Touch of a Thief (10 page)

But then again, why should she try to erase that image? If, as Quinn said, no more damage could be done since she was no longer a maiden, why shouldn’t she take her pleasure where she willed?

There was no denying her body’s need, but she’d been raised to believe she was more than her body. There was a hidden part of her. Unique. Precious. Unseen.

But no less real than her body.

If he was unwilling to acknowledge that part of her by letting her know the hidden part of him, her time with Quinn would end as disastrously as her liaison with Neville.

She didn’t think she could bear anything that painful ever again.

Every
window of the classically inspired town house of the British Embassy blazed with light. Quinn alighted from their hired carriage to hand Viola down. The early April wind had turned cold once the sun disappeared. He was glad he’d insisted on the mink-trimmed cloak for her.

“You’ve been exceptionally quiet.”
For a woman
, he added silently as they ascended the steps to the grand double doors. At least she’d stopped trying to pry into his past. “Are you troubled by something?”

“Other than by you, you mean?” she said archly.

Quinn made a tsking sound. She’d been different since he emerged from his bath. Pensive. Distracted. “Have a care, my love. People will think we’ve quarreled. Not at all the done thing for newlyweds.”

“Heaven forefend. By all means, we must keep up appearances.” She swept through the open doors. “I shall hang upon your arm as if I were a clinging vine.”

“Promises, promises.”

A liveried footman took Viola’s cloak and Quinn’s greatcoat and hat, and spirited them out of sight.

Quinn handed his invitation to the butler, who ushered them up to the first floor parlor where the assembled guests mingled in tight knots scattered about the room prior to dinner being served.

“I expected opulence,” Viola murmured, “but this room is clearly designed to overawe.”

Furnished in the French style, it was ornate without being fussy, the lines of the chairs and occasional tables cleaner than their English counterparts.

“The gilt on the furniture alone might feed a small English town for a year,” she said.

“And an Indian one for two,” Quinn returned, pleased that their thoughts traveled along the same paths.

“Oh, I say, young Ashford! Is that you?” Lady Wimbly waddled across the room toward them, her long-suffering husband in tow. The couple lived near his father’s country estate and had known Quinn since he was in short pants.

“Here we are on holiday in France and whom should we see but our neighbor.” Lady Wimbly fluttered her fan with such vigor, Quinn felt his forelock lift in the breeze. “Imagine that. They do say it’s a small world, don’t they? Of course, they do. So you’re back from India now, I collect.” She lifted her lorgnette and eyed Viola through the lenses. “And who might this be?”

Quinn introduced her to them as his new bride.

“Preston? Lady Viola Preston? Oh, I say, you knew her father, didn’t you, Wimbly?” She poked her husband with her round elbow. Apparently, or perhaps fortunately, Lord Wimbly was hard of hearing. Lady
W
raised her voice. “Eustace Preston, Earl of Meade, what? You knew him at Oxford, didn’t you, Wimbly.”

“Why, yes, I remember when he and—”

“So sorry for your loss, dear.” The lady patted Viola’s arm in sympathy while she trampled on her husband’s attempt to join the conversation and hurried on, blithely unaware she’d done it. “And may I say I deplore the straits in which your cousin left you and your mother. It was badly done. Badly done, indeed.”

Apparently there was no aspect of life among the ton that went unexamined by Lady Wimbly.

“But now that you’re Lady Ashford, no doubt your new husband will do for your family what your cousin wouldn’t, eh, what? More shame on him, too. They do say ‘All’s well that ends well,’ don’t they? Of course, they do.” She rapped Quinn’s forearm with her fan. “My dear boy, it was bad of you not to invite us to your wedding.”

“Forgive me. It was something of a whirlwind courtship,” Quinn improvised, enjoying the excuse to slip a hand around Viola’s waist and draw her closer to him. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “Once I met this lovely lady, I couldn’t wait another moment. I confess I convinced her to elope. First, it was off to Gretna Green and now for our honeymoon, we’ve fled to France.”

“Fled?” Lady Wimbly seized upon the word. “So I take it your father is unaware of this . . . ahem . . . happy turn of events.”

That was a complication he hadn’t foreseen. He should have bitten his tongue before starting down that road.

“Blissfully unaware.” Quinn winked at her. “And I rather hope he continues thusly for a good long while. If you’re planning to go Home soon, do let me be the one to tell him, won’t you?”

Lord Wimbly promised to keep their secret. Lady Wimbly waved to someone across the room whom she’d not yet greeted and begged to be excused.

As the worthy matron duck-footed her way toward her next conversational victims with Lord Wimbly in her wake, Quinn leaned down to whisper to Viola. “I fear Lady Wimbly has no intention of keeping our oh-so-delicious secret.”

“It hardly matters since not a word about our matrimonial bliss is true.”

Viola hadn’t counted on meeting anyone she knew in France. She certainly hadn’t expected Quinn to spin such a fanciful tale about their elopement. Word of her exploits would circulate throughout the ton, and once it became known she and Lieutenant Quinn weren’t actually married, she might as well become some well-heeled gentleman’s mistress and be done with feigning respectability entirely. No decent door would be open to her.

Quinn didn’t seem to realize the gravity of her situation. “You look pale.” His dark brows beetled with concern. “Are you all right?”

As all right as a ruined woman can possibly be.

There was no point in making a scene, but she couldn’t resist whispering through clenched teeth, “You ought not to have used my real maiden name when you introduced me. For all the Wimblys knew, I might have been anyone. You could have told them we met on the boat home from India.”

Why hadn’t she thought to construct a workable alias and school him on it ahead of time? Too distracted by her new wardrobe and glimpses of Greydon Quinn without one, she supposed.

“How could I give you a false name?” He cast her a puzzled frown. “The ton is really a very small world, even abroad. There may be someone here who already knows you. We’d fool no one.”

“We certainly won’t now.” Her strained smile hurt her face. “You’re right about Lady Wimbly. She’s not the sort to keep a secret. The whole ton will know we’re larking about the Continent together.”

“And?”

“What do you think will happen to me when it’s noised about that we are not really married?”

“Oh.”

“A light dawns.” Men never had to worry about their reputations. In fact, his would probably be enhanced by the peccadillo. There was no justice in the world.

“Let me get you a cup of tea,” Quinn said as he settled her on a chair near the window. “That’s the ticket.”

As if tea would help.

As soon as he was gone, she stood and looked out the window. Her mother would hear about it. People who’d avoided the dowager countess since she fell into poverty would make a beeline to their humble town house door to make sure she knew what her daughter was up to on the Continent.

Things couldn’t be worse.

“Viola Preston, is that you?”

She was wrong. She recognized that voice. Things were definitely worse.

She pasted a smile on her face and turned around, extending her hand to him. “Neville, how nice to see you. Or are you Lord Sudbury by now?”

“No, and I may never be.” Neville kissed the back of her hand and smiled the devastating smile that had once overturned her world. “My uncle the marquis has married again. His nurse, no less, and gotten the woman with child to boot.” His smile turned wicked and Viola’s belly did a flip out of old habit. “Of course, the events may have occurred in a somewhat different order, but if the brat is a boy, I shall have to remain simple Neville Beauchamp.”

He hadn’t changed a bit. And he was anything but simple. He’d certainly complicated her life to shreds. Tall, well-favored, his curly blond hair rampant over his golden head, Neville was as strikingly handsome as the day he’d seduced her out of her maidenhead.

He leaned toward her and whispered, “Who’d have thought the randy old goat still had it in him?”

Her lips twitched in spite of herself. Neville was always amusing, always dancing on the wrong side of respectable. It was part of his charm.

“What are you doing in Paris?” she asked.

“I’m the ambassador’s secretary. Lord Cowley’s right hand, as it were.” He leaned a hand on the wall behind her, trapping her with his body and lowered his voice. “You look marvelous, Viola. More lovely than I remembered. And I remember quite a lot.”

“Neville, please.” Her cheeks were so hot, she knew her face must be scarlet.

“Where are you staying? We must meet. I can get away tomorrow afternoon if—”

“Here you are, love.” Quinn appeared behind Neville and stepped around him smoothly, shouldering him out of the way. He handed a cup of tea to Viola.

“Pardon me, old boy.” He turned back to Neville who stutterstepped back a pace. “Didn’t see you there.”

Quinn put a possessive arm around Viola’s waist and bared his teeth at Neville. No one would mistake the expression for a smile. “Who’s this, darling?”

Viola swallowed hard and hoped her voice wouldn’t quaver. “You were right. I did meet someone I know here. Neville Beauchamp. Neville, may I present—”

“Lord Ashford.” He extended his hand to Neville, who cringed at Quinn’s grip. “The lady’s husband. And how is it you know my wife?”

“As her friend. Her very old friend,” Neville said, trying to wring his hand free with limited success.

“And what’s an old friend doing in Paris?”

“He’s the ambassador’s secretary,” Viola put in.

“Ah! Well, no doubt Lord Cowley needs someone to open his mail and run errands. You appear marginally qualified for that post.” Quinn offered his arm to Viola. “Come, dear. They’re opening the door to the dining room.”

Neville started to follow them.

“You’re coming too?” Quinn turned back to him. “Does Cowley allow the help to dine with guests?”

Neville blinked in surprise. “I’m not the help.”

“No doubt that’s true. You’re probably very little help. Still, very enlightened of the ambassador. I’ll tell him so when I see him.” Quinn pulled Viola close and escorted her toward the dining room. “I thought you didn’t expect to see anyone you knew here.”

“I didn’t. Least of all, Neville.”

“Neville, is it? Not Mr. Beauchamp? Must be a rather close old friend.”

“I suppose you could say that. We were once engaged.”

Quinn stopped mid-stride. “So that’s the cad.”

“Yes, but he’s down on his luck now. I know what that’s like. I don’t have it in me to hate him.” At least when Neville broke it off with her, he’d tried to be honorable. He let her put about the story that she’d changed her mind and rejected him, so her reputation would remain untainted by their broken engagement. Neville wasn’t a bad sort. He was just a greedy sort and Viola no longer represented gain. She leaned toward Quinn. “Why were you so unpleasant to him before you even knew who he was?”

Quinn started walking toward the long dining table again. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“Oh? What way was that?”

“Like you were the last strawberry tart on the plate and he hadn’t eaten in weeks.”

Formal dinner parties were a ridiculous bore. Especially if one was stuck with Lady Wimbly at one’s side. The only bright spot for Quinn was that, like the unfortunate Lord Wimbly, he wasn’t required to contribute much to the conversation.

Viola on the other hand was seated between the ambassador and his secretary, Neville Beauchamp. Every time Quinn looked in their direction, the man was leaning toward her, trying to engage her in conversation.

The thought of Viola and him . . . Quinn suspected his blood had turned to molten lava.

“Neville Beauchamp, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Lady Wimbly was saying. “If memory serves, he was heir apparent to Lord Sudbury with bright prospects until his uncle married again quite unexpectedly. Ah, well . . . they do say one mustn’t count one’s chickens before they’re hatched, don’t they? Of course, they do.”

Quinn grunted noncommittally and sawed at his beef. It was a tad stringy and overdone for his taste.

“I believe he and your new wife were quite attached at one ti—”

“Lady Wimbly, perhaps you can tell me if there are any here who have recently returned from India,” Quinn interrupted, taking a page from her book. If he couldn’t quiet her gossiping tongue, he could at least steer her prattle into something useful. “Since I spent more than a dozen years there, I’m always interested in comparing experiences with others who’ve lived in the East.”

“Why, yes, now that you mention it, I believe a gentleman recently turned up.” Lady W scooted her chair closer to Quinn and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “A Mr. Penobscot, Henry Penobscot. He’s seated next to Wimbly on the left. But I greatly fear you won’t get much out of him. Silent as the grave, that one.”

“Oh?”

“He arrived in Paris the same day Wimbly and I did and he wouldn’t speak so much as a word to us while we all waited in the anteroom to see the ambassador.” She chewed a sauce-laden green bean, her eyes suddenly thoughtful. “He had a diplomatic pouch attached to his wrist. Attached, I mean, with a metal cuff. I’ve never seen the like, have you? Must have been most important correspondence.”