When a Scot Loves a Lady (2 page)

That pretense, however, had excellent effect. Through months of careful observation, Kitty had discovered that Lord Lambert Poole practiced politics quite outside the bounds of legal government. Once she'd found papers in his waistcoat with names of ministry officials and figures, numbers with pound markings. She required little more information to make his life in society quite uncomfortable were she to reveal him.

But heat gathered between her exposed shoulders, and a prickly discomfort. Where plotting revenge had once seemed so sweet, now it chafed. And within her, the spirit of the girl who had sung at the top of her lungs while dashing through puddles wished to sing again instead of weep. Tonight she did not care for hanging on his sleeve and playing her secret game, not even to further her goal.

“Come on, Kit.” His gaze slipped along her bodice. “There's bound to be a dark corner somewhere no one's using yet.”

She suppressed a shudder. “Of course I deserve that.”

“Precedent, my dear.”

She forced herself to step closer. “I have told you before, I—”

Something swished against her hip, a mass of gray fur, and she jolted aside. A steadying hand came around her bare arm.

“Thare nou, lass. 'Tis anely a dug.” A warm voice, and deep. Wonderfully warm and deep like his skin against hers, which made her insides tickle.

But tickling insides notwithstanding, Kitty's tastes tended decidedly toward men who combed their hair. A thin white streak ran through Lord Blackwood's, from his temple tangled amid the overly long, dark auburn locks. And beneath the careless thatch across his brow, he had very beautiful eyes.

“Lady Katherine.” Lambert's drawl interrupted her bemusement. “I present to you the Earl of Blackwood, lately returned from the East Indies. Blackwood, this is Savege's sister.”

“Ma'am.” He nodded by way of bowing, she supposed.

Drawing her arm from his hold, she curtsied. “I do not mind the dog, my lord. But”—she gestured toward his costume—“isn't it rather large for chasing sheep about? I daresay wolves would suit it better.”

“Aye, maleddy. But things be no always whit thay seem.”

Now she could not help but stare. Behind the beautifully dark, hooded eyes, something glinted. A hint of steel.

Then, like a thorough barbarian, without another word he moved away.

But she must be a little drunk after all; she followed him with her gaze.

In the shadows at the edge of the ballroom, a satyr with a matted chest of hair and a hand wrapped around a half-filled goblet leered over a maid—not a costumed guest but an actual maid. A tray of glasses weighed down her narrow shoulders. The satyr pawed. The girl backed into the wall, using her dish as a shield.

Lord Blackwood stepped casually between the two.

“Weel nou, sir,” he said in a rough voice that carried above the music and conversation. “Did yer mither nae teach ye better as tae bother a lass when she's haurd at wirk?” His brow furrowed. “Be aff wi' ye, man, or A'll be giving ye a lesson in manners nou.”

The satyr seemed to size him up, but the earl's measure was clear. Shepherd's garb could not disguise a man in the prime of his life.

“She's going to waste working on her feet,” the satyr snarled, but he stumbled away.

“Ah,” Lambert murmured at Kitty's shoulder. “A champion of the laboring class. How affecting.” The touch of his breath upon her cheek made her skin crawl.

Lord Blackwood spoke quietly to the maid now, and Kitty could not hear him. The girl's eyes widened and she nodded, her face filled with trust. As though she expected it, she allowed him to relieve her of the tray of glasses. Then she dipped her head and disappeared into the crowd.

Lambert's hand came around Kitty's elbow.

“Don't bother, Kit.” His blue eyes glittered. “Since his wife died, Blackwood's not the marrying type either.” His grin was cruel.

He enjoyed imagining she was unhappy because he would not marry her. Years ago, ruining her had been entirely about insulting her brothers, whom he despised. But now Kitty knew he simply liked to think she pined for him. Indeed she had pretended gorgeously, allowing him liberties to keep him close, because she believed she needed to see him suffer as she had—first when he refused her marriage, then when he proved to her that she was barren.

She looked back toward the man who had lost his young wife years earlier yet who still remained faithful to her, a rough-hewn man who in the middle of a society crush rescued a serving girl from abuse.

From the shadows the Earl of Blackwood met her regard. A flicker of hardness once more lit the dark warmth of his eyes.

Things were not always what they seemed
.

But Kitty already knew that better than anybody.

London, 1816

Fellow Subjects of Britain
,

How delinquent is Government if it distributes the sorely depleted Treasury of our Noble Kingdom hither and yon without recourse to prudence, justice, or reason?

Gravely so
.

Irresponsibly so
.

Villainously so!

As you know, I have made it my crusade to make public all such spendthrift waste. This month I offer yet another example: 14½ Dover Street
.

What use has Society of an exclusive gentlemen's club if no gentlemen are ever seen to pass through its door?—that white-painted panel graced with an intimidating knocker, a Bird of Prey. But the door never opens. Do the exalted members of this club ever use their fashionable clubhouse?

It appears not
.

Information has recently come to me through perilous channels I swim for your benefit, Fellow Subjects. It appears that without proper debate Lords has approved by Secret Ballot an allotment to the Home Office designated for this so-called club. And yet for what purpose does the club exist but to pamper the indolent rich for whom such establishments are already Legion? There can be no good in this Rash Expenditure
.

I vow to uncover this concealed squandering of our kingdom's Wealth. I will discover the names of each member of this club, and what business or play passes behind its imposing knocker. Then, dear readers, I will reveal it to you
.

—Lady Justice

Sir
,

I regretfully notify you that agents Eagle, Sea Hawk, Raven, and Sparrow have withdrawn from service, termination effective immediately. The Falcon Club, it appears, is disbanded. I of course shall remain until all outstanding cases are settled
.

Additionally, I draw your attention to the pamphlet of 10 December 1816, produced by Brittle & Sons, Printers, enclosed. Poor old girl is doomed to disappointment
.

Yours, &c
.,

Peregrine

 

“Thank you, sir.” The lady pressed her trembling fingertips into Leam Blackwood's palm. “
Thank you
.”

In the iron mist of the moonless December night, he lifted her hand and placed the softest kiss upon her knuckles.

“God be wi' ye, lass.”

Twin fountains of gratitude sparkled on her cheeks.

“You are too good.” She pressed his kerchief to her quivering lips. “
Too
good, my lord.” Her lashes fluttered. “If only…”

With a gentle shake of his head and a regretful smile, he handed her into the carriage and closed the door. The vehicle started off, clattering wheels and hooves shrouded by the hush of fog enveloping London's wee hours.

For a moment, Leam stared after. He released a long breath.

'Twas a night like every other night.

'Twas a night like no other night.

'Twas a bushel of bad poetry, quite like the bad poetry of his life for the past five years. But tonight it would come to an end.

Straightening his shoulders, he buttoned his coat and raked his fingers through the itchy beard. By God, even his dogs didn't go about so scruffy. It was a sorry day when a man wanted a razor more than a brandy.

“Well, that's that.” His voice held no trace of Scots, the thick burr of his homeland he'd trained his tongue to suppress as a youth. And yet five years earlier, in service to the crown, he had reclaimed that Scots. Five numb years ago. Quite willingly.

But no more.

“Bella. Hermes.” He snapped his fingers. Two giant shadows emerged from the park opposite. He'd brought the dogs along tonight to sniff out the woman from a scrap of her clothing provided by her husband. Sight hounds by breeding, they were helpful enough in a pinch. The manager of the seedy hotel in which they had run the woman to ground hadn't minded the animals, and the agents of the Falcon Club had once again found their quarry. Yet another lost soul.

Of course the pup, Hermes, had stirred up trouble in the hotel kitchen. But Bella hadn't bothered anyone. She was a good old girl,
maistly wonderfu' contented
.

That made one of them.

“Quite sure you wish to give this up, old chap?” The gentleman on the sidewalk behind Leam murmured into the damp cold. From the tone of Wyn Yale's voice, Leam guessed his expression: a slight smile, narrowed silver eyes. “Must be satisfying to wrap lovely matrons so easily around your little finger.”

“Ladies admire tragic heroes.” Beside Yale, Constance Read's soft voice lilted with northern music. “And my cousin is very charming, as well as handsome, of course. Just like you, Wyn.”

“You are all kindness, my lady,” Yale replied. “But alas, a Welshman can never best a Scot. History proves it.”

“Ladies don't give a fig about history. Especially the young ladies, who like
you
quite well enough.” She laughed, a ripple of silk that relieved the tension corded about Leam's lungs.

“The hotel manager's wife called him a ruffian,” Yale added.

“She was flirting. They all flirt with him. She also called him a tease.”

“They haven't any idea.” The Welshman's voice was sly.

No idea whatsoever.

Leam passed a hand over his face again. Four years at Cambridge. Three after that at Edinburgh. He spoke seven languages, read two more, had traveled three continents, owned a vast Lowlands estate, and was heir to a dukedom possessed of a fortune built on East Indian silks and tea. Yet society imagined him a ruffian and a tease. Because that was the man he showed to the world.

By God, he'd had enough of this. Five years' worth of enough. And yet
in his heart there was a kind of fighting that would not let him sleep
.

Good Lord. Shakespearean thoughts in the wake of silly females and bad poetry. Brandy seemed an excellent idea after all.

Leam swiveled on his heels.

“If you two are quite finished, perhaps we might go inside. The night advances and I have elsewhere to be.” He gestured toward the door to the modest town house before which they stood. Like the falcon-shaped knocker, the bronze numbers 14½ above the lintel glistened in the glow of a nearby gas lamplight.

“Where elsewhere?” His cousin Constance, a sparkling beauty who at twenty had already sent a hundred men to their knees in London drawing rooms, lifted azure eyes full of keen curiosity.

“Anywhere but here.” He drew her up the steps.

“Don't set your hopes on that too securely, old chap. Colin has plans.” Yale pressed the door open and winked at Constance as she passed through.

“Colin can go hang,” Leam muttered.

“I would rather not.” At the parlor threshold, the head agent of the Falcon Club, Viscount Colin Gray, stood as he had any number of nights, calmly awaiting their return from yet another assignment. The edge of his mouth ticked up ever so slightly. Gray rarely smiled. His was a grave sort of English rectitude, one Leam had admired since their school days. He met Leam's gaze, his indigo eyes sober. “But if you wait long enough, my friend, you might get lucky.”

“More likely to be a guillotine than a noose, though. Hm, Colin?” Yale moved directly to the sideboard. The young Welshman's speech never slurred nor did his gait falter. But Leam had watched the lad drink an entire bottle of brandy since noon.