Mad for Love (6 page)

He nevertheless did not relinquish her support. “I am weak on behalf of my tailor.”

She managed to extract herself from his embrace with a neat twist. “You are weak in the head, with or without a wound. Go.” She pointed at the kitchen door.

What a charming, picturesque figure she made in her bare feet and translucent sleeping gown and luminous eyes the color of the pale moon.

“But I can’t ride like this,” he protested, trying to do anything to prolong the unique intimacy of the encounter. “What if I fall off my horse and crack my head open?”

She shrugged in that supremely French way—all knowing unconcern. “Some enterprising urchin would pick your pockets, sell your hair and your teeth to the apothecary, and your clothes to the rag traders, and then, whatever was left of your body”—and here she tipped her head to the side as if appraising his body very carefully indeed—“would very likely be sold to the anatomy surgeons.”

“Good God.” He could only laugh, though her dismal scenario was all too likely. “Ye French certainly are a bloodthirsty lot.”

Everything charming and accommodating within her changed in that instant—her face went as blank and still as an empty canvas. “Do not speak to me of things you cannot possibly know.” She picked up a wooden rolling pin, and even if she did not actually brandish it at him, she made her point. “Go.”

“My apology,
Mademoiselle
.” Clearly he had hit upon a rather raw nerve. He should have remembered that it was said that though she and her father had escaped the bloodthirsty mob, the rest of their family had not. “I’m going.” He gave in with as much good grace as possible. “I’ll walk. And it’s not too far should I fall.”

“Not too far from here? Where do you live?”

He gave her an approximation of the truth. “Brooks’s.”

“Brooks’s Club?” She looked impressed. Or disgusted—he could not quite tell from her wide-eyed expression. “They must let anyone in.”

“They do.” He grinned in agreement. “I often say that I don’t like being a member of any club that would want me for a member, but that’s neither here nor there. It occurs to me, Miss Blois, if the night watchman finds my horse tethered to yer iron fence”—he gestured up the exterior kitchen stairs toward the unseen front of the house—“I can only imagine it might be very bad for yer reputation.”

She gaped at him. “You have left a horse? Soho Square is not Paris, but you will be lucky if the animal has not been stolen.”

“Oh, I’m always lucky,” he assured her.

Miss Blois was not so sanguine. “This from a thief with a hole in his head. Me, I am not so lucky, so go and take this horse of yours from my fence before my reputation in London is tattered to shreds.”

“I will take every care with yer reputation.”

She tossed up her hands. “This care I need like the hole in your head. You may take your care at a distance,
Monsieur
Thief.” Her voice was running as dry as her patience. “Go.”

“I’ll go.” Rory finally put word into action by grasping his laborious way along the wrought iron stair rail. “If I could trouble ye to just see me to my carriage?”

“First it is a horse, and now it is a carriage?”

“I’m confused. Blood loss, ye ken.”

She made another soft sound of remonstrance. But she assisted him with a small but steady hand at the small of his back as he grappled his way up the stair. “Oof. You are heavier than you look. Let us pray this horse and carriage of yours is not stolen.”

“Serve me right if it were, since I stole it in the first place,” he lied cheerfully He hadn’t stolen anything in years—tonight’s attempt excepted—but he found he liked surprising her.
 

She gasped just as he had hoped she would. “
Bon Dieu
.”

“Perhaps ye’ll be so kind as to unlock the gate for me. In my present state, I don’t think I’m capable of picking the lock.” He gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. “So much nicer if I don’t have to.”

“Ooh.” She dashed back down the stair on her delightfully little bare feet, and returned from the kitchen presently, clutching the gate key. “There.” She pushed the wrought iron gate open wide to see him through, and then absolutely gaped at his canary yellow, high perch phaeton. “Is it not that what you English would call ‘a bit flash’ for a burglar who ought to be inconspicuous?”

“It’s just the thing for getaways,” he assured her. “Highly maneuverable. Especially with that pair.” He stroked the nose of the nearest of his pair of superb Thoroughbreds.

She assessed the equipage with a critical eye. “This business of being a gentleman thief must be very profitable.”

Rory gave her his version of that nonchalant Gallic shrug. “As I said, it’s stolen.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, giving him an absolutely stunning view of her breasts through the thin lawn of her white sleeping gown—he was as stunned as if he had taken another blow to the head.
 

It took him a long moment to find his voice. “My dear Miss Blois, if ye insist on presenting yerself to me in this intimate fashion, I’m going to have to give ye my name.”

This time he more than surprised her—he utterly astonished her. She gasped, and her plush lower lip fell slack, before she drew back with a hand clutched to her throat. “I cannot marry you,
Monsieur
.”
 

Rory near choked on his laugh. “I beg yer pardon,
Mademoiselle
. I meant no disrespect. I meant only to introduce myself.” Even with her lovely breasts distracting him, Rory still had enough presence of mind to lie. “Mr. Andrews,” he supplied on the next breath. “Rory Andrews.”

She put her hand to her mouth to cover her astonishment. “Why would a thief tell me his name? I might report you—Mr. Andrews of Brooks’s Club—to the watch. It is my duty to do so.”

“So ye may,” he acknowledged. “But I have the strangest feeling—which is entirely rare in my business, I assure ye—that ye’re completely trustworthy.”

“You are mad.” She gaped at him. “Absolutely and completely mad.”

He gave her his best smile yet. “All the best burglars are, ye ken. Oh, one more thing I forgot to steal.”

And very quickly, he leaned in low, and kissed her lovely, soft, plush, astonished lips. “Thank ye,
chère Mademoiselle Blois
, for a most memorable evening.”

Chapter Six

“Mignon?”
 
Papa’s voice came from the foyer as Mignon sat alone in the kitchen, waiting for her heartbeat to stop clattering in her ears.

“Here, Papa.” She rose and headed upstairs. “I’m here.”

“Ah, Mignon, my angel.” He greeted her with kisses on both cheeks. “What a pity you missed the exhibition. All the
ton,
as they call their society, was there, fawning, dressed from head to toe in silks and satins. Oh, you should have seen it. Our Diana was the center of attention. All the world and his brother was there to see her. A triumph! A triumph, I tell you.”

“How nice.” She followed him into the salon where he lit a branch of candles, giving the room a warm glow. Warm enough to see a small stain of blood on the parquet next to the still-billowing window.
 

Mignon crossed to latch the window shut. “Papa, I caught an intruder.”

“Of course you did, angel.” Papa’s mind was too full of success to attend her properly, especially while he poured himself a large cognac. “How like you to do something like that—” His head whipped around. “An intruder? Here?”

“Yes, Papa. A burglar. A thief.” Mignon poured herself into a chair before her legs gave out. “An articulate, oh-so-clever, gentleman thief.” She had Papa’s full attention now, but she felt utterly drained, as if all the tension and nerve that had held her up during the encounter had finally run out.

“Good Lord. You’re as pale as your chemise.” Papa came to her side, all belated parental concern. “Here, take a sip of this.”

Mignon took the snifter he handed her, and gulped the cognac straight down. A warm, reviving fire kindled instantly in her tummy, chasing away her chill. Convincing her that the strange feeling of relief she had felt at Mr. Andrews’s departure had not been disappointment—she was glad he was gone. And not even a little sorry that he had been injured.
 

Well, perhaps a little sorry. His beautiful, well-cut coat
had
been ruined.

Papa refilled her drink from the decanter in his hand. “You must tell me all about it, my poor darling, every detail.”

“Well.” What could she say? What
should
she say—she never knew how her dear papa was going to take something. “It was pitch dark here in the salon, except for the candle Henri had left in the foyer, and I was alone—Henri and Madame being given the night off, you remember. And there was a noise—I thought it was you, so I came down.” She took another, more measured sip of the potent cognac, and pulled what was left of her wits together. “And there he was in the salon—tall, blue eyes the color of a marble, sandy hair, slim in an English, sword-fighter sort of way. Quite good looking, I suppose. If one were looking critically.”

Papa was staring at her. “And were you looking critically?”

“Oh, yes. Very critically.” She shook the thought right out of her head. “He was a thief, Papa. Even if he called himself a gentleman thief, he was a terrible man. Terrible. Awful. No sense of guilt or shame. Not that that matters to you, of course.”

“No, no.”

“But he was entirely too easy about the whole affair. Terribly cheeky. No proper feeling at all—he was not in the least ashamed of being a thief, or getting caught, or being wounded.”

Papa choked on his cognac. “Wounded!”

“Yes. Well, I hit him over the head with the halberd. Quite by accident, of course, but he had been going to take the Hals.”

Now, she
really
had his attention. “The Hals?” Papa shot to his feet, and turned toward his
Cavalier.
“My Hals?”

“Your Hals,” she confirmed.

Papa warded off his shock by retrieving the cognac decanter, and pouring them both another medicinal measure. “
Bon Dieu
. Tell me all.”
 

“I took the halberd down to stop him from taking the painting. But it fell on him quite by accident. At least I think it did.” It was all a little mixed-up in her mind. “But then once I had wounded him, I did not want to call the watch, as I thought it might lead to all sorts of magistrates and awkward questions about the Hals, and… well, you know, Papa.”

“Yes, yes. That might have been very awkward. Magistrates.” He closed his eyes, as if the very thought of the robed arm of the law were giving him a fit of nervous apprehension.

Mignon let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “That is what I thought, too, so I let him go. Without the Hals.”

“Oooh.” Papa collapsed into the settee beside her. “What a close run thing. Brave Mignon. I hope your wounding him served him a harsh warning.” Papa paused. “He wasn’t badly hurt, was he?”

“No, no. Just a scratch, really. I dressed the wound to be sure. But you should have heard him carrying on. Very unprofessional.”

“Ah good.” Papa looked visibly relieved. “Perhaps he was an amateur? I suppose he must have been one to be so easily caught.”

It wasn’t as if it had been
easy
to catch him. “Perhaps. But he seemed rather too successful to be an amateur. Though he did say I was the first person who had ever attacked him. He was honored, he said.”

“Did he? You seemed to have had a good long chat.”

“Yes. It was too awful.” But the repeated application of cognac had done its work—she began to feel pleasantly numb. “But now that you are home, and the doors and windows are locked, and everything is safe, I just want to go to bed, and forget it all.”

“Of course you do.” Papa was staring at the Hals on the wall. “But in your long chat, did this gentleman thief perhaps mention why he was taking the Hals?”

“He said it was the handiest, though of course, it was not. But, Papa?” Something in her father’s tone penetrated her pleasant numbness. “What did you say? What did you do?”

“Nothing, nothing. But perhaps I was a little indiscreet at the auction, when my Vermeer was fetching such a ravishing price. But it was a young man with dark hair I was speaking to—nothing as you describe this gentleman thief. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. The handiest painting, as he said.”