Beauty and the Spy (23 page)

Yours sincerely,

Kit couldn't help but laugh, pleased with M. Rutherford, whoever he might be. Some harried bureaucrat placating a spoiled aristocrat with thinly disguised irony and steeled patience. Kit didn't blame him in the least for the tone, nor was he the least bit embarrassed by it His petulant, whiskey-inspired letter had accomplished precisely what he'd wanted to accomplish, and he knew he wouldn't have received such a timely response without acting the part of the put-upon viscount.

He had his answer now, but he'd already known it really: The shortened linchpin meant the coach Susannah Makepeace had taken to Barnstable had been cleverly, subtly, deliberately sabotaged.

He was seized by a sense of helplessness mat infuriated him. Susannah was wrong: Her luck wasn't bad, it was extraordinary, considering someone was methodically attempting to kill her, and with yesterday's knife, had at last abandoned any pretense of subtlety.

He'd been lucky, too: He'd been able to keep her alive. But he didn't know how long his own luck would hold.

Oh, he'd been right he was so seldom wrong, after all. She most definitely had an instinct for passion, an instinct that matched his own, that had nearly caused him to lose his head. Well, now he knew her skin was petal smooth; he knew the rich wine of her mouth; he knew the feel of that delicate, puckered nipple rubbed against his cheek—

Kit swiped two frustrated hands down over his face, rubbed his eyes. God, he needed a shave; it was a wonder his whiskers hadn't cut Susannah's tender skin.

There was a reason, after all, that he'd cultivated the countess so carefully, and it wasn't as though she wasn't skilled at what he'd… well, cultivated her for. Mistresses most definitely had a purpose. Perhaps he could sneak in a visit to the countess, to remind her of his existence and to take the edge off this foolish, misguided—boundless�want for Miss Makepeace.

His father would see him in Egypt if he saw him in London, that much was clear. But even if he wound up in Egypt, maybe he could make a gift to Susannah of the truth about her past Maybe, maybe he could save her from whatever forces wanted to prevent her from having a future. Maybe he could make sure she
had
a future.

For Susannah, then. For Susannah he would risk Egypt He would take her to London.

"
Susannah! "
her aunt sang. "I have a
surprise
for you."

Dear God
, please
no
, she thought. And to think, she used to like surprises.

She hadn't slept much the previous night, having spent the evening reliving her interlude with the viscount until sleep dragged her under for a few inadequate hours. Feeling decidedly surly, Susannah hurled herself out of bed, padded to the top of the stairs, and peered down. Then reared back, alarmed.

The viscount stood in the parlor, bat in hand, dressed for traveling. He looked like a gentleman caller. Except, of course, he was not: He was her employer.

Her employer, who'd had his hand between her thighs only yesterday.

A rush of heat nearly buckled her knees as her body remembered precisely how that felt.

As deuced luck would have it, Kit had been looking up at the stairs just as she was peering down. His face split into a grin.

She flew back into her room, her heart thumping. She'd been certain she wouldn't see him today, or perhaps even the following day. Perhaps not ever again, given the nature of their leave-taking yesterday. She heard her aunt make a scandalized noise, which Susannah suspected was all pretense, because it was difficult to maintain a true sense of scandal in the face of the viscount's cheery insouciance.

"Come down when you are able, Susannah," her aunt called up. "Viscount Grantham would like a word."

Her aunt sounded quietly thrilled.
This isn't a Jane Austen story, Aunt Frances
, she thought He isn't here to confess our indiscretion yesterday and make an honorable woman of me.

Then again, perhaps he was. This was, after all, a man who loved surprises.

She dressed, as quickly as her shaking fingers could manage, and presented herself in the parlor after a few minutes. Her aunt had pressed some tea on the viscount He stood and bowed when she entered, as proper a gentleman as she'd ever encountered.

"I need to present my folio findings in London, Miss Makepeace, and I am here to request permission from your aunt for your company. You will, of course, be well-compensated for your time. And we shall, of course, be accompanied by the appropriate number of servants."

This was to reassure Aunt Frances of the propriety of their excursion, doubtless.

But there was nothing at all proper about Susannah's thoughts at the moment. In fact Susannah could not help but translate "well-compensated" in a distinctly
improper
way.

She imagined Aunt Frances interpreted "well-compensated" as more beef and sausages.

"Well, if you have need of her, my lord," Aunt Frances finally conceded, "by all means, you must take her. I shall get on without her for a day or so."

Poor Aunt Frances
. Susannah's arrival had meant one awkward moment after another for her.

Kit thanked her somberly. "I shall wait while you pack the appropriate number of dresses, Miss Makepeace. The coach will be brought round to the road below."

He'd kept conversation minimal and bland during the hours of their trip to London. Susannah had attempted, with strained lightness, with idle questions, with looks between her lashes to scale the slippery walls of his breathtaking politeness, but she was no match for him. At last, she fell silent. Kit spent the remainder of the trip poring over books, for all the world as though he fully did intend to report to his father.

The carriage they rode in was older—(he Whitelaw family didn't keep their finer equipages at The Roses, after all, and the four geldings seemed surprised to find themselves actually pulling a coach again—but he'd been able to obscure the coat of arms on it with a clever piece of painted board. The full complement of servants he'd promised Susannah's aunt was comprised of a driver and two footmen.

He was entirely alone with her niece, whom he intended to surprise with the purpose of their visit to London, and who, he trusted, would not convey the particular lack of appropriate servants to her aunt.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached London's East End. The White lily Theater wasn't shy about announcing itself: An enormous sign painted with a lush, almost lurid flower—no actual lily had ever looked like this—hung over the entrance, which was flanked by two Grecian columns. Shiny
new
Grecian columns.

"You couldn't have drawn it better yourself, Susannah," Kit told her, gesturing to the sign with his chin.

She was enough of an artist to look insulted by that.

And then, as she began to understand why they were at the White lily, he found himself turning away from the soft, glowing gratitude dawning on her face.

He pushed open the door to the theater and jaunty, nearly frenetic pianoforte music—played with much enthusiasm and a heavy hand—burst out, as if frantic for escape. A stage hugged the north end of the theater, and tiers of seats climbed up to the balconies and then to the ceiling. All of the seats were empty. From the looks of things, the establishment could comfortably accommodate several hundred people. The architecture roughly approximated classical, a florid sort of classical, with pillars propping up the corners, urns tucked into niches, and great heavy velvet curtains roped in golden cords lining the stage. Maidens in togas with breasts exposed and lasciviously grinning cherubs gamboled across the ceiling.

A tall, fair-haired man stood in the center of the aisle facing the stage, on which a row of heavily-painted girls, clad in what appeared to be modified shifts, appeared to be stumbling about. The man was marking time with his walking stick.

"All
right
girls! And one, and two, and
kick
and
slide
, and four, and turn, and—no,
no, NO
!"

These last three syllables were punctuated by the vehement thump of walking stick against floor. "Josephine!" the man barked, and the pianoforte music crashed to a discordant halt And then he heaved a gusty, long-suffering sigh. "We open tomorrow
night
, ladies."

The girls stood in a dejected row, toeing the stage sheepishly with their bare feet.

"General," drawled the man who stood with his hands folded over the top of his walking stick, "would you please show the ladies—once
again
—how it's done?"

Hmmm
. There
was
someone sitting in one of the chairs, but when he rose up, his head reached only a little higher than Kit's hip. The General, it seemed, was a dwarf. His face was darkly handsome, slashes of brows, a stern chin, dark eyes, and like his friend, he was clearly a bit of a dandy: His waistcoat was an unsubtle purple and metallic gold brocade, and a ruby stickpin gleamed dully from the complicated folds of his cravat He strode down the aisle to the stage and hefted himself up.

"Josephine, if you would?" His roundly elegant voice filled the theater.

The music started up again, and the general, with a complete absence of irony, perched a hand on his hip, tilted his head coyly, and began to dance.

"And a one, and a two and
kick
and
slide
, and four, and turn, and
kick
, kick, back and
dip
…"

With accomplished precision the General danced for several bars, men stopped abruptly, waved a hand at Josephine for silence, and turned to the row of dancers.

"
Do
you ladies have it now?" He sounded as exasperated as the fair-headed fellow.

"Yes, General. Sorry, General." Sheepish feminine apologies. The General hopped down from the stage and rolled his eyes in exasperation at the other man as he came back up the aisle, which is when he noticed Kit and a gaping Susannah standing in the entry.

"Tom," the General nudged his taller friend. "We've visitors."

The man with the walking stick turned, and Susannah drew in a sharp breath. Kit could hardly blame her—the bastard was devilishly handsome. No, not
devilishly
… he was more like Pan, broad across the cheekbone, narrow at the chin, his nose and lips finely etched but unmistakably masculine, damn him. A fashionably unruly mop of red-gold hair dropped rakishly over one eye, and his eyes were pale, almost silver, in the theater's dim light He was dressed as festively as the General, his waistcoat striped in silver. He radiated impish well-being.

"Good afternoon!" He swept a low bow to them. "Mr. Tom Shaughnessy here. I'm the owner of this fine establishment. The General here—" the General bowed, too�"is my partner and choreographer. And you would be… Mister? Sir? Lord?…"

"White. Mr. White." Kit bowed low in return. Mr. Shaugnessy stood back, rubbing his chin. "You look familiar, Mr. White."

"No, I don't," Kit said meaningfully.

Mr. Shaugnessy's brows rose. "Oh, of
course
not." He grinned, pleased. "My mistake. And what have you brought to me today, Mr… White?" He swept Susannah with a thorough, appreciative, professionally speculative gaze. "Let me assure you, our girls are well-cared for and
completely
free of disease—except for poor Rose, of course, and we'll have you right as rain in no time, won't we Rose?" He called up to a girl on the stage and smiled encouragingly, sympathetically. "You'll choose the right fellow, next time, yes?"

He turned back to Kit and Susannah, cheerfully oblivious to the tact mat one of the girls on stage was now a brilliant scarlet. The other girls were watching her curiously.

"Crikey, wotcha '
ave
, Rosie?" one of them murmured.

"That's very, er…
reassuring
, Mr. Shaugnessy," Kit replied, "and I've heard… impressive… things about your establishment But I didn't bring my"—he cleared his throat—"wife… to you. We are here on a personal matter. We were hoping to have a word with Miss Daisy Jones."

"Ah, my Miss Daisy Jones.
Daize
?" Mr. Shaugnessy turned and bellowed in the general direction of the back of the theater. "
Visitors
!"

He turned to face them again. "Good heavens, my apologies, Mrs. White, Mr. White. No offense meant But my
deepest
congratulations on your wife, sir." He mimed tipping his hat to Kit, raised his brows again in appreciation. "She'd do quite well, here."

"No offense taken, sir," Susannah assured him, with coyly lowered lashes, which earned an appreciative grin from Mr. Shaughnessy. Kit fought a scowl, but still. The man was so bloody ingenuous he found it difficult to be genuinely annoyed with him.

A brassy woman's voice boomed from the back of the hall. "Do you '
ave
to bellow now, Tom, I was in the middle of me—"

The woman froze when she saw Susannah, and clapped one hand theatrically over her heart.

Kit suspected the gesture was genuine enough. Her handsome, round face had gone pale, turning the two perfectly circular spots of rouge on her cheeks into beacons.

She was draped in some sort of toga made of purple satin and feathers, and bits of sparkly paste jewels clung and twinkled everywhere on her, including her hair. She was a flaming, buxom, constellation. Apparently she was preparing for, or just recovering from, a performance.

"Ye look jus'
like
'er, dear, ye do," she breathed.

She stared at Susannah another moment Then she became brisk, speculative. "We best talk in me room." She transferred her gaze to Kit, and it widened, became sultry. "' Aven't seen you in—"

"Ever. You haven't ever seen me, Miss Jones," Kit amended quickly, earning him a lifted eyebrow and a smirk from Miss Jones. "Allow me to introduce myself: I am Mr.
White
, and this is my… this is my… friend."

"Pleased to meet ye, Mr…
White
." Daisy Jones extended a hand theatrically, and Kit bowed over it Miss Jones was a pioneer of sorts, and though he'd never personally partaken of her particular charms, he'd been an enthusiastic audience member on more than one occasion, and had once even sent flowers to her. For one did want to encourage pioneering in the arts.

They followed Miss Jones, who, though past her prime, still had a marvelous derriere. It swung like the deck of a ship in a storm, and Kit was nearly hypnotized by it as he followed her. At the end of a warren of halls they came to a closed door, and Miss Jones flung it open and gestured for them to precede her.

It was like entering a giant…
mouth
. The walls were papered in vivid pink, in a pattern that Susannah was certain had never seen the inside of a London town house. Two settees upholstered in matching pink velvet lolled across the room like enormous tongues. A number of chairs also covered in velvet and plump enough to accommodate Miss Jones's majestic derriere were scattered about, as though she received hordes of visitors nightly. Mirrors took up almost an entire wall, and a variety of strategically placed lanterns set the place aglow.

"I've me own room to dress in now, ye see." She waved her arm about proudly. Then she stopped and stared at Susannah fondly, then clapped her hands on Susannah's cheeks. "I simply canna believe it Now—forgive me, but I jus' 'ave to—"

She seized Susannah and pressed her into her enormous, muskily perfumed bosom, and Susannah felt a feather climb into her nostril. When she was finally able to squirm out of Daisy's grasp, she sneezed discreetly into her hand.

"Yer the spit of Anna, ye know. She was just
beautiful
, and of course she didna last long 'ere at the White Lily. She was snapped right up. She talked me into retirin' a bit wi' 'er out in that little godforsaken town named by a duke who—"