by Anne Gracie
As she watched, he unconsciously lifted a hand to feel the back of bis head, gingerly.
Kit tried to ignore the pang of guilt.
"Let 'em go, Griffin," Mr Devenish said. The groom released the horses heads and then, to Kit's perturbation, climbed nimbly into the back, beside Maggie.
She heard Maggie sniff disparagingly and out of the corner of her eye, saw her move pointedly aside, gathering her skirts away from the groom's contaminating presence. Kit smiled to herself. Maggie was more than capable of dealing with the man. Kit need have no concern for that. It was almost in her to feel sorry for Griffin; he, presumably, had only done his master's bidding.
The horses moved off at a smart pace, tossing their heads a little and shying skittishly at passers-by and blowing leaves.
"They are a little fresh," explained Mr Devenish, "but do not be alarmed. They are very sweet goers."
"I am not in the least alarmed," said Kit coolly.
"Ah, no, you are an intrepid horsewoman, I had forgotten."
Kit bit her Up. He had never officially seen Kit Singleton ride, only a mysterious veiled lady.
"I would not say intrepid," she corrected him, "and since you have never seen me ride, I must only conclude that you say so to be polite. Please do not do so; Spanish coin has never interested me."
He glanced at her deliberately. "Does it not?"
Kit smiled brilliantly. She was not going to bandy words with him about counterfeits. "What a glorious day!" she gushed. "And how blue the sky is. I do not ever recall seeing the sky so blue in London before."
"Yes, and how very white are the clouds, do you not find," he responded affably. "So white they look freshly laundered."
"Yes." His ready response rather took the wind out of Kit's sails. She'd expected him to try and force the topic back to Spanish coin and counterfeits.
"Extremely fluffy. Such white and fluffy clouds I have very rarely seen in London, either." His lips twitched.
Kit glowered at him. She knew when she was being mocked.
"My maid, Maggie, has found the incessant rain a little wearying," she said after a moment.
"Does she now, and she a Yorkshire woman?"
"How do you know that?" Kit flashed accusingly.
He smiled slightly. "We chatted a little in the hall, earlier. Her accent is pure Yorkshire, for all that she has spent years abroad."
"Oh."
"India, was it not?"
Kit parried his question airily. "Oh, I do not know all of Maggie's history. Nor would I dream of prying. Some of us respect our servants' independence and privacy." It. was as direct an attack on his setting his groom to spy on them as she could manage, given that she could not admit that there was anything unusual or mysterious about her or Maggie's background.
"But you yourself lived in India." It was not a question.
"Why do you say that?"
"So many of the exotic items of clothing you have become noted for are from India. And not generally available here, I think."
Kit shrugged. "I do not know what is available in the London shops. I am more familiar with Paris."
"So, that explains the elegance of your gowns," he said at once. “And the decidedly up-to-the-moment air of fashion you have."
“Merci du compliment, monsieur,'' said Kit, cursing her unruly tongue. She should not have mentioned Paris. She wanted him to know nothing, nothing at all, about her background.
And why on earth was he still making his inquiries? she asked herself suddenly. She had sent Thomas away. So why was he still asking her questions? And taking her for drives. Had he not spoken to Thomas yet?
"How did you find the Channel crossing? It is often quite rough."
"Oh, that would not bother me," she said, neither confirming or denying that she had arrived in England via the Channel. "Luckily I am an excellent sailor; I never get seasick. Poor Maggie, however, suffers most vilely from it. How is your nephew, Lord Norwood? I have not seen him in an age, you know."
"He is well."
"Yes," Kit continued chattily. "I have not seen Lord Norwood in such a long time—I have been so busy, you understand, with other matters. He is a pleasant enough boy, but one cannot keep up with every chance acquaintance." There, Mr Watchdog, she thought, that should clarify your precious nephew's position in my life—a chance acquaintance.
They drove on in silence for a short time. He lifted his hand to touch the back of his head again. She felt another twinge of guilt.
"Is your head very sore?" she said unguardedly.
“My head?'' His gaze fixed her, piercing in its intensity. 'Why do you ask?"
Recalling she was supposed to know nothing of his bout with the Chinese Burglar, Kit shrugged. "Oh, just that you have several times touched it." It sounded lame, even to her ears. He turned to look at her with a peculiarly intent gaze and, to her horror, she felt a guilty flush beginning.
"Oh," she cried, seeking another distraction. "Do watch out for that dog!"
"As the dog is chained to the lamp-post, I hardly think I am likely to run it over," said Mr Devenish drily.
Kit ignored the sarcasm. "Oh, I did not see the chain. 'Tis just that I am very fond of dogs." She felt her flush intensifying and hoped he would put it down to her error. Drat him! Men did not usually put her out of countenance so easily.
"That must have been difficult for you, growing up abroad. I believe in some Asian countries they are considered a tasty delicacy."
Kit knew that very well, having rescued several hapless creatures from a cruel fate, but his blunt words had provided her with the very opportunity she needed. "Oh, Mr Devenish, how could you ask such a frightful thing," she shrieked genteelly. "To eat dear little doggies! Oh! I feel ill at the thought!" She covered her face with a kerchief. "Horrid, simply horrid," she wailed from time to time, shuddering eloquently, waiting for her flush to die away and struggling, now, with the desire to giggle.
She peeped out at his face once, when his attention was taken with a carter trying to turn his wagon in too narrow a space, and decided he was not the least deceived by her ladylike distress. However, since it would hardly be gentlemanly of him to call her bluff, he had no recourse but to put up with it, as the compressed line of his lips confirmed. He glanced down at her, a penetrating dart of grey, and she hurriedly buried her laughing face in the handkerchief and uttered a small provocative moan of distress.
Mr Devenish's lips thinned even further, she noted. They were rather nice lips. Not that she was the slightest bit interested.
Before long they passed through the gates of Hyde Park and Kit abandoned her genteel horror over the horrid fate of foreign dogs, and sat up to see and be seen, for such was the purpose of driving in Hyde Park.
Hugo shot her a sideways look as she lowered the handkerchief from her face to reveal a pair of bright, interested, clear blue eyes. Not a sign of the distress she'd supposedly been labouring under for the last ten minutes. And with a very suspicious twinkle lurking there.
Women did not usually make fun of him. He was not used to it—but he discovered he quite enjoyed her teasing. His lips twitched at the neat way she'd parried his questions, keeping him well at bay with her faux horror.
To think he'd once thought this girl a simpleton, a dead bore. The little minx had played him like a fish. For a few seconds, he'd actually felt guilty about his brutal dog question. He'd hoped to surprise her into revealing some of her mysterious past, but she'd routed him. And was now laughing up her sleeve at him.
The saucy wench. She needed a good spanking and he itched to provide it. No, what he itched to do was...
No! Curse it! He was not thinking about kissing her!
Besides, he did not dally with respectable women of the ton. He had no interest in them at all. None!
Not that it would be possible out here in the open, anyway. Particularly with her maid and Griffin seated a few feet behind them.
There was a g
reat deal of murmuring going on there, he suddenly realised. The maidservant was a comely woman, to be sure, but she was buttoned up to the chin and down to the wrists and ankles. Respectable to the eyebrows. She'd tossed her head and given Hugo and his groom the sort of look that women generally reserved for cockroaches and rats. Respectability outraged.
Her disdain had amused Hugo. Women of the servant class generally looked at both himself and his tall, well-made groom with quite a different expression.
Griffin wasn't the talkative sort, either, yet the rumble of a deep voice coming from the back of the carriage sounded very much as if Griffin, at least, was conversing a great deal indeed. The maidservant, on the other hand, seemed to have some sort of a cold; all Hugo could hear from her was the occasional sniff and once or twice a scornful-sounding snort.
Griffin was wasting his time there.
Hugo allowed his horses to drop from a smart trot to a walk. There was less traffic than in the streets but it was almost as chaotic. The glorious weather had brought a great many people out, even though it was not yet the fashionable hour for promenading.
Miss Singleton had few acquaintances but she seemed as interested in the servant girls out walking with their beaux as in the members of the ton. He watched her covertly as she observed the strolling groups and the passing vehicles. Her unfettered enjoyment in the sights stirred something in him. She was full of mysteries and contradictions; unmistakably quality, yet so unpretentious. The paradox fascinated him.
“Your name is Catherine, yet I believe your family call you Kit."
"Yes," responded Kit unexpansively. She wasn't going to explain any more. She had no idea how much he knew about the true James Singleton and whether or not he'd ever had a daughter. It was lucky that both Kathleen and Catherine could be called Kit for short.
"Yes, I've heard both males and females called Kit. Not
that there is anything masculine about you, Miss Singleton," he added gallantly.
Kit kept a straight face. Little did he know.
A light racing curricle shot past, tooled by young bloods and going rather too fast for propriety or for safety. He watched her knuckles whiten as she gripped her reticule in anxiety for their safety. She relaxed as the curricle slowed and then stopped for the driver to greet a friend.
"Do you know one of those young men?" he asked curiously.
"No. But I was worried someone would be hurt. They were going much too fast, didn't you think?"
He shrugged. He was not concerned with strangers. But he found it interesting that she was.
Two ladies trotted past with a groom in attendance. The ladies chattered and laughed self-consciously, watching others watching them. One wore a smartly tailored riding habit, frogged a la militaire, with a starched stock. The other wore a sumptuous, pale green velvet habit. A lace jabot frothed down her long, elegant neck. Their hats Hugo privately considered ridiculous; one a mass of ostrich plumes, the other a silly little military-style shako covered with knots and ribbons.
He glanced at the young woman beside him, noting the almost hungry way she examined their outfits.
She ought to have any number of elegant riding habits and yet the one time he'd seen her riding she'd worn an old and faded plain blue outfit. An heiress who was a magnificent horsewoman yet wore a shabby old habit. Another mystery.
“What do you think of those horses?'' he asked casually.
She grimaced. "Showy-looking slugs, for the most part, though that pretty little bay mare looks to be a sweet mover."
"If the velvet-clad potato sack on her back ever decided to go faster than a walk,"
She laughed. "You are unkind. Not a potato sack, surely. She has a very elegant figure."
"And a most inelegant seat."
She laughed again. "Well, she looks very pretty, nevertheless, and not everyone has been lucky enough to grow up on horseback."
Her comments revealed an excellent knowledge of horses. He wondered where she'd lived, to have "grown up on horseback". He wished she would admit that it was she he'd encountered in the park that morning. Not that he had any doubt of it, but he did want her to admit it to him.
He didn't mind her having secrets, as long as she had no secrets from him. He caught himself up on the thought— Good Lord! What was he thinking? He forced the thought aside and willed himself to pay attention to what she was saying.
"There are some beautiful creatures here, but most of the ladies' mounts have no real spirit, by the look of them. The black one is a trifle sway-backed, don't you think? And I do not approve of people chopping poor horses' tails off—apart from looking undignified, it is not good for the animals."
"You prefer the tails to be left long, then," he murmured, his mind still wishing to explore the mystery of why her secrets disturbed him so much.
"Oh, look, is that not the Princess Esterhazy? The wife of the Austrian Ambassador—that small dark lady in the green walking dress. There, next to the lady with half an ostrich on her head—now that's another thing I much dislike—the excessive use of ostrich feathers. Don't you agree?"
Hugo glanced in the direction she was indicating. "No, it is not the Princess, though it does look a little like her. How old were you when you were taught to ride?"
"I forget. Where were you brought up, Mr Devenish?" she asked brightly. "We always seem to be talking about me, and I know so little about you."
She'd changed the subject again, the little minx. And if he wasn't to appear boorish, he would have to respond to her question. “I spent the early years of my life in Shropshire," he said unexpansively.
She cocked her head at him in an interested manner. "The early years? Do you mean you moved somewhere else? Or do you mean you were sent to school at an early age? I must say, I think for the most part English boys are sent away to school far too young. Were you sent to school terribly young, Mr Devenish?"
"Not school—I was sent to sea."
"Sea? How very unusual—it is unusual, is it not? I have heard of few other gentlemen's sons sent to sea as youths."
"It is." He paused, as he was forced to make a wide detour around a cluster of people gathered around a carriage. "But as I have told you before, I am not the usual gentleman's son."
"Whatever do you mean? Do you mean your father was not a respectable person?" Though she spoke casually, she stared at him with an unusual degree of intensity, Hugo felt. Why would his father's respectability be of such interest to her?
"Not my father—my mother."
"Oh, and in what—no! I am so very sorry, Mr Devenish. I have been vulgarly intrusive. I should not have enquired into so personal a matter. Do you not think we shall have an early winter this year? Some of the trees are beginning to change colour already."
He smiled at her swift change of subject. "And how many winters have you spent in England? Would you know when the trees are supposed to change colour?"
She laughed. "Oh, ungallant, sir. Indeed, I never have seen an English autumn, but so many people have commented on the early onset of the changing colours that I thought it a safe remark to make. Well, then, tell me about Shropshire—I'm sure that is a perfectly unexceptionable topic of conversation."
He smiled. "Very well, then. Shropshire...let me see. It is one of the north-western Midland counties, close to the border with Wales. Its principal town is Shrewsbury, its principal activities are dairying, agriculture, with some forestry and mining."
She pulled a face. "Oh, sad stuff. I could as soon read a guidebook."
He sighed. "You are a very exacting task-mistress, Miss Singleton. Very well, it is a very pretty place, very green, with rolling hills and woodlands."
"Thank you, Mr Guidebook. It is all very interesting, of course." Her laughing eyes belied that. "What I really want to know about is your home, what you did as a boy, where your special places were, who you played with—that sort of thing. Not stuffy industries and such. I like to collect stories of other people's ho
mes. I never had one, myself, you see, but I used to dream about the one I wished to have and make up stories to myself of how it would be, the furniture, the cosy rugs, a fire at night and a family gath—"
She broke off suddenly.
"You never had a home?"
She gave a hasty, brittle laugh. "Well, of course I did— everyone has a home, don't they?" she said, a little too emphatically, he thought. "I meant an English home. I used to make up stories about England—you know, as an exile does. Of course I had a home!"
He looked at down at her searchingly, but could not read her face. She was staring across the park at some children sailing a tiny boat on the pond. When she'd spoken of a home, there was a note in her voice that caught at his heart...
Had she never had a home of her own? He had no reason to suppose anything of the sort...except for that odd note in her voice...
He suddenly recollected his purpose in asking her for a drive—to learn more about her background. He had not anticipated this. He needed facts, not emotions and stories and nebulous things such as a tone of voice.
"Where was this home of yours?" he asked.
She laughed and shook her finger at him. "No, no! I asked you first. You must tell me of your childhood home and I will add it to my collection. And then, perhaps, I will tell you of mine."
"I cannot tell you very much of that. For most of the day I was under the strict supervision of a rather harsh, unimaginative tutor, who believed Latin and Greek were all a small boy needed to learn, and for the rest of the time, I was left very much to my own devices."
"But surely... What about your family?"
"My mother died when I was six."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Mine too." She laid a soft hand on his knee. "I know what that was like. Did you miss your mother terribly?"
"No," he said. "I never saw her much. She preferred London." Her touch was light, but he was terribly aware of it. He wanted to lay his hand over hers. He did not move. Such things were not done in public.
"Oh. Well, then, tell me about your brother, Lord Norwood's father. Were you very close? What games did you play together?"