The Blue Devil (The Regency Matchmaker Series) (8 page)

“Ah...” She sighed softly, and her hands stilled on the row of buttons down the front of her dress. Kathryn smiled dreamily and stared into nothingness, enjoying the fantasy she concocted—until she realized the handsome face hovering so breathlessly close to hers didn’t look like a dashing, young, faux pirate at all. No, it bore the striking, chiseled features of the Marquis of Blackshire!

Kathryn growled. That demon! Wasn’t it enough that he’d invaded her night dreams? Must she admit him to her waking dreams as well? Dreams with the memory of his scent . . . the feel of his hair slipping through her fingers . . . the warmth of his lips as they moved over hers and which—

Which were not what she should be concentrating on, no matter how exciting—albeit addle-pated—the incident had been.

Resolving to set Blackshire firmly from her mind, she fastened the last button and brushed her hair until it shone. If her strokes were a little more agitated than they normally were, then that was understandable. She had a right to be a little agitated. She was a burglar, after all. It had absolutely nothing to do with Blackshire. No, nothing at all.

The school hummed with activity but soon settled as the girls sat down to their morning lessons and Kathryn made her way to the library, the coins for her fare home clinking reassuringly in her pocket. Apart from Kathryn, the library was empty. Closing the doors behind her, she leaned against them for a moment. Then she got a good look around her.

She straightened, swallowed, and stared.

In the gloom of the middle of the night, she hadn’t been able to see very much detail. What she’d thought were tables last night now revealed themselves to be stacks of books. Huge stacks. She’d been right about there being no sofas in the library. There wasn’t any room for them!

Lady Marchman was clearly a bibliophile. The high-ceilinged chamber was enormous and lined with full shelves, but the rest of the library was in complete disarray. Books lay in stacks on top of and beneath several mismatched tables that had been crammed into the room. The floor was nearly unnavigable for all the jumbled piles choking the floor space. Each tall shelf was neatly marked according to subject: geography, botany, history, languages, and so on—but it appeared that any effort to keep the books in order had gone by the wayside long, long ago. The collection on each shelf was not homogenous by any means.

Kathryn examined the stacks of books on the floor and tables nearest her.

Complete mayhem. Not a shred of order. There were tens of stacks here, probably over a thousand books that were never going to be shelved! And there were several thousand more on the shelves themselves.

She blinked. If the diary were here, it would not be easy to spot.

How had Auntie described the thing? A plain, slim volume with an old, reddish-brown leather binding. Kathryn looked about herself in dismay. That described the vast majority of the books here. The diary could be anywhere: on a shelf, in a stack, under a table—if it was not already in Lady Marchman’s possession. Kathryn’s expectation of sharing a merry, triumphant luncheon in Grosvenor Square vanished.

It might take days to search the library.

Then again, the diary might be the first volume she picked up. A flash of Kathryn’s customary optimism overtook her, and she dug into the pile of books on the round table nearest the door. But she hadn’t got far when the doors opened, admitting Miss Mary and a small group of girls who engaged in a quiet discussion of literature. Kathryn was forced to abandon her search and flee to a window seat where she hid behind a curtain and pretended to read a book about the Roman gods and goddesses. Mythology was one of her favorite subjects, but in her impatience to get on with her search, she could not drum up any enthusiasm for it today.

The rest of the day was wasted just so, in frustration. A storm had blown in from the North Sea, and the incessant rain kept the entire school inside. One interruption after another kept Kathryn from her search: Miss Mary’s classes, meals, tea, servants, and at least ten visits from Lady Marchman, who wished to be certain Kathryn was not taxing herself. Kathryn retired early, genuinely tired for all of her nervous vexation, and she was already abed when Jane came in.

The night passed as yesterday’s had, with Kathryn—and everyone else—waiting for Lady Marchman’s thunderous snoring to subside. As soon as all was quiet and Jane’s breathing grew shallow and even, Kathryn once more crept from the room. But she did not head immediately for the library. Instead, Kathryn went to the kitchen and plundered the larder, emerging with the pocket of her night rail stuffed full of food. Dousing her candle, Kathryn tiptoed outside. The crescent moon had risen, and she was able to walk with some assurance by its pale light. She headed for the small stable situated just beyond a largish kitchen garden and a small, well-kept apple orchard.

It was there at the edge of the orchard that she felt her skin prickle.

An eerie feeling that she was being watched came over her. Quickly, she edged into the heavy shadows beneath one of the large, old apple trees and looked behind her. Nothing moved. The air was cold and surprisingly still after the tumult of the storm earlier in the day. The wet leaves on the ground muffled her footsteps.

They would muffle anyone’s footsteps, a little voice told her.

Nonsense. She was telling herself a tale. She was the only one skulking about the yard. Continuing on her way, she found Thomas, the little stable boy, curled up on a pile of sweet-smelling straw and wrapped snugly in a soft, thick blanket. The poor dear was an orphan, left on Lady Marchman’s doorstep when just a baby. Last night, she’d guessed he was about ten years old, but in sleep his tense little features had relaxed, allowing their care-worn appearance to ease away, and she could see he was a little younger. Eight, she decided. The boy’s blond head was half-hidden beneath the blanket, and he snored softly. Kathryn hated to wake him. She touched his shoulder lightly.

His eyes swam with sleepiness as he recognized her and struggled to sit up. “Yes, miss?”

“You delivered my message?”

“Yes, miss, I done it just like you said.”

“And no one knows where you went?”

“No, miss.”

“And did you ask the name of the man who answered the door?

“Yes, miss. ’E said it was Ben Dullson.”

“Ben Dullson?”
Bendleson
!

Thomas stuffed his little hand into one of his empty boots that lay beside his pallet of straw and pulled forth a small envelope. “Here. ’E gave me this. For you.”

“Good boy, Thomas. Thank you. You have done well. Now here is your reward.” Kathryn took the food she’d stolen from the kitchen out of her pocket and laid it in front of Thomas: a huge, cold chicken leg, a large slab of bread, and three tea cakes, the same delicious sort she’d been served upon arriving. Then, she pulled from her other pocket a shilling and placed it in Thomas’s hand. His eyes goggled. It was clearly more than he’d expected.

Thomas’s eyes glowed with unmitigated rapture at the sight of the shilling and the food, and he cast such a worshipful expression up at Kathryn that she thought she might cry. It was clear that Thomas’s loyalty—along with anything else he had—was hers.

With the possible exception of the tea cakes.

Kathryn smiled and patted the boy on the head, then hurried back toward the house. Stepping out from beneath the leafy cover of the orchard, she skirted the kitchen garden, but as she was about to ease open the back door, she glanced cautiously up once again at the darkened window of the school, and her hand froze on the doorknob. She thought she’d seen a movement there. She blinked. Could it have been the moonlight glinting off the mullioned glass?

There it was again!

Kathryn deliberately swayed back and forth, watching the moonbeams scatter on the uneven surface of the window panes. That was what had caught her eye, only the reflection of the moon! She sighed in relief, but she stood still for a full minute, staring at the windows just to be sure. She saw no other phantom movements. No one but Thomas knew she was out there, and Jane was sound asleep. It was a good thing the moon was not new. Had it been any darker than it was, Kathryn’s untrustworthy imagination might have invented a wraith or hobgoblin. Chiding herself, she slipped inside and latched the door behind her.

AS SOON AS the door was closed, a shape emerged like a graveyard wraith from the shadows at the far side of the lawn. The tall man swiftly crossed to the back door and, finding it locked, swore softly. He’d gone to some trouble to convince the downstairs maid to leave the door unlatched.

He had almost been inside when the door opened and this new girl—a student, he supposed—had slipped from the house and into the garden, nearly discovering him. Ducking behind a tree, he’d taken note of her furtive movements, and then, like a fool, he’d followed her and watched to see what she was doing. By the time he realized she was only delivering food to the stableboy, it was too late to make it back inside without being seen. Cursing himself, he withdrew from the yard. His business inside the school would have to wait for another night.

KATHRYN CREPT THROUGH the house in total darkness. The moonbeams had her spooked, and she was loath to light a candle. She wanted nothing more than to dart into her room and burrow into the safe comfort of her bed, but she forgave herself the silly fit of cowardice. She supposed being a burglar entitled her to a little paranoia.

She really had nothing to be scared of. She still believed it likely she would find the diary tonight. Then, after a short detour to fill Thomas’s pockets again, she would be gone.

The library, with its heavy velvet curtains, seemed even darker tonight than it had the last, and the gloom finally forced her to light a taper. The weak light wasn’t much to search by, and she went from shelf to table to stack, opening book after book, hoping to see pages filled with Auntie’s familiar scrawl, but her hopes were dashed. Her back ached and her eyes stung from squinting by the time the cock began to crow and the familiar humming in the kitchen told her it was time to give up her search yet again.

She hurried upstairs and opened her chamber door soundlessly, only then realizing she had not yet read the note Thomas had given her. There was nothing to do but wait until morning light. Unlocking her valise, she tucked the note inside and locked it closed once more. Then, replacing the key’s chain around her neck, she went over to the washstand and washed her hands rather loudly. If Jane suddenly demanded to know where she had been, Kathryn would say she could not find the chamber pot and went outside to use the privy. Hence the hand washing.

Moments later, she slipped into the bed. Her still-badly bruised foot was throbbing painfully, but she was so tired she could feel the soothing numbness of sleep creeping over her in moments.

Sleep came surprisingly fast—to Kathryn.

Lady Jane, however, lay awake long after Miss Kitty Davidson’s breathing had evened out and Lady Jane was sure her bedmate was fast asleep. Kitty had been in their bedchamber all evening, alone. For both nights, the girl had been excused from what was evidently the school’s nightly routine of sewing lessons and Scripture reading, and Lady Jane wondered why. One thing was certain: it was not because Kitty needed to rest from her journey. That was just an excuse for Lady Marchman to keep Kitty isolated, Jane was sure. After all, stitching and listening to Scriptures were not at all strenuous. No, there was another reason Kitty Davidson was being allowed to hibernate away from the rest of the students, and Jane had been eagerly awaiting the opportunity to ask Kitty. But when she’d come to bed, Kitty had pretended to be sound asleep, the rotten wench!

Of course, there was still Kitty’s intriguing search of the parlor to be inquired about. And Jane certainly did intend to inquire. Especially after what she’d just witnessed from the window. What was Kitty searching for? Kitty Davidson was harboring secrets. Fortunately, Jane was more determined and stubborn than any other girl could ever hope to be.

At least that’s what darling Nigel always told her.

She listened carefully to Kitty’s breathing, assuring herself her bedmate was indeed asleep. Then, moving from the bed, she checked the pockets of Kitty’s wrapper. Nothing but a few crumbs. Some kind of cake. Tea cakes, such as she and Nigel were offered upon their arrival two mornings ago, by the sweet smell of them. And what was that other smell? Roast chicken? Why was Kitty toting food about the grounds in the middle of the night?

Jane crawled carefully back into the bed. Should she question Kitty or simply wait for the evidence to mount before she brought the lamb to slaughter? She wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter now anyway. Any questions would have to wait until tomorrow.

Besides, Jane would need the light of day to pick the lock on the lamb’s valise.