Queen of Diamonds (7 page)

Queenie frowned. “People can change. Or do you believe that our lives are set forever at the moment of our birth?”

In a way, Harry believed precisely that. He was born to be a viscount, with the privileges and responsibilities such a position entailed. He had no choice, no more than Hellen Pettigrew had chosen to be a baron's bastard daughter. They were what they were. On the other hand, he had spent his life trying to break his parents' mold. And what of the supposed Frenchwoman? Her accent varied from colloquial French to carefully educated English. Her manners and bearing were those of a lady, but she was going into trade, with pride. She was friends with a demi-mondaine, yet obviously disapproved of that life for herself and for Hellen. She dressed to stir a man's senses, yet spoke of becoming a school teacher.

Who was she, and what was her background? Harry wondered. What class had she sprung from, and was she following her natural-born destiny…or forging a new path of her own? Harry would love to know what lay behind the shadows in her blue eyes, and what brought the smile to her rosy lips. He could never ask. He knew without trying that such personal questions would be as offensive to the woman as physical overtures. And intimacy, of any kind, was not part of their agreement.

“This is far too serious a discussion for such a night,” he said. “Come,
chérie
, let us leave philosophy to the old men while we enjoy ourselves. Tomorrow you shall have to sew that little widgeon a new gown, and I shall have to look elsewhere for my brother-in-law. Tonight there is music and champagne and love in the air. Temporary infatuation, at any rate, if at a price. But I see that Hellen and Browne are taking the floor, so perhaps they will make choices of their own.”

The orchestra struck up a waltz, Harry took Madame Lescartes in his arms, and they danced.

Or they floated. Harry forgot his questions. Queenie forgot Ize. They both forgot they were not very good dancers.

Tonight they were.

Harry had never enjoyed a dance more. Queenie had never felt so at home in a man's arms.

The doyennes of Almack's had never seen the waltz conducted this way. At the Cyprian's Ball, partners held each other far closer than permitted in the sacred halls of polite society. Their hands wandered places the lady patronesses preferred not to name. Eyes were joined, as well as thighs, and sighs.

The way Harry and Queenie danced was like making love to music.

Smitten, the wiser women at the ball said to each other, shaking their heads. A clever girl kept her heart out of the business.

Smitten, the men cursed. Now they had no chance.

Chapter Seven

Breathless, Queenie declared she needed to repair to the ladies' withdrawing room. What she needed was to reorder her thoughts. She had never felt like a wanton before. She certainly had never acted like one! But that dance…

Perhaps it was the champagne. Or the music, the night, the wearing a gown meant for seduction. Or the man. Heavens, never let her be so taken with a gentleman that she forgot her principles more than she already had!

As it was, she was more forward than Hellen, letting a man hold her so closely and moving closer herself. Had she actually let her fingers roam to Lord Harking's neck instead of sitting demurely on his shoulder? Had she truly pressed against him in a turn to feel the solid muscle of his chest? At least she had not touched his hair, brushing back a fallen lock. Nor had she squeezed his shoulder to make certain his coat was not padded. But she had wanted to. Gracious, what must his lordship think of her? Queenie was all too afraid she knew. This was the Cyprian's Ball, after all.

She was grateful to him, Queenie told herself. That was why she had permitted—and taken—such liberties. Lord Harking had rescued her from Ize and he had stopped asking questions she did not want to answer. Besides, he was a very attractive gentleman, just the right size and breadth. And he was well-mannered, unlike many of the crude, boorish men she saw on the sidelines or overheard making sly innuendoes. Because of them, Lord Harking would not permit her to walk unattended to the rooms set aside for the women to refresh themselves. Too many loose fish, he'd declared, signaling for Browne and Hellen to join them in the corridor.

Queenie stepped inside the retiring room in relief. She needed to think about what had happened, why she'd let sudden, strange new feelings overcome her logic.

She had no opportunity to think, though, amid the chirping ladybirds who filled the room. They were trilling about this lord, that gentleman, which officer, what merchant had the most money and—with a laugh—the mightiest sword.

Queenie could not pretend to misunderstand. She blushed, to the other women's hilarity. She was not the only one who had too much champagne, too much of the potent punch. Poor Lord Harking would blush too, Queenie thought, to hear his manly attributes so debated.

Thankfully Queenie herself, or Madame Denise Lescartes, soon became the topic of the conversation, she and her gowns.
Non
, she chose not to speak of France, but
oui
, she could create an original design for one women, and
oui
, she could copy a favorite style for another. A costume for a masquerade? An outfit to visit one's lover's unknowing sister?
Certainement
. But Queenie could also advise as to the best colors, the most flattering styles. Without looking directly at any of the women, she hinted how she could enhance a long neck or hide an unsightly bulge. Her designs were meant to flatter, not merely follow the latest trends.

She handed out the card for her store and warned that her prices were high, which made her all the more appealing to the avid listeners.

A true lady never discussed finances. These women discussed little else but money and the means to it. They appreciated another businesswoman and swore to start patronizing the Morningside shop as soon as they found someone to pay the bills, or pawned another bit of jewelry.

Queenie would have enough cash to purchase French fabrics and hire expert seamstresses. Soon she could start repaying Jack Endicott and Lord Carde. She handed out more calling cards.

Hellen was adding a bit more rouge to her cheeks and complaining that she had not met nearly enough gentlemen to make any kind of choice.

“Be happy you have a good man like Mr. Browne at your side,” Queenie told her. “Many of the so-called gentlemen I have seen tonight are not fit to wipe your shoes.”

“What, are my slippers scuffed?” Hellen raised her hems to look. Then she tugged down the neckline of her gown. “So they won't notice my feet.”

Queenie pulled up the bodice before Hellen could ruin the gown. She was disgusted, at the younger girl and at herself. They should never have come to this ball, business or not. The lax morals were as contagious as the influenza. And almost as deadly.

* * *

Harry stayed near the room set aside for the ladies. He would gladly have gone out with Browne to find a privy, but he could not like leaving the women unattended. Some of the men were beyond pleasantly inebriated and could not be trusted. Others were stone-cold sober and could not be trusted.

At first he felt awkward, leaning against the wall in the corridor, sipping another glass of punch and attracting knowing looks from the chaps who passed by on the way to the card room. They must all think he was a fool, so besotted by the Frenchwoman's beauty that he could not let her out of his sight for more than a minute. What else could they think after that public display of passion during the waltz? He did not suppose anyone would interpret that heated dance as being due to the temperature in the room. And no one would believe that he was now shielding his dance partner from the worst of the libertines. They would assume he was guarding his bit of muslin from other lust-filled men like him.

Harry wondered what had come over him, to behave so far beyond the lines of proper behavior that he himself had drawn. The answer, of course, was Madame Lescartes, Denise, although that name did not seem to suit her. But she, with her mix of sophistication and staunch morality, did fascinate him. Her looks could turn any man into a rutting goat, he supposed, but there was far more to the female than physical beauty. She could put a needle to Browne's throat one minute and dance like a Gypsy maid the next. She could blush at an overheard warm remark, yet melt in his arms. No wonder his head was spinning.

He turned to admire some ugly paintings on the wall rather than suffer any more ridicule from London's rakehells and roués. But then someone patted his shoulder and said, “Lucky dog.”

Another called out, “Good show, man.”

And a third gent, high in the government, said, “I wish you put that much passion in your Parliamentary speeches.”

Harry turned from the cat-scratch still life on the wall. Gentlemen were winking at him, whistling, looking wistfully at the door that held his dance partner. They were not poking fun at him, he realized. They were congratulating him. They were jealous of him, old Hard-nose Harking. He was not the bumbling country bumpkin anymore, in their eyes, or the stiff, cold chap who so obviously disapproved of them and their ways. He was not even the schoolboy some of them remembered, trying to be better than the other lads. Now he was one of them, the most envied member of their feckless fraternity.

Harry should have been repulsed, but he was so pleased he started whistling himself. Lud, the star of the night was his, if only for the night, which no one had to know. He'd found the Diamond they were all looking for. He'd captured the prize. He was Viscount Victorious, king of the courtesans' ball.

He was drunk.

He set his glass down on a side table.

The next gentleman to wander past was actually an old friend of Harry's, Lord Camden, heir to a dukedom. Cam was a Tulip, but a fine horseman.

“A card game, Harry?” he asked. “We are looking for a fourth.”

“No, thank you.” Harry tipped his head toward the door, where high-pitched laughter and giggles could be heard. Trying to sound nonchalant, and not like the proudest peacock in the room, he added, “I am waiting for my partner.”

“Can't blame you,” the other man said, having seen the waltz. They both smiled, with nothing more needing to be said.

After asking where Harry was staying and how long he might be in London, Camden started down the hall.

Harry stopped him. “I say, Cam, you haven't seen my brother-in-law by any chance, have you?”

“What, Martin slipped his lead again?”

Harry resented the notion that he was his in-law's keeper, although that was what he had been, paying the dastard's bills, including the mortgage on Martin's own rundown estate. He was feeding and housing the man's family, as Cam well knew, as well as paying for the children's education. Yes, Harry had been insisting the wastrel stay in the country rather than pursue his more expensive pastimes in town, but that was to avoid more scandal and more debts, not because Harry liked having the mongrel on a short chain. “I have a message for him, that's all.”

“From your tone of voice I can imagine the nature of your message, and why Sir John Martin is playing least in sight.” Camden chuckled. “Of course a lecture from you would be the pot calling the kettle black, would it not?” He gestured toward the door behind Harry.

Feeling his blasted cheeks grow warm, Harry frowned. “I resent being painted with the same brush as that boil on society's backside. I am not in debt to my ears or drunk half my days. Nor am I a married man.”

“No, and Martin could never afford such a fancy piece.”

Camden ought to consider himself lucky. He was smaller and lighter than Harry, without the viscount's muscles. Cam would be flat on the carpet, spilling his claret on his sky blue jacket and butterfly-embroidered waistcoat if Harry were a truly violent man. He did not practice fisticuffs as a sport, though, and he did not believe in striking his friends. At least not in public. Harry appeased his anger by saying, “You will speak of the lady with respect or meet me dawn.”

“Oho, so the mighty have fallen at last!”

Harry was sure his cheeks were bright red, but at least the lamplight was dim in the hallway. “No such thing. I just met the young woman two days ago.”

“Time enough to lose your heart, I'd say, if you are ready to defend her honor with swords or pistols.”

“No, fists are good enough for the likes of you.”

“My apologies, then, to you and the young, ah, lady. I like my pretty phiz well enough the way it is. But think what you are about, old man. You cannot marry the chit, of course. A viscount and a…” He hesitated, wary both of Harry's scowl and his broad shoulders.

“A dressmaker.”

Cam nodded. “Of course. A dressmaker. I heard someone mention that but thought he was jesting. Won't the gabble-grinders adore the tale? I can see the cartoons, Lord Harking being fitted by a female!”

Harry groaned. He had not thought his presence at the ball would be noted or commented upon in the scandal sheets. What if one reached Lincolnshire and his neighbors, or his sister? He groaned again.

“What, did you think no one would notice the monkish lord and his modiste mistress?”

“She is not my mistress, deuce take it.”

“More's the pity. But you always were a slowtop.”

“I told you, she is a respectable female.”

“Well, you still cannot wed her, and you look as if you'll die if you don't bed her. So what does that say about her?” Lord Camden adjusted the diamond in his high neckcloth a fraction of an inch. “You cannot go around challenging every man in London to a duel, you know.”

Harry knew it, and knew he'd like to choke his friend with that same blasted piece of snowy linen for speaking the truth.

“Of course,” Cam was going on, “it makes you interesting for once. Sad, but interesting.”

“I am not sad.”

“You will be. You always did take things too seriously.”

Life was not a game, deuce take it, Harry thought. “Madame Lescartes appears to be serious about her dressmaking business.”

“Really? Then I might toddle around to her shop with my sister, see if the woman's flair for fashion can rub off. My sister can use a bit of dash, else I am liable to have her on my hands forever. A chap has to look ahead, don't you know? Neither of us is getting any younger, and there's the succession to consider, eh? Can't bring a bride home with a lady already installed there.”

Harry had his sister acting as mistress of Harking Hall. He hadn't thought of displacing her with a wife or begetting an heir, any more than he'd thought of becoming the latest
on-dit
. Lud, he had a lot to think about besides his crops and his cows. He was not about to discuss any of his private musings, or avoidance thereof, with Camden though, so he said, “Your sister will not be disappointed. I have seen Madame Denise's designs. She is quite talented.”

“Excellent.” Camden took a step toward the card room with a final wave of his manicured, beringed hand. “Oh, and I saw your missing black sheep last week. Thursday, I believe it was, at Rachel Potts's place. She calls herself Rochelle Poitier these days. Jack Endicott's last mistress, don't you know. When he tossed her over she set up a salon, a bordello with pretensions. The place never became all the rage, so she lowered her sights. Now you can find blighters like your brother-in-law there.”

“And you?”

Camden shrugged. “I am not married yet, either.”

* * *

Hellen stepped out of the ladies' room first, her rounded face pinched in petulance. All she had to show for her grand night was another lecture, more instructions on proper behavior, and questions from the other women about her glamorous new friend. Oh, and Mr. Browne waiting outside like a faithful hound.

Browne was sweet and treated her the way Queenie said a fellow should treat a lady, but he was not exciting, not the envy of any other girls—and not rich.

The man talking to Lord Harking was another story altogether. Sporting a large diamond at his neck, dressed to catch one's eye, not fade into the crowd like every other dark-clad cull in the place, he was more handsome than Harking and Browne combined. Hellen's face unscrewed from its pucker and her dimples appeared. So did the avaricious gleam in her green eyes.

She tugged down the bodice of her pink gown again and took a deep, bosom-enhancing breath. “Here we are, then, gents, all refreshed.” She stepped between Lord Harking and Mr. Browne, smiling at the stranger.