An Honorable Thief

by Anne Gracie

  Amelia frowned. "Clumsy chit. Her mother needs to find her a new dancing master."

  There was a smothered sound from Thomas.

  "I must go, Mama, I am promised in the next dance."

  Amelia sniffed. "Gallantry never paid any debts, my son."

  Thomas drew himself up with dignity. "I never expected it would, Mama. I will pay my own debts."

  His mother looked shocked for a moment, then rolled her eyes dismissively, but a frown marred her smooth fore­head as she watched her son walk away from her.

  * * *

  Mr Hugo Devenish was well aware of the stir, the gossip and the speculation that attended his arrival at the Upping-ton-Smythe ball. He was becoming used to it now. He did not like it, but he could appear indifferent to it. It was in a good cause, after all. He had commenced the hunt.

  "Miss Singleton." He bowed over both her hand and turned to her niece.

  "Oh! Mr Devenish! What a coincidence," gushed Kit in amazed accents. "Fancy finding you here!"

  He inclined his head, acknowledging her irony. She looked beautiful, he thought. Tonight she was dressed in the usual long white gown worn by most of the young ladies in their first season, but hers was topped with an outlandish jacket, heavily embroidered with exotic scenes of elephants and temples, all in the most violent colours, and glittering with what appeared to be a hundred tiny mir­rors scattered across it. She wore a small square tasselled cap over her dusky curls, similarly embroidered and glit­tering withjiny mirrors.

  Bizarre indeed, and yet her air of unconcern, of complete confidence, made it appear stylish in the extreme. He glanced around the room and noted several ladies wearing small, square, tasselled, embroidered caps.

  Kit widened her eyes in a show of mock surprise. “Yes. I had absolutely no idea you might come. Of course I also had no idea you would go to Almack's last week, nor to Lady Barr's ball. On the other hand, it was no surprise at all when you also happened to be visiting the Tower of London when I was there—naturally you would visit it fre­quently, and also inspecting Lord Elgin's marbles—I un­derstand they are quite fragile, so naturally one must keep an eye on them in case they crumble to dust suddenly. And as for running into you at both the Pantheon Bazaar and Hatchard's Bookshop and—well, gentlemen do frequent silk merchants and read books, I know. But this ball? I am stunned."

  He bowed again, apparently oblivious of her sarcasm. "Yes, it has all been most delightfully coincidental, has it not?"

  He winced inwardly as two ladies near enough to over­hear their conversation nodded meaningfully at each other. He hardened his heart.

  He was convinced she was up to no good. He was certain she was in league with the Chinese Burglar. A law-abiding citizen would inform the authorities. Hugo had always be­lieved in the law. Without law there was only chaos.

  But he could no more hand Kit Singleton over to the law than cut off his own hand.

  That being so, he'd decided to follow her so closely that one of two things would happen; either he would trap her in a meeting with the Chinese burglar, and then take some sort of action to sever their connection forever, or he would prevent her from being able to make an assignation with the scoundrel, which would have a similar effect.

  And if his suspicions were wrong, if they were merely the product of a disordered imagination, of too much brandy and too many late nights, then all he had done was...

  Hugo swallowed. All he had done was set the ton by its ears and raise everyone's expectations that he was about to make her an offer. Of marriage.

  If she was innocent, then Miss Singleton's expectations would be raised also.

  Hugo straightened his spine. He couldn't afford to worry about that. Falsely raised expectations did not compare with the threat of the gallows or transportation.

  So he'd followed her to each social occasion she at­tended. He'd attended more balls than he'd ever been to in his life and had even discovered what a Venetian Breakfast was like: not to his taste. But on a number of occasions he actually arrived before her, thanks to information received from his groom, Griffin. She could not, in all accuracy, accuse him of following her.

  "So, would you care to dance, Miss Singleton?" he said blandly.

  Kit felt like slapping his amused knowing face. She scowled. He'd been haunting her all over town in the most ridiculous and frustrating fashion and she was most cer­tainly not going to encourage him by dancing with him. She opened her mouth to refuse him.

  "Yes, of course, Mr Devenish. She would be delighted," said Rose Singleton in a soft, determined voice. “Give him your card, Kit dear."

  Kit dear handed it over with a look that was calculated to slay.

  Mr Devenish looked imperviously satisfied. "Not the wait—"

  Too late. Mr Devenish, having scribbled his name in two places, smugly handed back her card. Kit glanced at it and gritted her teeth. Of course—first the supper dance and then the waltz. Perfect! Her plan for the evening was quite, quite ruined! She'd been certain he would not come tonight; he was well known to be on very cool terms with the Up-pington-Smythes, which was why she'd wanted to come.

  If he wasn't there to dog her every footsteps, she would be free to get on with her plan. It had all been falling into place so neatly...until Mr Watchdog Devenish stuck his long pointed nose in where it wasn't wanted.

  Not that his nose was really long and pointed, she thought irrelevantly. It was a solid sort of nose, longish and aquiline, but not at all pointy. Rather a nice nose, in fact.

  Or it would be if he kept it out of her business!

  The dance before supper was a cotillion. There were not many opportunities for conversation, but Kit was determined to have it out with him, somehow.

  "Why are you following me?" she said quietly.

  Hugo looked down at her, his face grave, concerned, implacable. "I seem to have appointed myself your guard­ian angel," he said lightly.

  "But I don't need a guardian angel. Aunt Rose looks after me perfectly well."

  He twirled her lightly around and she sighed and allowed herself to be spun, knowing herself to be wax in his sure, strong hands, and yet wishing it were not so.

  "Perhaps the sort of guardianship I am performing is one which your aunt is incapable of."

  She craned her head back a little so she could look him full in the face. "What do you mean, incapable of? She is a very good guardian! And besides, I am nearly of age—I need no watchdog!"

  His face looked a little weary. "Well, there, we must disagree. I think you do not realise what danger you court.''

  Kit's pulse leapt at his words. He could not mean... He surely did not believe... She glanced up at his stern, harsh-featured face again and those oddly cold, grey eyes met her gaze.

  He did mean it.

  They danced on in silence for a few minutes. Kit's thoughts were racing wildly. He could not possibly know. There was no way he could. He was just being...bossy.

  "Actually, I do not feel much like going in to supper," Kit said as the dance drew to a close. “Thank you for the dance, sir. However, I find I am not at all hungry. But please, if you wish to dine alone, feel free."

  He smiled faintly. "T would not dream of deserting you. As your partner for the supper dance, my honour as a gen­tleman is at stake."

  "Oh, very well." Kit almost stamped her way towards the supper room. Was there no shaking this wretched man?

  She sat and watched him fill plates for two people. "In case you change your mind," he said blandly.

  Kit gritted her teeth at his presumption, but she was in fact quite hungry so, making a show of reluctance, she al­lowed herself to be tempted. He had selected a variety of food that was exactly to her taste. Although she had only two crab patties; he had served himself three, or was it four? She watched them disappear swiftly. He reached out and served himself another two, then hesitated and took one more, a little sheepishly. Her bad mood slipped away. It was very difficult to remain angry long with a man who had s
uch an obvious weakness for crab patties. She nibbled on her own and felt strangely at peace.

  After they had both cleaned their plates in a most un­fashionable manner, he said, "Miss Singleton, would you care for an ice?"

  She looked up at him. The man was not the only one with a weakness, for certain dishes. "Yes, please." She sighed. "I am very fond of ice-cream."

  Mr Devenish signalled a waiter, who returned in a short time and placed a dish of smooth, creamy ice-cream in front of her. Kit thanked him and began to eat, while he sipped meditatively from a glass of wine. She was aware of his occasional gaze, warm upon her skin, as she ate.

  She was just enjoying her third mouthful of the cold, delicious confection when he leaned towards her and said quietly in her ear, "It is time the Chinese Burglar disap­peared from your life. He endangers your life and your freedom."

  Kit spluttered in surprise. The ice-cream went down her throat, the wrong way. She began to cough.

  Solicitously he patted her back. “Can I fetch you some water?"

  She nodded her head, eyes streaming, glad for the reason to send him away.

  He returned with the water. She drank several mouthfuls down, playing for time.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes, yes," she gasped, scrabbling for composure.

  "I believe my question shocked you." His eyes bored into her.

  She shook her head. "Shocked me? No, no," she said. "I merely choked, er, on...on a bone."

  His brow rose and he nodded in grave sympathy. "A common difficulty with ice-cream, I find—the bones."

  Some mistakes you walked away from. Kit finished her water, slowly.

  Mr Devenish watched her a moment, but said nothing. The ghost of a satisfied smile played about his lips.

  Kit tried to make a recovery. "So, you think I am in danger, that that Chinese criminal is planning to steal some­thing of mine or my aunt's. I suppose since you discovered him near my aunt's house that time, he might be—"

  "I mean nothing of the sort. I think you understand me very well."

  "But—"

  He stood up. "If you have finished your ice, Miss Sin­gleton, perhaps we may return to the ballroom."

  Frustrated, wishing to rid his suspicious mind of any no­tion of any connection between herself and any burglar, Chinese or otherwise, Kit stood, aware of the impossibility of a public argument in a crowded supper room.

  She was still determined to argue it out with him; she had to disabuse his mind of any notion that she had any connection with the recent spate of burglaries. His name was down for another dance; she would insist they sit it out and talk, like civilised beings.

  The band struck up the last waltz for the evening. He

  arrived just seconds before the music started. She glanced up at him, disdainfully. He looked very fine and reserved and elegant in his formal clothes. He said not a word, but the very faintest of smiles curved his lips and his hard grey eyes demanded impossible things of her.

  She was not going to dance with him. She already knew it was folly to dance with him, let alone a waltz. Much better to sit and talk.

  He held out a masterful hand. It was a nice hand, square, long-fingered, a little battered.

  Spinelessly, Kit allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor. He drew her into his arms, those strong, sure, arms and she closed her eyes and allowed herself to be swept away by the music and the magic and the man. It was the stuff of dreams...

  His big warm hand cupped her at the waist, his touch burning through the fine soft fabric of her gown. His other hand gripped her hand firmly, possessively. He twirled her around the dance floor with an ease which had a touch of arrogance in it; it felt as if she were floating. There was no need to watch her steps; she was in the hands of a master. She needed only to give herself up to the rhythm of the music and the expertise of her partner.

  She could smell the faint tang of the soap he used, the fresh scent of newly washed linen, pressed with a hot iron. He seemed to give no thought to the steps of the dance; his eyes clung to hers, drawing her to him, with the inev­itability of a whirlpool.

  The music shimmered and seduced. The man was all she was aware of and Kit gave herself up to the dream, floating and twirling in a magical daze.

  For it was only a dream.

  It could be, for Kit, nothing more.

  Maggie was waiting up for her. “Well? How did it go?'' Kit noted her maidservant's heavy eyes. "I told you not to wait up for me, Maggie. I can perfectly well undress myself and put all my things away—you know that—so why did you wait up for me?"

  "You know why," was the grim reply.

  "Well, nothing happened, and I'm going straight to bed tonight, so you may sleep easy." It was not quite a lie. Bad enough Maggie had guessed Kit's plans; she didn't want her implicated any further.

  Maggie looked her over, and said shrewdly, "Something has put you all end upon beam!"

  Kit hoped she wasn't blushing. After that wonderful, magical waltz, she'd drifted home, only vaguely attending to Rose's chatter. She'd been in a blissful haze, conjuring up impossible, wonderful daydreams in which somehow, everything was different, and she could stay in England, and be courted like a normal girl...

  Then they'd reached Dorset Street and as they'd climbed out of their sedan chairs, she'd noticed Mr Devenish's groom, Griffin, lurking in the shadows. Reality had crashed down all around her in all its nasty gritty irreconcilable contradictions.

  She was still being spied on.

  She'd stepped out of the sedan chair and mounted the steps to Rose Singleton's house, leaving her dreams in the gutter.

  "That wretched man as good as admitted he's been fol­lowing me. He spouts nonsense about a guardian angel, but I have another word for it—spy!" She did not mention the connection he had somehow made between herself and the Chinese Burglar. Maggie worried too much as it was.

  Maggie made a non-committal noise and busied herself tidying away the clothes Kit was discarding.

  "As if I need a guardian angel! I—who have been look­ing after myself perfectly adequately for years! Have you

  ever heard anything so outrageous! What business am I of his, I ask you? Even Papa never questioned my activities and he at least had the right!"

  "Mebbe so, but I've always said your pa should have protected you a lot better than he did."

  Kit pursed her lips. It was an old argument and one she knew from experience she could never win. Maggie had never approved o£ her father and nothing would ever change that. Perhaps Papa had been a bit lax in some ar­eas—all right, she knew he had been—but that didn't mean she had to accept a perfect stranger foisting his presence on her! "But this Mr Devenish—he's not even a relative!"

  She glanced at her maid as she said so, and surprised a look on her face which shocked her. "Maggie! You cannot mean you approve of him hounding me in this fashion!"

  "Hounding!" snorted Maggie. "I wouldn't call it hounding. Does he nag at you constantly, telling you what to do and what not to do?"

  "No, but—"

  "Does he persecute you and interrupt what you are do­ing?"

  "No," conceded Kit grumpily, "but—"

  "So, he just happens to be where you are, and minds his own business like a gentleman is supposed to." Maggie curled her lip. "Doesn't sound like anyone's being hounded to me! And if keeping a friendly eye on you, and making sure you get home safe and sound is what you call hound­ing, well, all I can say is, good for him!"

  Outraged by this betrayal in her own home, Kit snapped, "Why, what would you call it when wherever I go, there I find him or else that wretched groom underfoot! He was down in the street, outside, just now—the groom, I mean! How dare he send his man to spy on me!"

  Kit stared at her maid, awaiting her response. Maggie looked oddly self-conscious, she realised.

  "Well, Maggie? Isn't it outrageous?"

  Maggie avoided her eyes, bustling around the room, ti­dying with a vengeance. The busy activi
ty could have ac­counted for her maid's heightened colour, but suddenly an­other thought, completely unrelated to their discussion, leapt into Kit's mind.

  "Yes, if Mr Devenish cannot follow me, he sends that big groom of his—what's his name—oh, you know, Mag­gie. Ruffm? Griffith?"

  "Griffin," mumbled Maggie, polishing the bedroom looking-glass with quite unnecessary vigour.

  “Oh, yes, Griffin, I recall now. He was the spy you men­tioned the other day, wasn't he?"

  Maggie scrubbed furiously at the pure surface of the mir­ror.

  "The handsome one," added Kit provocatively. "The big, clumsy jackanapes."

  By this time, Maggie's cheeks were pure, brilliant rose.

  "Have you spoken with him since?"

  Maggie mumbled something that might have been an affirmative.

  "Often?"

  "Hmmph!" Maggie straightened the bed covers vio­lently. "Can't help it if he comes around, can I?" Her face was almost glowing with embarrassment, Kit noted glee­fully.

  "I do believe you have a tendre for Mr Devenish's coachman, Maggie dear."

  "His groom, you mean." Then, realising what she had said, Maggie blushed even more furiously. "A tendre for the groom? What nonsense! Nothing of the sort. I'm a re­spectable woman, Miss Kit, and—"

  "Oh my, oh my, Maggie dear," Kit crooned.

  Maggie snapped the top sheet into a crisp fold. “No, not a bit of it. Downright foolishness to think of such a—''

  She bent and snatched up a pair of Kit's stockings. Would you look at these hose, Miss Kit! I declare they look as if you've danced through a prickle bush in them! Ruined, utterly ruined!'' She hurled the stockings furiously into the mending basket.

  "Mr Griffin, indeed! Of all the ridiculous—!" She folded a petticoat of Kit's with unnecessary vigor, slapped it into a drawer and banged the drawer shut with some finality. "And besides, he's much too young for me."

  "I wouldn't have said he was particularly young at all," said Kit pensively. "I'm sure Mr Devenish mentioned that Griffin was a stableboy on his father's Shropshire estate when Mr Devenish was a child...and as Mr Devenish is turned thirty-two, I believe, Griffin would have to be about ten years older, which would make him forty, or therea­bouts. That doesn't seem too young to me. Nor too old. In fact..."