Chapter 19

Kit kept her head high,although inside she trembled as so many faces and gazes turned her way. She remembered what Thorne had said about her strength, her bravery…and vowed not to prove him wrong.

“Are ye ready?” he murmured, and she managed a strangled sort of agreement.

With a steadying breath, he led them down the steps to the Stallings ballroom.

She imagined she could hear the whispers behind the fans. She could absolutely see the women shooting daggers with their eyes, gazes darting between Kit and Thorne.

Remembering what Thorne had told her about the matchmaking mamas of Society, she assumed these were women who had hopes of making a match with the devastatingly handsome Duke of Stroken either for themselves or their daughters. They knew he needed to marry, and they wanted their claws in him.

Well tough shite, ladies, Thorne’s mine.

But was he?

Kit lifted her chin even higher, trying to keep her gaze serene.

Yes. Yes he was. Thorne was hers.

And when this was over, when they’d trapped her father and sent him to prison for the horrible things he’d done, then she’d do her best to figure out how to give Thorne the future he deserved. She loved him, and if he still wanted to be with her as much as she ached to belong to him…

Well, then they’d figure it out.

God willing.

“Lass, they’re so fooking jealous.”

She snorted under her breath. “I can see the ladies seething,” she murmured. “If that blonde could, she’d be murdering me on the spot. With her fan.”

“Are ye daft?” When she glanced at him, Thorne was smiling down at her as if she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “They’re jealous of me. Kit, love, ye’re the most exquisite lady in this room.”

Kit’s brows rose at the compliment.

She knew she looked lovely tonight; she’d seen herself in the mirror in Ellie’s room. Her cousin had insisted on helping her prepare for the ball, and Bull had been there to fuss over the dress, making sure every drape was just so. Yes, Kit knew how she looked; she was just as elegant, just as dazzling, as her mother had ever been before stepping on stage.

But just like her mother, her mouth was too wide, her teeth too big, her eyes too wideset. Mother was beautiful, yes, but she was remembered for being striking, not delicate. Kit, looking so much like her, had used that to her advantage when it came to dressing as a man.

The most exquisite lady in the room?

That wasn’t the truth. But the fact that Thorne could say that…the fact he was beaming down at her as if he loved her—

He did.

He did love her.

And she loved him.

Her return smile wasn’t soft, wasn’t delicate. That wasn’t who she was.

“Well, if nothing else, Thorne, at least the ladies will think you’re taken for the evening.”

“Dinnae fash, love, they’re looking at ye more than me.” He affected a high-pitched tone. “Oh, I declare, who is that mystery woman, dancing with Stroken? She’s beautiful, and he’s clearly smitten.”

Her smile turned teasing. “Smitten, Your Grace?”

“Smitten,” he announced firmly, moving her hand from his arm and clasping it in his. “Brilliant idea, to be introduced merely as Miss Katherine Pastorino.” He pulled her closer. “They’ll figure out where they ken that name soon enough, and in the meantime, ye’re far more interesting than the betrothed couple.”

Kit realized he’d maneuvered them toward the dancing. “Have you seen them?”

“Lady Emma is with her mother, and yer father is under that bank of windows.” He inclined his head to the left, smile never faltering. “Shall we dance?”

“So you can maneuver us closer to him?”

“No, love, so I can dance. I’ve been dreaming of having ye in my arms, where everyone can see, for weeks.”

Well, really, how could a girl say no to that?

After all, Thorne was a beautiful dancer, she had to admit.

Kit remembered him telling her of the lessons he’d taken as a child—from instructors of all sorts of dance, from ballet to tumbling. She supposed it would have served him well in his position as Blackrose’s burglar.

He was strength and grace and speed personified, and all she needed to do was hold on.

The joy of the movements, of the freedom, caught in her throat, bubbling from her chest. As Thorne swept her through the final turn, Kit felt her feet leave the ground, and knew she was completely, utterly safe with him.

Her head fell back, and her laughter burst from her lips as the music—played by the orchestra on the dais—crescendoed. She felt the music, the dance, in her very soul.

As Thorne spun her to a halt, she met his eyes once more, giggles still escaping her lips. He was looking at her as if she were a miracle. His miracle.

“Christ, Kit, ye’re magnificent. How angry would ye be if I told ye I loved ye again?”

Grinning, not caring how many eyes were on her thanks to her brash laughter, Kit’s hand moved toward his neck so her gloved fingers could stroke the skin above his collar. “Honestly? At this moment? Not at all.”

Something like victory and joy and perfection flashed across his face, and he scooped her hand in his. “It’s possible I’ve ruined my reputation completely tonight, my love, so I really, really need to refrain from pulling ye into my arms and making love to yer mouth, the way I want.”

“Is that another way of saying you want to kiss me?” she teased.

“I love ye, Kit.” He placed a kiss on the back of her hand, then flipped her hand over and—in front of everyone!—kissed the inside of her wrist. He didn’t drop her gaze, which had turned smokey, as he whispered thickly, “Good Christ, I love ye.”

She opened her mouth to respond eagerly, to tell him she loved him, but a cold voice interrupted her.

“That is quite enough of that.”

The voice sent ice down Kit’s spine, and she saw Thorne’s eyes widen just slightly before he disguised his reaction with his usual jovial smile. “Bonkinbone!” he announced in delight, turning to offer the man his hand. “Congratulations on yer betrothal!”

Kit watched as her father studied Thorne, clearly trying to decide if the man was sincere. But she knew him well, and knew no one would be able to tell he wasn’t.

Finally, her father shook Thorne’s hand stiffly. “Thank you. You are well, I trust?”

“Och, well, I’m settling into the new title. As are ye, I see.”

There was nothing in Thorne’s words or expression to indicate anything other than innocent cheer, but Father still inspected him closely, as an entomologist might study a butterfly he was considering adding to his collection.

It was then that Kit realized her father didn’t know, not really.

He knew Thorne had once worked for him, but Thorne had quit when he’d become his uncle’s heir presumptive, so as not to endanger the dukedom. Before the purge had begun.

He knew there were a group of his ex-agents who were tracking his movements and gathering evidence and trying to bring him to justice…but he didn’t know if Thorne was part of them.

He knew his daughter was here at his betrothal ball, but he didn’t know why Kit was here with Thorne, and how much either knew.

Kit felt her lips curling into a cold smile. He was unsure.

Soon her father would know. She’d make certain.

Finally, Father nodded once, firmly. “Good. Stroken, thank you for attending. I know my fiancé’s family is delighted to welcome you. Now, I wonder if I might steal away your…companion?”

He had barely glanced at her.

But he knew.

Thorne did a passable job of blinking in surprise. “Of course. May I introduce Miss Katherine Pastorino? Kit, darling, this is William Stoughton, the Earl of Bonkinbone. I’m certain dancing with him will make ye even more of a smashing success.” He winked at Father. “But dinnae let yer lovely fiancé think ye’re neglecting her.”

He was giving a smashing impression of a complete idiot, but unfortunately the performance was lost on her father, who now studied Kit with an icy gaze. “Miss Pastorino,” he finally offered with the slightest incline of his head.

Remembering just in time that she was the one who supposedly set up this meeting, Kit merely arched one brow imperiously. “Delighted, my lord.”

“Oh, there’s Brokenbush!” Thorne announced brightly. “I need a word! Kit, I’ll fetch ye in a few moments,” he blurted to her, already craning his head as if to catch sight of an acquaintance. “Brokenbush, auld chap, it’s been too long!” he called as he hurried off.

And then, despite the crowd around them, she was alone with her father.

The orchestra had started another tune, this one slower. Father lifted his hand, she settled hers atop his glove, and they began to move.

He wasn’t nearly as good a dancer as Thorne. Or perhaps it was because Kit was too nervous to enjoy herself.

As if she could enjoy herself in this situation.

He finally broke the silence. “You look like your mother.”

Keeping her expression neutral, she inclined her head as if accepting a deserved compliment. “Thank you.”

“But clearly you got your brains from me.” Was that an insult to Mother? “You cracked your uncle’s code?”

“No.” Kit willed her eyes to give nothing away. “He took me into his confidence over a year ago. He called me insurance.”

Father cursed under his breath as he turned her gently around the floor. “Just like the bastard. What do you know?”

I know you had your own brother killed to gain your title. I know you murdered your men, had them murder one another, so no evidence would remain of your evil deeds. But you underestimated what they could do when they worked together.

But what she said was, “I know the code he used to communicate with you. Fiendishly brilliant, that one was.” She strove for a suitably impressed tone. “I know of your business dealings. He left word that if something happened to him, I should make my way to London and…investigate.”

“Investigate,” Father snapped out, stumbling just slightly. “Investigate what?”

She managed a nonchalance shrug. “His death, I assume. But he died of a weak heart, and after speaking with those who knew him and his habits, my lord, I am not surprised why.”

The my lord seemed to calm Father, and he swung them both off the dancefloor and into the privacy of an alcove. Improper, yes, but Kit didn’t care about her reputation, and her father hardly needed to worry about his.

His hand gripping her elbow, Father ground out, “You know of my business dealings?”

She kept her expression neutral as she said merely, “Yes.”

He interpreted that exactly the way she wanted him to; that she knew of his traitorous activities. His curse was soft, but his hold on her elbow tightened until it was almost painful. “You came here with the Duke of Stroken. Who else knows what you know?”

Time to put her thespian skills to work.

“Why, no one, my lord.” When he turned a suspicious glare her way, Kit blinked innocently. “I am your daughter. Mother was clear about that, at least. My loyalty is to you, is it not?”

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed, as did his hold on her, although he didn’t drop it. Beneath her long glove, her elbow was beginning to ache. “Yes. Yes, my girl, your loyalty is to me. How do you know Stroken?”

Kit shrugged, using the movement to pull her arm from his hold. “He is an admirer of Mother’s. She used their…connection to convince him to escort me in London. Introduce me.”

Interestingly, he flinched at the word connection. Kit wondered if her father had bought the implication that Mother had taken lovers—she’d been counting on Thorne’s reputation to sell that lie—and why it would matter to him. It wasn’t as if an affair two decades ago would mean she’d be true to him. He was marrying someone else, for goodness’ sake!

Still, she pushed on. Follow the plan.

“But, Father, Stroken isn’t…” Kit frowned, pretending hesitation. “He has some opinions on you.”

The man at her side snorted, locking his hands behind his back and turning to scowl at the crowd. “And what are these opinions, daughter?”

“He says you are a traitor to the Crown. Of course I pushed him for details, but he’d been quite in his cups when he admitted that, and has refused to say anything more.” She tapped her chin innocently. “Do you think he knows of your business dealings with Uncle?”

His gaze was locked on the room, but Kit doubted her father was seeing it, the way his eyes blazed with fury. “It is possible,” he finally ground out.

“Oh dear.” She sighed. “Then I suppose it’s possible he wasn’t lying about the evidence.”

Her father jerked around so quickly she didn’t have to fake her wince. She could feel his anger, barely held in check. “Evidence?” he spat out, as if he hated the word.

Time to lay the trap. “Stroken and some of his associates were speaking one evening in his study when I passed by. I slowed my steps so I could listen; they spoke of evidence against you, evidence you thought was destroyed.”

Father’s nostrils flared, but that was the only indication he knew of this evidence. “It wasn’t destroyed?”

She shook her head carefully. “Apparently not. I couldn’t hear what kind of evidence, but there’s a plan to give it to the proper authorities.”

“Which authorities?”

His rage was palpable, and Kit had to resist the urge to shrink back. He was a dangerous man, but she was his daughter, she could face him. She knew that somewhere, Thorne was watching this performance, and she feared that if she gave any indication it wasn’t going well, the dear fool would sweep in to save her—ruining the trap.

“Stroken mentioned the authorities, and one of the others mentioned the musicale.”

A muscle ticked in Father’s jaw. “Musicale?”

She blinked, pretending surprise. “Oh, you didn’t know? I am sorry. Stroken is rather a tremendous fan of violin concertos, and has invited me to play for a gathering of his friends. I flatter myself that I inherited Mother’s talent, and I’m quite accomplished with the violin.” She gasped, as if suddenly struck with an idea. “I am certain he would issue you an invitation if you requested it! You could claim you’re attending to see me play!”

Her father’s eyes had narrowed, as if debating whether he wanted to say something cutting about admitting to being related to her.

But after a long moment he rocked back on his heels. “You overheard this one evening, did you? In Stroken’s private home?” His voice had dropped into the cunning range, his gaze speculative.

She knew what he was implying and raised her chin in proud defiance. “As I said, the Duke offered to sponsor me.”

“And that included staying in his home? Where do you sleep?”

The question was asked nonchalantly, as if he was being casually cruel. Kit knew this yet couldn’t stop her flush. Still, perhaps that added verisimilitude to her response. “Uncle George tasked me with keeping an eye on his business dealings. I did what I needed to do to be close to the threat.”

It was the way Father’s lips curled cruelly that told Kit he’d understood what she’d been hinting.

He assumed she’d slept with Thorne to wile her way into the man’s house and gain his trust. Because that’s what he would do.

“Just like your mother,” he finally said, raking his gaze over her body in a dismissive way. “Using your assets to get what you want in life.”

Kit’s surprise wasn’t feigned. “Do you think that’s what she does?”

His harsh bark of laughter surprised them both. “That’s what she did twenty-four years ago, damn her. Holding out until she got the best deal. And she’s been stubborn about it ever since.”

What was that supposed to mean?

“Father.” She stressed the word, hoping to remind him of her supposed loyalty. “I merely did what I thought you would do. Uncle George’s records were fascinating, and I’m not sure I was even able to follow your brilliant schemes.”

Slowly, he seemed to relax, as if her praise was working.

“If he hadn’t died so tragically, I have no doubt the pair of you would one day be running this country—from behind the scenes, naturally.”

Her father hummed, studying her speculatively. “That is where the real power is, my girl. Never forget it.”

“No, of course not.” Kit tried to appear eager to learn from him. “It seems almost an American way of doing things; not to worry about ranks and titles, and go for the power.”

This time, his laughter seemed more natural, and when he chuckled, Kit’s brows rose in surprise at how familiar it sounded. When he laughed, he sounded like her.

“That’s where I got the idea, Katherine.” His smile was more natural now as he took her hand between both of his. “You’ll remember, I spent plenty of time in America some time ago.”

Her embarrassed flush wasn’t faked this time either. “Y-Yes, I imagine so.” He would’ve been in New York for his affair with Mother. “But I suppose the British way of doing things has its benefits as well.”

“Of course, of course.” He patted her hand. “I am an Earl now, after all. Now, when you overheard Stroken talking about that evidence, did he say which authorities?”

Kit frowned, pretending to think. “Actually, speaking of titles and such, I believe someone made mention of a representative of the Crown attending.” She gasped again, eyes going wide in faux surprise. “Do you think Her Majesty might attend the musicale to hear me play?”

Scoffing at her naiveté, her Father shook his head. “The Queen doesn’t bother with such things, Katherine…but it’s possible one of the princes could send a representative to acquire the evidence packet.”

“Oh dear.” She glanced around the room, trying to make the motion appear nonchalant, wondering where Thorne was. Wondering who else was watching them. She’d already caused quite the stir, and monopolizing one of the guests of honor was horrible manners. “What will you do?”

“Me?” This time his chuckle wasn’t entirely believable. “No, my girl, you.”

She swung a startled gaze his way, and his grin turned wolfish.

“If the Crown is sending a representative to pick up the evidence, then I will send my own representative to intercept the packet.”

“Me?” she whispered, the dread in her tone not at all false. If he didn’t come to the musicale, how would they trap him? “But…I’m not…”

“You’re my daughter, are you not?” he all but purred. “You’ll do as I say. Acquire that evidence and come to my home. I’ll shelter you, and together, we’ll gain the power which should’ve belonged to your uncle.”

Her eyes were wide. “What?”

“Join me, Katherine, and together we’ll rule the country as father and daughter!”

Dio Benedetto, all that was missing was a long cape, some convenient wind and lightning, and a cackling laugh.

Before she could come up with a way to respond, a woman swept up, a beautiful young blonde. She wore her beauty as if it were one of the many privileges she’d been born with: unconsciously, certainly. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ears, and she wore a large ring over one gloved finger.

When she slipped that arm through Father’s, Kit knew who this was.

Lady Emma, her father’s betrothed. Her future stepmother.

Father immediately dropped Kit’s hand and stepped back beside his fiancée, hiding his thoughts behind a mask of mere interest.

“William, darling,” Lady Emma drawled, eyes glinting dangerously at Kit, her voice deceptively sweet, “how rude of you to ignore me for so long. Our guests will talk.”

“Yes, dear.” Distractedly, Father patted her hand. “I believe they will understand. This is my daughter, Miss Katherine Pastorino. Katherine, my lovely betrothed, the Lady Emma, daughter of the Earl of Stallings.”

Kit, knowing what was expected, sank into a respectful curtsy as Lady Emma nodded stiffly, accepting the deference as her due.

“My lady,” Kit murmured, “Congratulations.” As if this were a love match and not an arrangement between two equally conniving parties. “You must be very happy.”

Emma ignored her. “A daughter, William? You invited a—a—natural child to my engagement ball?” she hissed. “To embarrass me?”

“Hardly, my dear,” he drawled dryly. “Katherine surprised me, she surprised us all.” He raked her with another cool gaze. “Orange? Really.” He sighed. “Still, my lady, I suppose I should tell you I’ve invited Katherine to stay with me until she returns to America.”

If Emma hadn’t already been furious, that would’ve done it. Kit had shown up on Thorne’s arm, drawing attention away from the guest of honor. Then she’d monopolized Emma’s fiancé and had the bad grace to turn out to be an embarrassing secret from the past. Now her fiancé was telling her he’d invited his embarrassing secret for a visit—to the home where Emma herself would move.

Really, it was almost difficult for Kit to keep her smirk hidden.

“Oh, I don’t intend to leave anytime soon, Father,” she assured them both, noticing how their gazes had both turned hard.

Interesting. So did he honestly expect her to stay with him after she’d delivered the evidence? Or had that been a lie as well?

Perhaps he’s planning on killing you off, the same way he did away with his own brother.

Yes. She studied her sire. Yes, that was a definite possibility.

Kit was saved from having to come up with more niceties by the tornado of energy which was Thorne when he was being charming. “Lady Emma!” he cried, picking up her free hand and bending over her fan, eyes sparkling with such delight Kit almost believed his act. “Ye’re positively radiant, my dear! Felicitations on your match, although I suspect I shall have to throw myself from Southwark Bridge, kenning ye are no’ to be mine.”

His huge sigh of despair was comical, but it did the trick. Lady Emma blushed prettily in delight at his compliment, lightly tapping his shoulder. “Fah, Your Grace, you had no interest in marriage.” She beamed happily at Father. “I found my own prize.”

“Ye did indeed, ye did indeed!” declared Thorne, rocking back on his heels with a good-natured grin. “A lucky man, as well!”

Father’s gaze was hard as he studied Thorne. “Quite,” he murmured. “As are you, I suspect.”

The way he glanced meaningfully at Kit left no question as to his meaning, and even Emma tittered behind her fan. Thorne beamed like an idiot.

“Och, well, Miss Pastorino and I have found we rub along well enough. Musicians are such fascinating people, are they no’, Bla—Bonkinbone?” Kit had no doubt the slip had been deliberate, as was the way Thorne’s blue gaze turned hard for a moment. “Just like opera singers, eh?”

Before Father could speak, Lady Emma tittered again. “Oh, I have heard such scandalous stories about opera singers and other theater types.”

Kit smiled wolfishly. “Yes, my lady. They are all undoubtedly true.”

As Emma blinked in surprise, Thorne offered his arm to Kit. “Miss Pastorino, I’ve heard the orchestra is set to play a waltz, and ye ken how much I love dancing.”

“I do, Your Grace,” she murmured, placing her hand on his.

As Thorne turned them away, her Father said, “You will contact me.”

She didn’t acknowledge the order. She wasn’t certain how.

It wasn’t until Thorne settled his hand on her back, falling into the classic closed position, that she realized she was trembling.

“Kit?” he murmured, as the music began.

“That man is more evil than I could’ve imagined.” It was easier to confess it here, in his arms. “I feel as if I need a bath to scrub away his influence. Some things never wash away.”

Thorne’s eyes were sad. “I’m sorry, love. I’m sorry ye had to face him, and I’m sorry for his place in yer life. And I’m sorry I had to say such horrible things about ye.”

It took a moment to realize what he meant. “Your comments about musicians?” She tried for a small smile. “Don’t be sorry, it was the truth, wasn’t it? I am your lover, and my father apparently had a similar relationship with my mother.”

Something like a wince crossed Thorne’s face, and he opened his mouth as if to reply. But instead, he glanced around the room and swept her into a turn.

There was more. “Thorne, I don’t think he’s planning on attending the musicale.”

His blue gaze turned sharp. “What do ye mean? He didnae fall for the bait?”

“Oh, he fell for it,” she assured him, voice bitter. “I did such a fabulous job of convincing him of my loyalty to him, that Father believes I should steal the evidence and rush it to his home.”

“Where he’ll protect ye from my ire, nae doubt?” Thorne bit out, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“What are we going to do? He knows you have evidence against him.” Revealing their secret advantage had been a calculated risk to lure Father into making a move—a move he had not made. “He has to attend that musicale!”

“Dinnae fash, sweetheart, he will. I’ll find a way.”

And suddenly, it all came crashing down on her. Kit dug her fingers into his shoulders, determined not to faint as the room went spinning around her.

“I know you love to dance, Thorne,” she gasped. “But would you mind terribly if we—if you took me home?”

Home.

His expression immediately turned to concern, and he led her toward the stairs. “Absolutely, love. I’ll fetch yer shawl.”

Kit hadn’t been lying; she did want a bath. Then she wanted to curl up in Thorne’s arms and listen to him reassure her that everything was going to be alright.

Even if that was a lie.