An Honourable Thief. Anne Gracie
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Singleton’s poverty-stricken long-lost niece—though money seems to be so important here that I cannot imagine anyone doing such a thing. But to offer for a poverty-stricken unknown adventuress daughter of Miss Singleton’s former—” She broke off hurriedly. “Well! That’s a very different matter, at any rate. Any man knowing my true background is more likely to offer me a carte blanche than a ring, and you know I wouldn’t accept that.”
“I should hope not, indeed!”
Kit laughed. “Yes, Maggie dearest, your stuffy strait-lacing has certainly rubbed off on me.” She caught Maggie’s look and amended her statement. “Well, in most areas, at least. I cannot be expected to have inherited nothing at all from Papa, now can I?” She planted a light kiss on her maid’s rosy cheek.
Maggie bridled in pleased disapproval. “Oh, get away with you, Miss Baggage! I don’t approve and you know it—and I hope I know better than to try to change your mind after all these years, so dratted stubborn you can be—but you do know they hang people here, Miss Kit. Or transport them.”
“Yes, and they chopped people’s heads and hands off in China, but I still have both my bits, don’t I?” said Kit. “You need not worry,” she added soothingly. “It is only a small commission from Papa, and not at all dangerous.”
Maggie snorted. “Don’t try to gammon me, Miss Kit. I wish you’d just forget whatever it is your pa asked you to do. He never was careful enough of your welfare. Can you not forget all that nonsense now His Nibs has passed on?”
“Nonsense? Family honour is not nonsense,” said Kit. “In any case,” she added hurriedly, having almost forgotten her resolve to keep Maggie ignorant of her doings, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am merely preparing to attend a ball. Now—”
Maggie sniffed. “Won’t break a promise, will you? And he knew it, drat the man!” she added under her breath. “I’ll say no more, for I was never one to waste breath in trying to change what can’t be changed.”
“Yes, and we must hurry, or I shall be late for this ball. Now, where is that shawl, the embroidered gauze one? I have a mind it will go perfectly with this gown.”
Grumbling under her breath, Maggie fetched the embroidered white-on-white gauze shawl and draped it carefully around her mistress’s shoulders. She stood back, examined Kit with a critical eye, and sighed heavily. “Aye, ’tis bonny you look, right enough, though I wish you’d wear something other than white. It does bring out that dratted brown colour in your skin.”
Kit laughed. “Oh, pooh! I am no longer brown at all—in fact, I think I look sadly pale. But there, that is the fashion, I suppose. And my gown must be white, dearest Maggie. I am supposed to be a girl just emerged from the schoolroom—naturally I must wear white.”
She ignored the maid’s snort and searchingly examined her face in the looking glass. “I do look like a young girl, do I not, Maggie? My twenty years do not show too much, do they?”
“No, Miss Kit. T’aint natural,” the maid said gloomily. “You look barely eighteen—even younger when you smile.”
“Good,” said her mistress briskly. “I must remember to smile more often then. Now hand me my cloak, if you please, or I will keep this new ‘aunt’ of mine waiting in the hallway, and that would never do.”
Kit hurried down the stairs. She found Aunt Rose patiently waiting in the hallway below.
“Ah, there you are, dear,” called Rose. “I hope that cloak you are wearing is warmer than it looks. The evening is chillier than I expected and, you know, that mausoleum of Fanny Parsons’s is as cold as a tomb, and she never heats it properly. I blame that husband of hers,” she added darkly. “The Parsons have always been shocking pinch-pennies, but he is by far the worst of them. I have had to put on three petticoats—three!—and I am sure I shall still catch a chill.” She shivered and hugged a slightly tatty fur cloak around her.
Kit could not help smiling down at the middle-aged woman as she descended the stairs. It was a little cool, but to hear her speak, one would think it about to snow.
“Aunt Rose’ was slender, almost wraithlike, with a pale, faded sort of prettiness about her—rather different to the bold good looks her father had favoured in women. And, far from being fashionable, she was generally dressed rather dowdily and, being so susceptible to drafts, always with a great many scarves and shawls trailing about her person.
And yet, despite the faded looks, despite the dowdy clothes and the vagueness, there was a definite sort of something about Rose Singleton, a certain unconscious air of ton that even the best looking and most fashionably dressed of her father’s other female friends had lacked.
Kit supposed that this was why her father had chosen to send her to Rose Singleton instead of anyone else. The surprise was that Miss Singleton had agreed to take her. In fact, she must still have harboured some warm feeling towards Kit’s father, for she had embraced Kit on her arrival in England quite as if she really were her long-lost niece.
“Ah, you are wearing pearls, my love. Very suitable,” said Rose. “I must remember to compliment your maid. So many girls in your position would be quite unable to resist the temptation to drape themselves with stones until they look exactly like a chandelier and I do so think diamonds are unsuited to a young girl. Pretty, of course, but so hard. Pearls, now, are much more suitable for an ingenue.’
“Diamonds, Aunt? There is no danger of me wearing diamonds, I assure you!” Kit could not help the choke of laughter that escaped her. Diamonds! It had been as much as Kit could manage to purchase one set of good quality fake pearls before her arrival in England. Diamonds, even paste ones, were beyond her budget.
Miss Singleton looked her over approvingly. “Yes, my dear. Very wise of you. One would not wish to appear vulgar.”
“No, Aunt Rose,” said Kit demurely. What on earth did she mean, girls in your position? A vague allusion to her imposture? If so, it would be a first. Rose Singleton could be quite determinedly vague at times, particularly when it came to avoiding subjects she did not wish to discuss. But she had been so kind and generous, Kit would not for the world distress her by referring to anything the lady wished to avoid.
She assisted the footmen to hand Rose into the coach, tuck a fur rug around her and adjust the heated bricks under her feet and then sat back, agreeably warm herself, while the coach rumbled over the cobblestones. She had learned to enjoy small pleasures while she had them.
Outside, the night was clear and bright. The coach pulled up outside the Parsonses’ town house, a grand old building, a little on the fantastical side and much embellished with Corinthian columns and odd Gothic gargoyles. It was lit, not only by gas lamps, but by flaming brands held aloft by liveried men.
Kit stepped from the coach and turned to assist Rose down. She felt a thrill of pleasure and anticipation. Tonight she would not think of anything except the ball. Tonight she would let herself be the carefree young girl everyone thought her and enjoy all the pleasures London society had to offer.
No doubt she would pay for it later, but then, that was life.
“Is this not delightful?” whispered a young girl sitting next to Kit. “I never thought there would be so many people. I have never been to a ball in London before,” she added confidingly.
Kit smiled. “Yes, it is quite new to me also.”
“Are not the ladies’ gowns beautiful?”
“Yes, very,” Kit agreed. “So many beautiful colours.”
“Kit, my dear, here is Lord Norwood, wishing to be allowed to dance with you. Give him your card, my dear,” said Rose, smiling meaningfully at Kit.
Thomas, Lord Norwood, bowed punctiliously over her hand. His fair hair was elaborately pomaded and carefully coaxed into the “Nonpareil’ style. He wore knee breeches of a nice shade of biscuit, a heavily embroidered waistcoat and a coat which fitted tightly across narrow shoulders;