An Honorable Thief (14 page)

"Oh, I do not fear any return of that old problem," said Mr Devenish, escorting her on to the dance floor. “After all," he murmured in her ear, "continuing vouchers for Almack's will depend on your ability to rid Lady Cowper of the impression that you are cow-footed in the extreme. You would not wish to distress your aunt by being refused, now would you?"

Kit jerked back and stared up at him in surprise.

"Your performance in the Sir Roger de Coverley did not go unremarked," he remarked dulcetly. "If you wish to accompany your aunt to these occasions in the future, you will ensure that no doubt remains in Lady Cowper's mind of your lightness and grace on the dance floor. She was by no means inclined to approve you to waltz, but I managed to convince her to give you a second chance."

"You managed to convin
—"

Kit was given no opportunity to finish her sentence, for in one masterful swish, he swept her out into the twirling throng on the dance floor and she was lost.

She hoped she was giving a demonstration of lightness and grace, but she had no idea; all she was aware of was the music and the man in whose arms she floated.

At the end of the dance, it was all she could do to remember to thank him for the dance. She suspected she had just continued to stare at him for some moments after the music had finished and they had stopped dancing. Finally she recalled herself, and she managed to mumble some sort of a thank-you-for-fhe-dance-sir.

He stood, staring down at her, a smug look of satisfaction in his eyes. He was aware of her state of...of
floatiness
— drat the man—and was enjoying it. He knew the effect waltzing had on her.

She must never dance the waltz again
—it should never
have been allowed. Lady Cowper did not know what she was doing...or maybe she did.

Kit sourly recalled the look in Lady Cowper's eyes when she referred to his exceptional abilities on the dance floor. Hah! She knew, all right! The waltz truly did undermine morals
—especially when danced with a big black Watchdog.

Kit resolved never to dance with him again.

Suddenly all her resolutions of a few moments before came rushing back. She'd already resolved not to dance with him and look what had happened!

She had to get rid of Thomas, immediately. Then she would be safe.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr Devenish," she said again, and headed immediately to where young Lord Norwood was handing an ice to Miss Lutens.

"Thomas, I must speak with you, immediately."

Mr Devenish watched as his nephew escorted Miss Singleton to a less crowded part of the room. He noted the alacrity with which Thomas abandoned the pretty Miss Lutens to follow Miss Catherine Singleton. He scowled as Miss Singleton sat down on a bench and patted the seat beside her invitingly. He glared as Thomas sat down close beside her. He ground his teeth as she laid a hand on Thomas's arm and began to murmur softly in Thomas's ear.

Confound the wench! She'd floated in his arms, all soft-eyed and a little bit dazed from the waltzing. And then she'd wrenched herself away from him and headed across the room, like an arrow, straight to Thomas.

Blast Thomas! If he wasn't such a worthless fribble, he'd have no need of an heiress!

Blast society for frowning on a gentleman earning an honest living in trade! If it wasn't for that, he could teach Thomas how to be independent, not to need an heiress. But

Thomas would not risk social disapproval merely for the freedom to marry for love; he had heard his uncle disparaged for his vulgar connections too often to risk the same himself,

Hugo flung one last jaundiced glance at the couple in close conversation on the other side of the room, then raised his hand to call for a drink. He lowered it again in annoyance. And blast Almack's and its ridiculous rules on refreshments! He needed something much stronger to drink than orgeat!

On that bracing note, Hugo left.

Kit was feeling a little nervous. It was one thing to tell herself that she didn't like Lord Norwood very much; it was another to tell him so, directly. And she was going to have to be very direct; so far none of the hints she had been giving him so delicately had taken root in Lord Norwood's handsome head. She was going to have to be blunt. But she did not wish to wound him.

She told hejself crossly that he was not seriously interested in her; that he had merely been going through the motions of courtship in obedience to his mother's behest.

But he had spoken pretty words to her and though she did not believe he meant them, she may have been wrong.

Kit disliked the hypocrisy she'd found in England where men, believing she had a fortune, pretended love. It was more honest in India or China, she decided, where everyone haggled openly over the dowry. At least then, no one was deceived.

It was better to be blunt, she decided.

"Lord Norwood, I think it would be better if we were no longer seen together," she said firmly. "People are starting to speculate, and as there is no possibility of us ever making a match, we should nip such conjecture in the bud. Do you not agree?"

"Hmm, yes, indeed," agreed Lord Norwood, his gaze fixed on something or someone out of Kit's view.

"I am sorry," Kit murmured.

"Ah, well."

"I did not intend to upset you. I didn't, did I?" persisted Kit.

“Hmm? What?'' Thomas glanced down at her. “No, no, not at all," he said heartily and returned to his observation of the room.

Kit felt a little annoyed. "Then that is all I have to say." She stood up to take her leave.

He jumped up, startled. "Oh, is that our dance? Righto." And he tucked her hand under his arm and led her towards the dance floor.

"Thomas!" she hissed.

He turned, puzzled.

"I am
not
going to dance with you!"

"You aren't?"

"No. We shall not be seen together any more, do you understand?"

He blinked.

"There is no possibility of you and me, er, of any..."

He looked puzzled.

"No possibility of a match between us," Kit said brutally.

"Oh. No possibility. You are certain, then?"

Kit nodded firmly. “Absolutely certain. I am very sorry for it, and I have no wish to wound you, but I feel it is best to be honest."

He nodded. "Yes, honest. Righto, then." He made as if to go.

Kit hesitated. She laid a hand on his arm to detain him and whispered, "If it's any consolation, I don't have a fortune, you know."

"Oh? no? Pity, that." His eyes were fixed on something across the other side of the room. A face-saving tactic? Kit wondered.

"No, I have no fortune, no money at all."

"Ahh." He nodded vaguely, still staring across the room.

Kit glared at him. He wasn't listening to a word she said. "Yes, I am a penniless, nameless adventuress, come to deceive you all. I thought you ought to know."

Thomas glanced back at her and smiled down at her in a vague fashion. "Well, that's all right, then. I'll take my leave now, if you don't mind." And he bowed and hastened away, making a bee-line for Miss Lutens.

Kit watched, half-amused and half-annoyed. After all her anxiety about hurting his feelings, the cloth-head obviously had no feelings to hurt. Not for her, at any rate.

Oh, well, she'd achieved her aim. With Thomas out of the picture, his Uncle Watchdog no longer had any reason to investigate Miss Catherine Singleton. He would probably start interrogating Miss Lutens instead.

Excellent. She wouldn't ever have to speak with Mr Dev-enish again. Nor would she ever again be forced to waltz with him. Very good. She was really pleased about that. In fact, she was utterly delighted.

It was just that for some unaccountable reason, she had suddenly developed the vilest headache. The odious ratafia, she was sure. She shouldn't have drunk any. It didn't agree with her. It didn't agree with her at all.

Oily grey water slapped languidly against the piles of the wharves and hulls of the ships riding at anchor. A lone gull wheeled and screamed into the leaden sky.

A fresh, faintly damp wind blew across the river, carrying a whiff of the stench of the hulks moored rotting on the river, filled with convicts awaiting transportation. The stench of misery and hopelessness.

That smell was overlaid with others, closer by, more immediate: hot tar; the smoke of a fire burning rubbish in a brazier, and a pot of cabbage soup bubbling atop it; the acrid smell of the Thames, river weed, rotting fish and the pervasive stink of human ordure; the faint tang of exotic spices from a nearby trading ship.

Hugo narrowed his eyes and inhaled, letting the mix of odours sink into him. It was deeply familiar.

With one sniff, he was transported back twenty years or more, being tossed aboard as a shaking ten-year-old, a small bundle of clothing wedged under his arm. A boy from Shropshire, who'd never so much as set foot on a boat, let alone seen the sea.

The servant deputised to deliver him to the ship's master had been a kindly enough fellow, had patted him on the shoulder, awkwardly, saying, "T'will be reet enough, young master. You'll be back soon enough, I'll warrant, all growed and strong, looking like a proper sailor laddie."

And then the boy Hugo had been taken below, into a place that croaked and groaned like a living thing. A place that was dark, and which heaved and shifted under his feet. A place which stank, of the sea and turpentine and men who didn't bathe from one year to the next. Aye, he'd never forgotten that smell. Nor the creak of wood, the rhythmic slap of waves.

Hugo strode on, stepping over ropes and avoiding puddles of fish guts with automatic dexterity. This place had no fears for him now. He was no longer a ten-year-old boy. He was in control of his own life now.

The docks swarmed with life in some places, and were deserted in others. Beggars, skulking miscreants, cripples, watching the seamen aboard the ships with bitter, envious eyes. From the corner of his eye he caught a quick movement, the whisk of a rat slipping from crevice to crevice. Hugo repressed a shudder. He was unafraid of most things,

but a rat was one creature he detested, with an intensity he had never been able to overcome. He still bore scars of the rat bites he had received as a boy.

He reached a large warehouse and entered it, nodding familiarly to the man guarding the entrance. He ascended a flight of stairs and entered an office at the top.

A large burly man rose to greet him.

"Mr Devenish, sir, and grand it is to see you. Sit ye down, sit ye down! Why did you not send for me, sir, you know I would have
—''

Hugo took the hand that was offered to him and shook it warmly. "Patchett. I'm still a seaman, you know. I like to feel the deck of a ship beneath my feet and get a breath of the sea in my lungs from time to time." He grinned, j "Not that this air can be called sea air, mind."

The older man laughed. "No indeed, sir. Filthy stuff, I'll warrant."

Hugo interrupted him. "Not so much of this 'sir' nonsense, if you please. That's all very well when were in some sort of business meeting with others, but this is just you j and me, Patchett. I may be the owner of the shipping line I now, but I'll not forget that I was once a shivering cabin boy and you were the mate who protected me from that sadistic devil who was captain then."

Captain Patchett waved his hand. "Ah, belay that, laddie. Ye don't need to thank me
—ye more than made up for any good turn I did ye. Now, what is it that ye want with me? If it's about that last shipment—"

Hugo raised his hand. “No, no. No problems there. I am more than satisfied with the business side of things. No, this is...personal."

Captain Patchett's beetling grey eyebrows rose. "Is it indeed, laddie? Then take a seat and you can tell me what you want of me. Can I pour you a drop of something to keep out the cold?'' He reached for a bottle of rum and, without waiting for Hugo's response, poured out two beakers of rum and handed one to Hugo.

"To health and fair voyages."

Hugo drank.

Captain Patchett leaned forwards. "Now, laddie, what's the problem?"

"It's about a woman
—"

Captain Patchett's meaty fist smote the desk in front of him in triumph. "A woman is it, indeed! And about time, laddie! I've been waiting for the day ye told me ye'd finally decided to wed, and
—"

Hugo cut in, coolly. "This woman is my nephew's intended, not my own."

"Oh." Captain Patchett subsided with a disappointed sigh. "Yer nephew. Very well then, tell me what ye need."

"She is a woman of some mystery."

Captain Patchett sniffed and poured them each another tot of rum. "All women are, laddie. All women are."

"She has arrived in England, from some foreign shore
—''

"Ah, a foreigner."

"No, an Englishwoman. With her maid, I assume. Young, quite pretty, dark haired, creamy ski
—"

"The maid?"

"No, the woman. The maidservant is a woman in her middle thirties, comely enough, but nothing out of the ordinary. The young woman is unquestionably a lady, and a little out of the common way. There is..." Hugo paused, considering how best to describe Miss Singleton "...a, a, oh, I don't know how to put it, but there is something about her that puts her above the common run of young ladies."