spoke with the others, even the earl on occasion. But, using her old skills, she listened to him almost exclusively, and watched.
She noticed interesting things.
As the evening progressed and dinner became tea, then more whiskey for the gentlemen, his gaze upon Mr. Yale altered. At first it grew watchful. Then concerned. Mr. Yale exhibited no change except perhaps a more relaxed air as he sipped his spirits.
Emily and Mr. Milch produced a dish of brandy with raisins floating in it. The concoction was set aflame and a game of snapdragon ensued during which Kitty burned two fingertips and the earl did not take part but seemed unusually pensive, if such a man could be said to think deeply.
Kitty felt like a spy, or what she imagined a spy might feel like. But this time no sticky discomfort accompanied her covert attentiveness, no niggling sense that this activity did not respect her, that she pursued her basest urges in such an endeavor.
It seemed remarkable that lust did not now rouse the guilt that vengeance once had.
Or perhaps not merely lust.
As he had three years ago, now he shifted his regard to her through the fire-lit chamber, his eyes dark with a mystery that should not be there, but still she saw it. She feared lust did not suffice to explain her feelings, which did not make any sense at all; she knew nothing of him.
From his spot on the floor between the dogs, a grinning Ned set bow to strings, fiddle trapped between chin and shoulder. With a glass of wine and the earl’s gaze warming her blood, Kitty smiled.
Sunk in a soft chair, she felt like a pampered cat curled up before the fire being watched by a dog. A dog with unclear intentions and a gorgeously firm jaw.
“Aha!” Mr. Cox exclaimed. “We shall have music to celebrate the birth of Our Lord and Savior tonight. And singing. We must have singing.” His bright blue eyes smiled, but with an odd glitter that seemed unnatural as they darted back and forth between her and the earl.
“Will ye sing for us, Lady Kath’rine?” the Scot said.
“She never sings.” Emily had eschewed spirits tonight, and now seemed intent upon her book but happy enough in company.
“She did at one time, lass. Like a lark.”
Kitty could say nothing. That night at the masquerade ball after turning off Lambert, she had sung.
He stood beside her turning pages as she played, whispering that she would regret her decision and come back to him eventually. After that night, she had not been able to sing again.
Emily poked her nose up. “Why don’t you sing now, then?”
“I haven’t the feeling for it any longer.”
“It does not require feeling, Kitty, only the proper vocal apparatus and a suitable chest cavity.”
“I am continually astounded at the accomplishments of ladies,” Mr. Cox put in, but again an odd note tinted his voice. “They sing, dance, paint with watercolors, speak French and Italian, embroider, and perform all number of domestic tasks. Why, if I had a wife I would give her roses and chocolates every day in thanks for such bounteous talent and effort.”
“Rather expensive habit that would become,” Mr. Yale said, unwrapping a pack of cards.
Cox chuckled, peculiarly brittle. “Ah, but she would deserve it.” His gaze darted to the earl, then away.
“Why don’t you have a wife, Mr. Cox?” Emily asked. “You must be thirty. Don’t tradesmen like yourself seek early in their careers to marry daughters of impoverished nobles and assure a connection within society that can be useful to their business interests?”
Mr. Yale smiled with undisguised pleasure.
Kitty sat forward. “What my friend means to say—”
“It’s quite all right, Lady Katherine. I don’t mind it at all, and I suspect she has the right of it.” Mr.
Cox darted another glance across the parlor. “I’ve been traveling in the Americas for several years now and haven’t had the opportunity to look about me for a suitable life’s partner.”
Emily’s brow beetled. “Lord Blackwood, you were married, were you not? You even have a son.”
Kitty’s heart tripped.
“Aye.”
“What was marriage like?”
In the silence the cards cracked as Mr. Yale’s fingers split them, and the fire snapped.
“I mean to say, my father wishes me to marry shortly and I haven’t the taste for it at all.” Emily’s pretty face seemed so sincere. Kitty could not rescue her, or the earl. She wanted too much to hear his response. “I think it might be unexceptionable to be married to a person one liked. But I wonder what it would be like to be wed to a person one does not care for.”
“A wretched stew, I should say.” Mr. Yale stacked the cards.
Emily set her book down. “I should too.”
Kitty could not bear it that her friend’s pretty green eyes had dimmed.
“I believe that is the first time I have heard the two of you agree on anything.” She forced a smile.
“How lovely. Just in time for Christmas.”
Mr. Yale bowed. “Your servant, ma’am.”
Emily did not reply. Kitty wrapped her fingers around her hand.
“Who wants a game?” Mr. Yale brandished the deck.
“It is Christmas, sir,” Emily said in a rather dull voice. “Kitty, you will mind it, won’t you, gambling tonight?”
“Not at all. I shall play happily.” Not happily. But Emily needed distraction from her worries.
“Would you like me to go retrieve your purse so that you can join us?”
“No. I shall do so, and yours as well.” She stood and went up the stairs.
“Cox, will you make our fourth?” Mr. Yale stood.
“Afraid I’m done in for the night, sir. What of my lord? I suspect he plays well.” Again that strangely anxious glint directed at the earl.
Mr. Yale scoffed, moving into the dining area. “Too well. I’d rather have a groat in my pocket at the end of the evening.” He arranged the chairs about the table. “But if it must be.”
“Grand.” Mr. Cox bowed. “My lady, gentlemen, I bid you a fine Christmas.”
He went to the steps quite swiftly and up, as though in a hurry.
Kitty frowned—Emily was still above, and alone. She moved to follow him. The earl lifted a hand to stay her and set his foot to the stair. Emily appeared on the landing just as Mr. Cox reached it. He smiled, this time appreciatively.
“Good night, Lady Marie Antoine.”
She nodded and they passed each other. Lord Blackwood came off the step and Kitty released a breath.
Emily went to the playing table and set their purses on it. “I would like Lord Blackwood as my partner.”
“A surprise, to be sure,” Mr. Yale murmured.
“I shall refuse to play if the two of you continue in this manner.”
“Kitty,” Emily said, “Lord Blackwood is widely accounted an extraordinarily fine card player.
Even I know that. Yet I have never heard a word said about Mr. Yale’s playing abilities. It would be foolish not to wish to partner the earl.”
“Ma thanks, maleddy,” he said with a grin, but his gaze flickered again to the stair.
Kitty sank into the chair beside her friend, her knees like water. She mustn’t think it meant anything. A true gentleman would protect ladies even if they were not his to protect by any right other than sheer mishap upon the snowy road. But she had not known he was a true gentleman, certainly not by the way he kissed her.
“Well there’s a sight I like.” Mr. Milch entered from the kitchen, eyes bleary. “Ned, your mother’s wanting you home.” The boy popped up and the innkeeper lifted a thick hand. “Happy Christmas, milords and ladies. My Gert sends her wishes as well.” He retreated through the door.
“See you in the morning, then, gov’nor?” The boy’s toothy grin flashed up at the earl.
The nobleman laid his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “A’m coonting oan it, lad. Nou be aff wi’ ye.”
Ned scurried into the kitchen and the door swung shut.
