by Anne Gracie
She glanced quickly over her shoulder as he came near, and to his surprise, she urged her horse into greater speed.
"It is all right, madam," Hugo called, "I mean you no harm."
She answered him by digging her heel into her horse's flank, urging him to greater speed.
"I am a friend,'' Hugo called, deciding she was probably in a panic. "My name is Devenish, madam. I merely wish to satisfy myself that you are unharmed."
"I am perfectly well, thank you so much. Please do not concern yourself," she flung over her shoulder in a cool voice.
Hugo brought his horse abreast with hers. “I have every intention of escorting you safely to your home and nothing you say will alter that," he responded firmly.
He glanced across at her, wishing he could see her face, but he could not. She wore a fine dark veil—to protect her complexion, no doubt. Many ladies did. It also protected her from inquisitive glances. Hugo found the aura of mystery the veil created very intriguing. In any case she was taking no chances; she kept her face averted. He rode beside her, a small smile on his lips.
She was not of his own class, he thought, or if she was, she had come upon hard times. Her habit was plain, old-fashioned and a little shabby, though immaculately clean and pressed. She was small and slender and her hair was dark; curly wisps of it escaped from the base of her brown curly brimmed riding hat. She was young too, and possibly good-looking, judging by the grace and delicate creaminess of her neck, a small amount of which was all the skin she had bared.
He could not see whether she wore a ring; she wore gloves of York tan, but her hands seemed small and gripped the reins tightly—more tightly than was warranted—too tightly for such an experienced and skilled horsewoman. He looked closer. Aha, her hands were shaking, just a little. She had been frightened after all, but was determined not to show it. A spurt of admiration went though him. She had courage, this woman.
"You need not fear any importunities from me, madam," he said softly. "I simply wish to see you safe."
She did not slow her pace at all.
Hugo was a little irritated. He was her rescuer—or would have been had she not rescued herself. The least she could do was thank him. Well, his conscience reminded him, she had thanked him, perfectly politely, but it was not enough. He wanted a face-to-face encounter. Yes, he wanted, quite desperately, to see her face.
"My name is Devenish," he repeated. "And I shall escort you home, madam."
She made an irritated sound, but otherwise did not respond. Her face remained averted.
Hugo urged Sultan forward a little closer, trying to catch a glimpse of her face under the flimsy veil. She urged her mount forward too and kept her face turned away. Hugo's lips twitched at her determination. Was she playing a game, or was she in earnest? A virtuous woman, quite properly refusing to speak to a strange man, or a clever vixen, enticing the hound... ?
With her seat, she would hunt magnificently, he thought.
"You ride very well," he said.
She did not respond. They reached the park exit and immediately it became necessary to slow the horses because of the amount of traffic on the streets. At a walk, conversation was easier.
"I imagine you have ridden most of your life. I do not think I have seen any other lady ride as well as you," said Hugo. "I am most impressed at your managing to stay seated with two ruffians trying to pull you off."
She shrugged and kept her face turned.
"Do you know what they were after? Was it money, do you think? Did they say?"
Silence.
"I shall report the incident to the park trustees."
She seemed to hesitate.
Hugo added, "I shall speak to them as soon as I have seen you safely home."
She made a small noise in her throat. Annoyance? Or resignation?
Hugo repressed a smile. He was quite determined to see the lady's face, and to hear her speak again and the sooner she realised it, the better for both of them. She was brave and stubborn and wilful and spirited and, he thought, probably very attractive.
He felt a surge of interest, man to woman. Yes, that was it, he thought. It had undoubtedly been too long since he had taken a mistress. That was also, no doubt, why last night he had felt so unaccountably attracted to a chit just out of the schoolroom, with no conversation, a frightful lisp, no social skills and the infuriating habit of treating him like an octogenarian.
He glanced speculatively across at his silent and unwilling companion. She wasn't acting like a lightskirt; she had certainly made no attempt to attract him. On the other hand, she was playing cat and mouse very skilfully; a clever courtesan would know that most men preferred the role of hunter. Was she a respectable woman trying to protect her identity from a stranger, or was she deliberately setting out to engage his interest by behaving mysteriously?
Respectable woman or not, Mr Devenish was extremely interested.
"There is no need to concern yourself," she said finally. "I am almost home. Thank you again for your assistance." She still refused to look at him.
Hugo smiled. She was annoyed with his persistence. And if her speech was any guide, she was also a lady. "It is my pleasure," he said smoothly. "But I am not one to abandon a lady so recently in distress. I will see you to your door."
She made another small sound—this time unmistakably one of annoyance. "There is no need to see me anywhere. I am not the least upset. I have encountered robbers before, and have survived much worse experiences. I am not in need of assistance, I thank you. And I will thank you to leave me alone!"
He briefly glimpsed part of her profile as she spoke, and though he did not recognise her, a frisson of familiarity passed though him.
"You have encountered robbers before?" he said, and reaching across, he caught her rein.
"Yes," she snapped. "In Jaipur once when I was fourteen! Now have the goodness to release my horse immediately!" He made no move to do so, and before he realised her intention, she raised her crop and to his amazement, brought it down smartly on his hand. With an oath, he released her rein, and heedless of the traffic, she galloped away.
Hugo stared down at the livid red mark on his wrist. It didn't hurt all that much, but dammit! The girl had hit him! She'd actually hit him. Quite as if he was just as big a ruffian as those two in the park.
He would have laughed if he wasn't so shocked. Because as she'd turned to hit him, he'd glimpsed her face through the veil, just for a second.
His damsel in distress was Miss Singleton, Miss Catherine Singleton, schoolroom chit with no conversation— well, she'd been consistent in that at least, he reflected ruefully.
But what the deuce was a young girl like Miss Singleton doing riding unescorted in the park at dawn? On a morning after she'd danced the night away, what's more. And wearing a habit that was more suited to a servant than herself.
One thing, though, was clear. The motives of the men in frieze coats was no longer a mystery—their target was reputed to be the owner of a diamond mine. The fools must have expected her to carry diamonds on her. Or perhaps their motive was ransom.
He rode slowly on, frowning in thought, avoiding barrows and pedestrians and hand-carts without consciously noticing them. The robbers had been waiting for her. That meant she must make a habit of riding in the park at that hour of the morning.
Odd behaviour for a chit just out of the schoolroom. Even odder for an heiress. Possibly that was why she wore such a shabby riding habit—to deter possible robbers. But she really ought to have taken a groom at least to protect her. It was all most peculiar.
He reached his home and called for hot water, and for breakfast. Over a sirloin steak, he mulled over the situation. What the devil was a rich young woman doing riding an ill-favoured job-horse from a hired establishment? Someone with a seat like hers surely knew horses enough to demand the best.
And Rose Singleton had always been a stickler for the proprieties—so why had Rose not arr
anged an escort for her niece? Miss Singleton might encounter robbers again— good God! He suddenly recalled what she had said. She had encountered robbers before. In Jaipur once when I was fourteen!
Jaipur! He was fairly sure Jaipur was a kingdom or sultanate somewhere in India. And if that was the case...India was famous for its precious stones. Perhaps the fabled diamond mine was not in New South Wales, after all, but India...
But what was she doing being accosted by robbers in India at an age when she should still have been safely in the schoolroom, sewing samplers and practising her pianoforte?
He pushed away the remains of his breakfast, and drained his tankard of ale. Now, suddenly, his suspicions about how he had lost his tie-pin did not seem so ridiculous.
He'd gone out for a ride to clear his head, but instead had returned with it chockful of unanswered questions!
And the central question was—who the devil was Catherine Singleton? Because he was now certain to his bones that she was not the simple little chit she appeared to be.
No chit fresh from the schoolroom could fight off an attack with such courage and then be so cool about it only a few moments later. That kind of self-possession came with age... or experience.
And there had been no sign at all of a lisp. An affectation, after all.
It was all very annoying. He'd planned to go for a ride and blow all thoughts of the inconvenient and irritating Miss Catherine Singleton out of his head, and hang it! She was more firmly ensconced there than ever.
And worst of all—his park encounter with her had done nothing to diminish the attraction he had felt!
On the contrary!
He was more intrigued—and, yes—more attracted than ever.
Blast it!
Chapter Four
Kit tossed the reins of the hired horse to the waiting stable lad, pressed a coin into his waiting palm and slipped into the side door of Aunt Rose's house. She silently closed and bolted the door after her, then leant against it, her eyes closed.
Of all people to run into at the park, why did it have to be him? Such bad luck, to find the very man who had been disturbing her concentration, appearing out of the mist, riding ventre a terre to her rescue. Wretched man! He had almost ruined a very successful morning.
The footpads were a worry. She had been so careful to establish her routine, to account for her absence from home in the early hours. It had not occurred to her she might become a target for thieves. Kit Smith! A target for thieves! She laughed, wishing Papa was alive for her to share the joke with.
She would have to vary her routine now, for it wasn't only footpads who'd discovered her.
Who would have thought Mr Devenish would ride at dawn?
Had he recognised her?
If only she'd worn a thicker veil. Only she hated the thick one. It made her feel trapped, a little as though she was suffocating. She hated the feeling of being shut in.
And how stupid to have spoken to him—to have spoken at all! And in her own voice, her own accent!
Would the lisp she had adopted in his company be a sufficient disguise?
Kit took a deep, steadying breath. There was no help for it after all. What was done was done. She'd learned that lesson young.
There was never any going back.
So Mr Devenish had caught her riding alone in the park, unescorted. If he had recognised her, it would be a blot against her reputation. But he could not prove it was her.
And if she had fought off her attackers in a less than ladylike manner, what was that to say to anything? Many ladies she knew were not always ladylike.
And if she'd failed to act like an innocent young girl just emerged from the schoolroom... Well, not all schoolgirls were innocent.
Kit shrugged as she took the servants' stair to her room. He could make of it what he would. She had no control over what he would think anyway, so there was no point in brooding.
Kit tugged off her gloves. The worst damage would be that a slur would be cast on Rose's reputation as a chaperon. Regrettable, but not so very bad, in the larger scheme of things.
She peeped into the small dressing room attached to hers. Maggie was still fast asleep in her truckle bed. It was only just after dawn, after all. Only the most menial of the servants were stirring yet, and their hostess, Rose, would be abed for another four or five hours. She rarely arose before eleven.
Kit stripped off her habit and hung it neatly in the closet. She quickly tossed on the nightgown that she'd discarded an hour or so earlier, and shivering in the cool air, climbed into her high, still faintly warm bed. She could catch a quick, refreshing catnap, and no one would be any the wiser about her dawn excursion.
She was well used to interrupted sleep, after all. Another lesson she'd learned as a child was that the most productive hours were often the hours when the rest of the world slept or were at their most vulnerable—the hours just before dawn.
The Watchdog rode magnificently, she thought as she watched the early morning sunlight play across her window. She'd noticed him in the distance before those footpads had accosted her...not that she'd realised who was riding that splendid black horse.
Horse and master were perfectly matched.
It was odd, how strongly he appealed to her. He shouldn't. He wasn't at all what most people called handsome—his face was harsh, almost saturnine. And he stared at her so coldly and made no attempt to charm her. In fact, it seemed to be a strain on his temper merely to be agreeable towards her.
She'd met many men in London who were much more personable and good looking, and yet she wasn't nearly as attracted to their practised compliments than to his barked-out interrogations. Why was that?
And yet...when he thought he was dealing with an unknown woman in the park, he'd acted quite differently. He'd been quite gallant in her defence and, afterwards, solicitous and protective.
Towards a stranger.
Why so brusque and businesslike towards his young nephew's supposed intended, and yet so charmingly protective and, and—yes—flirtatious towards a stranger whom he must have known, from her horse and habit alone, was not of his station in life?
A Watchdog indeed.
It was all most intriguing.
She sighed.
"Whatever are ye doing, Miss Kit?" said Maggie, later that morning.
Kit pulled out a white muslin dress from the large oak wardrobe, examined it closely and tossed it onto a pile. "No, that won't do either," she muttered and pulled out another one, also white, but worked in fine pale blue embroidery around the hem and sleeves. She scowled at it a moment, then tossed it, too, aside. "Insipid, insipid, insipid! Why is everything so insipid?"
Maggie let out a small cluck of annoyance. "Oh, will ye stop tossing those dresses around so carelessly, Miss Kit! Gowns like that don't grow on trees, ye know! Whatever is the matter, now?"
"They won't do, Maggie. Not at all."
Maggie stared at her a moment. "What do ye mean, they won't do? You mean somebody said something to ye at the ball about yer gown? Drat! That dratted dressmaker—I knew she couldn't be trusted. Her little black eyes were too close together! The woman swore to us that they were the very thing for a jern fee only just out!"
"But I'm not a jeune fille only just out."
"Ye are too—" Maggie broke off. She stared at Kit a moment. "What d'ye mean, ye're not a jern fee?" Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. "What are ye then?"
Kit sighed. "I'm a diamond heiress."
There was a short silence broken only by the ponderous ticking of the grandfather clock out in the passageway.
"A diamond heiress?"
Kit nodded. "Apparently Papa said something to Rose in a letter and..." she shrugged "...it's all over London."
"Drat!" said Maggie. There was another short silence, then she said, “Typical of yer pa. He never did like to keep things simple, rot his bones!" She sighed heavily and smoothed the fabric of a dress. "A diamond heiress. Are ye sure?"<
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Kit nodded glumly. "Everybody says so."
"Drat!" said Maggie again.
They gloomily surveyed the pile of simple white dresses which had been purchased for the jeune fille. They were fresh and simple; not at all the sort of thing a diamond heiress would wear.
“Ye cannot afford a new wardrobe, I suppose. No, silly question. Oh, Miss Kit, what a thing to—''
"A diamond heiress might prefer simplicity," said Kit slowly. "Don't you think so?"
Maggie snorted. "Well I hope so, because simplicity is all this diamond heiress can afford!"
"Yes," Kit continued. "I think I very much dislike ostentation—''
"Just as well!" Maggie busily began to sort clothes into two piles: one, obvious "jern fee" clothes, the other with heiress possibilities.
"—and, of course, I never wear diamonds! Nor any other stones."
"That's right." Maggie started to enter into the spirit of things. "Nasty vulgar things, diamonds. Especially for a jern fee."
"Yes, Papa would never have allowed me to wear diamonds. Not even tiny ones as earrings."
Maggie made a rude noise. "No, he'd have had 'em out of your ears and off to the nearest card game before you could say Jack Robinson!"
"Maggie!" said Kit reproachfully.
Maggie stopped her sorting and directed a sceptical eyebrow in Kit's direction.
Under that gimlet gaze, Kit capitulated. “Oh, very well,
yes, he would have. But not if I were a diamond heiress. Which I am, apparently. And I cannot think that a diamond heiress would wear such....such insipid garments as these. It was one thing when I was merely an obscure, long-lost niece...but a diamond heiress."
They both stared gloomily at the pile of clothing.
"Perhaps a diamond heiress—of the becomingly modest variety—would wear some of these...only not quite such commonplace things," said Kit. "What about...?"
She reached down and dragged a small trunk from under the bed. A quick rummage secured the piece she sought, a brilliant blue length of Indian silk, bordered with exotic embroidery. "How about this?" She draped it around herself and posed.