Queen of Diamonds (5 page)

Harry had to try something. He lowered his voice, although the women were holding a private discussion on one of the benches. “I am in town looking for a certain man. I was hoping Jack might know of him or his whereabouts. His name is Sir John Martin, and I have reason to believe he is a gambler and a wastrel.” He held his hand up to forestall the other man's protests. “Not that I am implying that Captain Endicott's former clientele was such a gathering of loose fish, but that Jack might have known about his ilk.”

Mr. Browne straightened a stack of papers on his desk while he considered. “The captain knew everyone. His business was to know who could pay and who was punting on tick, of course. That was how he became such a success, besides his head for odds. But that was before I got here. Mr. Bonner, who managed the club, has left, and Snake, that is, the doorkeeper, has gone north with the family. I am sorry, my lord. I know nothing of your Sir John Martin.”

“I thank you anyway.” Harry nodded and turned to go.

“But if it is a town buck you are looking for,” Browne called after him as Harry made his way past the women toward the door, “you might try the Cyprian's Ball tomorrow night. Every rake and would-be womanizer will be there, with town so thin of other entertainment. If your, ah, friend is not in the petticoat line, he might still attend for the deep wagering. It is by subscription, so you do not need an invite. Anyone with the price of admission is welcome.”

Harry did not want anything to do with the infamous gatherings that turned into orgies, where men selected their latest paramours or passing fancies. Lewd and licentious, the Cyprian's Balls represented the very worst London had to offer. The thought of attending one left a rancid taste in Harry's mouth.

Not so Hellen, whose mood improved almost as quickly as her smile flashed when she heard Harry was a lord. “Did you hear that, Que– Cousin? There is going to be another ball of the demi-monde. Let's go!”

Queenie felt as if she'd swallowed the same bitter lemon as Lord Harking. “Are you insane? Those affairs are dangerous and depraved.”

“Pooh, they are not all that bad. A girl can avoid any unsavory characters, and she can always say no to an unwelcome offer, can't she? Mostly it will be the perfect chance to be seen and meet gentlemen.”

“You know no one to make introductions.”

Hellen laughed. “Half the guests wear masks, silly. This is not the Queen's drawing room. The whole point is to encounter strangers.”

John George Browne had come away from his desk to escort Lord Harking to the door. “The affairs are not all that bad, at least in the early hours. Dancing, wine, good food, pretty girls.”

“Are you going, then, man?” Harry asked in a harsh tone. “Since you appear to think such entertainment is attractive.”

“No, I cannot afford to keep a—” Browne looked toward the women. “That is, I am a schoolmaster now. I cannot think my patrons would approve.”

“Your mother would not approve,” Queenie whispered to Hellen.

“Pooh, that is how she met my father. And besides, it is the perfect place for you to show off your dress designs and help your name become known. If you wish your business to be a success, you have to advertize it. You could wait years selling drawings before you came to the notice of so many fashionables in one night.”

“The Fashionable Impures.”

“Who are more likely to pay their bills on time than your Society ladies who believe they are doing you the favor by patronizing your establishment. And it is the brightest comet in the sky that catches the eye, not the cold, distant stars. You can only be talked about by dressing women who are talked about, you know.”

Hellen was right.

Browne was telling Harry: “The ball is your best bet to find your man. You could search London for weeks before finding so many here-and-thereians gathered under one roof. And respectable gentlemen, also,” he added at Harry's continued scowl.

Browne was right.

Damn! Harry thought.

Diable
! Queenie thought.

Sensing his mistress's distress, Parfait whined, which dragged Harry's thoughts from the sordid soiree back to the Birds of Paradise on the benches. School mistresses, hah! They had their heads together, most likely discussing their outfits for the coming revelry. All such women cared about was clothes—and money.

His money. Lud, they would be lining up to put their hands in his pockets—or elsewhere. The high flyers could be worse than the matchmaking mamas because they were more desperate—and more obvious in their intentions. They had fewer years to assure their futures, for time did not sit gently on a whore's shoulders. Gently bred females at least still had their pedigrees and their dowries when the next year's debutantes made their curtsies. The barques of frailty had nothing but their beauty.

While young ladies gave the appearance of ignoring the purpose of their Seasons, the light skirts flaunted their ambitions. That was what a Cyprian's Ball was about. Harry guessed he would be too busy fending off prospective Paphians to even locate Martin in the smoke and the crowds and the hidden corners. He would be fleeing instead of hunting, unless, of course, he had protection from the ravening pack. With a gun—No, with a woman on his arm, he ought to be safe…

“We cannot go without an escort,” Queenie was saying. “It is simply too dangerous for two inexperienced women. You know that when men overindulge manners lapse. And not all who attend these affairs are gentlemen anyway, or ones who will listen to a woman's wishes when in their cups. I shall not go without a gentlemen's protection unless I can take my dog. It would not be safe.”

“You cannot take Parfait!”

Parfait heard his name and looked at Hellen. Hellen looked at Lord Harking. Harry looked at Queenie. Queenie looked at the floor. Mr. Browne looked at all of them and decided he might bend his own rules a bit. “What say we all go?”

Chapter Five

Browne made the introductions. “Madame Denise Lescartes is a dress designer,” he concluded.

And Harry was a Hottentot. But the female would serve his purposes more than adequately. Who would suppose he'd look at another female with such a beauty on his arm? In fact, Harry was savoring the notion of his bastard of a brother-in-law seeing him with the false French
femme
. Let Martin call Harry a prig and a prude. Let him turn green with envy—before Harry turned his flesh black and blue.

While Harry was pondering mayhem and making an impression, Queenie was also considering her choices. Yes, she considered, this gentleman was sturdy enough and somber enough to take his duties as escort seriously. Heaven knew he was large enough, with well-formed muscles and the occasional unmannered look to his brown eyes, like now, to discourage any other man's unwanted attentions. Moreover, he had none of those broken veins in his nose that betokened a tippler, nor pouches under his eyes from late nights. His complexion was healthy, his step assured.

Harking would do, Queenie decided, if she had to do this dreadful thing. There was something solid and trustworthy about him. Perhaps it was the humble knitted muffler, or the boyish blush to his cheeks as he bowed over her hand.

“Will you and Miss, ah, Pettigrew, do me the honor of accompanying me and Browne, madam? I am looking for my brother-in law and the more eyes, the better.”

The brother-in-law was a likely excuse, Queenie thought, somehow charmed that Harking would not want to admit seeking a mistress. But he had included Hellen and Mr. Browne in his invitation, taking charge in a masterful way that pleased her, despite herself. Now she would not have to be afraid of being in his company in private, or letting Hellen go off on her own.

“We would be honored,” she answered for both of them. “I am hoping to advertize my new dress designs. The more people who see them, the better,” she echoed.

The gowns were a likely excuse, Harry thought, a shade offended that Madame Denise Lescartes felt she needed a flimsy reason to act as his companion for the night. A female in her situation should have leaped at the chance, even if he was not as rich as Croesus or as romantic as a Romeo. Miss Pettigrew was bouncing on the bench in her excitement, and Browne was grinning. Madame Lescartes was frowning.

The dog growled. Harry stepped back, realizing he had been about to kiss Madame Lescartes's hand to seal their agreement before she could change her mind. He hadn't felt any ring under her glove, which somehow helped him ignore her recalcitrance. “Then we shall provide assistance to each other,” he said, sounding too stiff to his own ears, which he feared were turning red. He added, “And perhaps we might have a pleasant evening while doing so.”

Miss Pettigrew laughed and clapped her hands together. “Of course we shall have a lovely time. Why would we not?”

Perhaps because Queenie feared Harking thought he was hiring a mistress, and he believed her a whore. She could read it in his open countenance, and how fast he had dropped her hand, as if he might be contaminated by her presence. The handsome hypocrite was going to a Cyprian's dance, all the while making alibis for being there, Queenie fumed. He might make alibis. He would not mistake her intentions. She raised her chin.

“Yes, we shall have a good evening. One evening.”

Harry could not misinterpret her meaning. She was refusing his offer of
carte blanche
before he even thought of making it, she was that sure of herself and her appeal. What, were his pockets not deep enough? His manners not polished finely enough? Or did he simply not match her deuced dog?

The female could look as high as she wished for a protector, Harry admitted. Most men would be panting over the possibility of acquiring her services for a night, a week, a month, however long it took to satisfy their curiosity and carnal urges. But Harry was not most men, even if his breath was coming a bit fast at the thought of taking Madame Lescartes to the ball—and then home. To discover her secrets under the elegant clothes she wore, to feel those tight curls, and the tighter ones elsewhere, to feel that satiny skin next to—“One evening,” Harry said with a gasp.

Perhaps the gentleman was not as prosperous as he looked, Queenie guessed, if he supposed her company came with too high a price for his purse. Many a nob visited the finest tailors and haberdashers without having a feather to fly with. How unfortunate if Harking was like so many others, punting on tick and putting a price on everything, even a night's companionship. Queenie did not know how she could tell him that she would not accept a shilling, not even the cost of her admission to the ball.

On the other hand, maybe he was becoming nervous, afraid of his wife's hearing about his illicit outing.

“If your family might be upset to read your name in the scandal sheets, perhaps we ought to reconsider. I understand reporters and gossip columnists regularly attend such functions.” Queenie was counting on it, to get her name known.

“No, no one will care,” he said. “And one appearance at a risqué ball would be a minor blot on the family escutcheons after—That is, shall Monsieur Lescartes be calling me out in the morning?”

What, was he a coward, besides clutch-fisted? Queenie shook her head, disappointed in her chosen chevalier. If he was frightened of some non-existent Frenchman, how could he keep her safe from the rakes and reprobates at the party? “Monsieur Lescartes is not a consideration.”

Whatever that noncommittal statement meant, Harry was relieved anyway. The idea of some man having this woman, possessing her, was enough to chill his bones, despite the muffler. Not that he wished to possess her, of course. He'd simply been without a woman too long, that was it. And his body was reacting like any red-blooded male to the sight—and was that a lilac scent?—of a seductive woman. “Yes, well, I shall be returning to Lincolnshire soon,” he said, reminding himself. “Directly after the ball, I hope.”

She nodded as graciously as a duchess. “So we understand each other.”

“Of course. A pleasant evening in the public eye. Nothing more.”

She held her hand out—to pick up Parfait's lead. “Nothing more.”

* * *

She did not like him, Harry realized. So much was obvious by Madame Lescartes's curt farewell, and her reluctance to give her direction. How did she think he was to fetch her to the ball? And what was she afraid of, that he would batten upon her doorstep like some lovesick swain, keeping away wealthier patrons? He had already told her he was leaving London shortly.

The sooner he left, the better, Harry told himself, if the opinion of a doxy mattered to him. He had spent enough of his life trying to establish a good reputation among his neighbors without beginning to worry how he appeared in a wanton's eyes.

They were magnificent eyes, though, a blue a poet could spend a lifetime trying to describe, without finding the right phrase. No words could describe the life burning there, the intelligence, the—

The devil take it! Madame Lescartes was a loose London lady, nothing more. After a quick glance at the card she handed him, Harry vowed not to think about her again until the evening he had to pick her up for the ball. He had too much to do, anyway, visiting some of the lesser gaming dens, a few less reputable jewelers. Time was passing and heaven knew where Martin was selling the Harking Diamonds.

He'd think about recovering his heirlooms, not whether it was proper for him to send flowers ahead of the ball. Or if he should carry with him the sapphire pendant he'd purchase, or send it the morning afterward in payment. And if there was time for him to have a dancing lesson.

No! He would not spend a second or a shilling trying to impress his hired companion. Of course he spent ages at the livery stable, selecting the proper coach and ensuring it was clean and polished. And he did survey the wares of every jeweler he visited, before settling on the sapphire necklace, although the color was not nearly right for the woman's eyes. And he did let the hotel's assigned servant look over his wardrobe.

Lord Harking's appearance was a reflection on his skill, the fussy valet insisted, on the hotel, the viscount's own stature in society, and his respect for the lady.

Harry did not respect the woman, that was the problem. She was a means to finding his brother-in-law, Harry told himself, the same as little Miss Pettifog, or whatever the other gal's name was. Madame Lescartes was a link to Martin, nothing else. If he happened to find the dirty dish before the ball, Harry decided, he would cancel his arrangement with Madame Lescartes and send the pendant.

Right after he slit his throat.

The valet did not permit him to get near the razor. Or a comb or a mirror or the evening dress he had hastily packed before leaving Lincolnshire. Did he truly possess so many neckcloths that the valet could discard a score before declaring the final strangulating knot a masterpiece? And when had Harry bought a satin waistcoat with that narrow blue stripe? Lud, he had not been babbling in his bath about blue eyes, had he?

No, the gentleman's gentleman must have noticed the sapphire pendant in the velvet box. Why else would he be winking and smirking? Harry had not noticed the man had a twitch.

Finally, after what seemed like a week, Harry was ready. And pleased with his appearance when the valet finally let him look in the mirror. Madame Denise Lescartes might not like him, might not consider him fit to become her prospective protector, but he was not going to embarrass her, either. Not that he cared, of course.

* * *

Oh, dear, he did not like her. Queenie could tell by how Lord Harking did not linger after learning her address. This was a business arrangement for him, not a friendship. So how was she supposed to spend an already fraught evening with a disapproving gentleman? With steel in her spine and a—note pad?—in her reticule. His top-lofty lordship's opinion did not matter; the well-dressed women's names did.

Besides, she was too busy to fret over one large gentleman's opinion. Her ensemble had to be perfect, as did Hellen's. Furnishing her shop and finding fabrics for her creations could wait.

They agreed that Hellen should dress and stay overnight at Queenie's rooms above the store. Valerie Pettigrew's rest would not be disturbed that way. And Queenie would not have to travel in a carriage alone with a strange man.

He did not appear dangerous. But Queenie was anxious anyway. Anxious? Her fingers might have been icicles and her toes frozen to the floor. Despite her hard-won poise and professed confidence, Queenie was terrified. All those people, all looking at her. Then again, what if no one looked at her? All her efforts would be wasted. Perhaps her work would be for naught anyway. She was too pale to do her clothes justice, too worn out from long nights of sewing, the longer nights she spent awake and worrying. She was too thin, too boney. He would be ashamed, not that Lord Harking wanted her anyway, of course. Perhaps she should cancel.

Hellen would clobber her.

* * *

The momentous night finally arrived. As did Harking, with Browne getting out of the coach behind him.

Harry was struck dumb. She really was a dressmaker. The tiny shop was fairly empty, but the sign outside read
Madame Denise Designs
, and had a whimsical painting of the poodle Parfait wearing a bonnet. The front window held a mannequin wearing a black gown. Harry's quick glance could not tell him if the style was in fashion—a longer look could not have told him, truth be told—but she really was a dressmaker!

Hope-born images of a gentlewoman fallen on hard times flashed through his mind, only to fade. No true lady attended the Cyprian's Ball. And no female with such a face and figure ever fell on hard enough times to ply a needle.

Still, Harry's dismay at the night dissipated. The lady was not necessarily for sale to the highest bidder; her gowns were! What a lovely evening it was going to be.

Queenie was staring out the door, at the magnificent coach waiting for some royal personage to board it, with four liveried servants to assist. Then she took another look at Lord Harking in the lamp light. He was dressed to the nines in midnight blue and pristine white, with no hint of the casual countryman about him. He was no less handsome in her eyes, but far more assured in his dark formal evening wear, as if he knew he belonged in London, as if its history ran through his blood, which it likely did. He really was a lord.

She must have spoken the thought aloud for he said: “An unillustrious minor viscount. What, did you doubt I truly held a title?”

“Men are not always what they appear. I had only Mr. Browne's courtesy to you as evidence. I suppose some women might have rushed home to consult their Debrett's Peerage book.”

“But you did not.” That was a statement, not a question. Then, because he truly was curious, Harry asked, “Does it make a difference?” He could not ask if she would like him better if he had a higher title.

“No, of course not.” Except now her knees were locked in place and she would never be able to walk out of the shop to the coach.

While she stood staring at her toes, Harry belatedly handed over a box, a larger one than the jeweler's velvet case that was in his pocket. This box came from a florist, who might have been a diamond merchant, too, for the price he charged. Of course, when one went searching for the rarest of that new breed of orchid he'd heard of, one with vivid blue in the throat of the blossom, one had to pay. “You do not have to carry it, of course. I was not certain about your gown's color.”

Queenie was already pinning the flower to her reticule, to carry with her or dangle from her arm. “It is perfect.”

So was her gown, Harry thought, now that he could think, after the first heart-stopping look at his evening's companion. Her gown was black again. Lud, do not let her be in mourning for the absent Monsieur Lescartes, he prayed, with her heart in the grave with him. But this ensemble was no widow's weeds, not the silk underdress or the gossamer lace that covered her arms but left half her admirable bosom bare. No, here was a celebration of life and love– or lovemaking, at any rate. Tiny blue flowers were embroidered at the hem, as if she walked through a meadow, and a circlet of silk forget-me-nots crowned her black curls. As if any man could ever forget this woman.