by Sue Swift
“Good Lord,” said Hawkes again. “Well, old boy, you can count on me to help keep the young lady safe. Though she won’t ever be safe until she marries, will she? Until she is twenty-one and can make a valid Will, her heir is Earl of Badham. Unless she marries, in which case, her husband becomes her heir, who will also control her funds and properties.”
“Yes, but until then, I am handling her affairs. Or, rather, my secretary is doing so.”
“You have quite a task. Haven’t you thought of marrying her yourself, Devere? She’s a pretty little chit, nice manners, and wealthy besides.” Quinn found his teeth grating. “Marrying my own ward would hardly do me credit, Hawkes.”
“Now, don’t climb onto your high horse, milord Quinn.” Hawkes chuckled. “It’s just a suggestion, since that’s the way the wind—er—blows.”
“The role of father-protector comes uncertainly to me, Hawkes.” Quinn grimaced.
The older man laughed. “Glad I’m not in your Hobys, Devere. Playing Papa to a lively child on the verge of her first Season.”
“Hmph.”
“You’ll be fighting suitors off, unless this imposture offends the ton.”
“Hmph.”
“People do not like to play the fool, y’know,” Sir Willoughby said. “Has she gone about much?”
“No, just a few family parties and select soirees.
Nothing to speak of. The devil of it is, Willy, she’s the only woman I’ve ever really thought of marrying.”
“Don’t see a problem with it, Devere.”
“Unbecoming. People will think I’ve taken advantage of her.”
Hawkes laughed. “Only if they’ve never met her.
She’s got a mind of her own, she does.”
“Very much so.” They had arrived at the vicinity of Covent Garden, and Quinn cocked his head at Sir Willoughby. “Hi-ho, sir,” he said gaily, “I believe I’m off to a house or two to find Lord Herbert. Want to come along?”
Sir Willoughby smiled. “Wouldn’t miss it for a sackful of Yellow Boys, old man!”
* * *
The Satin Covey was home to an assortment of street princesses who, while past their prime, were still sufficiently attractive as to command reasonable prices from such country squires and green cubs foolish enough to enter the premises. After passing through several hells and brothels, it was long past midnight when Quinn and Hawkes arrived.
An orgy was in full swing in the lavish formal drawing room of the mansion. Stripped down to a singlet and stockings, a blindfolded female sprawled prone on a dais in the middle of the room. Two Corinthians, half undressed, had paid for the privilege of making sport with her, impaling her fore and aft as she bucked. Couples lounged on sofas and chairs arranged in a circle around the show. Several elderly dandies had their trousers open as they fondled their cods, and one was serviced by the mouth of an older whore who knelt before him as he stood watching the trio on the dais.
“Can’t see either of them,” said Quinn. “Can you?”
“As I said, I’m not quite sure what the new Earl looks like. I saw him only distantly at his investiture.
You!” Hawkes gestured at a overpainted woman in a red dress trimmed with cheap black lace. He gave her a coin, which she bit. “There’s more if you bring me the Earl of Badham.”
She simpered. “It’ll cost you more, sir, for that kind of sport. H’earls don’t come cheap.” Quinn laughed out loud.
Hawkes looked gravely offended. “I don’t want to rut with the man, merely to find him! We have business with him.”
She stared at them, her painted eyes hard. “We all be doing business here, sir.”
She obliged him, nevertheless. It was but a few minutes until both Herbert and Osborn were brought by the Abbess to the front hall, where Devere and Hawkes waited.
Herbert complained drunkenly at being disturbed at his pleasures, but stopped short and fell silent as he encountered the tall, frowning strangers in the front hall of the Satin Covey. Osborn was still tucking his shirt back into his trousers as he entered. Staring at him, Quinn felt physically ill. The thought of his Kate making love with—no, raped by—that pimply, grubby queernabs was enough to turn his stomach.
Small wonder she’d climbed out the attic window.
Burying his distaste, Quinn advanced. “Well met, Lord Badham.”
“Don’t believe we’ve met, sirrah!” Herbert blustered.
“We have had correspondence, I believe. I am Devere.” Having assumed his most top-lofty manner, Quinn stared down his Roman nose at Herbert. He adjusted the cuffs of his black evening coat, which fitted him as though it had been painted on. A fine fall of lace partially covered his elegant, gloved hands, and a ruby twinkled in his cravat. “We have a mutual interest. My ward, Katherine Scoville. Have you news of her?”
Herbert’s eyes fell before the Earl’s bright, ironical gaze. “Lady Katherine is well and happy at Badham Abbey. My son and I have business to transact in the City at which her presence would not be appropriate.”
“Business?” Lifting a brow, Quinn looked around the entry of the brothel.
“I was invested into my title just yesterday.”
“An appropriate occasion for a visit by a young woman to the capitol, I should think.”
“What happens to Kate is not for you to say!” Devere bent his brilliant eyes upon Herbert. “I beg your pardon, sir. I believe we were speaking of my ward.”
“She is a most stubborn puss. She—er—declined to leave Wiltshire, professing her most complete happiness there.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
Devere invented hastily. “My correspondence has gone unanswered, Badham. Why is that?”
“Nothing to say to you, Devere.”
Devere stiffened at the thinly veiled insult.
“When Carrothers went to visit my ward, my secretary was denied admittance to Badham Abbey.
Twice. Every gate was locked.”
“A thousand pardons.” Herbert bowed
mockingly. “We have been plagued by, er, footpads.
Should your secretary write to us in advance of his visit, we will be sure to make him most welcome.”
“Thank you.” Devere drew on his gloves. A footman jumped to open the door. Quinn tossed him a coin.
Herbert emitted a sigh which sounded
suspiciously relieved.
Devere smiled. “One more item, Badham.” Herbert, on his way back to his doxy, stopped with a jerk.
“Should I ever find Lady Scoville has been harmed, I will hold you personally responsible.” Devere looked at a point about a foot over Herbert’s head, then shifted his cold, dark gaze to Osborn; he then stared directly into the tubby peer’s eyes.
“Personally responsible. Do you understand?” Herbert’s jaw slid open.
A girl entered the room and giggled playfully at Herbert. “Come on, milord, let’s ’ave a bit o’ sport!” She trotted over and put her tongue into Herbert’s open mouth.
The door closed with a click behind Devere and Hawkes as they stepped into the black London night.
Chapter Nine
Filled with myriad shadows, the attic of the abbey was dusty, unlighted, and unheated. The moon rose, shedding its silvery, pale light into the attic through a narrow window. It shed weak but adequate illumination, outlining the contents: some of the more interesting detritus of deceased Scovilles, randomly scattered. The room was crowded with all kinds of furniture from ancient commodes to the nude marble sculptures which had been the passion of the fourth Earl; trunks there were a’many, filled with costumes and clothes of all styles and sizes.
Shivering with cold, Kate secured the rope she’d found to one of the upright bars of the window. She could see the flat gray slates of the second story roof, three floors beneath her, glistening in the moonlight, slippery with frost.
She crawled through the window, and broke out into a light sweat notwithstanding the wintry weather. Despite her damp palms, her leather gl
oves retained their grip on the rope.
She pushed her boots against the abbey wall, then let out a small span of rope. Her boots slipped. She dangled helplessly, flailing at the end of the line, desperate to find purchase on the wall with the toes.
Kate awoke, her scream strangling in her throat as she remembered not to make a sound, lest she awaken her enemies. Her racing pulse steadied as she gulped deep breaths and recollected her location. She felt the featherbed enveloping her and swung her legs to the side of the bed. Her nightdress clung to her sticky body.
Hands shaking ever so slightly, she lit a candle; gas lighting, though it had been installed on nearby Pall Mall a few years before, still had not been introduced into this older mansion. She made her way to the window, then opened it. It had to be three or four in the morning, and the air of the early morn flowed over her, cooling her pleasantly.
A slight fog drifted over the street, touched by moonlight. It lay gently against the houses and trees without obscuring the view. Off down the street, Kate believed she could perceive the dim outline of two gentlemen staggering slightly as they made their way down the avenue.
She squinted, then remembered Bettina’s many admonitions on the subject. Kate deliberately smoothed her brow as she strained to see the two roisterers, who sang an off-key, bawdy ditty as they wandered. They seemed familiar.
She realized she surreptitiously watched her guardian and his friend as they made their way home after an evening of batching it. Grinning, she settled herself into a chair by the window to watch the show.
Their gestures were exaggerated by the effects of drink. Two well-groomed heads turned as one toward her; she guessed their attention had been attracted by her candle gleaming through the open window.
Hawkes pointed with his ever-present cane at her as they weaved toward the front gate. “Good morrow, Kate, for that is your name, I hear!” Both men burst into uproarious laughter as if the quip were original. Kate wished Quinn would quit teasing her with that silly, embarrassing play. Was she really such a shrew?
“Lady Katherine, your pardon for the appa—
app—appalling conduct of my friend.” Hawkes gestured with his stick, whacking it into the iron fencing.
Kate stared at Quinn. “You told him, my lord.”
“C-couldn’t help it, m’dear. He was halfway to guessing shomething shmoky was up.”
“I was not halfway to guessing,” Hawkes said.
His deep baritone contrasted pleasantly with Quinn’s lighter tenor voice. Sir Willoughby’s intonation was more deliberate than usual. He visibly struggled to keep his dignity, although he was drunk as, well, as a Lord—at least as drunk as the Lord staggering down the street by his side. She restrained her giggle, knowing Hawkes loathed to be the object of female laughter.
He continued, “It was very smoky already, young lady. You are going to have to watch thy step!”
“Mind thy manners, or, ra-rather, thy Herberts!” Quinn chimed in.
“Walk carefully!” Hawkes thought he outdid his friend.
“Step on a crack, break your Mama’s back!” The gentlemen collapsed against the fence, roaring with laughter. What was so bloody funny? she wondered.
Quinn recovered himself. “Not-not to worry, sweet Kate. We bearded the old fellow in his lair.
Foxed him perfectly, even if I do say so meself!”
“You appear to be the one who’s foxed, my lord,” said Kate.
Hawkes chuckled, poking Devere with his cane.
“She’s got you there, old boy!”
Quinn shoved the cane away. “Not jesting.
Tricked Herbert finely, we did. Nothing to worry about, Katie. He told me you’re still in Wiltshire.”
“He must know I’ve left. It’s been months.” The gentlemen chortled as though she’d been very clever. “Told you she was a clever chit,” said Hawkes to Quinn. “Alive on all suits, she is!”
“You see, he didn’t want to admit he’d lost track of you,” Quinn explained disjointedly. “And I surely di-didn’t tell him I had you, so he had to pretend he knew what he was about. It was really rather funny, wasn’t it, Hawkes?”
“He didn’t think it was funny. I thought his eyes would fall out of his head when you threatened to kill him if anything happened to Lady Kate.” Kate raised her brows.
“I didn’t say I’d kill him, precisely.” Staggering, Quinn clutched the fence rail for support.
“You made it clear enough when you said you’d hold him responsible for Kate’s well-being.”
“Yes, well, quite.” Quinn waved his hand in the air. “So, Katie, there’s nothing to worry your liddle head about anymore. Hawkes, I’m to bed! Nighty-night, sweet Kate!” He turned toward Berkeley Square.
Hawkes saluted Kate with his stick. Waving it in the air, he narrowly missed Quinn, instead striking himself on the head. He recovered quickly. Kate smothered her chuckle behind her hand as Hawkes rubbed his temple. “Lady Kate, we vow to porteck—
protect you. I’ll call tomorrow!”
Kate watched as Hawkes, swaying gently, followed Quinn down the lane. Blinking, she reviewed the conversation with her cup-shot saviors.
So, Sir Willoughby knew, did he? And they had tracked Uncle Herbert down and warned him off her.
Well, none of that was bad. The only bad part of it all was that Quinn remained firmly entrenched in his role as protector, not lover, despite his talk of “sweet Kate.”
She returned to bed. As she blew out her candle, she reflected that all was not lost, could not be lost.
Quinn and his friend had gone to a great deal of trouble for her. That meant something, didn’t it?
* * *
The afternoon warmth heated Kate’s skin where her bonnet did not shade her. The thin, low-cut muslin dress did little to protect her shoulders from the brilliant spring sunshine. She dashed through the maze at Hampton Court, laughing and breathless as she eluded the rest of the party. Quinn had promised a special prize for whichever of the young people reached the center of the maze first. Whatever you want, he had said, winking at Pauline when she wanted to know what the surprise would be. Kate was determined to be the recipient of the treat.
She wondered if she would dare to demand a kiss from Quinn.
Extending her left hand, she kept touching the side of the hedge. She had read that if the searcher kept to the left, always to the left, she or he would inevitably reach the center of the maze.
* * *
Accompanied by her second cousin, Ambrose Blakeney, Pauline trod sedately through the maze.
Surprised by Pauline’s slow pace, Louisa eyed her sister.
“Paul, are you feeling quite the thing?” she asked.
After Uncle Quinn’s generous offer, Louisa expected Pauline to race through the tall hedges. Pauline’s unusually staid behavior concerned her older sister.
“I may have eaten too much or too quickly,” Pauline said. “But, oh! What a lovely picnic!”
“Lord Devere did go all out.” Bryan St. Wills followed them with Sybilla Farland. Her hand was tucked into his arm as they strolled, enjoying the lovely afternoon and the company.
“Ahem!” Sir Willoughby Hawkes coughed.
“Yes, quite.” Louisa turned to regard her admirer.
As the days had passed, she had become more comfortable with the formerly somber baronet. He visited Bruton Street daily, turned the pages of her music as she played, drove with her in the park. Her parents seemed well content to permit the relationship to take its natural course. “You went to a great deal of trouble to have us admitted to some of the more private precincts of Hampton Court. Sir, we thank you most sincerely.”
Hawkes bowed as the rest of the party
courteously echoed her sentiments. But his mind must have been elsewhere. “Perhaps, Miss Pauline, you would feel better sitting in the landau for a while?”
“Oh no, I will be fine,” Pauline said. “I just am not in the mood to rush around.”
/> “Cousin Kate seems very eager to reach the center of the maze first, in any event. I wonder what she will demand of Uncle Quinn as reward.” Louisa met Sir Willoughby’s gaze and winked.
Hawkes’ lips quivered. Sharp-eyed Louisa had no doubt seen what he also had noticed: Quinn and Kate were interested, very interested, in each other. Lou, however, did not yet know Katherine Scoville’s secret. Hawkes wondered how Louisa would react to the deception.
They came to a branch in the path and disagreed on the proper course. Louisa and Sybilla were convinced the correct way was to the left, while Ambrose and Pauline believed the route to the center was straight on. Hawkes, a veteran of several romantic interludes in the location, favored the right, but not because he wished to reach the center of the maze. He did not particularly wish to be accompanied by Bryan and Sybilla. Devere was nowhere to be found.
* * *
Quinn, armed in advance with a plan of the maze, now waited in the center for his quarry. Having seen the determined glint in his Kate’s eyes, he knew she would find her way to the heart of the maze first.
He sat on a stone bench and wondered what she’d ask of him. He counted himself fortunate that Fashion now favored loose trousers rather than skin-tight, knitted pantaloons. The clear evidence of his emotions at the picnic had been disguised by his pants.
Kate had been subtly but outrageously flirtatious the entire day. Her pink sprigged muslin appeared to be worn over dampened, clinging petticoats. She met his eyes constantly, then let her dusky lashes sweep her flushed cheeks. She had even brushed against him once or twice as they toured Hampton Court Palace.
How on earth had she learned such wiles? And from where?
Quinn frowned. He’d have a great deal to say to this Elizabeth Telmont, of Miss Elizabeth’s School in Bath, if they ever met. Whatever was she teaching her young ladies?
But he had to credit Katherine with discretion as well as coquetry. She had frequently taken the arm of her friend Sybilla Farland to giggle with her over some joke. Kate had sat next to Bryan St. Wills at the picnic, choosing to use her eyes and her smile rather than proximity to tempt her guardian. Quinn doubted anyone else knew the little witch was torturing his feelings, except perhaps for Willoughby Hawkes. The sharp-eyed roué wouldn’t miss the byplay, since he already knew Kate’s identity as well as Quinn’s desire for the girl. And if Hawkes knew, there was a fair chance Louisa knew also. Quinn didn’t understand why Anna tolerated the growing intimacy between Hawkes and Louisa but, as it wasn’t his business, he kept his nose out of the affair.