An Honourable Thief. Anne Gracie
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a falling out?
Rake or ne’er-do-well? He did not seem to fit either description. He seemed more like a big dark arrogant watch-dog; a little fierce, a little harsh, a little cold. But watchdogs guarded things. And people. Who or what was he guarding?
And why was Lady Norwood so angry with him?
She was not quite sure how she felt, but there was no doubt about one thing; she felt more alive than ever. The simple evening of pleasure before her had suddenly turned into a most intriguing event.
“Devenish, old fellow. Didn’t think to find you in Town. Thought you preferred rustification—know I do.”
The blunt, loud voice came from just behind Kit. She turned her head but could not observe the speaker. She was resting between dances, sipping a glass of sweet ratafia, while her partner went to fetch her an ice. Her seat was next to a pillar draped with netting and twined with drooping greenery; on the other side of the pillar, two men stood talking.
“Shockin’ly dull affair, ain’t it? If I’d realised there was going to be so many of the infantry invited, I wouldn’t have come. Lord! When did marriage-bait get to be so young—tell me that, Dev?”
The other man laughed wryly. “I’m afraid it is not the debutantes who are getting younger, Marsden, but—”
Marsden! Her father had mentioned a Marsden…Kit wriggled closer, eavesdropping unashamedly.
“Devil take you, don’t say it, man! Bad enough to realise I’ve been fifteen years leg-shackled—fifteen years—can you credit it?” Marsden sighed audibly. “Reason I’m come to the Metropolis—promised the lady wife I’d escort her, celebrate the event in London—celebration! At one of Fanny Parsons’s balls—commiseration more like!” He added coaxingly, “I say, old man, you wouldn’t care to slip out for a while and pop in to White’s for a rubber of whist?”
His companion laughed. “A tempting thought—but no, I cannot. I am engaged for the next waltz.”
“Good Gad! Who with?” asked Marsden bluntly. “Never took you for a caper merchant, Dev.” There was a short pause. “Never say you’re going to dance with one of those fillies in white—don’t do it, man! Don’t get yourself leg-shackled!”
His companion snorted. “Were I in the market for a wife—which I am not—I would not put myself down for a waltz with a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation.”
Kit listened to the two men laughing and frowned. Many of her fellow ingenues were a little dull but it was not their fault. It must be very difficult to be one moment in the schoolroom and the next expected to entertain sophisticated men of the world.
“Then what possessed you to ask one o’ these chits to dance? And a waltz, too. You’ll set the match-makin’ mamas in a devil of flutter you know, and—”
“Calm yourself, Marsden. I am here on a matter concerning my half-brother’s boy.”
“Young Norwood? You mean he is—? Oh, well, that’s all right then. Probably suit him, marriage. Chasin’ a fortune, no doubt, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so.”
Kit stiffened. Norwood! If Norwood was his heir, then who was this Devenish she had been listening to? She pressed closer into the flowers and peered around the column. It was her tall watchdog! Not Devil, but Devenish—of course! She should have realised it sooner.
Then it dawned on her. His name was down in her card for the next waltz. She was the chit with more hair than conversation! Kit unclenched her teeth and took a sip of her ratafia. It tasted flat and oversweet. She set the glass aside with something of a snap. It was one thing to masquerade as a naïve young girl—it was another to be called a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation! She stiffened further as she caught the tail end of a sentence.
“…I’m still the boy’s trustee for a few more years, so if he is considering marriage, it’s wise to look her over.”
Look her over! As if she was a horse or something! If he tried to inspect her teeth, she’d bite him!
“It won’t take me long to ascertain what I need from the girl…”
Oh, won’t it, indeed! Kit thought rebelliously. So Lord Norwood was chasing a fortune, was he? And his mother was sending the family watchdog to inspect Kit Singleton—ha! Well, they were certainly barking up the wrong tree if they thought Kit Singleton would bring anyone a fortune. She could set them straight in a moment on that!
But she wouldn’t! That description of her rankled. She had an irresistible desire to teach the Watchdog a lesson about judging books by their covers. If Mr Devenish had decided Kit Singleton was a dreary little chit with more hair than conversation, then who was Kit Singleton to contradict him?
She felt a pleasurable frisson at the prospect of their dance. It would be quite soon.
“So, Miss Singleton, are you enjoying your come-out?” Mr Devenish swung her around masterfully.
Kit kept her eyes demurely lowered. He was by far the best dancer she had ever danced with and his shoulders more than lived up to their promise—the sensation of twirling in his arms was delicious.
It was very clear, however, that he was unused to conversing with very young ladies; he had made no attempt to charm her and his version of polite small talk was rather like being questioned by customs officers at the border. And as the dance continued, his tone, to Kit’s immense pleasure, was progressing rapidly towards that of one addressing a simpleton.
“Your come-out, Miss Singleton,” he rapped out again with a faint touch of impatience. “Are you enjoying it?”
She murmured something indistinguishable to his waistcoat, managing, just, to keep a straight face. As a chit with more hair than wit, she was making him work very hard for his conversation. She’d barely responded to his questions, and such responses she had uttered were given in a shy whisper.
Her tactics quite forced Mr Devenish to bend his head continuously towards her simple but elegant coiffure. Thus, he was well able to compare the amount of hair she had with the meagre wisps of conversation which had drifted up to him from the region of his waistcoat. And her hair was very short—she’d cut it all off in the heat of Batavia. Still, definitely more hair than wit…
“Did you say you were enjoying it, or not? I didn’t quite catch your response.”
“Oh, yeth,” murmured Kit. She was not certain where the lisp came from, but it seemed perfect for the character she had adopted, the simpleton he thought her. She had not yet looked him in the eye. Innocent debutantes were often bashful and shy. Miss Kit Singleton was the shyest and most bashful imaginable.
It was working beautifully. Mr Devenish had very good, if brusque, manners, but there was a growing note of asperity to his questions.
“You have not been in London long. I understand you arrived recently from New South Wales?”
So far she had offered him no fewer than seven “yeths” in a row. She expanded her conversational repertoire dramatically. “Oh, New Thouth Waleth ith a long way from here,” she murmured to his phoenix tie-pin. He really was very tall.
“And was your father an officer there?”
Kit managed a quiver and a sob without losing her step. “My papa ith…ith…dead.”
Above her head, Devenish rolled his eyes and danced grimly on, silently cursing the length of these wretched Viennese dances. It was worse than he had expected—getting information out of this little dullard was like getting blood out of a stone. Lord knew what his nephew saw in her. A man needed more in a wife than a pretty face or a fortune.
Not that she was all that pretty—oh, she was well enough; small, dark-haired, which was the fashion just now, and passable enough features—a straight little nose, a curiously squared-off chin and slender arching dark brows set over a pair of very speaking blue eyes. Yes, the