When a Scot Loves a Lady (30 page)

Fellow Britons
,

I promised I would not relent in my pursuit of information concerning the exclusive gentlemen's club at 14½ Dover Street. I have not. I am now in possession of a curious fact. It is called the Falcon Club. Its members go by the names of birds. I haven't any idea the reason for this, but when I know I will tell you
.

It would be wonderful if I discovered them to be a society of bird-watchers. I might even join them if I could spare the time. But I doubt I will find that. Bird watchers are quiet folk, but not to my knowledge particularly secretive
.

—Lady Justice

Sir
,

Please note the enclosed leaflet. Do you wish me to take any action at this time?

Eagle has returned to town and requested that Mr. Grimm be assigned to watch a house for the safety of its resident. I have allowed it, under the condition that Eagle assent to the other matter on which you are eager for his assistance
.

The resident is a party well known to you due to her involvement in the affair concerning L.P. in June. Eagle believes she may be in danger. We have not pinpointed a source, but naturally we shall in short order. In the meantime, Sea Hawk has sent word that the resident may be able to help us in the project he currently pursues. Eagle refuses to divulge more, but I cannot believe this is a coincidence. Do I have your permission to pursue the matter as I see fit?

Peregrine

S
he was the only unwed lady present at the political luncheon. She should not be present at all. She never should have. But her mother had always indulged her, pretending not to notice whispered disapproval even at such events where an informed mind counted for more than a lady's stained reputation or unwed status. The Dowager Lady Savege commanded far too much stature to care about what the gossips said, and she was always there to chaperone after all.

But the gossips would talk and Kitty could not avoid hearing some of it. She had never felt the censure quite as acutely as she did now. Perhaps it was because she no longer had a purpose for being in society so constantly. Or perhaps she simply did not care for politics any longer now that she had no desire to expose a rotten politician. Emily should be castigating
her
for shallowness rather than poor Mr. Yale.

“You did not touch the aubergine soufflé, Kitty,” her hostess, the Countess of March, said. “I had my chef make it expressly for you.”

“Did you? You are too kind, ma'am.”

She was predictable. Friends knew what she liked to eat at a party. She could be guaranteed to attend because she hadn't anything else to do. She might as well be eighty, stockings crumpled at her ankles, and telling outrageous stories to anyone who would listen.

But thinking about crumpled stockings made her think of Leam Blackwood. Nearly everything made her think of him. And she did not want to, because every time she did her cheeks burned with shame.

Save me from this need
.

Oh,
God
. It made her want to sink into the floor and die to recall it. Could she have been more thoroughly ridiculous? She had begged him to make love to her.
Begged
.

Worse even than the shame, however, was the misery inside her that would not abate. She'd thought returning to town would alleviate that. When Mr. Worthmore, then within the hour Mr. Yale departed Willows Hall and Emily was once again her earnest, distracted self, Kitty had felt free to go home—to leave the place in which he'd made love to her, then abandoned her.

But it had not changed a thing. She still felt like a fool, and miserable.

“You are not yourself since you returned from the countryside, Kitty,” Lady March said, shifting closer on the couch. The countess had a quick mind and an air of quiet fashion that Kitty liked. Her crinkled gaze, however, was too knowing.

“Oh, I am as happy as a clam,” she replied perhaps too blithely.

The countess lifted a brow. “A clam?”

“Or what have you.” Kitty waved her hand about.

Murmured conversation mounted to a cascade of laughter across the drawing room for a moment, then quieted again.

“Tell me, what did you do while in Shropshire?”

She developed a bewilderingly desperate
tendre
for an inappropriate and untrustworthy man.

“I completed a lovely piece of embroidery. My mother has sent it to the cabinetmakers already. You know the one on Cheapside. He will set it into a stool. Roses and cherries on a blush backing, with mahogany stain. I simply adore red.”

“Kitty Savege, you sound like a perfect nincompoop.”

Kitty's eyes widened.

“What happened to the young lady everyone admired who could converse on politics, books, theater, and the like?” The countess's lips pinched. “Does Chamberlayne's courtship disturb you?”

“Oh, no. I quite like him.” Her mother's beau was unfailingly kind to her. He had not entirely fulfilled Kitty's hopes over the holiday, but she had cause to believe an offer forthcoming. She had returned to find her mother in possession of the loveliest necklace of silver and lapis lazuli, a gift from the gentleman. Kitty had clasped the piece about her mother's neck earlier, praising its delicate beauty, and the dowager's cheeks glowed. Kitty's father had never given his wife baubles, reserving them instead for his mistress.

Now Ellen Savege stood beside Lord Chamberlayne across the drawing room, a spark animating her eyes.

“Then what on earth is the matter with you?” Lady March demanded.

“I am no doubt simply bored.” Or perhaps something more profound.

Certainly
more profound.

“
Bored?
”

“With the season still weeks away, entertainments are so thin and not particularly inspiring.” She sounded wretchedly wan. Really not herself at all.

The countess frowned. “Kitty Savege, you have never been rude a day in your life.”

“Oh, certainly not.” She had been horridly rude to Lord Blackwood. Then she had done to him exactly what he had been doing to her to justify her rudeness: she had held him for too long.

“You have insulted me and you do not even realize it,” the countess said without rancor. “I am concerned for your head, my dear.”

“What could possibly concern you about such a pretty head, my lady?” Lord Chamberlayne's voice was warm as he stopped before them, her mother on his arm. There wasn't a hint of false flattery about him. Kitty liked that. He seemed so honest, unlike a certain Scot who hid secrets and occasionally spoke to a lady in a rich resonant voice she wanted to eat with a spoon.

“I do feel a bit unstable these days,” she admitted.

Lady March peered at her. Lord Chamberlayne furrowed his brow and looked to her mother, who met her gaze evenly, as always.

“Perhaps a quiet evening of play will put you to rights again,” her mother suggested.

“Mama.” She stood. “I don't wish to play. Cards no longer satisfy me.” They never would again after the game she had played Christmas Eve.

“Well, this is sudden, daughter.”

Kitty turned from her mother. “My lord, will you sit in for me at tonight's card party?”

“I will be delighted.” He turned smiling eyes upon her mother, and her face lightened beneath his appreciative regard. They really were well suited, two people's tastes never more similar. Why hadn't he yet offered for her? Had Kitty thrown herself into a snowstorm and subsequently into the arms of a Scottish rogue
all for nothing
?

She turned to her hostess, despondency the size of a fist balled up in her stomach.

“My lady, I must take leave of your hospitality now. I have had a delightful time.”

“Boredom can be so amusing,” the countess murmured.

Kitty curtsied. “Good day, my lady. Mama, my lord.”

She fled.

Alex's footman let her in through her front door, his black and gold livery neat as a pin. Kitty deposited her cloak, bonnet, and gloves with him, and climbed the elegant stair to the parlor.

The house was nearly empty. Over the holiday Alex and Serena had purchased a larger residence two blocks away, in anticipation of the baby. Kitty and her mother were to remove to the new house within the fortnight. For the time being that left Kitty without any company.

Perhaps she merely needed a good book. Distraction might help, although it had not in a month.

Clearly she needed a change. She could hire a companion and go to France. Everyone said Paris was pleasant in the spring. She could simply run away again, then again and again until old age or some tragic accident took her.

She opened the glass door to the bookcase and ran her fingertips along gilded bindings. Her hand arrested on a volume. She plucked it out.
A History of the Fractious Clans of Scotland
should be interesting reading. She would instruct the footman she was not available to callers and lose herself in the pages.

She set the book on a table, threw herself down into a chair much as Emily might, and draped an arm over her eyes. This simply would not do. She would never be cured of her infatuation if she continually fed it.

She squared her shoulders and grabbed up the book to reshelve. The footman appeared at the door.

“My lady, a gentleman is calling. I invited him to wait in the drawing room.”

She pressed the volume into its slot and closed the case, endeavoring not to notice the footman's Meaningful Glance. Over the past few years the servants had all grown wretchedly familiar in the matter of her gentlemen callers. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hopkins, had taken to letting Kitty know of which gentlemen she particularly approved.

“Thank you, John. Please remain on the landing.” She smoothed her hands over her hair and down her skirts, then went through the short passageway into the adjoining chamber. The Earl of Blackwood stood in her drawing room.

Quite simply, she lost the ability to speak.

His eyes were not hooded. His hair was a bit long over the collar, but he was clean-shaven. His coat, waistcoat, and breeches were exceedingly elegant, of excellent quality and the finest cut, his boots shining, and his expression perfectly benign. There were no dogs in sight.

“Good afternoon.” He bowed, a graceful gesture without a hint of affectation. “I trust I find you well, ma'am.”

“You do.” She could manage no more. Not a curtsy or another word. She had never imagined he would come to her, and certainly not looking and sounding like this. He held his hat and riding crop in one hand as though he did not intend to remain long.

“May I inquire after your injury?”

Injury?

“The wound on your arm,” he provided.

Oh. “It is fine.” She could not think. But he allowed only a moment's pause.

“I have come seeking your assistance. I can only hope that despite circumstances you will consider rendering it.”

“Circumstances?” The syllables required effort.

“The circumstance of my having withheld from you the truth.”

Kitty clasped her hands before her to still their shaking. “What is the truth, my lord?”

“That for several years I have been an agent of the crown in secrecy, playing a role to do my work. I have recently given that up, save for one final loose end that must be knotted now. It is that task for which I seek your aid.”

She knew not whether to scream or laugh or cry. Emotions battered.

“You are a
spy
?”

“Were. And no. The organization of which I was a member sought out missing persons of great importance whose retrieval required particular discretion. We gathered information only to find those persons.” He spoke as though discussing the time of day, while Kitty's world spun.

“That is nonsensical. How would playing
that
role have assisted you in gaining information?”

He held her gaze steadily. “You trusted me.”