Haunted Hearts (7 page)

He shook himself wholly, like a dog casting off water. Why waste another moment of thought on the woman? He had a duty to do, one last task. So, he needed to report and see if he might somehow rectify tonight’s error.

And yet, despite all, his thoughts went back to the Lady Cat, and his scowls fell away and his face softened in the dark of his carriage as he reconsidered the warmth of her kisses.

***

As Ian traveled toward his home, another carriage arrived before that stately abode. A man wearing a black domino and a mask that helped hide his hooked nose slipped out of its interior, reaching with nervous hands to raise the door knocker before him. He stepped back into the shadows as he waited, so the light from the windows did not fall upon him.

The door was opened by a butler, whose black clothing, stiff white shirt, and stoic face only served to agitate Georges all the more. “Your master? Is he to home?” he said, making an effort to pronounce the “h” sounds.

“I could not say, sir,” the butler said with a cool formality.

Georges made a motion in the air before him, full of exasperation. When he spoke, his accent was more pronounced in response to his uneasiness. “’E is expecting me.”
Not exactly
. “Is ‘e ‘ere, or no?”

The butler straightened even more than his already correct posture would seemingly allow. “When he wishes it, I will be glad to inform my lord of your call, if you would be so good as to give me your name, sir?”

Georges gathered his wits. He was not going to be admitted, and who could blame the servant? A masked man at the front door?

I am become too visible,
Georges fretted. It had never been planned he’d go inside at the masquerade, but Lord Ewald, supposedly dressed as a king, had never appeared out of doors. And now here Georges was, at the man’s very home.

“Please,” he said, folding his hands together in a prayer-like gesture. “Please to tell the viscount, and only the viscount, my message. This message,
exactement
! Tell him…,” he hesitated, striving to find a message that would say all and yet very little to the casual ear. “Tell him ‘ze cat has come home.’ ”

“ ‘The cat has come home,’ sir?”

“
Oui
…yes.”

“I shall do so, sir.”

Georges nodded, staring at the door as it closed politely but firmly to him. These English servants had very curious ideas as to who ran the household, but there was something in this man’s demeanor and in the sudden light of comprehension in his eyes that implied he would fulfill his charge as stated.
Bien.
“The cat has come home” was a completely innocuous statement; but
le vicomte
would know his duty was not yet discharged, that Georges’s need was still great, that he had made his way to
le vicomte
despite missing him at the masquerade.

Georges slipped back into his hired hansom cab and ordered the driver to take him to a quiet part of town to find a room for the night. He only hoped his meager supply of English coins would hold out until he could, finally, come in contact with the designated Englishman.

***

As Georges’ carriage pulled away from Lord Ewald’s residence, a mounted rider urged his horse away from Viscountess Stratton’s home just before she was helped down from a carriage of her own.

Now it was back to report to Lord Quinn, as he’d been ordered to do by that woman, Miss Lyons. The rider grimaced; he didn’t care for Lord Quinn’s newest compatriot. In point of fact, he might have pretended to lose sight of Lady Stratton’s carriage as he’d followed her from his master’s house to her own, out of spite. Quinn’s hostess was sharp-tongued and imperious, whereas Lady Stratton
looked
young and innocent. But, too, given Lady Stratton’s uninhibited laughter and garb this night, he could only assume she was of the kind that made up Lord Quinn’s more private circle. God knew, there were those who liked the peculiar, wicked games of his master’s sort.

If the rider had shaken his head and clucked his tongue to himself, mildly shocked to have learned the cat’s identity, it was no bigger a shock than some of the others he’d had in Lord Quinn’s employ.

***

Olivia went onto her knees, as she did every night just before taking to her bed, to offer up her prayers. For a moment she mumbled the words of the Lord’s Prayer, but as she finished, it was not on the prayer her thoughts lingered, but on the feeling of arms around her, and lips upon her mouth.

She’d felt she should, but she couldn’t really pray, at least not to forget or to be forgiven. She’d do it all again without a second thought. For it was impossible to believe she must deny the night that had awakened her once again to all the wonders of being alive. It was illogical to rue what she looked upon as a gift, a wonderful, glorious gift. The man’s touch on her body had awakened every sense, every part of her slumbering soul, had reminded her life was for living, and that she was right to go out into the world if she wished to be a part of it. She’d been given a starting point, a new beginning, on which to build the rest of her life.

Kisses could be wonderful. A man could be intriguing. She’d been numb, but now she’d been kissed into awareness.

She laughed to think such silly thoughts--even as she thrilled from head to toe all over again. She closed her eyes, but it was a long time before the dark eyes foremost in her thoughts slipped into her dreams.

Chapter 6

Phoebe sat back in the chair in Olivia’s dressing room, watching her younger sister with contemplative eyes. Something had happened last night to Olivia; Phoebe was convinced of it.

There had never been a more dramatic change in a person. She knew she was completely right in thinking this, for even Olivia’s little maid, that Mary Kate, had been disapprovingly watchful at her mistress’s giddy mood this morning.

“What do you think?” Olivia asked Phoebe, each hand tugging forth the hem of a dress in her wardrobe for display. She had yet to change out of her nightclothes. “The rose, or the peacock?”

“Olivia, surely the peacock is an evening gown?” Phoebe cried, rather shocked.

Olivia cocked her head on one side, and nodded. She giggled, pulled down the rose gown, and reached to undo the ties of her nightrail.

Phoebe rose to help her sister. “You are gay today,” she said, steering the conversation in the direction she wished it to go.

“Am I?” Olivia asked, throwing her sister a bright smile that acknowledged the fact.

“Why, one would believe you to be in love.”

Olivia laughed again, merrily. “Oh no,” she assured her sister, shaking her head and smiling as though at some private joke.

This was not missed by Phoebe, who was all the more intrigued. Nor had she missed that Olivia had said nothing toward the fact Phoebe had come to call, and so early. Good heavens, when
was
the last time she’d called on Olivia? But she’d been burning with curiosity upon waking, wondering why Olivia had been at Lord Quinn’s masquerade. Once her children had been settled with nanny and tutor, she’d come at once.

“Do you know, it has been ages since we’ve gone to the market, or the shops, or had a
modiste
come to us,” Olivia said as Phoebe finished with the last button on the rose muslin.

“Gracious, it has. Since Mama was yet with us,” Phoebe confirmed.

“Do you have time to spare? Shall we go? Let’s not wait for a
modiste
to come to us, let us go to her,” Olivia cried, smiling at her sister’s reflection in the cheval glass opposite where they stood.

“By all means,” Phoebe agreed.

She didn’t add that Olivia would have some trouble being rid of her until she got to the bottom of the mystery.

***

Olivia wasn’t unaware of her sister’s keen eyes upon her. She simply was unconcerned by the fact. Phoebe couldn’t know what kind of an evening she’d spent.

Having such a rich secret was enough to make a statue grin, let alone a woman who not only could say she was young, but one who had begun to believe it again last night. She’d wanted to throw off the mantle of death and grief, and she’d done it. Now it seemed impossible she could ever have allowed the past to hold her back, pin her down, make her something other than she really was. She’d been living a lie, and it had taken some soul-blooming moments in the dark to make her not only reach beyond it, but know she
must
continue on her new path.

She knew exactly where she would start in this renewed life of hers: kisses. She would go out into the world, and she would flirt, and she would let men kiss her, time and again, until she’d had enough of kissing.

It might be awhile
, she thought.

“Why are you smiling?” Phoebe asked.

Olivia shrugged, and tucked the smile away, not least because she wondered if all kisses were as affirming as
his
had been…

Phoebe handed her a fichu, intended to be secured around her shoulders and tucked into the front of her gown, but after a moment’s thought Olivia put it aside. She was showing a little bit of décolletage, true, and it was morning--but her gown was not too daring. Phoebe lifted a brow, but she said nothing as Olivia retrieved a pair of walking boots. A quick application of a hairbrush and a twisted topknot was all Olivia was willing to do with her hair, but Phoebe must have found it acceptable, because she nodded.

A pair of gloves, a parasol, a reticule, and a cream-colored pelisse finished the ensemble in under five minutes, and the sisters stepped forth, out into the busy morning streets of Mayfair, toward the even busier streets of the fashion district.

Olivia knew exactly what she was going to do first: order another gown made. There were only three days left before she would need it, so she’d be paying a premium. On her tray this morning there’d been an invitation. It’d been from Lord Quinn, the sight of his distinctive spiky writing making her widen her eyes as she recalled all she’d done last night--too, it was odd to receive a second note from him, this man she scarcely knew. Was he a candidate for giving her a new kiss or two?

She might have smiled, but another thought occurred. Could he have seen through her disguise and known it had been she last night…? Did it matter? But no, he’d not known her at the fortune-telling table, of that she was sure. She’d sliced the wax seal on the envelope quickly, and had seen it was an invitation to a gathering to “Celebrate the Downfall of the Guy Fawkes’ Gunpowder Plot of 1605, with Dancing.” The date, naturally, was set for the evening of November Fifth. Another unusual party then, commemorating an old thwarted conspiracy against Parliament and James I. Olivia had glanced again at the invitation, mildly disappointed to see it was not to be a costumed affair--and had resolved at once to go.

So now she needed a new gown, something splendid, something to suit her true, unmasked return to society.

“So how did you spend your evening last night?” Phoebe called after her as Olivia charged ahead.

“Preparing for today,” Olivia answered, amused anew by Phoebe’s answering frown.

***

Kellogg, Ian’s butler, rapped twice on his master’s bedchamber door, and a recently roused Ian mumbled for him to come in. A footman had preceded the butler, having brought the morning tray. It straddled Ian’s legs as he lay propped up in bed, its spread not yet touched.

“My lord, there was a caller last night.”

“Yes?” Ian said, reaching for a toast point. Who would know to call on him? Sir Terrence? “An older gentlemen with a mustache, was it?”

Kellogg allowed a frown. “Younger, I would say. He was not of the sort to be admitted. He was in costume, his face covered. A foreign man. French, I think.”

Ian rattled his tray and he almost dropped his toast, staring into the servant’s face. Kellogg had been hired two weeks ago, and Ian had only met him with the rest of the staff two days since. None of them had been trained to respond to the pressures, and secrets, of a house given over to duty to the Home Office. Nor would they have to learn, once this business with the French informant was over.

“A French
man
?” Ian emphasized.

“Yes, my lord. He wished me to give you a message.”

“Which is…?”

“’The cat has come home.’”

Ian made himself relax and settle back against his headboard. “I see,” he said, giving his tone a dismissive quality. A keen light in Kellogg’s eyes dimmed a bit at the master’s indifference. “If he comes again, please admit him to the front parlor. Give him tea and food. I will see him upon my return.”

Kellogg’s interest sparked again. “If you are not to home, I should have him wait?”

“Yes, if he wishes,” Ian said with the same unconcern. “But, yes, I would prefer it.”

Kellogg nodded and bowed his way out.

Ian sighed. Nosey servants were always a problem. At least this would be a short-lived one.

Not that it mattered much, however. In fact, today was to be the beginning of his end as an agent.

But…a
man
? The informer
was
a male, not the female from last night? Ian had made contact with the wrong person; now he was all but sure of it.

Or could the man merely be a messenger? ‘The cat has come home.’ A man in costume, with an accent, coming to Ian’s home, choosing to speak of a cat…

Either way, man or woman, what now? Was Ian to wait for further contact? Why hadn’t the man shown himself last night at the masquerade? Or stayed here to meet with Ian at home? Certainly Kellogg had not granted the stranger reception or safety. Or had the man needed it? Was he in fact just a messenger, now done with his part? Not having seen the man for himself, how was Ian to judge?

Now, when it came to the woman, he had a better sense of her. If anyone had seemed in need, it had been she. In need of what? Hiding? Then why dress so daringly? To be sure to catch his eye? Had she been in need of protection? Then why not go with him?

The way she’d kissed him, sweetly but hungrily, as if he were her lifeline… And what about the way she’d lost her accent?