Lady Rogue

by Suzanne Enoch

  Kit smiled a little shakily as he stepped down from the carriage and entered the house. He’d actually offered to let her spend the day with him, without her having to beg him first. Kit chuckled as she stepped to the ground and skipped in a very unmasculine fashion for the door, the tiredness in both legs forgotten. It was only after she climbed into bed that she realized what a splendid opportunity the auctions would be to follow up on her leads.

  Chapter 6

  “How is it that you know of Gentleman Jackson’s, but you’ve never heard of Vauxhall Gardens?” Everton queried.

  Members of the ton and demi ton thronged the horse auctions. Beside him Kit watched the collection of horse lovers, pigeons, hawks, and eccentrics with an acute interest, and Alex reflected that until he learned more of her reasons for being in London, he likely shouldn’t have asked her along. The chit had been dousing him with striking imitations of Yorkshire, Northumberland, and Cornwall accents all morning, but he had the impression that she was simply amusing him while her attention was on some other task entirely.

  “Well, I know how to box,” she replied, climbing up onto the bottom rail of the pen, “but I’ve never had a garden. How long have you known Hanshaw and Devlin?”

  He laughed. “We went to Cambridge together. And Vauxhall is more an amusement park than a garden, dear one. Music, fireworks, dancing, drinking, gambling, all the stuff of life.”

  “You must take me, then,” she demanded, swinging one arm away from the fence to look at him.

  Alex gazed at her steadily. “I’d like nothing better,” he returned, watching her mobile expression as she gauged his words to decide whether he was engaging in some sordid innuendo.

  With her feet on the rail they were almost exactly the same height, her face close in front of his. “Libertine,” she charged, correctly guessing his meaning.

  “Not according to you,” he pointed out. Her lips were favoring him with a slight, sensuous pout, and he wondered what he would have done with her if she’d come into his life five or six years ago, when his reputation for wildness had been edged with significantly more truth. He’d been considerably less wise then, and less given to considering the consequences of his actions, both to himself and to others. But he did know one thing. He would have dissolved the conditions of the debt of honor long before now, and would have used every bit of his much-touted skills in seduction to maneuver the tantalizing Kit Brantley into his bed.

  “Are they political?”

  He blinked. “Are who political?”

  “Reg and Devlin, of course.”

  She swung back to face the enclosure again, leaving him to look at her very attractive backside and to take a deep breath. This was beginning to become rather complicated. “About as political as I am,” he replied absently, then gave a slight frown. “I do hope you’re not thinking of bringing them into your little game,” he commented, disliking the idea of her sharing her secret with anyone else. He was becoming territorial, it seemed. “They’d not be as open-minded about this as I am.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone,” she retorted, glancing over her shoulder at him, a disgusted expression on her face. “I leave that to you.”

  “Just remember that you must be careful,” he pursued. “If I guessed about you, someone else could, as well.”

  “I am careful.”

  “No, you’re clever,” he corrected. That caught her attention, and she swiveled to look at him again. “Don’t mistake one for the other.”

  “You surprise me, Everton. Was that a compliment?” she asked, green eyes twinkling.

  “Not entirely,” he said grudgingly. “A little one, perhaps.”

  “Well, then, a mild thank you, my lord,” she said, granting him her fleeting grin.

  It did not help his equilibrium. “Humph. So who taught you to box?”

  “Father,” she returned. “He’s fantastique.”

  “Ah,” Alex commented, amused again. “And you? How do you fare in the ring?”

  “Oh, he’s never actually let me try,” Kit answered. From her expression, her father’s unwillingness had not sat well. “I did hand the Comte de Fouché a flusher once.”

  “Wasn’t he the French rakehell you mentioned the other night?”

  She nodded. “He wasn’t at all pleased, but he was being quite arrogant. Bonaparte this, and Bonaparte that. I apologized, but he gave me odd looks all evening. For a bit I thought he would call me out, but he never did.”

  “Perhaps he realized your true nature,” Alex suggested, but she shook her head.

  “I don’t see how he could have. I gave him a splendid shiner.”

  Alex chuckled and leaned up against the fence next to her. She smelled faintly of soap, and he sidled a little closer, breathing in the clean scent of her. “So you share your father’s sentiments regarding Napoleon, then?”

  She nodded. “They should have strung the bastard up, instead of setting him away like a toy soldier and expecting him to gather dust.”

  Her words so very nearly echoed what he had expressed to a small group of friends just under a month ago that it gave him pause. The humor had left her eyes, and she was clearly serious. Or at least he thought she was. She was a good liar, and he knew her father had little love for Britain. She herself had been raised French. And with a war on, no Englishman would be caught expressing support for Bonaparte these days, anyway. “You simply exude patriotism, my dear,” he drawled, eyeing with disinterest a bay gelding being led about the yard.

  “If he were marching on Everton or Charing or whatever else you own, you’d take it more seriously,” she retorted, resting her chin on her crossed arms and pointedly not looking at him.

  By God, she was lovely. “Heavens,” he gasped in mock horror, “you think Boney wants my barley crop and my pottery barns? I must plead with Prinny for assistance at once. Perhaps a squad of Royal Grenadiers will keep my sheep from being conscripted into the French army’s stomach.”

  She blew out her breath in a snort, sucking in her cheeks to keep from laughing at him. “Fresh fruit’s more to their liking than barely.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You have studied the dining habits of Bonaparte’s troops? How diligent of you.”

  Kit glanced at him, something flashing in her eyes. It brought him to immediate alertness. “It’s easy to know,” she returned after a very slight hesitation. “Just look to see what’s most scarce on the streets of Paris.”

  “Of course,” he said mildly, waiting for her to say something else, something that would explain why, for a moment, she had looked as though she regretted having spoken.

  From the first he’d thought she might be a thief of some sort, sent by her father to rob him or the rest of the peerage. But no one from the soiree last night, or anywhere else she’d been, had so much as mentioned a missing watch fob.

  She pointed her chin toward the yard. “Are you going to buy me a horse now, cousin?”

  “I believe I’ve an adequate selection for you already,” he replied dryly, aware that she was changing the subject. “Gerald’s asked me to keep an eye out for a good pair for his coach.”

  He looked into the enclosure again. As he did, he caught sight of a young woman watching them from across the pen. She was slim and blond and very attractive, and, he noted after a startled, slightly offended moment, her admiring and speculative gaze was not on him. She was trying to catch Kit’s eye. With a curse he grabbed the chit by the coattails and pulled her off the railing.

  “Damnation, Alex, you gave me a splinter,” she protested, staggering backward and looking completely astounded at his behavior.

  Unmindful of her protest, he wrapped his fingers around her arm and yanked her toward his coach. “We’re going,” he snapped.

  She pulled against him. “I don’t want to go.”

  “I’m not giving you a choice.” He was ready to pick her up and carry her bodily to the carriage, but apparently realizing he was serious, she stopped struggling.<
br />
  “What’s wrong with you?” she grumbled, looking sideways at him as he pulled her through the crowd. The disturbance garnered them a few looks, but by this time everyone had heard what a troublesome lad his cousin was, and they mostly received knowing nods and chuckles.

  “Nothing at the moment,” he said brusquely, waving an arm at his coachman. “And I wish to keep it that way.”

  “Well, stop dragging me about, then. I’m coming.”

  Alex hesitated, then released his tight grip on her arm. “Apologies,” he grunted. She must think he’d lost his mind. “I didn’t intend to maim you.”

  Kit lifted her hand to gaze at her finger. “It’s only a prick, but I believe I shall require a new pair of gloves.”

  “Fair enough.” He smiled briefly, relaxing as they neared the coach.

  “Everton!”

  Alex jumped at the sound of Reg’s voice calling from the crowd, then grabbed on to Kit again when she slowed. “Come on,” he hissed.

  “Alex!” the voice came again, and Lord Hanshaw emerged from the spectators. “And Kit! Splendid to see you here!”

  “Hanshaw,” Kit acknowledged with a grin, yanking free of Alex’s grip and stopping.

  Alex swore under his breath. If he had any sense, he would simply make his excuses and let the next few moments unfold in his absence. He apparently had none left at all, though, for he strolled back beside Kit to shake Reg’s hand.

  “I nearly thought I’d missed you. Wanted you to meet someone, you know.” Hanshaw gestured behind him, and the beautiful young woman stepped toward them, her maid in tow. “Kit, Lady Caroline. My lady, you know Everton, and this is his cousin, Kit Riley. The one Barbara’s been pestering you about.”

  “Lady Caroline. Honored.” Kit smiled, bending over the lady’s gloved hand and brushing Caroline’s knuckles with her lips. Alex waited for lightning to strike one of them dead. Instead, Caroline gave a pretty smile and retrieved her hand.

  “I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Mr. Riley,” she said in her warm voice. “Everyone’s been raving about you for days.”

  “Well, I’m certain most of it’s lies,” the chit answered with a charming smile, inclining her head.

  Alex stepped forward to take Caroline’s hand, as well. “Oh, please,” he muttered in Kit’s direction. Immediately he regretted saying anything she might hear, because of course, it would only encourage her.

  Kit glanced at him, daring him to intervene, and spoke again to Caroline. “I have heard some very flattering things about you, my lady,” she continued, “though I see now that the arrows have all fallen quite short of their mark.”

  Caroline chuckled. “Your cousin is a better flatterer even than you, Lord Everton.”

  Kit glanced at Alex, and he could see the speculation there. She was wondering if he was courting Caroline, as well. Or something more intimate. Alex gave a smile that he hoped didn’t look too pained, and inclined his head to concede defeat and hopefully end a contest before it could begin.

  “You see, my lady, I told you he was a charmer,” Hanshaw put in, apparently not minding that the woman he was determined to marry was enjoying another’s flirtation.

  “Yes, he is,” Alex seconded, stepping up to take Kit’s arm securely in his own. “And I offer my sincere apologies, but I’m frightfully late for an appointment. We must be going.” He caught Reg’s quick, curious look, but kept his face blank.

  “Kit can stay here with us,” his friend said unhelpfully. “We’ll see he gets home.”

  “Oh, that’s splendid,” Kit agreed gleefully. “You’re slap up to the echo, Hanshaw, really you are.”

  “Sorry, Reg,” Alex put in even more firmly, not releasing his grip on Kit’s arm, despite her tugging to get away from him. “But I need my cousin with me. It concerns those papers your father sent with you, don’t you recall, Kit?”

  Kit glanced at him sideways, obviously trying to decipher what he was trying to tell her. “Oh, dash it, Alex, all right,” she grumbled, turning to follow him. At the last moment she turned back again and tilted her hat. “Good day, Lady Caroline. I do hope we shall encounter one another again.”

  Caroline smiled. “Perhaps we shall, Mr. Riley.”

  Before Alex could give in to the urge to throttle his charge, the chit had turned back and climbed into the coach. He nodded at Hanshaw and Caroline, and stepped up after her. “Just drive,” he snapped at Waddle, and the coachman nodded. Alex pulled the door shut and sat as the carriage rocked forward.

  Kit was chuckling. “Do you think I could steal her from Reg?” she queried, pulling off her glove to examine the hole in one soft kid finger. “She was lovely.”

  “Too well mannered,” he replied, folding his arms and debating whether to tell the spitfire across from him exactly who Lady Caroline was.

  “And her docility is the reason you looked as though you were having an attack of apoplexy, then?”

  “If I were suffering from such a thing, you would be the cause of it. And it would be my own fault, because I’ve known all along what a damned lot of trouble you are.” He sighed irritably. “And by the way, just what do you know of Lady Caroline?”

  “Oh, heavens, Alex, stop being such a deuced bore. It’s not as though I intend to marry her.”

  “I should hope not,” he returned after an astounded pause—no one had ever called him a bore before. “She’s Caroline Brantley. The Duke of Furth’s daughter. Your cousin, cousin.”

  Christine’s face went white. She stared at him for a moment, then put one hand over her mouth. “Stop the coach,” she muttered, shutting her eyes.

  Concerned, Alex sat forward and touched her knee. She was shaking. And he was a callous idiot. “Kit, I’m sor—”

  “Stop the coach,” she repeated, doubling over her lap. “I’m going to be sick.”

  “Kit…” He stopped his apology as she sagged further, her color alarmingly gray. “Waddle, stop! Now!” he bellowed.

  The coach lurched to a halt, and he flung open the door. Kit flew out under his raised arm, and proceeded to vomit into the gutter. Alex stood where he was for a moment, then jumped down to stand beside her. They were not in the best part of London, and he glanced cautiously at the teeming avenue and the gaggle of curious spectators looking to see which peer was retching in the streets. He saw no one he was acquainted with, but with the Everton crest emblazoned on the side of the coach, he decided it would be unwise to put his arm around her or scoop her up to carry her back into the carriage, no matter what unexpected chivalrous thoughts were running through his brain. Good gossip always got out. If there was one constant in London society, it was that. So instead he sat beside her.

  “Don’t do that,” she muttered miserably, straightening after a moment and wiping her mouth.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t sit there.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re the Earl of Everton. You’re not supposed to sit in the gutter.”

  He smiled, then gave a chuckle. “You are assuming, of course, that I have never had occasion to cast up my accounts in an untimely manner and in a less than private place.”

  She sighed and unexpectedly leaned back against his thigh, so that he wanted to reach up and curl his fingers through her blond hair. First that peck on the cheek, and now she was actually leaning on him. And he was noting each moment of trust she showed in him as though he were measuring out precious gems. One of them was behaving quite foolishly, and he didn’t think it was Kit Brantley.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner who she was?” she asked accusingly.

  “I was hoping to get you out of London without ever running across her. I hadn’t realized you were going to become the toast of the ton, and that, of course, she would want to meet you.”

  “I remember her from when we were children. She always used to try to take my favorite doll. She was lovely, though, wasn’t she?”

  Kit leaned back farther, her spine a
gainst his ribs. He wondered if she could feel the beat of his heart against her back. It would have been quite easy, and natural, for him to put his arm around her shoulder, and he sternly resisted the notion. Gads, Barbara would be teasing him for being a schoolboy. “Apparently looks run in your family,” he noted softly.

  She sat forward, and he wondered if she considered the compliment to be stepping too far. She twisted to hit him quite soundly on the arm. “Why in damnation didn’t you warn me? You knew Francis and the others have been trying to set us together since I met them.”

  She’d likely left a bruise. And that wouldn’t be the first one she’d marked him with. He shook his head, torn between awe at the resilience of her character and genuine contrition, rare though that emotion was for him. “I’m sorry, Kit. I should have.”

  “Now I’ve flirted with her, and practically promised her a dance at the next soiree.” She blanched again. “Oh, good God, what if she falls in love with me?”

  Alex quickly stifled his amusement as inappropriate. “Kit, I don’t think—”

  She shot to her feet. “And Father will be furious.”

  “Your father is in Paris,” he countered, somewhat surprised by the strength of her reaction. A liar and a thief, she might well be, but apparently one damned loyal to her father. “There’s no reason he should find out. And Caroline will never know you were anything but a charming flirt.” He stood and gestured her back to the coach. “Come, my dear, you look in fair shape. Do you feel all right?”

  She nodded. “As long as I don’t think about it.”

  “Then don’t,” he returned practically. “Care to join me for lunch at White’s?”

  She climbed into the coach and slid over to huddle in the far corner. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”