Maggie MacKeever (11 page)

Julie bristled even more. “I know I’m not the sort of female to become a gentleman’s fancy-piece, nor do I wish to be, but it’s not kind of you to point it out.”

Now he’d hurt her feelings. Had she not already done it for him, Ned might have kicked himself. “You misunderstood
.
I think you may not have quite grasped the concept of compliments.”

“Oh, so now I’m a slowtop.” Julie plopped her hands on her slim hips. “Let’s see if I’ve got this right. If I was to say that nothing I have filched has been as pretty as your eyes, it would be a compliment. And if I was to say you’re a cod’s head, it would not.”

She thought his
eyes were pretty? Ned reminded himself that the purpose of this conversation was not flirtation, but theft. “We were discussing your name.”

“
You
were discussing it. I already know what my name is. As you would know also if you had been listening. Are you going to give me back the glove?”

Some country parson’s daughter? Ned thought not. “Will you give me back my statue?”

“It must be worth something to you.”

“If you didn’t think so, why did you steal it in the first place?”

“I never said I
did
steal it, did I?”

“You didn’t need to say so, since we both know you did. Do you still have the blasted thing?”

“Maybe and maybe not. Do you have the glove?”

“Maybe and maybe not.”

She huffed out a breath. Ned could almost see the ideas flitting through her mind. “What does it mean, your statue?” she asked.

“What makes you think it means anything?”

“You want it back.”

“It might be of great value.”

“Not according to the fence– Um. The appraiser I consulted.”

If she had tried to fence it, she had no notion of the thing’s true purpose. “The statue is a representation of Taweret, the Egyptian goddess and protective deity of childbirth. She was popular among ordinary Egyptians as a protectress. Pregnant women commonly wore amulets bearing her image.” He awaited a reaction. Most young ladies of Ned’s acquaintance — or of his acquaintance since he had become an earl — would be beyond embarrassed by the mere hint of pregnancy.

Julie’s eyes widened. Ned wondered if she was at last going to disappoint him, which might not be a bad thing, but she said, “Have done. I’ll trade your statue for my glove, and we can pretend we never met.”

Ned didn’t care for this proposition. “It
is
my statue. And it’s not
your glove.”

She ignored the distinction. “Did you bring it with you? The glove?”

“Did you bring the statue? I thought not. My dear, I’m not a flat.”

“And I’m not your dear!” she snapped. “Nor will I be, so you needn’t try and turn me up sweet.”

“Turn you up sweet?”

“Your sort doesn’t call my sort ‘dear’ unless you’ve mischief in mind.”

Ned choked back his laughter. He had already offended her once today.
“‘
My dear’ is in the nature of another compliment,” he said, with as much solemnity as he could muster. “It means I like you. Tell me why you need the glove.”

She looked as if she wanted to throttle him. “It’s not me as needs it or I’d say keep the thing! But have it I must, or I
will
be in Newgate, and what will become of your precious statue then?”

Ned wasn’t sure the statue wouldn’t be safer with her. No one would think to search for the blasted thing in Niddicock Ashcroft’s house.

Safer, providing she stayed out of Newgate. “The glove isn’t the only thing you’ve stolen. Did you do it for a lark?”

Ducks squabbled behind them, splashed and quacked. Julie glanced at the pond. “For a bloody
lark
?”

He had offended her again. “Do you need money? Perhaps I can help.”

She rolled her eyes. “You can’t go around asking people like me questions like that. We’ll always say yes. Since all the money in the world won’t change anything, you may keep it. I wouldn’t take anything from you, at any rate.”

This young woman grew more and more a novelty. “Why not?”

“Because if you was to give me money, you’d have bought me, and I’m not for sale. What’s the time?”

Buy Julie? Ned should have been appalled at the suggestion. Instead he recalled what she had looked like in a state of nature. He had seen the rear view clearly, and was curious about the rest.

He pulled out his pocket watch, an ornate piece that had once belonged to his maternal grandfather. Julie craned her neck to look at the dial. “I have to go.” She turned away.

Ned caught her wrist. Julie stumbled against him and he caught her up against his chest. It was like clutching a rainbow. Her warmth sizzled through the combined thicknesses of coat and cloak.

She felt like heaven and smelled like jasmine. Ned was proud that he remembered how to speak. “If you try to cut and run I will be very cross.”

Julie squirmed. He held her tighter against his body, distracted himself from her intoxicating closeness by counting the leaves on the tree branch overhead.

She went limp in his arms. “Are you threatening me, my lord? Most men would hit a woman and think nothing of it. I’d expected better of an earl.”

As distraction, these remarks were considerably more effective than leaf counting. “Someone has hit you?”

She stared at him. “What world do you live in?”

“The same as you.” Ned gave in to temptation, and trailed his fingers across her soft cheek.

Julie jerked away. “Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Do you always do what you want, my lord?”

“If you don’t stop calling me ‘my lord’ I will take drastic measures.” Reluctantly, Ned released her. “We’re not finished with this conversation, you know.”

“I didn’t think we were.” Julie awarded him a glance brimful of mischief. “Ned.” He watched her saunter down the path until she passed out of his sight.

It wasn’t that late, surely? If Julie got into trouble with Lady Georgiana on Ned’s account, he would have to make amends.

Ned reached for his timepiece, found his pocket empty. The minx had filched his watch.

Chapter Eleven

They come to see; they come that they themselves may be seen.
—
Ovid

Featherbrain,
said Julie to herself.
Cabbagehead.
Why oh why had she picked the pocket of an earl?

She had nibbled the ticker of a gentry cove, and trusted that he wouldn’t see her hobbled for it, which was as paperskulled a gamble as any Tony had ever made. And this after Ned had said he liked her, and complimented her eyes and hair, which made her wonder now if he needed spectacles. When she considered her looks, which wasn’t often — or
hadn’t
been often before she met Lord Buccaneer and started noticing her appearance — she thought merely that her bright curls made her too easily recognized, hardly a good thing for someone on the sneak.

Bottle-head stupid, that’s what she was. Pretty Ned had held her close, and her brain had melted, and she’d given in to impulse.

She’d wanted to impress him, Julie admitted.
Why
she wanted to impress him was something she didn’t care to think about.

She concentrated on her surroundings. The entertainment being offered this evening at Covent Garden Opera was
The Grand Alliance
, followed by
Richard Couer de Lion
, a story Julie liked well. Feigning blindness, the troubadour Blondel sought
to find his imprisoned master, King Richard, who managed to be reunited
with Marguerite of France barely in time to prevent her becoming a nun.

The playbill hardly mattered, as the Allied Sovereigns had promised to attend. More attention was being paid to the royal box than to the stage. As early as five o’clock an immense crowd had battered down the inner doors and barriers in front of the pay box, with the result that countless people gained admission without paying for their seats. The decorations of the theater were damaged in the stampede and many ladies’ dresses torn. The audience settled in and grew progressively more unruly as they waited
for the spectacle to begin at eight o’clock. A wit in the gallery diverted them for a time with a demonstration of his skill at whistling.

Lady Georgiana reached over and rapped Julie’s knuckles with a pierced horn fan. “Stop air-dreaming, miss!”

“Yes, my lady,” Julie murmured.

Lady Georgiana was not deceived by this meek tone. She frowned at Julie before returning her attention to the stage. Her ladyship was the epitome of elegance this evening in a lavish gown of orchid Italian crepe trimmed with floss silk and lace. A fortune in jewels was woven through her curls.

A poor family could live several lifetimes on the proceeds of those gems, mused Julie. While Tony could (and doubtless would if his mama didn’t have a stout lock-box) lose them all in one night of play.

The theater was elegant, having three circles of boxes, with a row of side-boxes above them, on a level with the two-
shilling gallery. The box fronts were perpendicular, each circle supported by slender reeded pillars in burnished gold, the seats covered in pale blue. The circular ceiling was painted to imitate a cupola, in square compartments, with a light relief; the panels grey in color with wreaths of honeysuckle in gold. Romantically lit by patent lamps and elegant chandeliers, everything looked very grand.

Julie felt grand herself, sitting in this private box, wearing a gown of pale pink crepe and a lace shawl. She might have felt she dressed up pretty, had not Lady Georgiana taken pains to tell her she did not.

Covent Garden had burned down in 1808, reopening the next year to the Old Price riots, which ended with the cost of admission not being raised. The theater’s history was rich with famous names: Charles Macklin, David Garrick, Peg Woffington; John Philip Kemble and his sister Sarah Siddons; William Henry Betty, ‘The Young Roscius’, who at twelve years of age was earning one hundred pounds a night. Being in a theater made Julie long for Rose. She wondered if Covent Garden had a resident cat.

Intermission came, and with it a flock of visitors. Julie withdrew into the shadows at the rear of the box. Softly, she hummed the song King Richard had composed for Marguerite:

“O Richard! O my king!  The universe forsakes thee—”

“You are familiar with the play, I see,” came a lazy voice from behind her. “It was banned during the troubles in France, due to its favorable depiction of royalty.”

Julie started, spun around. Lord Dorset arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss Wynne.”

If he hadn’t meant to frighten her, he wouldn’t have snuck up on her like a cat preparing to pounce. “You’re drawing attention to me. Lady Georgiana won’t like that.”

Ned nodded toward the front of the box. “I brought my cousin. Lady Georgiana is too busy insulting Hannah to heed us.”

Julie glanced over her shoulder. Lady Dorset was wearing inky black taffeta lavishly ornamented with satin rouleaux, topped off by a turban with ostrich plumes.

Lady Georgiana wafted her fan. “Prinny has commissioned
Thomas Lawrence to paint portraits of the Allied Sovereigns. Despite the fact that he is rumored to have been a lover of Princess Caroline, dear Thomas is all the rage. I, naturally, have already had my portrait done.”

“Naturally.” Hannah’s nose twitched. “I hear that the Czar has insulted the Regent by saying his current flirt is ‘mighty old’. Lady Hertford is your age, is she not?”

“We will leave the ladies to their pleasantries,” said Ned. “I want a word with you, buttercup.”

Sunshine. Buttercup. Poppycock. “So you shall have it, my lord greenbean.” Julie brushed her fingers over his white Marcella waistcoat, felt the fascinating strength of his body through those several layers of clothing. “You have a smudge.”

He caught her hand and held it against his chest. “Are you aware that your eyes change color with your moods?”

Julie wondered what color her eyes were now that she was practically panting due to his proximity. “Is this more of your flummery?”

He moved her hand away, released it. “No, simply the truth. Were I to compliment you, I would say that you are bold as a brass-faced monkey. How dared you steal my watch?”

Julie peeked at Georgiana and Hannah, who were now arguing politics, one taking the Tory point of view, and the other the Whig, not from any strong conviction but to cause annoyance and thereby entertain themselves. “Are you certain your watch is missing, my lord?”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the watch. “Clever girl.”

“
That
, I did for a lark.” The box was growing steadily more crowded as people came to pay their respects, and to gossip, and be seen. Julie searched for an innocuous topic of conversation, one that didn’t have to do with items stolen and brought back. “Why is your horse named Soldier?”

“Because he was one, as was I.”

Julie recalled a certain ugly statue. “Did you do your soldiering in Egypt?”

The earl folded his arms across his chest. “One might think so, might one not? But, no. I was in the Peninsula.”

He was a soldier who had seen serious action, then. “Cuidad Rodrigo? Badajoz? Salamanca?”

“I cashiered out after Badajoz. You’ve done some traveling of your own.”

What nonsense was this? “I’ve never been away from London.”

“You forgot Yorkshire.”

So she had. Probably because her fingers still tingled from where she’d pressed them against his chest. Heaven forbid she ever touched him without layers of cloth between them. She’d expire on the spot.

He was waiting for her comment. Julie said, “Lady Georgiana would hardly hire a companion who grew up in St Giles.”

He leaned closer to her. “And did you grow up in St Giles?”

“I’m just saying.” Much more than she should. “Ask me no more questions, my lord. I can’t answer them.”