Ozzy was nothing if not direct. “Thieves, my lady,” he insisted, grabbing Del just as he was about to make his getaway. “I passed Mr. Ives in the hallway and could not help but notice that your footman here picked the man’s pocket just as he was going out the door. By the by, what was Mr. Ives doing here, anyway? He seemed like a man who had a lot on his mind—barely took the time to say hello, and him that’s known me anytime these last three years.”
“Mr. Ives was making a thorough pest of himself,” supplied Jennie tersely, “which is a trait of his you must be aware of if you have indeed known him several years. What’s more to the point at the moment, however, is what horrid thing he must have done to poor Del here to have the man revert to his former bad habits.”
Del knew a champion when he saw one, and he made short work of pleading for his mistress’s sympathy. “That queer cove never gived me no blunt fer ’oldin’ ’is lily shadow or famlin’ cheats, missus,” Del whined piteously. “A man o’ three outs, that’s wot ’e be, so Oi jist sorta dipped me fambles inta ’is pocket-like, seein’ as ’ow Oi be a dab at it, an seeing’ as ’ow ya said we wuz ta get tipped by all those ’igh an’ mighty folk what’s come ’ere. Don’t send me ta Newman’s Tea Garden, missus, like some Anabaptist.”
“’ere now,” Ben admonished Del sharply, giving the smaller man a quick clip on the top of his head as the acknowledged leader of their small gang entered the room, having overheard the commotion from his station in the hallway. “Shut yer clapperjaw, ya fool, it don’t do ta patter flash ’round the missus.” Having satisfactorily dealt with his underling, Ben turned to Jennie. “Wot’s ’e done, missus? We be birds of a feather, y’ken, but never there be no arch rogue or dimber damber among us. Wot’s ’is be mine, missus, so iffen Del’s gone an’ got ’is bumfiddle in a sling, mine be there wit it.”
“No pattering flash, you say?” Mr. Norwood put in, striving hard not to laugh out loud at both Del and Ben’s cant language and the ladies’ shocked reaction to it. Mr. Norwood could only surmise what their reactions would be if they understood even half of what the two footmen were saying, what with references to Newgate, Anabaptists, and a part of the human anatomy that females were allowed to sit upon but were otherwise admonished not to admit existed at all.
But Jennie was too overset to pay more than token attendance to anything that had been said. Her primary concern was that Del had done what he had promised never to do—practice his pickpocketing talents on one of their guests. Never mind that Mr. Ives was not a valued friend of the family, and keeping the fact that he had cheated Del out of his earned tip to one side, Jennie knew that Kit would not allow such doings under his roof. Del would be tossed out into the street, and Bob and Ben with him, unless she could keep this little fracas from ever reaching her husband’s ears.
Really, she thought uncharitably, all this fuss over the unpleasant Mr. Ives. It seemed incredibly silly to cut up stiff over what Del had seen as his right—taking the tip Mr. Ives had neglected to give him. “What did you get from Mr. Ives’s pocket, Del?” she asked kindly, trying to marshal her wits about her before Kit, who had the most maddening habit of showing up just when he wasn’t wanted, came on the scene.
“Not much blunt,” Del answered, chagrined, showing off a few coppers that hardly seemed worth the risk of being caught in the act of putting his hand in a gentleman’s pocket. “The cove must be laid up in lavender, missus, ’cause ’e sure ain’t got deep pockets. All Oi got fer m’troubles in these coppers an’ a tin tatler that don’t even tick. An’ this,” he ended, passing over a slip of paper with some scribbling written on it, “Weren’t ’ardly worth it.”
Lucy, who had been considerably lifted from her doldrums by the footmen’s shenanigans, came over and took possession of the scrap of paper. “It’s an address near Holborn, and not a very nice one if I recollect my geography correctly,” she said, squinting slightly as she tried to read the paper, which was quite smudged. “Whatever would Mr. Ives be doing with something like this in his pocket?”
“Nothing about Mr. Ives would surprise me,” said a voice from the doorway as Lord Bourne, looking sadly out of sorts, sauntered into the drawing room. Ben, showing why he was the leader of his small band, quickly nudged Del, and the two hastily took their exit, fervently hoping that their mistress would find some way of explaining the scrap of paper without involving them.
The footmen were in luck, for Kit was too full of his own thoughts to spend overlong dwelling on insignificant matters. “I learned something about your Mr. Ives last night, from La Fontaine, as a matter of fact. I make free with her name, ladies,” he said, bowing to Jennie and Lucy, who were trying hard to blend into the background, “because you and the lady in question have, thanks to my wife’s odd sense of what is correct, already been introduced. Anyway,” he pursued, turning back to Mr. Norwood, “it would seem your Mr. Ives is heavily dipped on his expectations. La Fontaine tells me he is nearly fully occupied nowadays in outrunning the duns. I thought I’d mention it, Ozzy, before he applies to you for a loan.”
“That’s mighty decent of you, Kit,” Ozzy said, grimacing, “but I fear you are too late. He’s into me for a monkey already.”
“Whatever did Mr. Ives want with a monkey?”
Any remaining tension dissipated with Jennie’s naive question. “Silly,” Lucy laughed, hugging her cousin to her. “A monkey is sporting language for a sum of money—quite a considerable amount,” she added with a quick look toward the blushing Mr. Norwood.
“Yes,” that man concurred. “It would appear your man was right, my lady. Mr. Ives is indeed a man of three outs.”
Kit, not quite understanding what was going on, translated. “A man of three outs is one who is without money, wit or manners. Did Mr. Ives insult you, kitten?” he asked, more than ready to take umbrage. “I could do with a good punch-up.”
Jennie assured her husband that she had not been insulted, merely bored to blinders by Mr. Ives’s interminable visit earlier in the morning. “Really, it was excessively odd of him.”
“Odd?” Lucy teased. “Perhaps you have acquired a beau. Oh dear, cousin, I do hope you will not allow your head to be turned by Mr. Ives’s attentions.” Lucy would have said more, but the earl’s fierce scowl stifled the words in her throat.
“Lucy,” that aggrieved gentleman said, “you’re bidding fair to become a thorn in my side.”
“Oh, Kit,” Jennie protested quickly, “how very bad of you.”
“Here, here,” seconded Mr. Norwood. “That was very insulting, old fellow. Damned if I won’t cut you dead when next we meet.”
Jennie may have wanted Kit’s attention diverted in some way, but to have her friends glaring at her husband as if he were the second most evil thing in the world did not suit her plans. “Montague has conjured up a fresh batch of his marvelous strawberry tarts, my lord,” she sighed longingly, slipping her hand through her husband’s arm. “Do you think you could ring for some? I have this overwhelming craving for one that I don’t believe I can deny for much longer.”
“A craving?” her cousin asked breathlessly. “Never say, Jennie, that you’re increasing. How utterly famous!”
If Jennie’s try at diverting her husband fell a bit short of the mark, Lucy’s enthusiastic exclamation certainly did not. Turning toward his wife as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head, he asked incredulously, “Are you, kitten? You never said anything.”
“No, I most certainly am not!” denied his bride fiercely. “And I think it is beyond anything stupid how everybody is pressing me so. Only this morning my papa wrote asking much the same question. Really, if everyone is so set on having a baby around they’ll just have to make do with Charity’s infant.” She then placed herself in front of her husband and mourned. “And you didn’t even ask if it’s a boy or a girl.”
Relief, mixed with another emotion that seemed strangely like disappointment, spread through Kit, and he put his fingers beneath Jennie’s ch
in and said gravely, “Forgive me, kitten. I stand before you agog with curiosity. Exactly what did Charity have—a little housemaid or a little underfootman?”
“Go ahead, Kit, mock me,” she said imperturbably, “but I think it was famous, holding little George as he lay wrapped in his blanket. And he shan’t be a footman for some London slavedriver either. I am already making plans to have Charity and her son sent to Bourne Manor as soon as may be. George is going to grow up in the country where there is plenty of fresh air and…and milk, and things like that.” As this last was delivered in tones that warned that any contradiction of her plans would be looked upon as a personal insult, Kit only bowed his approval of the scheme and turned to ask Ozzy if he wished to stay and share luncheon with the rest of the family, adding that he naturally included Lucy in those plans. Mr. Norwood, mentally canceling his earlier intention of visiting his tailor to talk about an extra inch of buckram padding in the shoulders of his new puce jacket, agreed with some alacrity, smiling sweetly at Lucy and thereby giving Jennie to believe she sniffed a romance in the air. The subject of Mr. Ives, his financial state, and, fortunately for Del, the note that had been found in his pocket was dropped in lieu of talk of a more general nature, and harmony seemed once more to reign in Berkeley Square.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
KIT SURPRISED JENNIE by staying closer than sticking plaster all the rest of the day, declining Mr. Norwood’s kind offer of allowing the earl to join him for settling day at Tatt’s, Bourne saying that since Ozzy owned so much blunt thanks to his poor choice in racing nags, he would rather not be witness to watching a grown man blubber.
As for Lucy, that intrepid creature had only stopped by to tell her cousin that she had wangled an invitation to a picnic in Richmond Park that, rumor said, Lord Thorpe and Lady Cynthia were sure to attend. She wished she could have acquired an invitation for Jennie, but, she owned ruefully, it had been difficult enough to blackmail her friend Lady Standorf for the single one she had managed. Her aunt, that intrepid soul, was to chaperon her, Lucy told them, her eyes twinkling with mischief, so it would be easy as pie to slip away from her and somehow strike up a conversation with the love of her life. The wink Lucy gave Jennie on her way out the door gave Kit to murmur, “If I were more of a betting man I’d lay a few pounds on that vixen. If she ever gets the bit between her teeth, Thorpe doesn’t stand a chance of holding out against her. I’d pity him if he weren’t such a damned toplofty bastard, if you’ll pardon my blunt speech, kitten. It’s just that I’ve somehow developed a small fondness for your cousin—odd, madcap creature that she is.”
“Papa says it runs in the family—coming from my mother’s side, you understand,” Jennie told him with a smile. “Bundy says Mama was also considered an eccentric in her younger days. Something to do with her penchant for saving her fellow man from the evils of gin.”
“It figures,” replied Kit laconically, his lips twisting in a one-sided smile. “Thank goodness you didn’t inherit her Methodist ways.”
And so it turned out, with their friends otherwise occupied and with neither of the Wildes much inclined toward walking out that day, that they somehow found themselves enjoying each other’s company for a leisurely luncheon, a restful afternoon sitting about in the conservatory, and for the entirety of one of Montague’s superb dinners. It was only after he joined her in the drawing room that Kit began to feel restless and, remembering an invitation to a friend’s evening party, he put forth the suggestion that he and his wife make their formal debut as a couple. “M’friends begin to tease me that all this talk of my being bracketed is nothing but a bag of moonshine. It’s time I get some of my own back by showing off my pretty wife!”
After a full day of friendly camaraderie, this plan for the evening suited Jennie right down to the ground, and she readily accepted his invitation before he changed his mind. Calling for Renfrew to have Tizzie please fetch down her cloak, Jennie ran to the large mirror in the room and did a quick inventory of her face and hair, tucking a single errant golden ringlet back where it belonged. Her gown, she knew from Goldie’s glowing praise and Bundy’s tsk-tsking concerning the low cut of the bodice when she had first put it on, was good enough to grace any hostess’s ballroom. Besides, hadn’t Kit already commented on how well the emerald-green silk complimented her eyes?
Tizzie and Lizzie burst into the drawing room, the former carrying Jennie’s velvet-lined cloak and the latter toting a small reticule that was sewn in the same silk as her mistress’s gown. After wrapping the cloak lovingly about Jennie’s shoulders, Tizzie stepped back a pace and struck a dramatic pose. “‘When you do dance,’” she quoted in awful tones, “‘I wish you a wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.’” Her recitation done, Tizzie swept her audience a dramatic curtsy while Lizzie, the reticule hastily stuffed under her arm, applauded lustily, verbally adding a “Bravo!” or two when her enthusiasm momentarily outran her shyness.
“That was truly splendid!” Jennie told the aging actress sincerely as Tizzie rose creakily to her feet. “I vow I am impressed.”
“That was Shakespeare, kitten,” Kit whispered into her ear as he led her toward the door, “and I vow I am about to be sick. Let’s away before she starts on Hamlet’s soliloquy, as that would unman me entirely!”
DANCING WAS ALL right, Kit owned silently, if one didn’t mind prancing about like a trained puppydog for all the world to see. All we need is to wear ruffles about our necks and carry a red ball in our mouths—he thought of himself and his fellow males who had just lately been forced to caper about the ballroom in a mad country romp—and we would resemble a canine performing troupe. Thank the Lord that Jennie cared as little for such tomfoolery as he did and had readily acceded to his wish to see what was about in some of the other rooms. A good sport, that’s what his kitten was, he sighed happily.
“I will be your banker,” Kit told his wife now as he held out a chair for her and urged her to take a seat at the round gaming table that was one of a half dozen or more that filled the small, elegant salon just outside their hosts’s elegant ballroom.
“Oh,” Jennie replied, looking up at him as he prepared to take the adjoining seat, “we are to play for money? All Papa used to allow was matchsticks, and even then he beat me dreadfully.”
“You’ve played faro before?”
“No-o-o-o,” she admitted slowly. “Just a little whist. Does that mean I can’t play?” she ended a little sorrowfully, preparing to rise to her feet and surrender her chair to another.
But Kit assured her that although faro was not usually considered a game for females, private parties sometimes included a small-stakes table such as this one. It didn’t hold a patch on Devonshire House, but then nothing much did. While the rest of the company waited patiently, Kit explained the rather simple rules for this game that had accounted for the ruin of more good men than every woman since Eve, and then thoughtfully sent a servant to procure some liquid refreshment while he divided the betting chips evenly between them.
Some call it beginner’s luck. Others, those on the losing end, term it as the devil’s own luck. But no matter what name her fellow players chose to put to it, Jennie’s luck that evening had Kit heartily wishing he could carry off dressing her in breeches, and slipping her in the door at either Brook’s or the Great-Go. A small crowd began to gather around as Jennie won draw after draw, making a shambles of the precept that in faro the odds always remain clearly in favor of the dealer. In a town so known for its love of gambling that Walpole had once remarked that he could not garner a teaspoonful of news in the whole city except what was trumps, word of Jennie’s ongoing coup traveled quickly, and soon a multitude crowded into the small room, Dean Ives standing inconspicuously among the awed audience.
When at last Jennie tired of her easy victory, saying simply that she found faro to be tedious and boring, Kit stared down the remaining players who felt it a mite unfair to have the woman leave the table a winner and the two walked th
rough the gaping crowd just as a waltz was being struck up by the indifferent orchestra.
“Oh, a waltz,” Jennie sighed longingly. “Truly, this is the only dance that makes a whit of sense, without all that prancing up and down and separating from your partner for minutes at a time. How can anyone be expected to hold a civil conversation with a person who is forever tippytoeing off into the distance?”
His pockets bulging with Jennie’s winnings and his chest near to bursting with pride at her triumph at the gaming table, Kit executed a creditable leg to his lady, saying, “May I have the pleasure of this dance, ma’am, if you are not otherwise engaged?”
If the violinists were not of the first stare, and the conductor more than a little inattentive to the tempo, these lapses were lost on the young couple now gliding around the floor with eyes only for each other. So obvious was their enchantment that several romantically inclined dowagers were pressed to comment on it, while more than a few disgruntled bucks were heard to say they too could fall head over ears for a chit who had just very nearly broken the bank at faro.
Dean Ives, holding up a wall in the shadows near the dance floor, took the bucks’ jealous gibes a step or two further. The Countess of Bourne was lovely enough before winning so handily tonight. Now that appeal had doubled—not only for Kit, but for Mr. Ives as well. He smiled as he watched the earl wrap his bride carefully in her cloak before shepherding her out the door, thoughtfully tapping one long finger against his smiling mouth. Ah yes, the little blond countess was becoming more valuable with each passing day.
THE MOONLIGHT coming through the window cast elongated shadows across the two figures who lay tangled amid the bedclothes on the wide mattress of the master chamber. The soft female sigh of contentment followed by a low, satisfied male chuckle were the only sounds to be heard, the rest of the house having all gone to sleep hours earlier. The night belonged to the couple snuggling close together under the satin coverlet, and they were making the most of it, with no intention of wasting a single moment.
The beleaguered Lord Bourne Page 15