by Kay Hooper
“Something like that.” Jenny wasn’t in the least disturbed that her stepfather thought her mercenary. Carefully playing her role, she went on irritably, “You nearly ruined my chances by sending the Runners here. If you don’t want to endanger them further, you’ll go back to Kent and let me handle my own affairs.”
Sir George nodded. Having a mercenary mind himself, he was easily convinced of calculating motives in others. “I’ll expect a visit from Spencer before the end of the Season, Jenny.”
She rang for a servant to show him out, without responding to his statement. She knew in her heart that her stepfather would not receive a visit from the duke, but she had to keep Sir George away for at least the remainder of the Season. By that time, she hoped to have found her father’s murderer. If not—she would deal with that when the time came.
Jenny watched as the butler showed Sir George out, then wearily climbed the stairs to her room. She was drained, exhausted from the strain of confronting her stepfather, and the tensions from what seemed like the longest day of her life. And the day was far from over. There was still Lady Jersey’s party to be gotten through. Spencer would be there.
Jenny lay silently on her bed and fought a cowardly impulse to crawl beneath the covers and never come out again. One part of her wanted to see Spencer and resolve the misunderstanding between them. Another part realized that what had happened between them was far more serious than a simple disagreement.
In any case, she reminded herself, she had made her decision regarding Spencer. The search for her father’s murderer would continue.
The burden for that search would rest on her shoulders alone—as it always had. That burden, carried for so long, was becoming unbearably heavy.
Jenny shook the thought away. She would go on; it was impossible to go back.
Jenny swung herself from the bed as her maid entered the room. Hours of reflection had done much to ease her troubled mind and stiffen her resolve.
She would attend Lady Jersey’s party and no one—no one!—would suspect the ache in her heart. The Dark Incomparable would treat the ton to an evening they would not soon forget.
With an oddly feline smile, Jenny said to her maid, “The black evening gown, Mary, and the yellow diamonds.”
The maid’s face was shocked. “The black gown, miss?” Black was for mourning—or matrons.
Coolly, Jenny replied, “The black gown.”
Mary slowly went to her mistress’s wardrobe, wondering if Miss Jenny were losing her mind. It was against social dictates for a young, unmarried woman to wear black unless she was in mourning, although the black gown would have been totally unsuitable for such a somber time. Made of French silk, it was one breath away from being indecent.
An hour later, Jenny stood before the full-length mirror in her room and stared at her reflection. The black gown was every bit as wicked as she had remembered. She turned, twitching away the graceful folds of the half-train, and stared at the side view the mirror presented. The gown lent her a grace and dignity she had not known she possessed.
The yellow diamonds caught the light as she turned, glowing against her white skin with a brilliance only surpassed by the radiance of her golden eyes.
Jenny smiled and slowly drew on the long black gloves. She was perfectly aware of the danger of appearing in such a gown, but she also knew that if anyone could carry it off, she could. There was no vanity in the thought; the hypocritical opinions of London society could always be influenced to pardon an outrageous heiress.
Outrageous heiress. If they only knew, she thought, if they only knew!
Lady Beddington twittered nervously all the way to Lady Jersey’s. She had tried vainly to convince Jenny not to wear the black gown, but the determined glint in her young friend’s eyes had defeated her. Now she envisioned terrible social ruin for them both, and wondered desperately what Lady Ross would have to say when her daughter was sent home in disgrace.
But Lady Beddington’s fears proved groundless. Lady Jersey greeted them at the door, saying, “Why, Miss Courtenay, you look delightfully wicked! If only I had the coloring to wear black!” Her acceptance set the tone for the entire evening.
Jenny found herself besieged with admirers, and even the staid matrons with daughters of marriageable age were considered merely resentful when they remarked acidly that Miss Courtenay was obviously fast.
The official seal of approval was bestowed on Jenny when Mr. Brummell bowed low before her and requested a dance. The acid-tongued matrons subsided noticeably after that.
Brummell, performing the steps of the waltz with faultless grace, smiled down at Jenny. “Miss Courtenay, you are absolutely bewitching tonight. If I were not so averse to matrimony, I would be languishing at your feet.”
Jenny laughed softly, not in the least deceived by his flattery. “You are too kind, sir. But it does seem a shame that I cannot ensnare you—it would be the coup of the Season.”
The Beau’s gray eyes were amused. “Ah, but to ensnare a duke is quite enough of a coup.” He immediately regretted his statement, for the lady’s beautiful golden eyes dulled, and her smile disappeared.
She recovered almost immediately, however, and with a note of forced gaiety in her voice, said lightly, “Once ensnared does not mean forever, sir.”
“I see.” Brummell was given credit for a great deal of perception by the members of the ton, and Jenny would have been considerably dismayed if she had known exactly how much the Beau did see. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
With a bright smile, Jenny replied quickly, “No—but thank you.”
Quietly, Brummell said, “It seems a shame. Perhaps you are mistaken; lovers often quarrel, or so the poets say.”
Jenny managed a shaky laugh. “The poets say a great many things that are not strictly true. In any case, it doesn’t matter now. It’s over.”
“Is it?” Brummell smiled faintly. “Then why is Spencer standing in the doorway staring at you like a mooncalf?”
Chapter Seventeen
Hours earlier, in the library of his town house, Spencer had paced restlessly back and forth. His anger had died, and with its death had come the realization that he had made a terrible mistake. He should have known better than to try and make Jenny’s decisions for her. She was a strong-minded woman; she could be led, perhaps, but never driven.
The troubled duke sank down in a wing-backed chair by the fireplace and wondered wryly if it were true that God watched over little children and fools, never doubting for a moment what his proper category was. If so, perhaps he still had a chance with Jenny.
He found himself wondering, as he had wondered so often during the past weeks, what it was about Jenny that had tumbled him so abruptly into love. He knew, of course, that it was his duty to find himself a wife and set up his nursery. In fact, he had a strong desire to see his son step into his shoes one day—rather than the distant cousin who would presently inherit if he were to suffer an untimely demise.
But that had always seemed a remote and unlikely possibility. He had plenty of time. For the past ten years, he had sat back and watched beautiful young women make their curtsies to polite society. None had roused even the slightest bit of interest in him.
And then, on a moonlit night, he had gazed up at a pair of wild eyes glittering through a black mask, and felt as if someone had snatched the ground from beneath his feet. Those strange eyes had slipped in under his guard—and he was well and truly caught at last.
How ironic. The most eligible bachelor in England, the Duke of Spencer, had fallen helplessly, mindlessly in love with a nameless, faceless thief.
And then he had discovered that his love had a face, that she was everything he had ever desired in a woman, with a name as old and dignified as his own.
Not that it really mattered. He had not fallen in love with her name or her face. He had fallen in love with the spirit he had seen shining in her golden eyes. And he had just done his best to destroy that spirit.
Spencer leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes with a weary sigh. And so the man who was renowned throughout England for his savoir faire had made a thorough botch of his love affairs.
The room darkened until the only light came from the dying fire, and still the duke brooded silently. Some time later, he was disturbed by a soft cough from the doorway. He turned his head to see his valet, Cranston. “Yes, what is it?”
The valet’s voice was as colorless as usual. “I beg pardon, Your Grace, but if you mean to attend Lady Jersey’s ball, it is past time to dress.”
“The ball?” Spencer’s forehead creased with a slight frown, and then abruptly smoothed. Of course. Jenny would be there.
Spencer considerably surprised his valet by dressing far more quickly than usual, and by berating Cranston impatiently for his slowness. The valet bore all this with remarkable patience; he had seen the signs weeks before. The duke was in love.
Spencer stood in the doorway of Lady Jersey’s ballroom and scanned the crowded room intently. Had she come? And if she had come, would she even talk to him?
He was totally unaware of the interested and amused glances he was receiving, being unconscious of the eager light in his eyes.
At last he saw her. She was dancing with Brummell, and was utterly bewitching in her clinging black dress. Spencer caught his breath as the yellow diamonds at her throat blazed from the light of the chandelier.
Oblivious of the determined look on his own face, the duke began to make his way toward Jenny and her partner. He would not, by God, be fobbed off with some paltry excuse. One way or another, he meant to have a few words with his wayward love.
Jenny stared up at the Beau. “You—you mean he’s here?”
The music stopped just then, and Brummell smiled down at Jenny. “He is indeed. As a matter of fact, he is headed this way—with a very determined look on his face. I believe he intends to ask you to dance.”
Before Jenny could voice the protest rising in her throat, Spencer was bowing low before her. “Jenny, may I have this dance?”
Jenny stared at the man she loved for a moment before silently going into his arms for a waltz. She had intended to refuse, but the pleading look in his eyes had defeated her. Surely every woman had a right to dance one last time with the man she loved.
She fixed her eyes on the diamond pin in his cravat, refusing to look up even when he murmured her name.
“Jenny . . . ? Will you at least give me a chance to apologize?”
“It isn’t important.” Her response was barely above a whisper.
His hand tightened convulsively around hers. “How can you say that, Jenny? I love you—I want to marry you.”
“You want a woman fit to be a duchess. A woman you can respect. Not I.” Her voice was very sure.
Spencer cast an impatient look around at the other couples and fought to keep his voice low. “I respect you. Jenny, I didn’t mean all those things I said.”
“You meant them,” she responded quietly. “Your wife must be above reproach. And a thief could hardly be considered above reproach, Your Grace.”
The cool formality in her voice chilled him. He abruptly stopped dancing and with his hand firmly on her elbow, guided her forcefully into the hall. “Damn it,” he muttered, “you will listen to me.” He pulled her into an empty room off the hall, and swung around to meet her enraged eyes.
The ever-cool, ever-calm duke once again forgot common sense in the heat of the moment. Angrily, he said, “Jenny, don’t be a fool. I want you to be my wife—the mother of my children! I don’t give a damn if the world calls you a thief.”
Outraged, Jenny shot back, “The world doesn’t know I’m a thief. Unless you mean to shout it from the rooftops.”
“I don’t mean to shout it from the rooftops. For God’s sake, will you stop twisting everything I say? I only meant that I don’t care about the opinions of others.”
Both were too engrossed in their argument to see Brummell, a decided gleam in his eyes, silently close the door to prevent their raised voices from reaching the ballroom.
“Then you’re a fool. You have to live in this world—or perhaps you think that dukes are above having to consider what others think of them.”
“Stop throwing my title in my face.”
“Stop hiding behind your title.”
“Damn it, I’m not hiding behind anything.”
“And stop swearing at me.”
Unaware of the childish turn the argument had taken, the two continued to avoid the real issue.
“I’ll swear at whomever I damn well please.”
“You won’t swear at me.” Jenny angrily flounced from the room, leaving Spencer muttering to himself.
A moment later, Brummell entered and closed the door behind him. “You know,” he remarked in a meditative voice, “if you two keep going the way you’re going, you’ll never patch things up.”
Wearily, Spencer said, “You don’t know the whole story, George.”
The Beau folded his arms and regarded his old friend with considerable amusement. “You mean I don’t know that the beautiful Miss Courtenay is none other than the notorious thief for whom the Runners have been searching high and low during the past year?”
Spencer was obviously startled. “How did you know that?”
“If I had not closed this door a few minutes ago, the whole of London would now know.” He smiled. “I have not been so entertained in years!”
Rather grimly, the duke said, “I hope you don’t mean to make mischief, George.”
Brummell waved away the suggestion. “Of course not. No need to fear, my friend. I have no intention of addling the eggs.”
Spencer nodded. “Good. The gallows is not exactly a fitting place for a lady.”
Very gently, the Beau remarked, “But a fitting place for a thief, wouldn’t you say?”
Angrily, Spencer turned on his old friend. “She isn’t a common thief. For God’s sake, George—you’ve spoken to her—danced with her. You know she’s a lady. She has a reason—she must have a reason—for what she does.”
“Exactly.” Brummell removed an enameled snuffbox from his pocket, flicked it open, and took a delicate pinch. “And what is her reason?”
His anger draining away, Spencer shook his head wearily. “I don’t know. She hasn’t told me.”
“Have you asked?”
“Not—recently,” the duke murmured.
“Perhaps you should.”
Spencer stared at the Beau for a long moment. “Yes. Yes, perhaps I should.” He smiled suddenly, his lips twisting wryly. “If I can get anywhere near her after tonight.”
“That might indeed prove to be a trifle difficult. You were not very wise just now, my friend.” The gentle reproof had the desired result; Spencer immediately assumed a very determined expression.
“Then I shall do better next time, George. I mean to marry Miss Jennifer Courtenay and I will not allow anyone—including her—to stand in my way.”
Brummell watched him stride from the room. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he tapped the lid of his snuffbox with one slender finger and murmured to the empty room, “’Ware rabbit holes!”
The expression was a common one among huntsmen and the duke, had he been privileged to hear it, would have understood immediately that the Beau was conveying a gentle warning to watch for dangerous pitfalls directly in his path.
Spencer’s determination to clear matters between himself and Jenny was not met with encouragement from that wayward lady. In fact, she avoided him quite successfully.
At social events, she was invariably surrounded by eager and amorous young gentlemen, who, heartened by Miss Courtenay’s falling-out with Spencer, were anxious to capture her affections. They danced with her, rode with her, paid her lavish compliments and, however unaware they may have been of the fact, shielded her from Spencer’s determined presence.
As the days passed, the duke grew more and m
ore desperate. The nightly vista of his love in the company of other men was driving him to distraction, and added to that was fear for her safety; the Cat had held up at least three coaches in the past fortnight.
The letters he sent her were returned unopened, and whenever he called at Lady Beddington’s, Miss Courtenay was “not at home.” Worried over his inability to speak to Jenny and uneasy about the Cat’s continued escapades, Spencer finally decided on a drastic means of gaining her attention.
And so it was that Spencer rode out of London early one cool spring morning. His destination was the hollow tree where Jenny had told him to leave messages. It was, he knew, a long shot; since he was aware of her identity, Jenny could very well assume that there was no further need to send messages in such a fashion. But the duke had a strong suspicion that her highwayman friend (she could hardly have allowed him to know who she was) also made use of the hollow tree. If that were indeed the case, perhaps it was not such a long shot after all.
In any event, he had run out of alternatives. His stubborn love obviously had no intention of allowing him to right himself in her eyes, and he was every bit as determined to do so—even if he had to deceive her in the attempt.
Spencer made his way to the hollow tree and dismounted. He stood for a moment, holding the note in his hand and weighing the consequences of what he was about to do. Then, with a smothered oath, he thrust the note into its hiding place. Mounting his horse, he rode back toward London before he could change his mind.
Jenny lifted a hand in farewell to John and watched as he rode off toward Maidenstone. When he had disappeared into the darkness, she turned her weary horse toward London. The mare had been able to rest while Jenny rode Bandit, but the journey from London earlier in the night had exhausted both her and the horse.
Aware of the mare’s weariness, Jenny reluctantly allowed her to set her own pace—a slow trot. With a fresh horse, it was a good three-hour ride to town, with an exhausted horse, Jenny resigned herself to the knowledge that she would not reach town before dawn.