Kate Moore (10 page)

Fifty people or more occupied the space between him and that doorway, and he was calculating how he might pass through them unobtrusively when a voice spoke at his side.

“Looking for your little charge, Mrs. Bowen?” Ann Trentfield asked, her sharp eyes clearly noting their clasped hands.

Warne stepped from behind the portly gentleman, drawing Susannah with him. “Actually,” he said, “Miss Lacy is just there, Mrs. Trentfield, waiting for us to join her for refreshments. Will you excuse us, ma’am?”

***

Kirby watched his father greet Miss Lacy and felt a raging, intolerable desire to rush into the room, to brandish a sword and wave it in his father’s face, to pull Miss Lacy back into the darkness where she had belonged, however briefly, to him. And he felt shocked into immobility. He was as near his father as he had ever been, and he could not deny his resemblance to the man. The slanting brows, the blade of a nose, the eyes. They were of a height and there was no mistaking the shape of his head, even the movements. How could he so resemble a man he hated? How could he hate a man whose face he bore?

But the man could not court Juliet Lacy. She was too good, too innocent, too trusting to be wed to Warne.

Reason returned. He must not reveal himself here, but somehow he would let his father know they had been there together in the same ballroom. He could send a footman with a card as he had done to catch Miss Lacy’s notice, but that would not cause his father any embarrassment. Besides he wanted to be sure of his escape before he alerted his father to his presence.

He made his way to Garrett and the others, conscious now of the probability that his looks could betray him. His friends assured him they meant to stay to the end, and Letitia Duren, who had seen him once or twice at the theatre, looked at him as if recognition just eluded her grasp. Kirby told them he’d met some cousins and was going on to another party.

Then he hurried down the great stair to the room set aside for gentlemen’s hats and cloaks. Three footmen were chatting idly, but seeing him there, one jumped up. The fellow’s quick subservience gave Kirby an idea.

“Warne,” he said.

The man scurried off to search among the rows of hats. Kirby stepped further into the room. He had perhaps a dozen of the stolen cards on him and drew them out of his pocket. He began to pace as if impatient. A score of hats were within his reach. He dropped a card in a hat here, a hat there. When the footman brought his father’s hat, he took it and settled it on his head, a perfect fit. He gave the fellow a coin, and one of the cards, and strode off whistling.

12

Sometime between their return from the ball at two and Susannah’s rising at six, it rained. A brief, furious storm left the park strewn with twigs and blossoms, the blades of grass fresh and shiny. Susannah took an unfamiliar path and kept her hood up. She doubted she would encounter Lord Warne this particular morning, but she had no wish to be confronted by him.

For a moment he had been almost kind, but his kindness was as dangerous as his wrath. He had come too close to understanding her. Then when they had found Juliet and seen her reply to someone in the darkness, Warne had assumed again the harsh aspect of the Iron Lord. It had been apparent that his real aim was to find the card thief and that somehow he blamed Susannah for the man’s escape. He had watched Juliet with disquieting intensity and then abruptly left them.

Once home, however, Juliet refused to talk to Susannah about her disappearance. Susannah reminded her cousin of the strict code that ruled a lady’s conduct in society and of her father’s hopes for her. Juliet listened but remained unmoved. She claimed she did not need suitors and was not worried about mere reputation. That was well enough Susannah pointed out, for Juliet had very nearly thrown reputation away by stepping into the garden at such a ball. Lord Warne had been aware of Juliet’s lapse and so had Ann Trentfield. If Mrs. Trentfield chose to be nasty about it, the
on dit
would be that Juliet was fast. Juliet repeated that she did not care. From that point on, Susannah had scolded and argued in vain. She could not decide which was more disturbing—Lord Warne’s distrust or the nagging thought that the safe little cottage would never be hers.

But this morning with the world new and fresh, she understood Juliet’s dissatisfaction. Brentwood and Garrett were not the sort of men that would do for her cousin. Her uncle had not chosen wisely at all, and Aunt Evelina’s picks were no better. Her aunt admired a man with a sartorial dash but little substance. As unbookish as Juliet was, the girl still respected intelligence and must have it in the man she would marry. Juliet would need someone like Lord Warne, and Susannah was suddenly conscious that she had not written about him to her uncle as perhaps she should have.

***

Warne followed Susannah Bowen into the park, staying well back, and waiting until she had committed herself to a path before he drew near. He was sure she had left the ball late, but he never doubted she would walk. She had been to the park every day since the time they had collided in the fog. He had not approached her since that morning, but last night she had betrayed him, and this morning he wanted satisfaction.

When he recalled their desperate search for Miss Lacy, he realized Mrs. Bowen must have known her charge was meeting the thief. And she had effectively distracted him so that he had missed his chance to slip out to the terrace. He had then watched Miss Lacy surrounded by her usual court of young men, all known to him, and when he perceived the futility of his watch, he left.

In the cloakroom, he had encountered Maitland, who drew a laugh from everyone present by pulling one of the stolen cards from a gentleman’s hat and asking, “My dear Warne, don’t you know your own hat?”

When he asked for his hat and coat, however, the footman claimed to have given them to him already and produced another of the stolen cards. When questioned, the footman admitted the fellow might not have been Warne, but he was sure the gentleman had asked for Warne’s things and he was like enough your lordship, like enough. Warne told Royston’s servants that there would likely be an unclaimed coat and hat at the end of the evening and asked that those be delivered to his direction.

No score left unpaid.
It came back to that. Well he had been made to feel foolish as he had no doubt made his father feel, but he would not be the maddened bull his father would have been. Once home he did not go to bed, but built up the fire in his library and considered what he knew about the card thief. The Royston footmen confirmed what Madsen had learned from the tailors. The fellow apparently resembled him and knew it because he had disguises at his disposal. Half the tradesmen had sworn they were dealing with a dark-haired man, while the others described a fair one. One tailor had detected a Scot phrase, and that tied the man to the highwayman who had accosted Miss Lacy. The only advantage Warne seemed to possess in this strange game was that his enemy, whoever he was, was smitten with Miss Lacy, and could not stay away. Miss Lacy would be the flame to draw the moth.

When the path took Susannah Bowen down into a secluded hollow north of the Serpentine, he circled around, moving swiftly so that he might meet her on the other side. She approached, apparently lost in thought, her hooded head bent.

“Good morning, Mrs. Bowen,” he said.

She stopped abruptly and raised startled eyes to his. “Good day, Lord Warne,” she replied, turning on her heel, clearly intending to retrace her steps.

He reached out and caught a fold of her cloak, checking her. She turned.

“I do not wish to talk to you, Lord Warne,” she said. She looked pointedly at his hand clutching her cloak.

“But you will,” he answered, releasing the garment. “For Miss Lacy’s sake.”

“Very well,” she said primly, the wide mouth closed in a firm line.

“She has been seeing that highwayman,” he said flatly.

“She has not.” Her eyes flashed. “I know my duty. Miss Lacy does not go about unaccompanied.”

“As you do?”

Her chin rose a fraction. “I am . . . a widow and may be permitted more license. My cousin has been in my company at all times.”

“Except last night.”

“You cannot think that she met your highwayman at the Roystons’ ball. As rackety as they are, they would not have sent an invitation to a thief.”

“No, but a bold thief, dressed as a gentleman, would find it little challenge to gain entré in that crowd. She not only met him. She’s protecting him.”

“Nonsense. That would be folly. Whoever she stepped outside with, it could not have been your man. You did not see him. How can you be sure he was even there?”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out the card that had been waiting for him in the cloakroom. He handed it to Mrs. Bowen. “Because he left his card.”

She took the little card. Their fingers touched briefly, and even the light contact recalled the moment his body had been pressed to hers in the damp grass.

She stared at the card, and the defiant spirit seemed to drain out of her. “It seems you are right, Lord Warne. I will take care that Miss Lacy does not encounter your thief again.” She nodded as if dismissing him and turned away.

“But she
must
,” he said.

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“She must see him again, and you must arrange matters so that I may be there.”

“My lord, are you proposing to use my cousin as a lure?” She had turned on him now, and her eyes had a martial light in them.

“I am,” he said, as much for the satisfaction of rousing her as for the truth of it.

“You will not. It is unthinkable that she should be exposed to gossip for your purposes.”

“Last night, Mrs. Bowen, your cousin exposed herself to gossip all on her own. Let her do it again.”

“No.”

They were glaring at one another now, and he could not help admiring the flash in those dark eyes. He had jarred her out of her habit of lowering them, hiding the fire in them from notice, as the plain brown hood of her cloak covered her hair, hiding it from the light that would reveal its fiery strands.

“You are worried about her chances of making a
safe
marriage.” He could not help the irony in his tone.

“Yes,” she said fervently.

“And why,” he said, closing the gap between them, “do you care so much for that? Her mama does not care. She does not care.”

“Someone must,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction and she looked away.

“Why you?” He paused. “Why do you care, Susannah?”

A tremor passed through her. “It is my duty.”

He wanted to touch her, but he kept his voice harsh. “Then you will fail,” he said. “Your cousin loves danger not prudence.”

She looked up, “Oh you
are
cold. You deserve the title they give you. Iron Lord.” She whirled and would have stepped away, but he caught her by the hand and spun her back and because she resisted, he drew her closer, pulling, the slim, taut body up against his, holding her fast with an arm about her waist.

“Shall I tell you about iron, Mrs. Bowen, about how it is made? About the ore pried out of the earth with picks and drills and blasts? About the crushing and grinding of it? About the wedding of metal, and coke, black as hell, in a furnace as hot? You think me hard. I have been made so.”

As suddenly as it had flared up, the anger left him. He was holding her, looking into those unflinching dark eyes, and the other feelings she stirred in him came flooding in to take the place of anger. He wanted heat, not the bitter heat of rage that dried the heart and left the taste of ashes in the mouth, but the sweet melting heat he knew he could find in Susannah Bowen.

Her eyes told him she sensed his change in mood, and she stiffened slightly in his arms.

He released her and looked away. “At least, Mrs. Bowen, you can’t accuse me of being cold.”

“I’m sorry. I know nothing of your . . . past. I should not let gossip guide my judgment of you.”

“My past is war, rage, revenge. I thought I was done with it when my father died, but whoever the card thief is, he wants to keep it going.” He paused. Her eyes were serious now, full of the shadows of some pain. “I could use your help,” he said.

“My lord, I will never help you to endanger my cousin.”

“Then I shall have to call upon your aunt, Mrs. Bowen. Good day.”

***

Kirby started at the sound of light footsteps and rose from his crouched position between a column and the iron railing of a neighboring house. He ducked again. It was not Miss Lacy but her cousin leaving the house and striding off purposefully. Sharp disappointment mastered him for a moment so that he did not hear a second set of footsteps until they hesitated. He raised his head and looked at the Lacy house again. There she was just as they’d agreed at the foot of the steps, in a blue pelisse. He felt giddy with relief and took a deep, steadying breath before he left his hiding place and strolled her way.

She saw him, broke into a wide smile, and hurried to meet him. He contented himself with taking her hand, instead of kissing her in the street, but there was great pleasure in holding that trusting hand, keeping it warm in his.

“Come,” he said, tugging her along.

She complied, readily falling into step with him, silent until they turned the first corner.

“Did you stay on at the ball?” she asked.

“You danced with my father,” he said.

“Once. I had to.”

“Is he one of your suitors?”

“No. He’s not on Papa’s list, and I wouldn’t choose him anyway.”

“He’s very rich.”

“Papa is too.”

“He has a title.”

“Don’t you?” There was nothing she would not ask.

He didn’t answer. He was struck by the way the golden curls under her bonnet framed her face.

“I didn’t give you away, you know,” she confided. “I wouldn’t. Susannah thinks I have no discretion at all, but no one knows I’ve seen you in town.”

He smiled at that. “Good.”

He led her south and east until the street opened on a square with trees in bud overhead and green shoots underfoot. She frowned. “I would like to know why I mustn’t tell anyone about you. Why are you hiding? Doesn’t your father acknowledge you?”

“My father doesn’t know I exist.”

She stopped abruptly. “How can your father not know about you?”

He pulled her onward toward a bench still wet from the night’s rain and spread his coat on it. “He abandoned my mother before I was born,” he told her, indicating with a gesture that she should sit. Instead she began to pace. He shrugged and sat down to watch.

“Why?”

“I asked that question, too. How any man could leave her . . . She said it was because his father, the old marquess, objected, and that they were forced apart. She was always sure he would come back to her, but he didn’t. He came to London and made his fortune and lived well, while she . . . toiled for others.”

“He must have been very young then,” Miss Lacy said, stopping in front of him.

Kirby glanced up at her. She was right, of course, he realized. He never thought of his father as young, but his parents had married in January of ‘97, and he had been born in September of that year. So his father must have been seventeen when he, Kirby, was born.

“Will you ever tell him who you are?” she asked.

“I have to. I promised my mother I would, but not until I’m ready.”

“You’re not ready then?”

“No, I . . . have more to do.”

“What?”

“The things he did. My mother kept note of them, and I want to do them, to show him who I am.”

“Will that be soon?”

“This spring, you mean? Yes.”

“I’m glad.”

“That doesn’t mean I’ll be able to call on you at your mother’s.”

“Why not?”

He stood and picked up his coat, shaking the moisture from it. He had not meant to tell her as much as he had. “Listen, this is just a temporary friendship.”

She stopped pacing and stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“Like Odysseus and Nausicaa.”

“Who?”

“He was a Greek king, who lost his way and washed ashore on an island. The princess Nausicaa helped him. And then, he had to go on.”

Her expression was decidedly cool. “I liked being Romeo and Juliet better.”

“Maybe,” he said, laughing, “but they came to a tragic end. You wouldn’t want that.”

“No,” she said, and turned and began walking determinedly back the way they had come.

“Wait,” he called.

She did not answer, but reached the gate to the square and stopped to fiddle with the latch. He caught up with her and held the gate closed with his foot.

“You have your plans. I have mine. Can’t we be friends for now?”