The beleaguered Lord Bourne Read online

  It did not help Ozzy’s sensibilities overmuch either when La Fontaine, totally uncomprehending that Lady Bourne had just remarked that the actress had the nose of a pig, only smiled vacantly and said, “Merci, madame,” before sitting back complacently to push at the curls in her elaborate coiffure.

  “Minx,” Kit whispered in his wife’s ear as he decided the farce had gone on long enough and it was more than time someone with some sense took charge of the situation. Placing his hand firmly beneath her gloved elbow, he steered her neatly out of the box and into a corner of the nearly deserted hallway. “What were you trying to do, kitten, give poor Ozzy in there apoplexy? And you,” he went on, turning to skewer Lucy with his accusing eyes. “I believe I have you to blame for most of this. Without your lamentable influence my wife would not have taken such a maggot into her head as to make a spectacle of herself by being seen in public with one of the muslin company.”

  “Why ever not, Kit?” Jennie cut in acidly. “It doesn’t seem to bother you unduly, and you certainly have more consequence than either of us.” Jennie would have said more, much more, but she belatedly realized that the vein in the side of Kit’s neck was throbbing in agitation and she wisely subsided into mutinous silence.

  By the time Kit escorted his wife and her cousin to their own box the intermission had been over for some minutes and they could return to their seats without being seen; but this was only after they reluctantly informed his lordship of their plans for the rest of the evening and promised not to blot their copybooks any further unless Lucy wished her father to hear of this night’s work.

  Once back in his own seat, the sullen La Fontaine, having unfortunately discovered just what Lady Bourne had said to her (thanks to Dean Ives, who had been only too happy to enlighten her), demanded to be taken home “toot-sweet,” which suited Kit perfectly. But before he could make good his escape, Kit had to endure a few good-natured jibes from Ozzy. “I told you your wife was a rare right one, old fellow. Lead you a pretty dance, she will, and I can’t think of a fellow more deserving of it, I swear I can’t. Tell me, for I must admit to a great deal of curiosity—what are you going to do now? Murderers hang, you know.”

  Kit’s remaining store of humor—not a great amount—evaporated at the sight of Ozzy and Dean wearing such broad grins at his expense. “What happens now is that I escort Mademoiselle de La Fontaine back to her lodgings and then go on to meet my wife at the after-theater party she and Miss Gladwin plan to attend. As to what you two do, why, you may go to the devil for all I care, seeing as how it was your idea to come here tonight in the first place. If you recall, all I was looking for was some company at billiards at the Royal Saloon.”

  Looking down at the men with a fierceness that would give a charging rhinoceros pause, he said coldly, “I need not remind you that anything that happened here tonight will go no further. My wife is still so unknown in town that no one was probably aware she was even in this box tonight. As for Miss Gladwin, nothing she does surprises anyone, and I doubt the gossips will even bother to prattle about this latest ruckus of hers. Gentlemen, do I have your word?”

  “Need you ask?” Ozzy responded, trying his best to look insulted. “Don’t worry your head about us. Just go and do the pretty with your wife, old fellow. We’ll take care of things here.”

  “Indeed yes,” Dean Ives seconded. “It was ever so amusing an interlude, but you may rest assured, my dear fellow, that my memory is most adaptable. Anything for a friend, you know,” he added ingratiatingly, thinking to himself that his lordship might put on a fine show of disliking his wife but deep down there was a good chance the man was besotted with the chit. Not that he could blame him overmuch, for the girl was a tempting enough morsel, but Mr. Ives knew better than to allow his heart to rule his head. So he kept these thoughts to himself, knowing they would not be taken kindly if he offered them as advice, and filed them away in case he should ever have use of them. One never knew what could be helpful to a man who lived by his wits, as did Mr. Ives.

  THE TON PARTY already in progress in the luxurious townhouse located in Portman Square was, in its hostess’s estimation, a roaring success, sure to be talked about as one of the grandest crushes of the Season. Of course the Season was young yet, actually only in its infancy, but Lady Kenwood knew she had set a high standard that would have her dearest friends gnashing their teeth when it came time to plan their own tame entertainments.

  Jennie and Lucy, having arrived long after the receiving line had been dismantled, found it easy to blend in with the crowd standing about the fringes of the overheated ballroom where a sprightly country dance was in progress. This was Jennie’s first real exposure to society, her experiences with local dances at home not able to hold a candle to this exhibition of rich surroundings and impeccably dressed guests. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the knowledge that Kit was soon to join them she might have been able to abandon herself to the enjoyment of the scene. As it was, she felt like a prisoner about to be led to the block, and her furrowed brow and rather fierce expression kept the gentlemen, more than a few of whom had decided there was a real beauty in their midst, at a distance.

  It was left to Lucy to procure for them glasses of champagne, which she did with little difficulty, as she seemed to be on a friendly, first-name basis with nearly every gentleman in the room. It was likewise left to Lucy to keep up a flow of meaningless chatter, as Jennie had sunk immediately into the doldrums the moment she was sure Kit was out of sight. Unfortunately, when she did at last find her voice, it was to point out that Lord Thorpe and his two female companions had entered the room.

  “Now watch this,” Lucy whispered in her ear. “Lord Thorpe will deposit the chaperon with the other wallflowers lining the perimeters like vultures, dutifully dance this next set with Lady Cynthia, fetch her a glass of champagne before herding her back to her keeper, and then take off for parts unknown. Honestly, I can’t fathom how the man expects to spend the rest of his life with that plain pudding—he can barely stand to do the civil with her now, and they are only betrothed, not bracketed. For an intelligent man, sometimes he seems as thick as a post. So what if Lady Cynthia is good ton? I’d wager my hope of heaven good ton never kept anyone warm at night!”

  “Lucy,” Jennie scolded, trying vainly to hide a smile, “you are incorrigible. Anyone who didn’t know you would think you were horribly fast. Besides, it isn’t like you to be so catty.”

  “Oh, really,” shot back Lucy with a sly look. “And who was it, Miss Prunes and Prisms, who walked barefaced into a theater box containing her errant husband and three high flyers ‘nice’ ladies like yourself are supposed to pretend do not even exist? Besides,” she ended rationally, “I am not merely being catty or mean. I am merely trying to save Lord Thorpe from himself.”

  “And for yourself?” opined Jennie, just as Lord Thorpe, following Lucy’s earlier predictions to the letter, deposited Lady Cynthia with her chaperon and sauntered off in the direction of a collection of gentlemen who were standing deep in discussion in a corner of the room. “There goes Lord Thorpe, Lucy,” she pointed out, “just as you said he would. It seems you have been making quite a project out of the man, if you know his habits so well.”

  “Project?” her cousin parroted. “My dear child,” she chirped, giving her dark curls a toss, “I intend to make his lordship my life’s work. Oh, dear,” she ended, taking in Jennie’s startled expression, “I fear I shock you yet again.”

  Although her cousin’s honesty was a bit unsettling, Jennie, being the sensitive person she was, could hear the hurt that hid behind Lucy’s flippant speech. “No, you widget,” she soothed softly, “I am not shocked. I am, however, apprehensive. Lord Thorpe is an engaged man. It would distress me greatly to see you disappointed, which just may be the case this time around. Getting your own way in matters of the heart is not as simple as boxing Cousin George’s ears to make him stop pinching you every time your back was turned.”

  “I know that, sil
ly,” Lucy agreed easily enough. “But then again I don’t want Lord Thorpe to stop bothering me—heavens, I’d settle for making him aware of my existence for a start. Then,” she said innocently, “we shall just let nature take its course. Now, Jennie,” she soothed, leading her cousin to a nearby chair, “you just sit here and wait for your gallant husband to drop off his actress and join you. I’ll just toddle over there and see if I can’t get Lord Thorpe’s attention. Oh! There’s Kit now—remember, coz, to keep your chin up. It wasn’t you who was peacocking about with another man. Don’t let him bully you!” And before the flustered Jennie could grab Lucy’s hand—hoping her cousin’s presence would keep Kit from giving her a bear-garden jaw in public—the girl was off, determined to take advantage of this opportunity of catching his lordship on his own.

  Jennie watched Lucy until the girl disappeared in the crowd and then reluctantly turned to see if Kit had spied her out. Her stomach dropped to her toes as she saw he was even then advancing purposefully toward her haven in the corner, his handsome face looking quite unusually grim. Well, she thought, stiffening her spine, my conscience is easy. Let him try to berate me, just let him try, and I’ll give him a piece of my mind. Who does he think he is, anyway—my keeper? No, her uneasy conscience reminded her, he thinks he’s your husband—a thought that seriously undermined her resolution to give as good as she got in the coming exchange of insults and recriminations. Being a wife, she decided, letting out her breath on a sigh, certainly had its disadvantages.

  Kit could see the conflicting emotions chasing themselves across Jennie’s face as he approached her through the crush of people racing onto the dance floor to take up positions for the deliciously intoxicating first waltz of the evening. Much as he still felt the lingering chagrin of having been made to deal with an enraged Piccadilly harpy’s disgusting imitation of a French fit, he could not sustain his anger when he thought again of Jennie’s masterful set-down of that same actress. Whether she was purring like a kitten in his arms or spitting like a lioness protecting her territory, which is how he liked to think of her attack on La Fontaine, Kit found that he was hard-pressed to find a single thing about Jennie that did not appeal.

  Coming up beside her, deliberately approaching her from behind, he whispered into her ear reassuringly: “If you promise to sheathe your claws, madam, I’m willing to convince myself that this is our first meeting of the evening.”

  Whatever Jennie had been expecting, it hadn’t been this. Whirling to face his, to her mind, stupidly grinning face, she spat, “Oh, aren’t you just! How very condescending of you, my lord, considering it is your own guilt you are willing to overlook. How very much-minded of you indeed! It must be that it is so intellectually elevating to be with a woman who speaks French. Oh la la, monsieur,” she lisped mincingly, “you are, how you say, such a pompous ass!”

  Kit accepted her biting condemnation without a blink, knowing he deserved all that and more from her. As for the impropriety of her appearing in his theater box earlier, he was already convinced she had suffered enough for that particular indiscretion and was not about to set her off again by bringing up the subject. Deciding that this particular battle did not matter so much as did the question of just who eventually won the war that had so far described their marriage, he merely bowed, saying, “Your trick, ma’am, I fancy,” and then totally destroyed her composure by placing a hot kiss on the bit of skin that peeped from beneath the looped buttonhole of her kid glove at the inside of her wrist.

  Jennie knew Kit was pitching it rather high, overacting his part in their little farce more than just a tad, but she was entirely too female to do more than stand back and enjoy his attentions while they lasted. Unfortunately, since her husband’s intentions lay more with getting his wife alone in his bedchamber, he did not waste much more time in cheerful flirtation, but went straight to the problem that was foremost on his mind. Where was that incorrigible nuisance Lucy Gladwin, he asked his dreamy-eyed wife—who was still holding her wrist protectively with her other hand—so that they could corral her and her Aunt Rachel and hustle them out of here?

  The earl’s question brought Jennie rudely crashing back to reality. She had been so apprehensive of Kit’s arrival, so sure he was to ring a peal over her head for her unforgivable behavior at Covent Garden, that the thought that their uncomfortable coolness to each other this past week had dissipated like fog evaporates beneath the warmth of the sun had effectively blocked her mind to Lucy’s problems.

  “Oh, dear,” Jennie faltered, casting her nervous gaze quickly about the room. “I don’t know where she is anymore. She was over there, trying to get Lord Thorpe to notice her, though I can’t for the life of me see why, toplofty snob that he is, and engaged too into the bargain. But I can’t see her anymore. Do you suppose she’s off in some chamber or other crying her eyes out with disappointment?”

  Kit snorted indelicately. “I’d find it easier to imagine that it is Lord Thorpe who is hiding himself away behind a potted palm, his knees knocking in dread lest Lucy spy him out and make a cake of herself for his benefit. Blister it, Jennie,” he said feelingly, “that girl has more brass than my Aunt Martha’s favorite candlesticks!”

  “She’s in love, Kit,” Jennie put in placatingly. “Or at least she thinks she is. I only hope she isn’t about to suffer a sad disappointment of the heart.”

  “She ought to suffer a stinging pain in her hind-quarters, administered by that harum-scarum father of hers who should have taught her better,” Kit said authoritatively. “Thorpe is one damned officious so-and-so, although I grant he’s known as a true Corinthian, at home on turf or table. Actually, I imagine he’d be tolerable, if he didn’t have such a fine opinion of himself. Not that I have ever had much to do with him—his set is older, you know. But from all I’ve observed of the fellow, rank, fortune, and lineage are all that concern the chap. Even his marriage, I’ve heard, was arranged more for its blending of blue blood than anything else. Why, Lucy has about as much chance of snagging Thorpe as she does of turning her flea-witted father into the Dean of Cambridge. Don’t frown, kitten, it’s not as if you don’t know I’m right.”

  Of course Kit was right, not that it hurt Jennie any the less to hear it. But she had no time to tell him this, as she could at last see the diminutive Lucy off in the distance, engaged in conversation with not only Lord Thorpe but Lady Cynthia as well. Jennie tugged on Kit’s sleeve and nodded her head in the small group’s direction, and Kit turned just in time to see Thorpe’s brutal dismissal of Jennie’s cousin, executed with an insulting sneer, followed by the pointed turning of both his and Lady Cynthia’s backs.

  “That rotten bastard!” Kit was startled into saying, suddenly feeling quite protective of Lucy, who was even then blushing hotly at Thorpe’s cold dismissal. “Come on, kitten, it’s time we effect a rescue,” he said from between clenched teeth. “I only hope I meet that bounder at Jackson’s. How I’d love to get him in the ring and give him a sound drubbing!”

  The Earl and Countess of Bourne, still largely unrecognizable to most of the company, made their exit from Lady Kenwood’s triumph in considerable haste, cognizant of Miss Lucy Gladwin’s trembling lower lip that warned of an imminent explosion—whether into tears or into a faux pas of immense magnitude, they were not about to linger to ascertain. Dragging Aunt Rachel in their train, they descended the broad staircase, and Kit signaled for his carriage and that of the Gladwins to be called for immediately.

  While the aunt was bustled into her carriage alone, Lucy was led to the Bourne carriage, where Jennie plunged into a blistering condemnation of Lord Thorpe, Lady Cynthia, and the ton at large as she looked into Lucy’s woebegone little face and saw the first crystal tears making their way down the girl’s cheeks. “Don’t you let those horrid people depress you, Lucy,” she pleaded, holding the other girl’s hands while Kit sat back in a corner, feeling about as useless as a wart on the end of Prinny’s nose. “You’re miles too good for either of them, you kn
ow.”

  It was disconcerting to see the normally bubbly, irrepressible Lucy Gladwin sunk to such depths of despair, and neither Kit nor Jennie could be brought to point out that she had brought her disgrace on herself. But, although down, Lucy was far from out, and so she said once her initial burst of tears had spent itself. “That Lady Cynthia and her missish airs don’t depress me for a second, you know,” she told her companions with some heat. “She is only digging her own grave by acting like some grande dame. It can only be a matter of time before Lord Thorpe realizes what a dull stick she is. It is just that I hadn’t expected him to behave so cruelly. Why, he actually had the meanness to imply that we were never properly introduced and then turned his head away, cutting me dead.”

  “Arrogant jackass,” Kit put in conversationally, earning himself a jab in the ribs from his wife.

  “Oh no, Kit,” Lucy protested, still intent on protecting the man. “He cannot help that he was raised to believe he is the greatest thing since the invention of fire! There is a wonderful man beneath that air of superiority—I just know it.”

  “Of course there is,” Jennie agreed unconvincingly, secretly believing the only thing that could ever force any common sense into his lordship’s handsome blond head would be a heavy, blunt object.

  “Of course,” Kit echoed, a small bit of humor entering his voice. “The question remains, though, ladies, why anyone could possibly care enough about the fellow to take the time to dig for it.”

  The carriage pulled to a halt behind the Gladwin equipage, and Lucy was forced to keep her rebuttal for another day. Once she was gone, Kit slid an arm around Jennie’s shoulders and pulled her more closely against his lean frame. “Now, isn’t this cozy?” he asked, breathing into her curls as the carriage moved off toward Berkeley Square.