Queen of Diamonds (11 page)

Queenie had frequently seen a ragged boy in the neighborhood, usually near the alley a few doors down, waiting for an opportunity. She had seen him holding a gentleman's horse a few times or carrying a package. He looked to be about ten, although he acted older, and was smaller in stature. The next time she walked past, she said, “I would like to speak to you, young man.”

The boy stepped back, ready to dart into the alley. “I only filched one. The nob gave me t'other, I swear.”

“Filched one what?” She could not hire a thief, not when he might be collecting payment on delivery of her finished gowns. “Who gave you another one?”

“T'gentry cull what was here t'other day. He gave me a coin to go to the bake shop for biscuits.”

Ah, Harry. “Would he have known if you had eaten two?”

The boy shrugged thin shoulders. “He never said how many to get, just to spend the blunt he gave me. He weren't going to count them or nothing.”

“But you can count?”

The boy looked offended. “And cipher some, too. How else could I know I ain't getting cheated?”

“Quite right. Then I suppose you are mostly honest?”

“I wouldn't of eaten any, but I was hungry.”

No child should go hungry. “Would you like a position with me, then? I need a lad to fetch and carry, like the biscuits, but also to sweep and clean and make deliveries. Do you know your way around London?”

“Like the back of me hand. Born and bred here, I am.”

“But there can be no stealing, not ever. If you are hungry, you ask. If you accept payment for a delivery, I will know exactly how much money should come back with you, do you understand?”

“I ain't no fool. You'd kick me out in a flash iffen you got short-changed. And that's a hanging offense, asides. Or transportation.”

“Quite right. Crime does not pay. I will. And you might make extra in tips when you deliver the packages.”

“And you'd really hire me?”

“On a temporary basis, to see if we suit, to start. But only if it is all right with your parents, of course.”

Now he made a rude noise. He jerked his thumb toward the alley between buildings. “Do you think I would be living there iffen I had a ma and pa?”

“Gracious, you live in the alley?”

“It's safe, and I got me a tight crate to keep warm. It's a lot better'n the orphanage or the work house.”

No employee of hers was going to sleep in a crate outdoors, for goodness sake. Even her dog lived better than that. “No. You shall sleep in the shop's workroom on a pallet mattress.”

The boy shook his head in disgust. “You really need me, lady.”

“Odd, I thought you needed me.”

“I ain't the one who'd hire a pickpocket and then let him sleep in my house without knowing his intents.”

“A pickpocket?”

“Only when I can't find no honest work. I told you, a bloke's got to eat. But I can make sure you ain't gulled by no one else. And no one'll break in, neither, not when March is on the job.”

Queenie did not mention that no one would gain entry to the shop or the house when Parfait was there, either, but she did ask, “Do you like dogs?”

He shrugged. “Does yours like boys?”

“If they treat him well and behave properly. So do we have a deal, Master March?”

“It's just March. That's the month I got left at the orphanage.”

“No first name, no pet name?”

“Never stayed anywhere's long enough. No one ever cared. I could never decide on one for m'self.”

Queenie had so many, she wished she could give him one of hers. The poor boy had no home, no family, not even a name of his own. She knew exactly how he must feel. Why couldn't she give him something besides a place to sleep and a job? She offered him the name of the child she was meant to impersonate, Lady Charlotte Endicott. “How would you like to be Charles March? It is a fine name.”

He swirled the name around in his mouth and his mind a few times, “How ‘bout Charlie? Sounds more regular, like.”

“Then Charlie it is. Are we agreed?”

The boy stood taller and proud. Having two names and an important job for a lady gave him stature. “Agreed.” He spit in his hand and held it out to seal their bargain.

“Ah, you will need a bath first, and a new set of clothes, and a haircut. What say we shake on the deal afterward?”

Chapter Eleven

The woman was a marvel, Harry decided when he arrived at the shop before the visit to the opera. In just two days, Madame Denise's Designs was restocked, restored, and ready again for business. New sample gowns hung on the pegs, pins and threads dangling, but available to view. Soft fabrics in rainbow hues draped the counters, and the mannequin in the window was attracting attention from every gentleman who passed by.

A neatly dressed red-haired boy leaped to hold the front door open for Harry and proudly pronounced that Madame and miss would be ready on “t'instant, gov.”

Harry could only guess at how hard the woman had worked to replenish her wares. He thought about his sister-in-law, whose most strenuous effort was in giving orders to the servants, or occasionally arranging flowers after the gardener had cut them. London ladies exerted themselves at entertaining and being entertained, nothing more.

Even the working women he had been visiting slept the days away after a hard night's labor. Madame Denise Lescartes and her staff must never have rested.

She deserved the holiday. Lud knew Harry thought he did, after hours spent looking for his missing relation in repugnant places. He wanted the night at the opera, at least, to be perfect.

Tomorrow he might have to call in Bow Street, making the world privy to his ugly private business, but tonight, he vowed, would be an evening of beauty: beautiful women, beautiful music. He was not going to let anything interfere with the pleasure of a few hours, with him away from his search, her away from her store.

So he hired the best private box available that night, purchased opera glasses for all, and studied the libretto of the German work so he could appear knowledgeable. He sent flowers, he hired the fanciest coach, he spent hours at his toilette. He engaged a footman from his hotel to attend the box and fetch refreshments so he did not have to leave Madame Lescartes alone, and to see that no one entered without Harry's permission. No rake or rogue was going to embarrass his guest with unwanted familiarity, Harry swore…or steal her away.

Harry swallowed his moral doubts and his feelings of guilt along with a peppermint drop to freshen his breath. He was not trying to seduce the woman, by Jove, just enjoy her company. He was not enamored, he told himself, merely fascinated by a type of creature he had never come upon before, like an exotic butterfly. He could admire his discovery, he told himself, without wanting to trap it, keep it, own it for himself.

He straightened his cravat and told himself once more how he respected her talent, her intelligence, her ambition…and her charm.

But he was not infatuated. Of course not.

Of course his tongue would not wrap itself around a “good evening” when she entered the shop from the rear hall. His feet would not propel him closer, his fingers were too numb to reach for her hand. But, oh, portions of him strained toward her. Lud, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And she was smiling at him, Harry Harking.

She wore black again, but this time, instead of the back of the gown gone missing, half of the front was. Breasts, snowy mountains that begged to be explored, satiny skin that screamed for caresses, rose above black velvet. What was softer, the fabric or the feel of her? And how could he find out?

Worse, how could he sit beside her without embarrassing her and himself? Unwanted familiarity? Good grief, even he was unfamiliar with such raging, roaring, lust!

“Thank you for the lovely flowers,” she was saying. “They are perfect.”

Harry dragged his eyes from her breasts and his mind from the bedroom—or the floor, the back workroom, the carriage. No, Browne and Hellen were waiting to go, waiting for him to say something.

“Not as perfect as you are,
chérie,”
he blurted, relieved he could remember a name, an endearment, any word but “please.” He noticed now that one of his costly red rosebuds was fixed in the vee of her neckline. He should have paid more.

The other rosebuds, all careful trimmed of thorns, of course, were woven into a tiara atop her short black curls, with three plumed red feathers at the back adding the height and formality de rigeur at the opera. A black lace shawl trimmed in bands of red velvet foamed over her nearly bare shoulders. And her slippers peeking from under the flounced hem of her gown were red, making him wonder what color stockings she wore. And wonder if spending an evening at the woman's side, in public, would kill him.

Hellen was twirling in front of Browne, who appeared nearly as tongue-tied as Harry. She was dressed in white lace, like the young girl she was, with Harry's white rosebuds fixed at her waist. The contrast was poignant, the innocent maid in virginal white, the sophisticated woman of the world in black that had little to do with mourning and everything to do with nighttime. And yet Harry knew that Hellen was open to suggestion, while his
chérie
was open for store business in the morning, and nothing else. Besides, as Hellen circled, laughing and begging for compliments, a long strand of perfect pearls bounced against her rounded chest. They were a mistress's bounty, Harry thought, not a young girl's birthday gift. He hoped, for the besotted Browne's sake, that the pearls were borrowed from Hellen's mother.

Madame Lescartes wore no jewels. Harry was delighted.

“We'll sell a dozen gowns tomorrow, won't we?” Hellen was cooing.

Oh, Madame Lescartes would sell a hundred gowns after tonight, Harry thought. She might start a manufactory for gowns. But no other woman would ever look so stunning in them.

Or, he'd wager, out of them. “Shall we go?”

She bent to pet the poodle, telling the dog to stay, to look after young Charlie, and to be good. Parfait wagged his tail in agreement. Now if only Harry could promise good behavior so easily.

But that was wrong. His wayward thoughts were wrong, reprehensible. Harry had promised a night of culture, without compromising either of their scruples. As soon as they were in the coach, and he had his wits about him again—and his hat in his lap, to make sure—he reiterated his promise. “Nothing and no one shall disturb your pleasure. I have taken measures.”

Still, her hand trembled slightly on his arm when he escorted her out of the coach and through the wide doors, then up the stairs to their box. Surprised yet again by the shyness mingled in her sophistication, Harry patted that hand reassuringly and said, “Do not concern yourself with the crowd tonight,
chérie
. They will stare and be stunned by your beauty, but you shall not have to do anything except listen to the music.”

But Queenie had to look around, to admire the grandeur of the building itself, the gilt, the glittering chandeliers, the ornate plaster work before the lights were dimmed. And she had to see what the other women were wearing. While she tried to take mental notes about the colors and styles and sizes—Gracious, she ought to cut her sample gowns fuller, if the London ladies had such generous figures—she could not help noticing how many intense gazes were fastened on Lord Harking's box.

Half of the women, it seemed, and more of the men, were looking directly at her, through opera glasses or not. She supposed they were interested in the viscount's companion, for they could not see her gown while she was seated. She knew what they were thinking, and had vowed not to let the small minds of society destroy her enjoyment of the evening. Still, she felt the disapproval, from the nearest box where a turbanned dowager turned her shoulder, to the pursed lips and pale cheeks of several young ladies in pastel gowns across the way.

Men might have their little affairs, but the gentlewomen pretended ignorance. When a handsome bachelor, new on the town, paraded his mistress in public, the doyennes and damsels of society were doubly offended.

Lord Harking was one of theirs, the dagger glances seemed to say, meant for one of the marriageable misses. His title and fortune belonged to the
beau monde
, not an adventuress, not a woman in trade, not a woman of easy virtue.

Queenie had no doubt what the men were thinking. Those few without female companions blew her kisses or stood and bowed in her direction when her glance passed their boxes. Some with ladies at their sides gave her subtle winks or nods or raised eyebrows, as if their companions, wives, sisters, or lovers, could not notice. One gentleman received a slap from his partner; another was rapped with a fan. The women noticed, all right, and resented.

Perhaps coming tonight would not be good for business if her prospective customers thought she was a threat to them either personally, which was absurd, or to the standards of their society. She could not leave, yet did not think she could bear the scrutiny much longer. Discomfitted, she turned to Harry. He was a better view any time.

At least the women would not think she was interested in
their
men. What female would be, sitting next to Harry? Just looking at his profile as he pointed out a duke to Hellen made Queenie smile again. He was so handsome in his evening dress, she could feel a catch in her throat, as if seeing a sudden rainbow or a rare masterpiece. When she'd come into the shop to find him standing there, even though she expected him, her breath had flown. His smile could stop her heart, she feared.

Tonight he looked even more like a London swell than the country gentleman she had first met, and Queenie regretted the change, while admiring the results. A simple landowner was far enough above her touch, but a viscount?

Harry was every inch a lord tonight, from his perfectly tied neckcloth to his silk stockings and formal satin knee breeches. His jaw was smooth from a recent shave, and his every hair was in place, for once. He was laughing kindly at Hellen's excitement, though, not at all stiff and on his uppers. And hadn't he made her those earnest promises, his brown eyes flecked with gold, foolishly but nobly swearing she would be safe from gossip and malice, as if he could protect her from the world? He was still Harry, and they were still friends. She would be happy for that. She would be happy for tonight.

Just as the orchestra started to play and the lights were lowered, Hellen touched her sleeve and said, “Look, there is Miss Patterson, in your raspberry gown.”

The young woman was in a box nearby, and she gaily waved to them when Queenie turned in her direction. Queenie could not help noticing that the large ruby at Miss Patterson's throat did not quite match the color of her gown, nor did it suit the style, but Miss Patterson did not care. She seemed delighted with her bauble, and with her elderly beau beside her. Lucky Miss Patterson, who did not care about society's sneers, only her sixty-year-old swain, who beamed proudly.

Then the music began and Queenie forgot about the stares and the slurs. She even forgot about Harry's warm shoulder next to hers.

Browne softly whispered a translation of the German for Hellen, but Queenie needed no help interpreting the plot. The beautiful sea sprite, languishing beside a shimmering waterfall of gold and silver tinsel, loved a fair-haired mortal, who swore to worship her until his dying day, which was bound to be all too soon. A bearded god was lusting after the nubile beauty, and his goddess wife was jealous.

No good could come from such a confluence, Queenie knew. She could already feel tears at the back of her throat, and the first act was not half over. The music soared, the arias filled her senses, and the hero's valiant, hopeless adoration touched her heart.

Then the light came back on.

A footman brought lemonade and wine, slices of oranges and poppy seed cake. Queenie did not have to look at the audience or Lord Harking, who fretted about her silly damp eyes and quivering lip.

“You are not enjoying yourself?” he asked in concern.

“Oh, I am, immensely. It is just the, ah, smoke from the candles and the excitement. But how thoughtful of you to provide refreshment.”

“I should have provided a comedy, dash it,” he muttered.

In the second act, Queenie lost all patience with the sea nymph. The ninny should have held strong against the god, slapped him with a salmon or something. She should have sent him back to his wife with a shove. So what if he promised the moon? The mortal loved her, and only her. And didn't the stupid soprano realize the vengeful goddess controlled the immense fanged sea serpents that rose on strings from the stage? The poor hero was supposed to defend her from them? With nothing but his puny sword and his love as a shield?

“Sacre bleu, they are both imbeciles!”

“Are you quite certain you are enjoying yourself?” Harry asked again at the next intermission. “We could leave.”

“What, before I see the end?”

He shook his head in confusion, but stood to permit Hellen and Browne to pass by on their way to the corridor to stretch their legs.

“Would you care to stroll in the hall, my dear, rather than sitting here so long?”

Queenie was still lost in the waterfall. Besides, all those gawking strangers would be in the corridors. Let the ladies notice Hellen's gown. Queenie would rather sit beside Harry, who was wise enough, or bewildered enough, not to make idle conversation at such an emotional moment.

The footman entered the box and cleared his throat. “Lord Camden offers his regards, and asks if he might join you and Madame Lescartes for the intermission.”

Harry was about to shout
no
. Let that reprobate near his chérie? Never, while he held a sword. Well, it was the hero in the opera who held a sword, but Harry was ready to fend off any number of forked-tongued fribbles.

Then the footman added, “With his sister, Lady Jennifer Camden.”

His sister? A gentleman did not introduce his sister to another chap's ladybird. It simply was not done. Yet here was Cam, paying a social visit to Harry's box. Which meant that Cam, at least, recognized Madame Lescartes as a lady. Or his sister wanted a new gown. Either was good for Denise's reputation, her business, her place in the world. Harry looked toward his companion, who shrugged. He nodded toward the footman and stood again to welcome his guests.