Lady Thief (10 page)

Mrs. Abercrombe-Finch stepped into Jenny’s path and looked her up and down in an insulting way that stiffened Jenny’s spine. “I suppose you’ve heard what that brazen hussy has done now?”

Jenny noticed that Mrs. Abercrombe-Finch did not deign to address her by name. “If you are speaking of the Cat, ma’am, yes, I have heard.”

Mrs. Abercrombe-Finch looked down her beak of a nose at Jenny—who was a good head shorter than she was. “I suppose you’d like to see the Cat get a medal, too?”

“Since I have little say in the matter, ma’am, and even less interest,” said Jenny with exaggerated politeness, “I doubt that my opinion could possibly concern you.” She bowed slightly to the affronted matron, and continued serenely on her way.

Her unoccupied corner was now occupied. Jenny sighed and glanced around for another one. She finally discovered a small seat half-hidden behind a potted plant, and sank down on it with a feeling of relief. Now perhaps Providence would favor her, and she could manage to survive the remainder of the evening without doing anything foolish. Perhaps.

Rivenhall was back with her lemonade. “I say, Miss Courtenay—I’ve looked all over for you. Thought for a moment you’d gone. Gave me a nasty turn.” He presented her lemonade with a flourish which spilt half of it on the floor.

Jenny accepted the sticky glass with a strained smile, and wondered rather wildly if she would be able to survive the evening.

“Did you hear? They’re going to give the Cat a medal.”

In the middle of taking a sip from her sticky glass, Jenny choked and began to cough.

Rivenhall, his bloodshot eyes full of concern, produced a crumpled handkerchief and began to fan her with more enthusiasm than skill. “I say, Miss Courtenay—are you all right?”

Jenny dried her watering eyes with her own handkerchief, then gave Lord Rivenhall what he privately considered to be a very odd look, carefully cleared her throat, and said quietly, “I am perfectly all right, my lord. The lemonade simply—er—went down the wrong way.”

Rivenhall sat down gingerly beside her. “Well, if you’re sure,” he said doubtfully. “I could fetch Lady Beddington.”

“Quite unnecessary, I assure you.” She fixed him with a limpid smile. “It’s only a nervous disorder, you know. Common in my family, I’m afraid. Of course, we
do
hope that I won’t end like poor Uncle John.”

“Uncle John?” Rivenhall moved a discreet inch or so away from her.

“Well, yes. He had to be confined in a room at the top of the house with an attendant to make sure he didn’t hurt himself.” She sighed sadly. “Sure a pity.”

Rivenhall rose carefully to his feet. “Miss Courtenay—uh—if you will excuse me? I—er—I promised the next dance to—er—Miss Abercrombe-Finch.”

Gravely, she responded, “Of course, my lord.”

Rivenhall quickly made his escape. Jenny tried to take herself sternly to task for having made up such an absurd farrago of nonsense, but since there was a bubble of near-hysterical laughter trying to escape from her throat, she was not very successful.

Jenny was enjoying a few precious moments of rumination when her thoughts were fortunately interrupted by the appearance of Mr. Brummell. Jenny was fatalistically certain of his first words. She held her breath in suspense.

“Good evening, Miss Courtenay. I suppose you have heard the latest about the Cat?”

Jenny slowly released her pent-up breath. She gave Mr. Brummell an injured look. “Mr. Brummell, I
did
hope that you, at least, would have something intelligent to say tonight.”

The Beau looked startled, and then amused. “Why, thank, you,” he responded gravely.

Jenny’s cheeks pinked, and she cast Brummell an apologetic look. “I beg your pardon,” she murmured. “I think I shall scream if I hear another word about the Cat.”

“Never,” Brummell said solemnly, “apologize for what you say or do.”

She managed a faint smile. “Are you trying to turn me into an Original, Mr. Brummell?”

“I do not have to try,” the Beau replied. “You
are
an Original—refreshingly so, if I may add.”

Jenny blushed again and found, to her annoyance, that she had lost command of her tongue. Before she could regain it, Brummell spoke again.

“And now, Miss Courtenay, would you mind very much telling me why you appear to be as nervous as a cat?”

She gave him a resigned look, and wondered if he could possibly know how singularly apt his comment was. “I am not nervous, Mr. Brummell—you see before you a young woman on the verge of an hysterical fit. And please do not ask why. If I tried to explain, they really
would
have to lock me away like poor Uncle John.”

“I beg your pardon?” Brummell looked rather blank.

Beginning to feel more herself, Jenny smiled mischievously. “That’s what I told Lord Rivenhall,” she confided. “He could not get away from me fast enough. By tomorrow morning, all of London will think I’m mad.” She looked thoughtful. “And I’m not sure that they wouldn’t be far wrong.”

Brummell began to laugh softly. “I wondered what put the poor fellow into such a stew. He looked positively relieved to be dancing with Miss Abercrombe-Finch.”

“What I would like to know,” Jenny commented darkly, “is why no one has yet murdered the man.”

“Did you feel inclined to murder him, Miss Courtenay?”

“Inclined! I tell you honestly, Mr. Brummell, if the man had not left when he did, I would probably have strangled him with my bare hands.”

Brummell’s keen gray eyes were amused. “Nevertheless, Miss Courtenay, I do not believe that Rivenhall was the sole cause of your tension.”

More sure of herself now, Jenny nodded. “You are entirely correct,” she said cordially. “There are at least three other people here tonight who contributed to my tension.”

“And they are—?”

“Lady Catherine, who said that it was very exciting for poor Henry to be held up by the Cat; Lord Buckham, who said that it was the outside of enough to have thieves searching for traitors and what was he paying taxes for?; and Mrs. Abercrombe-Finch, who looked down her nose at me and said that she supposed I wanted the Cat to receive a medal, too.”

“And do you?”

“Want the Cat to get a medal?” Jenny tried to look blank, and hoped to heaven that she was actress enough to carry it off. “I know nothing about it.”

Brummell’s thoughtful stare made her slightly uneasy. Her suspicions proved to be unfounded, however, when he spoke. “I have a close friend whom you really should meet. You two would have a great deal in common.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. He—”

“Are you being a matchmaker, Mr. Brummell?”

The Beau appeared injured. “Miss Courtenay! How you could even think such a thing—”

“Quite easily, I assure you.”

“Miss Courtenay,” Brummell said severely, “it is very impolite of you to interrupt.”

“Oh, I
do
beg your pardon. Pay no attention to me, Mr. Brummell; I have had a very long and trying day. Please—go on with what you were saying.”

“Thank you. Where was I?”

“You have a friend who would have a great deal in common with me. Poor soul.”

Ignoring her murmured comment, Brummell said politely, “Thank you. As I was saying, you really should meet my friend. You have exactly the same sort of humor he has.”

“I am glad that
someone
has humor like mine.”

Ignoring this quite unnecessary comment, Brummell went on. “You may have already met him.”

“I can recall meeting no one even remotely like myself. Who is he?”

“The Duke of Spencer.”

Jenny felt the room begin to spin gently around her.
Hounded,
she thought.
I will be hounded to my grave. How I ever thought I could get away with this—

“Miss Courtenay? Are you feeling all right? You look dreadfully pale.”

“No, Mr. Brummell,” she replied with admirable restraint, “I am not all right. In fact—I think that I had better go home. If you would be so very obliging as to tell one of the footmen to call a cab for me? I have no desire to worry Lady Beddington.”

“Nonsense. I’ll escort you home myself.”

Meekly, Jenny allowed Mr. Brummell to lead her from the room.

Chapter Ten

Mr. Brummell, when he chose to exert himself, was easily the most charming man in London, and he proved this by soliciting Lady Jersey’s kindness on Miss Courtenay’s behalf.

“Well, of course, Miss Courtenay. You do look rather pale, my dear. Allow Mr. Brummell to escort you home, and I shall see that Lady Beddington is not worried.”

Jenny smiled weakly and followed the Beau out to his carriage. Once safely ensconced within—and away from that dreadful party—she realized unhappily that she had allowed her panic to force her into an unwise retreat. Mr. Brummell would be sure to wonder why she had been suddenly taken ill—especially since she had been joking with him only a few minutes before.

Hoping to forestall the inevitable questions, Jenny said swiftly, “Mr. Brummell, I cannot thank you enough for your concern. It must have been the heat or—or something.”

Her voice broke slightly as Brummell directed an extremely mocking look at her. “Unworthy of you, Miss Courtenay,” he said softly. “We both know that you were not overcome by the heat; I thought the room was rather cool, myself. Nor are you physically ill—unless it is with nervous tension. You did, however, become deathly pale when I mentioned the Duke of Spencer.” His glinting smile flashed in the carriage. “I wonder why?”

“Oh, that.” Try as she would, Jenny could not contrive an explanation—other than the truth—to account for her reaction to Spencer’s name.

Fortunately for her, Brummell’s mind was apparently not on the Cat at all. “Yes, Miss Courtenay—
that
. Can it be that you have met Spencer?”

His words gave Jenny the germ of an idea, but she needed time to formulate it more thoroughly in her mind. “Well—I wouldn’t exactly say that we had
met . . .
”

“Then what exactly would you say?”

“We—clashed.” Jenny tried to pull the tangled threads of her story together. “I have a dreadful temper, you know, and he—”

“Also has a temper,” Brummell supplied helpfully.

Since Spencer had shown no sign of a temper in her presence and had behaved with perfect calm (except for the one regrettable lapse when he had kissed her), Jenny had no way of knowing that the duke did, in fact, have a temper, and she was grateful for Brummell’s statement.

She smiled at the Beau. “Yes, it wasn’t very important, but we had a—somewhat violent—difference of opinion, and I stormed off in a temper.”

“I see.” If Brummell thought her story a thin one—considering her deathly pallor at the mention of the duke’s name—he did not say so.

“You can see my position, sir. Spencer is a very important man, and if I offended him . . .”

In an odd voice, Brummell responded, “I shouldn’t have thought that you would care for that, Miss Courtenay.”

Jenny realized her mistake immediately. She had stepped out of character, and Brummell was far too astute to miss such a lapse.

Coolly, she said, “In the normal way, I would
not
care for Spencer’s opinion. Lady Beddington
would,
however, and I have no wish to upset my godmother.”

This appeared to satisfy Brummell, who nodded and remarked, “Perfectly understandable.”

“So you see, sir,” she teased, “your attempts at matchmaking were defeated at the outset. I doubt that the duke will wish to have anything to do with me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Nick never disliked anyone merely because of a quarrel. If I know him, he probably liked your spirit.”

Jenny, who had a very good idea of the duke’s opinion of her, merely shook her head ruefully and lapsed into silence. Her thoughts were on Spencer, and she wondered tiredly if he would come up to her at the next soiree and announce loudly that she was the Cat. She had been surprised, though relieved, to have avoided him for as long as she had. At least, she
told
herself that she was relieved. If the truth were known, she was more than a little disappointed. Where had the man
been
for the past two weeks?

Brummell unconsciously picked up her train of thought. “I wonder where Nick is?” he murmured absently. “I haven’t seen him in several days. He’s had something on his mind for the past few weeks, and has been spending a great deal of time at the War Office.”

“Perhaps he’s searching for traitors,” Jenny remarked, and immediately wished she had kept silent.

“Like the Cat?” Brummell frowned thoughtfully. “You could be right, but I have never heard him mention it.” He stiffened suddenly, and Jenny had the unwelcome impression that he had been struck with a thought. “When I first noticed that he had something on his mind,” Brummell said slowly, “I also noticed that he had begun asking questions about the Cat.”

“Indeed?” Jenny silently cursed the Beau’s mental abilities; they were far too acute for her peace of mind.

“Yes. He was coming to every
ton
party and searching the faces of all the young ladies as if he were looking for some particular feature. I wonder . . .”

Jenny knew that she was courting disaster, that she should encourage him to drop the subject, but she had to know what he was thinking. “You wonder, sir?”

“I wonder if Nick knows more about the Cat than the rest of us do,” Brummell said thoughtfully.

“Could he?” Jenny knew that she would have to tread very carefully. If she wasn’t careful, Brummell would begin to connect her reaction to Spencer’s name with the duke’s apparent search for the Cat.

“If he had been held up by the Cat, and had become interested in her,” Brummell answered, “he certainly could. He would leave no stone unturned to find out as much as he could about her.”

“You think that happened? That he was interested?”