An Honourable Thief

“Rubbish! Believe me, there is no danger of me succumbing to her simple-minded charms.”

“The girl is no more simple-minded than you or I!” Amelia stamped her foot. “She is young, yes, and innocent, but she is not the least bit stupid or shy.”

“But—”

“And she does not stutter—”

“Lisp.”

“Lisp, then.” Amelia hurried on, her eyes narrowed with ambition. “But she’s clearly smitten by your masculine charms, Hugo, and thus all our problems are compounded. I knew you would ruin everything! You must leave this girl, and take yourself back to your rural wastes and your horrid ships. Thomas and I will see to securing this fortune ourselves. I’ll not stand by to see you dazzle the girl with your elegance, your worldly address and your—”

“Steal my nephew’s bride from under his nose?” interrupted Hugo with asperity. “Apart from being ridiculous, I have no intention—”

“She is not his bride yet; they are not even betrothed. And—”

“Oh, well, if she’s not even betrothed,” he said provocatively. “Oh, don’t look like that! I have no interest in the girl, or her purported riches. I merely wish to investigate her background—as Thomas’s trustee! And that is all! Put those ridiculous suspicions from your mind! I have no need of a fortune, let alone a diamond mine of unproven provenance. And there is not the slightest danger of my succumbing to the charms of the younger Miss Singleton. Far from it! I am more like to strangle the girl!”

Kit frowned as she adjusted a curl in the mirror of one of the withdrawing rooms set aside for ladies. It was a puzzle as to why Mr Devenish was so interested in her. All those questions about her father. And New South Wales.

Perhaps Lady Norwood and Mr Devenish thought Kit a fortune hunter, out to snabble a lord for a husband.

She would have to allay their suspicions. It would be disastrous to her plans if Mr Devenish investigated her background too deeply and discovered that Miss Catherine Singleton was in fact Miss Kit Smith, actually christened Kathleen, and not a member of an aristocratic family at all. And that her father had been thrown out of New South Wales and a number of other places for cheating at cards. And worse.

If that came out, there would be a frightful scandal, and poor Rose Singleton would be the one to suffer for it. Kit would not permit such a thing to happen, not if she could prevent it. Whatever she had done in the past, Rose was an innocent, a kind and generous-hearted innocent, and Kit would not allow such a sweet-natured woman to suffer on her behalf.

She would have to speak to Thomas as soon as possible and make it clear she had no interest in him. And if he did not listen this time she would be more firm; once Thomas was out of the picture, Mr Devenish would have no reason to enquire into her background.

Foiling Mr Devenish’s brusque, penetrating enquiries was much like fencing with rapiers—exhilarating but dangerous. To see much more of him would be dangerous not only to her plans, but to her peace of mind, she suspected.

So she would allow herself one more encounter with the big dark watchdog and then—

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

Kit’s thought were interrupted as a young girl came blundering into the withdrawing room and crashed into her.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

The girl, who was very young and very pretty, stared a moment at Kit, then burst into tears, clearly overwrought.

Kit seated the young girl on a padded velvet bench and set herself to calming her. She had noticed her at a number of social events; like Kit, the girl was only just out.

“Miss…Miss Lutens, is it not?”

The girl nodded tearfully. “And you are Miss Singleton. I met you last week at Mrs Russell’s recital. How do you do?” she sobbed, politely holding out her hand.

Kit smiled at such well-drilled manners. She patted the girl’s hand and took out a handkerchief. “Tell me what is distressing you?” she said after Miss Lutens had calmed a little.

“Oh, I cannot,” she wept. “It is too mortifying, too foolish of me. I am just…” She wiped her eyes with Kit’s handkerchief.

“Come now, splash some cold water on your face and you will feel better. Would you like me to fetch your mama?”

“Oh, no!” gasped Miss Lutens in distress. “Mama would be so cross.”

Kit stared. It had been her impression that girls always turned to their mothers in distress.

“It is nothing. I am being silly, that is all. It is just that Sir Bar—no! No, take no notice. It is nothing.”

Sir Bar— Kit frowned. She recalled seeing this girl in the company of a certain Sir Bartlemy Bowles. Quite frequently, of late.

“Has Sir Bartlemy Bowles been bothering you?” she asked bluntly.

Miss Lutens gasped. “How did you know?”

“I saw him with you earlier. My aunt warned me about him. He is reputed to have the hands of an octopus, is that not so?”

Miss Lutens blinked.

“Too many hands, too much touching,” explained Kit.

“Oh!” Miss Lutens gasped, blushing. “Yes, exactly! And clammy!” She wrung her hands together in distress. “I simply cannot bear it.”

“Tell your mother,” recommended Kit. “She’ll soon send the clammy-handed old roué about his business. From what my aunt says, he’s notorious for pestering young girls. And though he is rich, he’s also married, so there is no need to worry that your mama plans to wed you to the horrid old slug.”

Miss Lutens giggled at the description, but shook her head. “No, that is the trouble, for I did mention it once, and Mama did not believe that Sir Bartlemy could be so ungallant. She told me not to be so silly.”

Her hands twisted the damp handkerchief into a rope. “He used to be a beau of hers, you understand, before she married Papa, and I think she still has a tendre for him.” She bit her lip. “I think…Mama thinks he is paying me so much attention for her sake…”

“Ahh,” said Kit, understanding her dilemma at last. “Well, then, you must get rid of the fellow yourself.”

Miss Lutens stared at her with large brown eyes. “Get rid of him? But how?”

“Be firm, be bold,” said Kit decisively. “Tell him to keep his hands to himself.”

Miss Lutens’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “Oh! I am not sure I could…And what if he does not?”

“Then slap him! Good and hard.”

“Oh, I could not possibly slap him!” gasped Miss Lutens. “It would make a scandal, me slapping a man of his rank and years. I truly could not!”

Kit frowned. Miss Lutens had a point. “Well, try being firm and speaking to him about it, and if that does not work, let me know. I shall think of something. We women have to put up with enough in life without having to endure furtive caresses from a slug!”

“Oh, yes! Thank you!” Miss Lutens beamed. “Oh, I am so pleased to have met you. I was not looking forward to this ball, you know, with Sir Bartlemy escorting Mama and me, but now I have made a friend and I am so happy!” She clasped Kit’s hand in an eager grip.

Kit smiled, her heart sinking. It was not part of her plans to make friends. If she allowed people to get too close to her, they would see through her deception. Already with Miss Lutens she had not behaved as an unworldly innocent would—she had dropped her role to rescue an innocent child from a nasty groping octopus.

It was a foolish move. But Kit could not help herself. She had learned very young to protect herself from unwanted attentions—she’d had to with the life she’d lived.

Kit hesitated. She’d been watching the other young girls with envy in her heart, envying them their doting parents and protective chaperones and wondering wistfully what her life might have been like if Papa had doted on her like these parents did on their daughters.

But now she realised that their very protectiveness had made these girls quite vulnerable to the unscrupulous attentions of persons like Sir Bartlemy Bowles. Without her mother’s support, Miss Lutens was like an oyster without a shell; soft, exposed and utterly unable to protect herself.

But Kit did not have had the benefit of a protected up-bringing; she had more than a few tricks up her sleeve. She resolved to help Miss Lutens.

“You need not simply put up with things, you know. You can take action on your own behalf.”

“How?” said Miss Lutens, eagerly.

“You must do something to give Sir Bartlemy a disgust of you.”

“But what? And what would my mama say?”

“It will be too late for your mama to prevent it. And if you are clever and subtle enough, then you won’t have to be in her bad books for long.” She gave Miss Lutens a significant look and added with a faint smile, “Much can be forgiven of a young girl who is nervous about making her come-out.”

Miss Lutens looked at her blankly. Kit winked. “Do not worry about it. Do I understand that Sir Bartlemy has already had two dances?”

Miss Lutens nodded.

“Good, then you shall not have to dance with him again tonight. Shall you be at Almack’s on Wednesday?”

Miss Lutens nodded. “Yes, Mama has procured the vouchers.”

“I shall also be there and no doubt we shall see Sir Bartlemy too.”

“Yes,” said Miss Lutens dolefully. “He is very fond of Almack’s.”

“Then I shall show you what I mean on Wednesday,” said Kit. “And when you come, bring your sharpest hatpin, just in case.”

Miss Lutens’s eyes widened. “My…my hatpin? But, but I shall not be wearing a hat at Almack’s, you know.”

Kit wondered what it would be like to be so innocent, so sheltered, so trusting of the world. Vulnerable, she told herself firmly.

“Yes, it is not for a hat. You must keep it in your reticule, but poke the end into a cork, so it does not prick you. And then, if you are bothered by such nasty creatures as, let us say, octopuses, you may take it out and…” She mimed the thrusting of a pin and winked. “Very useful things, hatpins.”

Miss Lutens gasped, put a hand over her mouth and giggled.

“That’s right,” said Kit cheerily, “and even if you do not use it, it will make you feel much more confident, knowing you have your hatpin on hand. In the meantime, take heart. There are plenty of nice, handsome young men who will take one look at you and fall instantly in love. Your mama will soon be so busy keeping track of all your suitors, she will have no time for clammy old horrors like Sir Bartlemy.”

Miss Lutens blushed and giggled again.

“That’s better,” said Kit bracingly. “Now, let us return to the ballroom,” she said. “Our partners will be awaiting us.”

“Thank you for the dance, Miss Singleton,” said Lord Norwood stiffly as he escorted Kit back to where her aunt was seated. He was a little annoyed from having been treated with cool lack of interest all through the country dance.

“You are welcome, sir,” responded Kit coolly. “I do enjoy country dances, though they can sometimes leave one a trifle breathless.”

Lord Norwood frowned. There was not the faintest hint of breathlessness about Miss Kit Singleton. Lord Norwood, on the other hand, was hot and still puffing slightly.

“Hmm, yes,” said Thomas with determined civility. “Ah, here is my—er, Mr Devenish awaiting you. I believe he is next on your card.” He nodded brusquely at Mr Devenish, bowed very correctly to Kit and left.

Mr Devenish had clearly heard Kit’s last comment. “Perhaps you do not wish to dance, Miss Singleton.” He bowed politely and suggested in a bored voice, “No doubt you are a trifle weary and would prefer to sit the next dance out.”

“Oh, yeth, of course, if you wish it,” Kit agreed instantly, then added sympathetically, “I forgot how it was with elder—um, mature gentlemen. My poor old papa used to find dancing very tiring, too—ethpecially the waltz—such a long dance, ith it not, and tho energetic.”

The strains of a Viennese waltz filled the air. She smiled sunnily up at him and looked brightly around the room. “Now, where shall we find a comfortable chair tho you may retht your poor feet?”

Mr Devenish’s lips thinned. An arctic look came into his eyes but he did not reply. Taking her waist in a firm, not to say ferocious grip, he whirled her across the room in a dazzling display of virtuosity and youthful masculine energy, twirling her and twirling her until she was quite dizzy with pleasure and delight.

Kit had danced the waltz several times before, but now, suddenly, she realised why it had been regarded as so scandalous and had taken such a long time to be accepted in polite society.

When danced like this, caught up hard in the grip of a strong, masterful man, twirling in his arms until you lost all awareness of anything except the music and the man, the experience was utterly intoxicating.

Kit simply gave herself up to the magic of the dance. And the man. The world blurred around her in a glittering rainbow, the music spun through her brain in a melody of magic, and all that anchored her to the ground was the hard, strong body of a tall dark man.

After a few moments he looked down at her as if surprised. His grip tightened, his cold grey eyes seemed to bore into her soul and Kit felt herself staring up at him like a mouse mesmerised by a cobra. They danced on, staring into each other’s eyes.

Kit felt suddenly breathless; a breathlessness that had nothing to do with the movement of the dance. She longed to simply let herself go, to float wherever he wished to take her, to dance off into a new dawn. The temptation was irresistible.

But she could not. She’d made a promise. It was her honour at stake, as well as her papa’s.

She blinked to free herself of Mr Devenish’s spell and closed her eyes, shutting out the thought that here was a man the like of which she’d never come across before…

Abruptly he loosened his grip and she stumbled slightly. He caught her up smoothly and she realised he was very strong. He was the sort of man who would never let a girl fall. The sort of man a woman could depend on.

But Kit could depend only on herself. It had always been so. It was the only possible way. She had to break this spell.

“Oh, dear, it ith a long dance, ith it not? Are you getting tired, Mr Devenish?” she murmured, a young Katherine Parr to his aged King Henry.

Insulted, he snapped, “Do you reverse?” and before she had a chance to reply he was twirling her in reverse around the circumference of the ballroom with great, if furious, vigour.

Again it was utterly intoxicating and Kit had to battle her own senses to retain a safe distance from him.

The supper, despite the gloomy predictions of some, turned out to be surprisingly good—a triumph of Fanny Parsons over her husband’s penny-pinching ways. She had provided a substantial spread: turtle soup, a number of pies—pigeon, pork, veal and ham—oyster fritters, lobster salad, eels in aspic, sliced roast duck, tiny quails in pastry baskets, dishes of tender green peas, braised capons, a mountain of shaved ham, bread and butter, fruits, jellies, fruit custards, trifles, pastries glittering with a frosting of sugar, and ices in several flavours.

There were even, to Mr Devenish’s satisfaction, crab patties. He placed several on his and his partner’s plate.

“So, Miss Singleton,” he said as they ate, “I believe you have lived a good deal of your life in…New South Wales, was it?”

Kit smiled at him, still exhilarated from the dance. “Oh, no,” she said serenely, and popped an oyster fritter into her mouth, thus making further conversation impossible for a few moments.

Mr Devenish frowned. “But I thought you came from New South Wales.”

Kit chewed her oyster fritter slowly and thoroughly. Mr Devenish gave up for the moment and devoured a crab patty. “I understood your father had, er, some business in New South Wales?”

Kit smiled. “Papa always had many different interests, yeth.”

Mr Devenish noted the way the lisp came and went. Could it truly be a sign of nervousness, as Amelia had suggested? The thought was a little unnerving, especially after the waltz they had shared.

Something had happened during that waltz…she had seemed somehow differ—No! He was not going to think about the implications of that dance. The breathless young sprite he had twirled in his arms had reverted to the idiot widgeon.

He was here to investigate her. On his nephew’s behalf.

“Your father was a landowner, no doubt? I do believe land grants—to the right people, of course—are easily come by in the Colonies.”

“Do you?” said Kit politely and chewed meditatively on a mouthful of green peas.

“That is my understanding, yes,” Mr Devenish persisted. “Did your father operate a farm? I believe wool is said to be doing well there. Did he own a lot of sheep?”

Kit giggled inanely and shook her head, but inside, she was appalled. He was very well informed about a fledgling penal colony that almost no one in London knew anything of, she thought. He may well have visited the colony—that could explain the fleeting sense of familiarity she felt in his company. She had best be very careful. It would not do to be recognised as a card-cheat’s daughter.

Mr Devenish decided to take a different angle. “I have heard that vast areas of new country have been opened up since they found a way through some mountain range, is that right?”

Kit nodded emphatically. “Oh, yeth.”

Mr Devenish leaned forward.

“I had not heard it myself, of courth, but gentlemen are invariably right, are you not?” she added, and nibbled daintily on a slice of chicken breast. What was it he was trying to get her to reveal? Knowledge of New South Wales? Her father’s business?

Mr Devenish gritted his teeth and helped himself to another crab patty. “Do you not know what—er, um.” Under those innocently questioning eyes he stuttered to a halt. Then grimly, he tried again. “So, your father did not discuss business affairs at all with you,” he said bluntly, shuddering inwardly at his lack of subtlety.

“Oh, no,” she said firmly, “for it ith not at all ladylike to talk of such things. In any case, Papa said to be forever talking of money ith horridly vulgar.” She smiled beatifically at him and batted her eyelashes gently. “Don’t you agree?”

There was a short, strained silence. Mr Devenish reached for the dish of crab patties.

Kit laid a small hand on his, and said earnestly. “Should you really be eating tho many crab patties? They are very rich, you know, and my papa found they did not at all agree with his constitution—”

“I have eaten and enjoyed crab patties all my life,” he snapped, and reached towards the dish.

Kit tactfully moved the dish away from him with an understanding smile. “Yeth, but after a certain age, I believe, gentlemen are not able to do all the things they used to enjoy in their youth. Would you care for a ruthk?” She offered him a rusk, maintaining her demure expression by biting hard on the inside of her cheek.

“No, I would not!” he snapped explosively. There was another short silence while Mr Devenish fought to control his indignation at being treated as an octogenarian.

Kit placidly examined her nails, ninny fashion.

He stood up. “You seem to have finished your supper, Miss Singleton.” He held out a commanding hand to help her to her feet.

Kit, relieved not to be pushed further on the question of her background, offered him an artless smile and allowed herself to be drawn from her seat.

“I believe Sir Bartlemy Bowles was hoping to take you on a short promenade around the room,” he said, his eyes glinting.

Oho, so the Watchdog stooped to low tricks, did he? How dare he deliver an innocent young girl such as she to a creature like the Octopus!

She turned to leave, but her hem appeared to be caught under the chair. She stumbled and fell against him, quite awkwardly, and floundered against him momentarily, trying to regain her balance. He gently took her upper arms and lifted her upright; she avoided his gaze and babbled hasty thanks and apologies for her clumsiness.

Mr Devenish frowned blackly. At the first touch of her body against his, a surge of awareness had passed through him like wildfire. He thrust her small, firm body resolutely away from him. He was not attracted to this little widgeon! He was damned if he would be attracted to any respectable female of the ton, let alone a complete simpleton!

“Thank you very much for the dance and for escorting me to thupper, Mr Devenish, but my Aunt told me not to go on to the terrace without her, tho, if you don’t mind…” She smiled a last smile at his waistcoat, enjoying the sight of his pristine white cravat, the smooth folds of which were quite unmarred…not by a crumb or a scrap of crab. Not even by a tie-pin, phoenix or otherwise.

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