The Black Cat (6 page)

He moved toward her and found them parting, almost in readiness for the inevitable. In spite of his better, more chivalrous intentions, he found himself drawn to them, tasting, testing,
loving
again. They were wet with innocence, provocative beyond imagination. They held him captive in their thrall and he was a willing prisoner. Melinda felt the storm again, the lightning, the flashes of light, the burning, burning from her depths. . . . The horses were restive, but neither party to this singular impropriety appeared to care.

Despite her deep annoyance at being caught at such a disadvantage, Miss St. Jardine felt her arms creeping around that of the overbearing, dreadfully autocratic, and
devastatingly
attractive rogue of the first stare. Not just creeping, but actively pulling, wantonly clinging. He appeared not to mind this circumstance, for his
own
hands crept around her tiny waist as he applied himself with passion to the fruits of her rosy lips.

For several moments the third Earl of Camden and the gypsy Melinda remained oblivious to their public surroundings. Neither noticed a solitary black cat leap from my lord's saddle and perch in the beech tree. If they had, they would have been startled to note the gleam of triumph that sparked from shadowy emerald eyes. Neither noticed footsteps upon the path or the cheeky calls of two sweepers privy to their embrace.

Only the distinct clearing of a throat forced them to finally, reluctantly, take stock. A man in sensible brogues and an expensive, if unstylish, greatcoat of dark serge looked both embarrassed and intrigued to find his employer thus engaged. The earl grinned impishly at the man on horseback, who'd evidently entered the park at a sedate pace and come by Lord Santana purely as a matter of chance.

“Daniel! I had no idea you were fond of exercise!”

Mr. Pelliat cast an appreciative glance at the maiden, then frowned a little at his employer.

“I find town life can lead to a deal of lethargy, sir! I like to exercise Clarence at least once a week.”

There was an uncomfortable pause as the earl remembered he could not introduce the lady. Since he had not the pleasure of her name, the exercise would be fatuous—not to say decidedly embarrassing—in the extreme. He noticed that she was fiddling with the bridle and wondered if she meant to make a bolt for it. Well she couldn't really, for she still needed a leg up.

Melinda was just thinking exactly those thoughts. A faint blush suffused her face as she realised the compromising position in which she had been discovered. Well, Jane had warned her and she was right. She was ruined.

The earl sensed some of these thoughts. Quietly, he helped her to mount. She could smell his scent masculine and clean and as intoxicating as mead on a wintry day. He was smiling, though heaven knew, he had no rhyme or reason or even
right
to do so. She stared at him reproachfully, though no words were uttered.

The moment was too intense, too full of joy and sadness, hope and futility, to be translated into any commonplace verbiage. Then, as she fiddled with the restless beast's dark hidebound reins, she believed her ears were deceiving her. The delicious, masculine lips were definitely moving. She
must
be hearing him aright!

“Daniel, may I present to you my affianced bride?” Camden's words were cool and smooth. He hoped the appellation would at once save the lady's blushes and spare him the necessity of uttering her name.

In the event, it did both. Mr. Pelliat was too stunned at the revelation to inquire any further.

Melinda, it must be said, did not even
think
that the stranger was not possessed of her name or ancestry. She merely blinked in stunned disbelief. The earl grinned at her reaction. He would have to, he could see, kiss her adorable little lips shut again.

Then the world, for both of them, was shattered.

“Your lordship, this cannot be! You are aware—that is, I have explained—that is. . . . My lord, there is no getting around it. I have checked and double-checked. Ethically speaking, your lordship, you are already betrothed.”

Miss Melinda St. Jardine felt ready, this time, to swoon in earnest. She teetered a little in the saddle, feeling unaccountably foolish and more than a little humiliated.

When the magnificent man she had
unthinkingly
flung her heart to did not deny the charge, she knew it to be true.

A quick look into his sardonic brown eyes confirmed the fact. Obviously, he had a short memory. She wondered what rosy beauty could proudly count him as hers. It didn't matter. All that mattered was that it was not
her.
He had trifled with her, aroused strange passions in her, and now
she,
at least, would pay the price. She remembered her own arranged betrothal and straightened up with pride.

If she could not have her heart's desire, then at least she would fulfill the terms of her grandfather's will. If it hurt the insufferable man at least a pinprick, it would be worth it. Fury overtook softer reason. She steeled her heart. The marquis would have been proud of her. She owed him
that
much, at least.

No more than a moment had elapsed, but the moment was sufficient. She straightened herself up and announced, in ringing tones that she, too, was similarly circumstanced. With a brief crack of the whip and a curt nod of the head to Pelliat, she galloped across the verdant green grass farther than even the earl's keen eyes could discern. He would have been surprised to learn that keener eyes than his followed the galloping figure long after he had turned in polite but unanimated discussion with the lawyer. Venus, it should be noted, did not blink once.

 

 

“Beg pardon?” Vivid eyes blazed in disbelief. The lawyer cleared his throat nervously. “Madam, it is monstrous but I have it on the best authority!”

“And what authority may that be, pray?” Melinda was always at her haughtiest when troubled.

“I was sent the communication through his lordship's own man at law. He is, I assure you, a most eminent colleague. I cannot think that he has not outlined the implications to his lordship.”

The elegant grandfather clock chimed the hour, but Melinda hardly heard it. She was regarding her man of law with interest.

“Is he aware of the settlements?”

“I believe he is, Miss St. Jardine.”

“Then the man has whistled away a fortune.” Her tone was disbelieving.

“In truth he has, but I believe I may account for that, ma'am.”

“How so?”

“Lord Santana is one of the wealthiest men in all England, Miss St. Jardine. He can afford to be . . .” The lawyer cleared his throat awkwardly. He had been about to make a most miserable blunder.

Miss St. Jardine, astute beyond her years, understood at once.

“Choosy, you mean?”

The man opened his mouth to think of some wild explanation, then gave it up as hopeless. He nodded.

Melinda stared at him thoughtfully. “May I see the letter?”

Mr. Pendleton shrugged. If the cursedly abrupt missive would serve to convince her, so be it.

Melinda trembled as she read the note. He was a beast, this Camden! To write so scathingly of someone he had never met, to impute the worst of motives to someone he knew nothing of! When it was
he
who had played for her,
he
who had won her!

“Thank you, Mr. Pendleton. I believe you have done all you can on my behalf. I appreciate your interest in this matter, but shall now proceed as I feel fit.”

The old man nodded in agreement. Better the lass make other plans for herself than throwing her cap at windmills. My lord, as everyone knew, was not for sale.

“I refuse to budge, Jane, until I am bathed in essences of rose oil and lavender.”

“And so you shall be, Miss Melinda, so you shall be! You will be wanting to make your curtsy to the new marquis and his bride with every advantage on your side. Mind you, you might just as well bathe in pig swill, for even
then
you shall be at an advantage!”

“What an unkind thing to say, Jane!” Melinda, however, could not suppress a small chuckle at this image, despite her own woes.

“Well it be true, ma‘am, and you know I don't hold for roundaboutation! Their lord- and ladyships arrived last night they did and it was not a sovereign dished out to anyone it was! There was Peggy drivin' ‘erself 'alf balmy gettin' together a cold collation of Westphalian ham, roast fowl, a seasoned lamb, and a decoction of truffles and new peas, and all scoffed down it was without so much as a common thankee! My lord commented on the burgundy in unfavourable terms, and beggin' yer pardon, ma‘am, you know it was only the best for yer grandfather and Cunningham not one to water down the spirits, like, so what the new lord can have agin it I cannot be sayin' and that be fact!”

“Perhaps he is accustomed to the wines of court. He has stopped a long while in Paris, I hear.”

“Very likely! Poor Mrs. Darren is in a fair flutter because she has it of Smithers that my lord intends installing some Frenchified cook in her place!” Jane's bosom heaved in indignation. “Fine thing it be when the Marquis of Fotheringham becomes frogified. I dessay his lor‘ship—God rest 'is soul—will turn in ‘is grave! Lord Peter was always a wastrel and a ne'er-do-well. Better thing for all of us if Lord 'Enry—your dad—was born the first.”

“If he had, like as not he would not have been permitted to marry my mother, Jane! A marquis and a gypsy woman? I think not. As it
was,
the wedding was a nine day's wonder. Have done bemoaning the past. One cannot cry over spilt milk, Jane, and at least
I
have the advantage of a fortune!”

“Be careful, ma'am! I don't believe Lord Peter will let you keep it without a fight.”

“He has all that was entailed to him and no choice besides. My grandfather was most specific.”

“Which is why he entrusted you to Lord Santana's care. No need to glare at me, ma'am. The truth be the truth and that is all there is to it. It is as plain as a pikestaff the marquis expected some havey-cavey goings-on. As a woman alone you are easier game than as the Countess of Camden. Makes sense like.”

“And what if the earl has some
other
chattel in mind for his countess?” Melinda tried to keep the bitterness from her voice, but found the effort taxing.

“Then he is bird witted and undeserving of you! Come, come, Miss Melinda! I have known you only a year but a right pleasure it has been! You have character, me love—you are not the sort to let a little setback get the worst of yer! If me lord wanted you leg shackled to Camden, no doubt ‘e was in the rights of it! The man ain't married—see if you can nabble 'im then!”

“Nabble? Nabble? A little distasteful, Jane!” Melinda chewed her lip. Her options were closing in on her. It was time to set aside gypsy ways—ancient nomadic beliefs, spiritual guidance, visions of destiny. The only man she had ever dreamed of was not to be hers.

Well, she would make the man she
was
fated for take his due. She had been lost in a game of cards—well, the player would collect his earnings. That was the unwritten law in such matters of honour, and at all costs, since her heart was already lost, she would do as Fotheringham bade. Passion for peace. Not an equal swap, perhaps, but it was the duty her birth demanded. Laura Rose demanded it, too.

Besides, the sooner she could escape Lord Peter battening on her for finances the better. Let him
have
Dewhurst Manor. She would be glad to be quit of it under a new master.

But how to change the earl's mind? If he were presented to her in society he would no doubt avoid her like the plague. She set aside the thought that even if he
were
scrupulously polite,
she
would not be able to resist giving him the crushing set down his curt note deserved.

She hardly noticed Jane withdraw from her chamber, leaving a freshly pressed sprig muslin of cornflower blue draped invitingly over the sofa. Her thoughts were elsewhere entirely. By the time she'd collected herself enough to don the gown, darkness had crept in stealthily and the long wax candles needed lighting. In the distance she heard the dinner gong sounding. The marquis and marchioness were no doubt taking up their places.

Miss St. Jardine's head spun with sudden, intoxicating excitement. It was not the rose oil and the lavender that was causing this heady sensation—nor was it the prospect of meeting with her prosy, sadly proper relatives in law. Her pulses were racing because the gypsy in her was rising to the fore.

She had a plan and it would either be her making or her total undoing. The redoubtable Miss St. Jardine would be casting off her silks for a while. Like a chameleon, she was going to slip deliciously into her alter ego, transforming herself from languid mistress to lowly maidservant. The gamble, she knew, was not without risk.

The third Earl of Camden rather uncharacteristically dropped the sauce bowl. Though a series of minions instantly rectified the matter, the reason for his folly hardly moved. Instead, she clutched convulsively at the dish she was cleaning and stared at the nobleman as if transfixed.

“It is you!” Santana said the words matter-of-factly, but it seemed to him that his entire being was shaken to the core. The serving maid turned inquiring eyes at him. They were blank and unrecognising.

Mistress Farrow laid down the tureen of soup she was preparing for the lackey's disposal upstairs. The shock of seeing his lordship grace his own kitchens was quite oversetting, particularly to one slightly past her prime. She cast a quick look at the new scullery hand and noticed that the excellent Sevres china was perilously close to being crushed against her ribs. The earl was staring at the hired help strangely. Such goings-on in her kitchen!

“Is there ought amiss my lord? The girl came with excellent fine references but if you are not satisfied. . .”

A slow smile crossed Guy Santana's face. He could not make head or tail of what was happening, but he was perfectly certain upon one point. He was satisfied.
Well
satisfied.

“Not at all, Mistress Farrow. I trust your judgment entirely. And what did you say the girl's name was?”

“Dwight, my lord.”

“Dwight? Unusual name, that. Set that dish down, Dwight. I do believe it is an heirloom and I shall be very sorry to see it cracked.”

The girl cast luminous, disbelieving eyes at his familiar and—yes, she admitted it to herself—beloved features. How could this be? What impossible quirk of fate caused
this
man of all others to be standing in the Earl of Camden's kitchens for all the world as though he owned them?

“I
do
own them.”

The words were quietly sardonic and Melinda felt her face flushing at the impertinent, quizzical manner he had stripped bare her thoughts. That he revealed them to her was ominous. Was he challenging her? She thought so, for his eyes were twinkling lightheartedly and there was an air of triumph about him that made her certain he understood her heart, if not her motives.

She had better have a care, for this one was blessed with the gypsy sight, gentleman or no. And how did he come to cross her path in this ridiculous manner? The very man she had firmly forsworn to appear
here
in the place she least expected it. She shivered.

Was destiny a more unfathomable tie than she had given it credit for? Did it refuse to be cheated so strongly that the passionate man of her dreams refused to be extinguished by reason and calculated logic?

The Marquis of Fotheringham—her noble grandfather—had wished her to marry my Lord Santana. Though the notion stuck in her gullet, she'd determined to do just that. A sneak preview through the kitchens seemed like an excellent thing, for a man's reputation was often said to hinge more reliably upon what his servants thought than, indeed, upon what all of glittering society thought.

And tonight of all nights, she was to have had her first glimpse of the man who was her intended. Whether she would hold him to his obligation or slip quietly out through the servant's exit was as yet a matter of ignorance. She wanted to bide her time, be canny in her judgments, for though she raged at the brevity and insolence of the note he'd penned to her man of law, he was nevertheless held in
exceptionally
high regard by all who worked for him.

A strange enigma. Melinda licked her lips. She could be reconciled to her fate if the man was kind and generous and not
too
stuffy. She thought of his famed cat and her lips quirked. They would have something in common then, if ever they did finally meet!

“Dwight, be so good as to carry up my tea.”

“Me, milor'?” Melinda slipped into her servant's role with ease. She had ever had the gift of languages, so Santana's suspicions were no more confirmed by her lowly accents than by her ugly scullery mobcap. He vowed to get rid of it at the first opportunity, for it was disastrous upon her head and entirely covered the glorious mane of wild jet hair he knew to lie beneath.

Her unedifying accents neither further enlightened him, nor did they deceive him. The shape of her eyes were too distinctive, too intoxicatingly beautiful to be mistaken. Besides, his masculine impulses were not generally aroused by his house staff. In matters of importance, his instincts were unerring. This, he knew with certainty, was a matter of
singular
importance.

One of his lazy smiles played across the length of his lips. The minx was playing May games with his heart. Well, it was
she
who had entered his domain. He might just as well amuse himself, teach her a lesson, and play a few games of his own. That she would be his bride, in the end, was not in contention. He had not burned for her seemingly forever to have his will thwarted now. Whatever she was—hoyden, angel, lady, or gypsy queen—she had a mark about her that proclaimed her his.

A pox on her origins! She would be the next Countess of Camden or there would be no other. She was gaping at him now, her jaw wide open, stupid incredulity in her eyes. He hid a grin, for the situation was more than faintly amusing, especially as Mistress Farrow was regarding him as a man not quite in full possession of his faculties.

“The footmen, my lord . . .”

“What of them?”

“They
will take up the tray! I daresay Dwight has never seen the inside of a home as splendid as Camden Castle, my lord! She has no livery. . . .”

“Then procure her some!” My lord's tone was unusually autocratic.

Mistress Farrow blinked in bemusement, then nodded doubtfully. “I daresay I could find a few lengths of cambric. . . .”

“Velvet, Mistress Farrow! Black velvet with buttons of silver and laces of emerald green. She shall match Venus, for the shape of her eyes are exactly those of the cat. Had not you noticed?”

Melinda froze in fascinated horror as she was stared at appraisingly by the Camden staff. From the under butler to the lowliest of scrubbing hands, the scrutiny was intense and strangely devoid of amusement. If my lord was mad, his entire staff appeared to be
equally
so. No one so much as
snickered
at his lordship's strange appraisal.

Mistress Farrow, indeed, was relieved to have the resemblance so pointed out. It quite explained, in her mind, his lordship's unusual interest in the third scullery maid. She was too respectable to have anything havey-cavey going on under her roof, but one of my lord's sudden fancies—
that
was different!

If the girl was going to be used as a mascot like Venus, she only hoped she could
stand
the creature. Heaven knew, it had a
villainous
reputation for scratching and hissing. She breathed a sudden sigh. At least
she
wasn't being called upon to look after the beast anymore. Whilst it might rankle that the animal ate
far
too many of her feather-light pastries of salmon and coddled turbot, not to mention its predilection for the finest of her turtle soups, the housekeeper truly bore it no malice.

In truth, she was rather
proud
of Venus, for his lordship's reputation had increased enormously with its quirky introduction to society. The feline was inimitable, too, for when Colonel Marbridge had appeared with a
poodle
upon his lap, he had been laughed out of Lady Jennings's drawing room. A similar fate had occurred to Lady Chichester's canary and Lord Rothbart's sinister fruit-eating bat.
That
had been met with shock and active distaste, with the result that the poor man's invitations to anything other than common squeezes had declined miserably.