Queen of Diamonds (9 page)

Perhaps love was the glue that kept couples from transgression. Queenie had never experienced such a strong emotion except in those foolish poems and lurid novels, so could not begin to guess. But none of it mattered to her anyway. Browne was not going to offer for Hellen. His career would be ruined. A peer was not going to offer for a dressmaker. His standing in society would be ruined. And a girl thinking of giving her all for love would be ruined altogether.

Queenie told herself she was tired, mentally and physically, even to be thinking such thoughts. Molly had taught her that a woman did not need a man to survive, or to be content, and Queenie had planned her life around her mother's lesson. She had her business for income, her drawing for pleasure, and her dog for companionship. Wondering if Lord Harking would be faithful was absurd, after one evening. But that one kiss…made her think about yearnings a bank account could not satisfy, pleasures a picture could not express, and loneliness a dog could not ease.

She sent back her plate, untouched. “I will save room for the dessert,” she told the concerned waiter with a smile.

Alas, they were never to see or taste one of the chef's famous, fiery creations.

A trio of men had come to dine. The maître d' seated them at one of the few empty tables, in the corner next to where Queenie and Harry sat. The men, all older than Harry, ordered three bottles of wine with their dinners, although they had obviously already had more than enough to drink that night. Their speech was slurred, their voices loud, their cravats loosened, and their posture careless, especially the one who seemed to be falling asleep in his chair. Before his head landed in the basket of rolls, one of his friends propped him against the wall, laughing uproariously.

“Weren't no wallflowers at the ball,” he joked. “Derwent's the only one we've got.”

“Otherwise we wouldn't be here on our own,” the third man added, not laughing. He was nearly bald and his coat barely buttoned across his paunch. His complexion was choleric and his voice held a belligerent note. “It ain't fair all the pretty gals were swept up before we got there. Nothing left but toothless old drabs with their udders hanging to their knees. I may be drunk, but I ain't that far gone.”

His conscious friend raised his glass, spilling wine on his limp neckcloth. “Here's to being sober enough to notice. I don't need to look now, so I intend to get even more castaway. And the night's still young, Fordyce. Who knows but we might find likely women later. I got plenty of addresses from the jarvey who drove us here.”

“Those'd be whores.”

“What did you expect at the Cyprian's Ball, then, duke's daughters or foreign princesses?”

“I thought there'd be a higher class of prostitute. If I wanted to bring the pox back to m'wife I could find a Covent Garden doxy.” He pounded on the table. “I'm a good husband, I am.”

The head waiter came by and asked the men to lower their voices. “This is a respectable dining room, gentlemen, not a bawdy house.”

“Respectable, hah!” Fordyce jerked his thumb in the direction of Harry's table. “We saw them at the assembly rooms, didn't we, Renfrew? Couldn't mistake the black-haired dasher, now could I? Not in that gown, I couldn't. Makes a man hard just looking.”

Harry started to rise from his seat but Queenie laid her arm on his sleeve.

“The man is a sot and a boor, but he is right,” she said softly, for Harry's ears only. “We were there, Hellen and I. We should not have attended, but we did, and so must pay the price.” She tried for a smile. “At least he noticed my gown.”

“Shh,” the man called Renfrew warned his friend, noticing Harry's frown. “You don't want to offend any lord.”

“What do I care?” Fordyce snarled, tossing back another glass of wine. “
He's
got a pretty woman for the night.”

“He's handy with his fives, I heard. And the wench is spoken for anyway, they say. In his pocket, more's the pity.”

“T'other one's not. I saw her putting herself on display, looking for a rich protector. Batting her eyelashes at Camden, wasn't she?”

“If Camden wasn't paying her price, you can't afford the Jezebel either.”

Fordyce cursed. Or that might have been Browne.

Hellen's eyes were filling with tears. “I am not a…a whore or a Jezebel.”

“Of course you are not, dear.” Pale-faced, near to weeping herself, Queenie turned to Harry. “Could we leave, my lord? I find I have no appetite for sweets.”

Harry stood. “Let us go. I apologize. I thought the hotel had higher standards.”

They gathered their wraps, and Harry told the waiter to add their unfinished meal to his hotel bill.

“But your dessert is on the way,” the man protested, knowing his tip would be diminished by the dark look on Lord Harking's face.

“Toss it to the swine,” Harry said, indicating the drunks at the corner table.

Browne was helping Hellen with her shawl. Somehow, as he turned to follow her after Queenie and Harry, he stumbled against the other men's table. Trying to right himself, he grabbed for the tablecloth.

And stumbled again. The dishes, the glasses, and two bottles of wine, all landed in the men's laps.

“So sorry,” the gentle, bespectacled schoolmaster apologized. “Clumsy, don't you know.” He proved it by trying to right the remaining bottle of wine, but tipping it on its side instead. “So sorry,” he repeated. “Bad eyes.”

The sleeping man jumped up with a start, sodden, shouting and swinging. He hit the fat man, Fordyce. Fordyce fell backward, right into the chef, on whose tray was the brandy-soaked, pear-topped cream cake that was supposed to be Harry's table's dessert. The chef started howling in French, some phrases which even Queenie had not heard. The waiter with the bucket of water, thinking the dessert, and the cook, had been set on fire, threw the water at the chef.

Hellen applauded.

Harry told the frantic waiter to add that mess to his bill, too. It was worth every shilling.

Queenie was laughing.

Chapter Nine

Hellen was still in raptures over Mr. John George Browne the next morning. He was clever and kind and smart and handsome, too.

Queenie thought love must be making Hellen as blind as Mr. Browne without his spectacles, but she listened without comment, getting her shop ready for its first real day of business.

“Isn't it a marvel?” Hellen asked, disarranging Queenie's careful piles of fabrics and fashion journals. “There are two
l's
in my name, and he has two first names.”

Well, there were two
r's
in Harry, and Queenie had two entire identities, but she did not see anything portentous in that. And she really had to start thinking more of herself as Denise. Queenie was gone, lost as permanently as Lady Charlotte Endicott, the child killed in the carriage crash all those years ago.

For that matter, she really had to stop thinking of Lord Harking. They had had their evening, and now she had her business open for the morning. Sadly—as if never seeing the viscount again was not sad enough—while Hellen was full of Mr. Browne's charms, the shop was full of nobody.

Queenie tried to tell herself that ladies of the night seldom rose before noon, especially after a ball and the private entertaining they did afterward. If they did not come today, perhaps they would come tomorrow. Her designs in the new magazine would be published next week, so other customers, from other walks of life, might visit the shop. She had her sketches ready to show, and nearly a dozen gowns partially finished, waiting to be fitted. The side seams were loosely basted and the hems were not cut. Queenie supposed she could work on another ensemble or more designs for the magazine. She could go over her accounts to see how much more fabric she could order from the linen draper, and how long she could consider herself a saleswoman if she had no buyers.

That was entirely too dreary, so she thought about Lord Harking instead. While Hellen chattered on about young Mr. Browne, his prospects and his parting kiss on Hellen's hand, Queenie reviewed the previous night, the same as she had done all the long, sleepless hours until morning.

During the drive home, they had all laughed at the debacle in the hotel's dining room, relieving the tension and Hellen's tears. Lord Harking had joked that he might have to beg for a room at The Red and the Black if he was evicted from his lodgings at the Grand. Browne regretted he could never dine there again. Everyone agreed that the results of Browne's “stumble” were well worth missing the chef's dessert. And no, no one was still hungry enough to seek out a coffee house, although Queenie thought of claiming she was thirsty, just to prolong the evening.

The viscount must have had the same notion, for he insisted on walking her dog with her when they reached the shop and her rooms above.

“But I only take Parfait in the rear yard,” Queenie told him. “And your carriage is waiting.”

“The man is paid to wait, and it is far too dark for you to be out alone. Even if the area is fenced, you never know who might be lurking.”

Queenie did not mention what an excellent watchdog she had in Parfait. If Lord Harking chose not to recall all the barking when they approached the front door, she would not remind him, for another few minutes of his company.

“Besides,” he went on, nodding toward Hellen and Mr. Browne, “our friends appear to need some privacy to make their leave-taking.”

Queenie appreciated that he was of like mind to promote a match there, so she led him through the store and the workroom, shielding her candle from the drafts. The viscount took the lantern from its hook by the back wall without asking and lighted it while she unlocked the rear door.

He had even paced the length of the tiny yard, making certain no evildoer hid behind the single tree—as if Parfait would not have warned her of any strange scent. Queenie smiled, but felt warmed by someone looking after her welfare. Someone like Harry, Lord Harking, a true gentleman.

Proving that he also had perfect manners, Parfait went behind a bush, leaving Queenie and Harry alone.

“Are you warm enough?” the viscount asked, ready to shrug out of his overcoat for her.

But Queenie had taken her thick wool cape off its hook and was well protected from the cold, damp air. As usual, one could not even see the stars through the low clouds or the fog or the coal dust. “I am fine, thank you, and Parfait never stays out long anyway unless we are going to the park. He likes his comfort, too.”

To prove her words, the dog bounded back to her side, tongue lolling, tail wagging. “What, did you miss me,
mon cher
?” she asked in French.

“You are not truly French, are you?” Harry asked.

Protected by the night, Queenie answered honestly: “No, but Parfait is. And I did spend a lot of time in Paris. Englishwomen and fashion editors seem to think the best styles come from France, so it was expedient to let them believe.” She did not mention Monsieur Lescartes, and Lord Harking did not ask about him, thank goodness. Queenie was so tired of living a lie.

In fact, she was so tired that she yawned.

Apologizing for keeping her so late, Lord Harking led her back into the building. Hellen and Browne sprang apart, and Browne went out to the coach. Hellen went upstairs, where she was spending the night.

Neither Queenie nor Harry had anything to say. The night was over. Their temporary arrangement was done. She half hoped he would kiss her again, but knew he should not, so she held her hand out.

Harry shook it, then blushed in the lantern light for acting so…so like a country clodpole and not like a polished gentleman. He brought her hand to his lips, and held it. “I…”

She shook her head and reclaimed her hand. Whatever he was going to say, whatever offer he would make, Queenie did not want to hear it. “I, too.”

“Then good night, Madame Denise Lescartes, and thank you.”

“
Adieu
, Lord Harking, and
merci
.”

“Goodbye.”

And he was gone.

* * *

How foolish now, by the light of day, to regret that they might never meet again. Such black thoughts were for the night, alone under her covers. Queenie remembered wishing her hero-soldier father would return from the wars, miraculously alive. He would love her and never go away again, she used to hope. Then she would be sad when her wishes never came true.

Silly child. She never had a father.

And she never had a future with Lord Harking, so she was better off without seeing him again. This way she could not be disappointed. Nothing could come of their acquaintance, she had told herself throughout the night when she recalled his kiss, his tender goodbye. Nothing honorable.

Except maybe friendship. Queenie had never had a male friend; her ancient tutor did not count, nor her solicitor nor her French employer. She was not sure such a thing was even possible.

But no, a final farewell was better. She feared his lordship might want more than friendship—or she might want more. Better disappointment now than despair later.

On the other hand, Queenie owed the viscount money. The dinner was by his invitation, but the ball was by their bargain. The price of admission to the dance was minimal, especially for a gentleman of his consequence, but Queenie's pride was substantial. She did not like to be beholden to anyone, especially not a man, not an aristocrat.

Taking the coins to his hotel was tantamount to offering her body. Sending them by messenger might make him think she was pursuing an acquaintance he wished to end, since he would then have to thank her. It might even insult him, since swells seldom spoke of money matters, and the amount was trifling by his standards.

While she was trying to decide what to do, if she did anything at all, Lord Harking himself opened the shop door, sending the bell fixed there to jingling, and her spirits with it.

Harry had not slept well either. After delivering Browne to The Red and the Black, but before seeking his bed at the hotel, Harry had directed his hired coach to Rochelle Poitier's place. He reasoned that a brothel would be doing a lively business after a night of carousal. For all he knew, the woman herself would have been at the ball, seeking new business.

Here was a job he hated, but the sooner he found his brother-in-law, or his diamonds, the sooner Harry could return to his comfortable, satisfying, decent life in the country. The only problem was, that life was beginning to seem confining, staid, and dull the longer he stayed in London. His knew his life was worthwhile and respectable, but now it felt boring, and parts of him were anything but satisfied.

No, he was not about to sate his physical longings with Jack Endicott's cast-off mistress or one of her scantily clad minions. The girls looked weary, used. Some were too young, making him think of Hellen, and some were too old, making him think of his housekeeper. Neither prospect appealed.

Mademoiselle Rochelle Poitier herself was a beautiful woman, tall and lush, with red hair that made a man think of fire and heat. It made Harry think of a fox stalking a rabbit. That avaricious gleam in her eye when she saw a well-dressed gentleman step through her door and heard his title dampened whatever ardor he might have been feeling. And her French was atrocious, limited to a few
oui
's and a
mais non
or two.

The woman could not ignore his lack of interest. Her mouth set in a cold line and her eyes narrowed when he refused her favorite girls. She turned frigid when he turned down her own favors, a boon offered to only the most select of customers. Rochelle had not been rejected since Captain Jack Endicott dismissed her as his gaming den's hostess and his own mistress. She had not liked it then, and she did not like it now. She forgot her French and she forgot her lady-like manners.

“Why'd you come here, then, bucko, iffen you were going to be so fussy?”

“Actually, I am looking for a man.”

She slapped him. “This is not that kind of place. I run a respectable house, I do. Take your filthy habits and go—Oh, is that for me?”

Harry had reached into his pocket for his purse. He took out the velvet jeweler's box by mistake. He thought about offering the sapphire pendant to the madam in exchange for information, but she had green eyes. Mean eyes. And his cheek still stung. He reached for a coin instead.

“The man is my brother-in-law and I have a message for him, that is all. Sir John Martin? I heard he patronized your, ah, place of business.”

The coin disappeared down the front of her gown. “He was here a night or two last week, but he didn't pay his shot so I tossed him out. He said he'd be coming into money, but I never saw a farthing of it. Your brass won't cover his bill.”

So Harry handed over another coin. And held out a third. “An address where he might be now?”

Rochelle stared at the coin the way a drowning man looked at a floating log, but she shook her head. “The dirty dish never said where he was going, more's the pity, else I'd go shake my blunt out of him.”

Harry tossed her the coin anyway. “In case you hear from him or see him on the street. I am at the Grand Hotel, and will pay more if you help me find him.”

Rochelle looked at Harry's broad shoulders and calloused hands. “That must be some message you want to give him.”

“You can count on that.”

Harry could not begin to count the number of lesser houses of ill repute in London. He supposed he could eliminate the most exclusive of bordellos if Martin could not pay for a stay at Rochelle Poitier's. Still, he would have to spend days and nights in unsafe districts, handing coins to unsavory whore-mongers. At least it appeared that Martin had not sold the Harking diamonds yet if he was still in town and still below hatches. Most likely the heirlooms were too well documented for reputable establishments, or for those under Bow Street's scrutiny. In his rounds of jewelers, Harry had learned that the gemstones would have to be taken from the settings and recut, which was doable, but only by an expert and at great expense. That maggot Martin had been too stupid to think of the difficulties. If he'd filched a silver candlestick or two from Harking Hall no one would have noticed, any pawn shop would have given him cash, and Harry would not be fishing in fouled water.

He was not casting his line tonight. Not with the memory of Madame Lescartes' sweet, almost innocent-seeming kiss in his mind. Not with the feeling of her still in his arms. He went back to his rooms, hoping for pleasant dreams, but hardly slept enough for that. He tossed and turned, not worrying about how he was to find his brother-in-law in the sinkholes and stews of London, but how he was to see Denise again.

He knew he should not. She had stipulated one night, and made it abundantly clear that she was not interested in any illicit liaisons. Harry was not seeking an affair with a dressmaker, either. Hell, no, not when he'd spent half his life subduing his own base urges. He merely wanted to enjoy her company a bit more, that was all. If he could unravel the riddle of the woman, the who and why and how she came to be what she was, his curiosity would be satisfied, if nothing else was.

A gentleman often sent flowers to the ladies he escorted the previous night. Harry wondered if such rules pertained to dollymops and their dance partners. He was not placing Denise in that category, naturally, but the Cyprian's Ball was not Almack's, and, whatever else she was, Madame Lescartes was not a true lady.

But she might like flowers. She wore some in her hair last night. And he could use a bouquet as an excuse to call in person. No, then he might look too much like a suitor. A note inviting her to the park? Too chancy that she would decline. A stroll through her neighborhood, passing the shop as if by accident? Too transparent.

It would have to be flowers…or the sapphire necklace.

She slapped him.

Damn, weren't his cheeks red enough from the walk and the weather? Or was his face so ugly every woman thought she had to smack it? “You do not understand.”