Queen of Diamonds (13 page)

Harry looked down at Madame Lescartes in his lap. He could not see her eyes, because they were pressed to his chest now. But he stroked her cheek, not noticing the streak of blood left there from his scraped knuckles. He softly kissed her forehead.

“You see? Just what I promised you. A quiet evening. Nothing to worry about. No scandal, no insult, only a good time.”

“Oh, Harry,” was all she said.

He kissed her again. “But at least you said my name.”

* * *

They decided to take Harry back to the dress shop.

“What, find a surgeon at this time of night when I have the finest seamstress in London at my side? You can stitch this up, can you not, my dear?”

The sleeve perhaps, but Harry's flesh? Queenie wished she were one of those women who carried smelling salts instead of a sewing needle.

“Besides, any surgeon is likely to be drunk this time of night,” Harry said as they helped him into the coach.

Queenie wished she were drunk too.

“And I doubt I would be welcome at the hotel looking like this.” He did not mention his companions' states of disorder and disarray. Luckily the coach's lantern light hid the worst of it from him. “Lud, I'll be thrown out of there next, bag and baggage on the street come morning.”

“You were not precisely thrown out of the Opera House,” Browne noted in his careful way, trying to hold his broken spectacles together with his hands. “And the manager did not say you could never come back.”

“Not once I offered to pay damages. He did, however, mention that he hoped I took my speed leaving and my leisure returning.” Harry shook his head, then groaned at the pain. And at the results of this night's work. “Lud, the Cyprian's ball, the opera…I could be banished from London altogether with a little effort.”

“I would say tonight took a great deal of effort,” Queenie said, and all four passengers in the carriage sighed.

* * *

The dog met them at the door, not the boy, Charlie.

“Check the money drawer,” Hellen said. “I'll wager the filthy urchin stole your blunt and left, in return for all your efforts and kindness.” She looked around as Queenie started lighting more lamps. “I am only surprised he did not let his fellow sneak thieves come inside to rob you of everything they could, from the dry goods to the dog to your scissors.”

“Oh, hush. Charlie is not a criminal.” But Queenie hurried toward the back room to check anyway. The boy was fast asleep under the cutting table, on the new mattress Queenie had purchased. He looked warm and innocent and content, wrapped in soft blankets, with an empty plate beside him. Queenie envied him. She would like nothing better than to crawl into her own snug bed where, with any luck, she would not dream about Harry facing a villain's sword.

Hellen was still complaining when Queenie went back to the showroom, to escort her sudden guests upstairs to the living quarters where the light was better and supplies were handier.

Queenie tried to soothe her friend, ignoring how Browne and the footman had to help Harry up the narrow steps, but Hellen was simply in an understandably petulant mood. Her lovely gown was spotted with blood, her mother's pearls were in her reticule, likely two inches shorter than before, and she had been deprived of the promised dinner at the Clarendon, London's fanciest hotel. Besides, she had not understood a word of the German opera. Why had the scaly sea sprite chosen the mortal man anyway? Everyone knew the gods had all the power, all the money. The silly goose deserved to die. Too bad she had taken so long about it, too, or they might have left their seats before Harry spotted his brother-in-law.

That was another thing Hellen did not understand, which she made plain to anyone who would listen. Gentlemen were supposed to act like…gentlemen, not ruffians and rowdy boys. She had spent her life thinking of aristocrats as better than the common folk. If they were not, why were they so wealthy, so powerful, so arrogant?

Now Hellen's sense of the rightness in the world was destroyed, along with her gown and her pearls. No one could explain the matter to her, for no one understood any better, least of all Harry.

He apologized again, but offered no reasons to Hellen for his irrational behavior, if any such existed.

Hellen seemed satisfied with an apology, pulling Browne toward the threadbare love seat to help restring the pearls. Queenie envied the younger girl, too, not for Browne or the beads, but because Hellen could fret about such trifles, while Queenie had to face hurting Harry worse.

While she fetched towels and basins and more candles—avoiding thoughts of the job ahead—Queenie promised Hellen that her gown could be repaired.

“If we cannot get the stains out, we can dye the whole thing. Or we can embroider butterflies where the spots are. As a last resource, we can paint flowers over the marks. One of the French designers hand-paints all of his gowns, so no two are ever alike. His creations cost more than a new carriage.”

“Truly?”

Queenie spent a moment thinking that perhaps that was how she could earn more money without having to produce scores more designs and dresses that no one, now, would likely buy. Then again, she would paint dragonflies on derrieres rather than stitch up Harry's arm.

Leaving the others in the tiny upstairs sitting room, Queenie said she needed to gather her supplies. What she needed to gather were her wits, so her hands would stop shaking. Stalling, she quickly washed her face and restored the eyelash darkener. She forgot the beauty mark.

Harry thought she looked beautiful anyway. Of course, he had finished the gin the coachman carried in his flask.

Queenie envied him, too.

Chapter Thirteen

The job was done, thank heavens. It was not Queenie's neatest seam, but neither was Harry still bleeding.

Hellen and Browne were near the fire, toasting bread and cheese that the footman had brought back for supper. Harry'd sent the man out for spirits at the same time, both to wash the wound and to restore the color to his
chérie's
pale cheeks. If the fellow had taken a bit longer than expected, and came back with a rosier complexion himself, well, Harry could not blame him.

Hellen had stopped complaining about her necklace, especially after Harry promised to pay to have a jeweler fix the strand the right way. He also offered to replace the missing pearls with matching ones, if they could be found.

Now Harry held Queenie's hand in his lightly bandaged ones as they sat at the rickety dining table in the corner of the room. Speaking for her ears only, he promised to make good on her losses, too.

Queenie snatched her hand back. It had stopped trembling long ago and now felt warm and fluttery, as if her hand were a bird that wanted to land on Harry's shoulder, his cheek, his brown wavy hair. Or give him a good peck.

“I am not your responsibility,” she said, brushing at crumbs on the worn table. “My business stands or sinks on its own merits, not a wealthy patron's.”

“I shall not be so wealthy when this night's tally is completed, I'll wager. But I might have cost you business. Honor demands I reimburse you for the loss.”

“You cannot know that the shop will suffer. Women were impressed by my designs long before the, ah, events at the opera.”

“Of course they were. Your gowns can make an old besom look beautiful. But your customers might not choose to patronize a shop whose proprietress has been involved in an unfortunate instance.”

An unfortunate instance? Tonight was more like a public spectacle, which was abhorrent to polite society. A woman behaving like a common strumpet or an unmannered hoyden could not be trusted with dressing a lady properly. Why, women of substance would not expose their innocent daughters to such a dangerous influence.

Queenie could not lay all the blame at Harry's door. “I contributed, running after you that way.”

“True, you should have left me lying on the ground in the filth, my life blood pouring out of me.”

“You were hardly bleeding by then. But a lady would have stayed in her box.”

“Calling for her vinaigrette,” he agreed. “Thank you.”

“For not being a lady?”

“For being the perfect lady. I looked up and saw you, and knew I was not going to die. I could not. Not yet.”

Now she did brush his hair back, and touched his cheek. “I am merely checking to see if you are taking a fever, my lord, spouting such nonsense.”

“I thought I was Harry. Or Oh, Harry.”

“I thought you were nearly dead, then.” Her lip started to tremble again.

“Oh, no. Please do not cry,
chérie
. That hurts worse than anything Martin could have done. I was never in danger of expiring, you know. It was the surprise of his fighting back that set me on my heels.”

“How could I know he would not kill you? He had a sword and you did not.” The very thought of that horrid scene made Queenie sniffle.

Harry quickly buttered another slice of bread and pushed it toward her. “Here, you will feel better with food in you,” he said, speaking as a large man who was always hungry and always felt more at peace with the world with his belly filled. “And that is more on my dish—or not, I suppose—that you had no supper. I had reserved a private room at the Clarendon, too, with champagne.”

Queenie sipped at her tea, from a cup that matched no other on the table. Molly's good tea service was downstairs, for the customers. “This is better.”

It was.

The sitting room was small and shabby and crowded, but it was warm and filled with friends. No strangers were serving lavish courses—and superior airs along with the meal. Here shop girls and school teachers and lords could mingle with no one to say them nay. Even a street urchin in his nightshirt was welcome to join the simple meal.

Charlie had woken up with the dog's barking at the footman's return. He was happy for the food, but sorry he'd missed the excitement. So Harry had to unbandage his arm and show the neat stitches.

So Charlie had to show the scars on his legs from when he ran away from the chimney sweep.

So Queenie felt ill to her stomach again and pushed the plate of bread and butter away.

Noticing, Harry sent the boy back to feeding scraps to the dog. “Not in front of a lady, my boy.”

“Right, gov. Sorry, ma'am.” Charlie curled next to Parfait on the hearth, futilely trying to stay awake to listen once the bread was gone, his head on the dog's soft back. Hellen and Browne were back on the worn sofa, talking quietly. Their clasped hands were hidden by her skirts, or so they believed. Queenie believed they would make a match of it, and was willing to relax her chaperonage. After tonight, she hardly counted as a proper duenna anyway.

Speaking of the night, Queenie looked directly at the man opposite her. His coat was ruined; his cravat had been used as a bandage. His hair was every-which-way, and his cheek sported a bruise that was already turning purple. His knuckles were wrapped and his chin was scraped. Queenie went back to studying her chipped cup, rather than smile, or throw herself into his arms.

“Now, my lord, perhaps you would be so good as to explain.”

Harry held his own cup toward the sleeping boy across the room. “What, that no one wishes to be reminded of how children are treated in our world?”

“No, not that. I wish to know why a gentleman, one who has been nothing but kind and even-tempered, turns into a demon from hell at the sight of one fairly nondescript, balding baronet? Surely a necklace is not worth facing a scoundrel who would stab an unarmed man.”

Harry looked away. “It is not merely a necklace. There is a bracelet and ear bobs, too. The ring was added later, but it matches.”

The stare she gave him could have withered one of the rosebuds he'd sent, if they were not long gone. Hellen might think jewelry was worth any price. Queenie did not. She waited, not speaking.

Harry took a deep breath. He did owe her an explanation, especially since the gossip columns were bound to have the whole sordid story in the morning. And the afternoon and evening, until another juicy tidbit occurred.

“The set belongs to the Harking viscountcy, not to me or my sister. Surely not to Martin. But you are right, this was not about the jewels. It had more to do with what else the dastard stole from my sister.”

“He was not a good husband, I take it.”

“He was barely a husband, leaving her at Harking Hall to return to his London life as soon as the settlements were signed.”

“I have heard that is not uncommon among your class, contracting a marriage of convenience, then leading separate lives.”

“Ah, but this was no arranged match. The dirty dish turned Olivia's head with protestations of love, simply to get his hands on her dowry. Having a gullible in-law who disliked confrontation and contretemps made the bargain all the more rewarding for Martin. So I paid. So did Olivia, with her pride.”

“But you mentioned a niece and nephew?”

“My sister's only joy in life. Martin did not deny himself his connubial rights when he bothered to visit Olivia in the country. He denied himself nothing, it seemed. He had women before the wedding and after. He had a wench during the wedding breakfast, for all I know. There is a child in the village I support, perhaps another one near Martin's own ramshackle estate. He gave me no proof, so I refuse to pay. His parentage is not the poor by-blow's fault, I realize, but I cannot fund every baseborn child in England.”

“Of course not. But could you not do anything?”

“Olivia chose him herself. It was for her to make her marriage work, or not. At first she would hear no ill of him, saying all men had their faults. I believed I could not come between a man and his wife.”

“Of course not. She would not have appreciated the truth, or having to admit she had made a poor selection for a husband. I suppose she still loved him?”

“Love?” He set his cup down with a thump that might add another chip. “How long can love last with such neglect?”

He would be surprised at how long, Queenie thought, but she kept still.

“Then Martin realized he had gone through all of Olivia's money and what little he had of his own. He beggared his estate, so there will be nothing but debts for my nephew to inherit. He no longer had to pretend an interest or an affection for my sister.”

“That poor woman.”

“And poor me. Martin came to me with his gambling debts, and I paid them, the more fool I was. I could not let my sister's husband wallow in debtors' prison, nor disgrace us further. At least that way I had some control over the cad's activities. In exchange for an allowance—I was not stupid enough to hand him a purse, ever—I made him stay in the country, at Harking Hall. I thought he would come to appreciate a quiet life, the pleasures of his children. I thought he could not lose as much of my blunt at the card tables, or keep as expensive a mistress.”

“You were wrong?”

“I was worse than wrong. Martin turned meaner. He hated the country, and was bored without funds to support his wagering and wenching. So he harassed the servants, especially the females, until none of the local girls would work there.”

“What about your sister? She was running the household, was she not? She could have said something to him.”

Harry studied the dregs in his cup. “She was afraid.”

“To tell you?”

“Afraid of him.”

“I…see.”

“The problem was that I did not see. Olivia tripped. A pot overturned. A painting fell off the wall while she was adjusting its angle. I did not see!”

“She did not want you to see.”

“The children hid from him.”

Queenie gasped. “His own children?”

“I could not pretend ignorance anymore. Yet I could not throw him out. He would have been within his rights to send Olivia and the children to his own property in Devon, where they would have starved, or worse.”

“Worse?”

“If something happened to Olivia, he would have been free to marry again, a wealthier woman this time, perhaps a widow with no one to look out for her.”

“Oh, no! He could not be that evil!”

“As you said, gentlemen do not pull swords on unarmed men. At any rate, I told him I wished to speak to him after the party we were holding. I intended to thrash the daylights out of him, and threaten to keep doing so, unless he mended his ways. Instead he left with the family heirlooms.”

“So you followed him.”

“They are mine, dash it. And I could not stand Olivia's remorse and weeping. Besides, I wanted to make sure he was gone for good. I still wished to avoid a scandal, but I would have seen him transported for thievery before I saw him back under my roof. Unfortunately, I could not find the muckworm.”

“Until tonight.”

Harry nodded. “Until tonight. And then, deuce take it, there he was. It was the opera, you see, and your tears.”

“Mine? I had nothing to do with your brother-in-law!”

“But you were crying, and I could do nothing about it. That poor fool in the opera died to no purpose, and I could do nothing about it.”

“That was a piece of fiction!”

“Then why was your heart breaking for him?”

“Because he was so helpless, and the world is such a hard place,” she said, rather than explain that she had cried over shattered love and hopeless dreams.

“The gods are too strong. Man is too insignificant. Love is a pipedream. I know all that. But I know that I did not help my sister. And I knew you were crying and I could not help you, either. I had no right to comfort you or hold you, especially not in front of all those stiff-rumped swells. Then I saw Martin—and suddenly I could do something. I could fight back against injustice and evil and a world that lets a woman be hurt.” He raised his voice. “I could do something!”

“You could break your foolish neck,” Queenie yelled.

“But I did not.”

Charlie was sound asleep, but Hellen and Browne had wandered over, disturbed by the loud talk. They had heard enough to make Harry's actions understandable, if not reasonable. They both knew about tilting at windmills, slaying dragons, or otherwise trying to beat the odds.

Browne asked: “What shall you do next, my lord? Your vermin is bound to go to earth.”

Harry agreed that finding Martin would be harder, now that he knew Harry was in town looking for him. “Although I cannot imagine him thinking I would let such an affront pass, no, not even to protect my sister from the scandal. He must have guessed I would set the magistrate's office on him, if nothing else. I thought he would have sold the jewels and taken ship before I arrived in town.”

“I wonder why he did not, since being found with the stolen goods would be tantamount to a confession.”

“Oh, I suppose he thought he could wriggle out of the charge on some lie or other, having the diamonds cleaned or some such. Of course once he saw me in town, he knew that effort would be futile; I could disprove any claim he made. No, I doubt he was afraid of having the pilfered property in his possession. The delay was in trouble turning the diamonds into cash.” Harry went on to explain what he had learned at the jewelers, that no reputable merchant would handle the transaction. “And a lesser gemsmith would not pay nearly the diamonds' worth. In fact, the shabbier and shadier the operation, the less blunt Martin can expect.”

Queenie and Hellen exchanged glances. They both know the shabbiest, shadiest fence of all. Queenie tried to send her friend a signal, but only succeeded in drawing Harry's attention.