

“I had to go and show it to her.”

“You shared the contents of your diary with Lady Marchman?”

“No, no, the ring. I had to show Agnes the ring.”

“Ah!” Kathryn nodded her understanding. “What you mean is you had to wave the ring in front of her nose, don’t you, Auntie?”

Ophelia dimpled. “Well, of course. I couldn’t very well parade the gift-giver in front of Agnes’s nose. Lord Arborough was not well enough to make the trip.”

“Lord Arborough! Is he not the one you told me about? If what you said is accurate, Auntie, Arborough is too feeble to make it to the grave!”

Ophelia’s dimples grew deeper. “There! You see? I was forced into visiting Agnes.” Ophelia fanned her fingers and waggled them, admiring the fiery sparkle of the huge cluster of diamonds on her finger, but then her face fell. “Oh . . . I forget myself.” Sighing heavily, she took the enormous ring off and placed it carefully on the table, then pushed it toward Kathryn. “This rightfully belongs to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes,” Ophelia said sadly. “If only I hadn’t visited Lady Marchman! When she finishes announcing the contents of my diary all over Town, I’ll be cast from Polite Society. And you, my dear, will never be allowed to enter society at all. You will be shunned. No decent man will have you, and every woman will pretend she doesn’t know who you are. So you see? You have already paid dearly for the ring, for you bought it with your reputation. We must both leave London for Heathford at once.” Laying her forehead on the tabletop, she sobbed. “I’m so sorry, my dear . . . so very sorry!”

Her orange and yellow turban came loose and rolled onto the floor, revealing a decidedly untidy mop of thin, snow white hair. Ophelia didn’t make a move to recover the thing, and Kathryn’s heart swelled with concern. “What is this terrible secret contained in your diary, Auntie?”

“Oh! It is awful. Shameful! Pray do not ask me to speak of it. I beg you!”

Kathryn rose and enfolded her aunt in a fierce hug, knowing not what to say at a time such as this. Instead of attempting to comfort Ophelia with words, Kathryn smoothed her white hair with gentle strokes and listened patiently to the old woman’s muffled sobs. She couldn’t imagine what Auntie’s secret might be. Had she stolen something? Killed someone? Whatever it was, it was serious. Kathryn felt like joining Ophelia for a good cry. Poor Auntie. Returning to Heathford was the last thing Kathryn wished for just now, but it would be so much worse for Auntie to have to be live there.

Heathford was a much larger step down in the world for Ophelia than it was for Kathryn, and Kathryn knew any pity she had should be directed at her aunt rather than toward herself. So Kathryn took a few deep, steadying breaths, tried not to think of satin and silks—tried even harder not to think of her few suitors back home—and suppressed her own disappointment. It wouldn’t do to have both of them blubbering into the tablecloth.

After a while, Auntie’s tears slowed to a sniffle and she raised her head to stare blankly at the pineapple that crowned the centerpiece on the breakfast table.

“It is so unjust,” she said. “I have had my fill of everything, but you’ve not had your first taste yet.”

Kathryn knew the old woman was not speaking of the pineapple. Scooping up a square of linen from the floor, she gave it to Ophelia, who buried her face in it and waved her hand absently, shooing Kathryn away.

Just then, a sparrow landed on the windowsill, drawing Kathryn’s attention. He chirruped a greeting and then flitted through the open window to the sideboard. Hopping amongst the laden dishes, he examined each one until he found the plate of seed cakes and buns. Kathryn expected him to fall upon the trove hungrily, but the little bird didn’t eat a crumb. Instead, he thoughtfully chose one bun that was wedged underneath the others at the bottom of the pile and plucked at it gingerly until he had broken off a largish piece. And then, in a flash of vivid brown and white, the little thief was gone.

Kathryn turned to Ophelia, a delighted smile on her face, but Ophelia’s eyes were still pressed firmly into her napkin. Kathryn’s smile faded, and she gazed out the window, wishing she could help her aunt somehow.

“I did not want to leave my diary unattended in the coach,” Ophelia explained. “Too risky, you see, and it was too big for my reticule, so I tucked it under my arm and took it in with me. I know I didn’t have it when I left. The only place it could be is on the divan in Agnes’s salon. Well . . . it is probably more accurate to say it is in the divan. It must have slipped out of her sight between those gauche, fuchsia brocade elephant mattresses Agnes calls cushions.”

With concealed amusement, Kathryn eyed Ophelia’s own turban and voluminous spangled morning gown of magenta and orange silk trimmed with rose-dyed feathers. Though the cut of the gown was of the latest style, and the quality of the fabric was peerless, the entire effect was well beyond what one could charitably term “gauche.” Ophelia’s disparaging comment about Lady Marchman’s taste was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

No one could miss Ophelia’s personal style; it did not make a gentle impression. No, her style reached out and slapped everyone who met her. But after a moment’s conversation with the grand old woman, it was impossible for anyone to find her outrageous ensembles remarkable in any way. They suited her. What else would Ophelia Palin wear to breakfast but spangled magenta and orange?

Ophelia snapped her napkin indignantly at the table. “Yes. I am sure that is what happened to my diary. It slipped out of sight. Lady Marchman mustn’t even know it is there yet—else the secret it contains would no longer be secret—and there wasn’t a hint of scandal at the masque. When she does discover the blasted diary, I’ll wager not an hour will pass before the news of it reaches Palin House.

“If the diary is not yet found, then there is no time to lose. We must do something.”

“Yes. You are right, my dear. We must leave London for Heathford immediately. The scandal will blow over more quickly if I am not in Town when it breaks, and if you are not present, then perhaps when I am dead and buried you shall return to Town and the
ton
will accept you. Thank goodness we did not announce your identity last night when—Bendleson!” she interrupted herself, summoning her butler. Her tone of voice was shrill, and the middle-aged butler appeared with startling speed. As he came through the door, he passed Richard the footman, who was standing sentry just outside the closed breakfast room door. The two men traded significant, worried looks as Bendleson entered the room. Clearly, they’d been listening.

“You require assistance, madam?”

“We are retiring to the country. We travel to the estate of my grand-niece’s parents, Squire St. David, and his wife,” Ophelia instructed him. “See to it everything is made ready.”

“Very well, madam. When do you wish to depart?”

“Within the hour.”

“Holy mother of—!” Kathryn heard the footman exclaim just on the other side of the door and then his footfalls as he bounded off down the hall. Bendleson opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. “Very well, madam.” He bowed slightly and exited sedately. Though the butler’s voice and visible demeanor betrayed no great sense of urgency, as soon as the door had closed behind him, his footfalls instantly increased to a most undignified pace, their staccato rhythm echoing down the marble-floored hallway.

Poor Bendleson. Leaving in under an hour? Impossible! But the harried butler hadn’t offered a syllable’s resistance, and Kathryn had no doubt the carriages would be waiting, fully laden and ready for the journey to her parents’ estate, in under an hour.

Ophelia tossed her napkin aside and stood up, appearing to Kathryn like Wellington about to go into battle. “Go upstairs and change, my dear. Ladies do not wear riding habits in carriages. The carriages will be ready at the stroke of the hour. For once, dearling, you must not tarry.”

Kathryn’s thoughts whirled in her head. “But Auntie, leaving London and waiting for doom to fall seems silly. It was not in your nature or mine to give up so easily.”

“How do you suggest recovering my diary if we stay? We cannot simply barge into Lady Marchman’s salon and rummage through the pillows on her sofa!”

Oh, la! If Kathryn could not devise some course of action right then, Auntie would whisk herself away upstairs to prepare for their journey, and Kathryn would find them both ensconced on a misery-bound carriage within the hour. She couldn’t let that happen.

A movement in the young chestnut at the far end of the small courtyard garden caught her eye: the sparrow in its nest. The little fellow had taken the bread to his babies, and Kathryn could see their tiny beaks waving frantically above the rim of the nest. The little thief had stolen for his children.

Suddenly, Kathryn’s hand stilled on the pineapple. If a tiny bird could be a daring thief for his family, why couldn’t she? “Auntie,” she said, “where exactly did you leave the diary?”

“I told you. On that outlandish excuse for a divan. Why?” She eyed Kathryn curiously.

Somehow, from the swirling cloud of panic that threatened to engulf Kathryn’s good sense, a plan had coalesced. It was daring. It was dangerous. It was outrageous. And it was almost certain to fail. But it might be the only chance they had.

Kathryn took Ophelia’s bony hand in her own and rubbed it reassuringly. “Listen, Auntie . . .”

As she explained, the muffled shouts and footfalls of Ophelia’s harried servants sounded throughout the house. Kathryn hoped the servants wouldn’t be too upset to learn their efforts had been for nothing.