“—returned from the East Indies—”
“—two years abroad—”
“—could not bear to remain after his bride’s tragic drowning—”
“—infant son left motherless—”
“—a veritable beauty—”
“—those Scots are tremendously loyal—”
“—vowed to never again marry—”
Louis XIV kissed Cleopatra’s hand and sauntered off, leaving Kitty with an unimpeded view of the doorway. Garbed in homespun, a limp kerchief tied about his neck, a crooked staff in hand, and a beard that looked as though it were actually growing from his cheeks rather than pasted on, he clearly meant to pass himself off as a shepherd. At his side stood an enormous dog, shaggy quite like its master, and gray.
The ladies that surrounded him, however, paid no heed to the beast. Hanging upon his arm, Queen Isabella of Spain batted her eyelids and Little Miss Muffet appeared right at home dimpling up at the man who, beneath his whiskers, was not unattractive.
Quite the opposite.
Kitty dragged her attention away. “Are you acquainted with him, then?”
“He and your brother, Alexander, hunted together at Beaufort years ago. Why, my dear? Would you like an introduction?” The dowager purloined a glass of champagne from a passing footman with all elegance, but her eyes narrowed.
“And risk covering my gown in dog hair? Good heavens, no.”
“Kitty, I am your mother. I have seen you sing at the top of your lungs while dancing through puddles. This hauteur you have lately adopted does not impress me.”
“Forgive me, Mama.” Kitty lowered her lashes. The hauteur had, however, saved Kitty from a great deal of pain. Pretending hauteur, she allowed herself to nearly believe she did not care about the ever-decreasing invitations and calls, the cuts direct, the occasional slip on the shoulder. “Naturally I meant to say ‘Please do make me an introduction, for I am hanging out for an unkempt gentleman with whiskers the length of Piccadilly to sit at my feet and recite poetry about his sheep.’ ”
“Don’t be vulgar, dear. The poor man is in costume, as we all are.”
As they all were. Kitty most especially. A costume that had nothing to do with her Athenian dress. Music cavorted about the overheated chamber, twining into Kitty’s senses like the two glasses of wine she had already taken. Foolishly. She was not here to imbibe, or even to enjoy, and certainly not to indecorously ogle a barbaric Scottish lord.
She had a project to see to.
As at every society event, she sought out Lambert in the crowd. He lounged against a pilaster, an open box of snuff on his palm, his wrist draped with frothy lace suitable to his Shakespearean persona.
“Mama, will you go to the card room tonight?” She could never bear playing toady to Lambert with her mother nearby.
“No introduction to Lord Blackwood, then?”
“Mama.”
“Katherine, you are an unrepentant snob.” She touched Kitty’s chin with two fingertips and smiled gently. “But you are still my dear girl.”
Her dear girl. At moments like this, Kitty could almost believe her mother did not know the truth of her lost virtue. At moments like this she longed quite desperately to throw herself into her mother’s arms and wish that it all go back to the way it was before, when her heart was still hopeful and not already weary from the wicked game she now played.
The dowager released her. “Now I shall be off. Chance and Drake each took a hundred guineas from me last week and I intend to win it all back. Kiss my cheek for luck.”
“I will join you shortly.” Kitty watched her mother go in a cascade of skirts, then turned to her quarry.
Lambert met her gaze. His high, aristocratic brow and burnished bronze hair caught the candlelight dramatically. But two years had passed since the sight of him afforded her any emotion but determination—since he had taken her innocence and not offered his name in return—since he had broken her heart and roused her eternal ire.
She went toward him.
“Quite a bit of skin showing tonight, my dear.” His voice was a thin drawl. “You must be chilled. Come to have a bit of warming up, have you?” He sniffed tobacco from the back of his hand.
“You are ever so droll, my lord.” Her unfaltering smile masked the bile in her throat. She had once admired this display of aristocratic ignobility, a na?ve girl seeking love from the first gentleman who paid attention to her. Now she only sought information, the sort that a vain, proud man in his cups occasionally let slip when she cajoled him sufficiently, pretending continued adoration in the face of his teasing.
That pretense, however, had excellent effect. Through months of painstaking observation, Kitty had discovered that Lord Lambert Poole practiced politics quite outside the bounds of legal government. Once she’d found papers in his waistcoat with names of ministry officials and figures, numbers with pound markings. She required little more information to make his life in society quite uncomfortable were she to reveal him.
But heat gathered between her exposed shoulders, and a prickly discomfort. Where plotting revenge had once seemed so sweet, now it chafed. And within her, the spirit of the girl who had sung at the top of her lungs while dashing through puddles wished to sing instead of weep. Tonight she did not care for hanging on his sleeve and playing her secret game, not even to further her goal.
“Come on, Kit.” His gaze slipped along her bodice. “There’s bound to be a dark corner somewhere no one’s using yet.”
She suppressed a shudder. “Of course I deserve that.”
“Precedent, my dear.”
She forced herself to step closer. “I have told you before, I—”
Something swished against her hip, a mass of gray fur, and she jolted aside. A steadying hand came around her bare arm.
“Thare nou, lass. Tis anely a dug.” A warm voice, and deep. Wonderfully warm and deep like his skin against hers, that made her insides tickle.
But tickling insides notwithstanding, Kitty’s tastes tended decidedly toward men who combed their hair. A thin white streak ran through Lord Blackwood’s, from his temple tangled amidst the overly long, dark auburn locks. And beneath the careless thatch across his brow he had very beautiful eyes.
“Lady Katherine.” Lambert’s drawl interrupted her bemusement. “I present to you the Earl of Blackwood, lately returned from the East Indies. Blackwood, this is Savege’s sister.”
“Ma’am.” He nodded by way of bowing, she supposed.
Drawing her arm from his hold, she curtsied. “I do not mind the dog, my lord. But—” She gestured toward his costume. “—isn’t it rather large for chasing sheep about? I daresay wolves would suit it better.”
“Aye, maleddy. But things be no always whit thay seem.”
Now she could not help but stare. Behind the beautifully dark, hooded eyes, something glinted. A hint of steel.
Then, like a thorough barbarian, without another word he moved away.
But she must be a little drunk after all; she followed him with her gaze.
In the shadows at the edge of the ballroom, a satyr with a matted chest of hair and a hand wrapped around a half-filled goblet leered over a maid—not a costumed guest but an actual maid. A tray of glasses weighed down her narrow shoulders. The satyr pawed. The girl backed into the wall, using her dish as a shield.
Lord Blackwood stepped casually between the two.