Chapter 22

Her parents were married.

Kit had moved through the rest of the afternoon in something of a daze, alternating between anger and confusion at the news.

How could Thorne keep something like this from her?

Unable to concentrate on the preparations for the musicale, Kit thankfully turned the management side over to Ellie and retreated to her own small room upstairs. The room she’d been given as a footman, which she had never vacated.

The other male servants’ rooms were around hers, but Titsworth hadn’t suggested she move to the wing with the maids, likely because he knew Kit spent far more time sleeping in the Duke’s chambers.

She’d sat at the small desk and reached for a piece of paper. “Dear Mother…”

What to say? How could you keep such a monumental lie from me all these years?

No, better to keep this letter factual.

In the months since Kit had been in London, she’d written her mother each fortnight, not expecting a reply. Her notes were mostly updates on London itself, or Father’s movements.

Kit hadn’t mentioned Thorne as anything more than her employer.

Now, though, she poured out everything.

She told Mother how she’d fallen in love with a duke who had seen her for herself. Not her appearance or her parentage, but her talent and her wit and her heart. The same way she’d fallen for him. Thorne hadn’t cared that she was a nobody; he’d asked her to be his wife all the same.

And he’d kept a secret from her which could change everything. He’d known she was legitimate.

I thought I knew him,Mother. I thought I loved him. But he has kept such a big truth from me on the pretense of allowing me to make my own decisions. You have done the same! How can I make my own decisions if I don’t have all the information? I miss you, Mother, but I’m angry with you as well for keeping this from me.

I’m just angry in general. I still love you, though. I suppose I must still love him. Wish me luck—or rather, as you would say, to ‘break a leg’. Tonight’s the big night.

Kit had stayed hiddenin her room, surprised when Titsworth himself brought up a tray of dinner for her. When she’d scolded him for straining his knees up the stairs, the butler had surprised her by taking her shoulders and smiling softly.

“I am not so old that I can ignore someone else’s pain, my lady. Do you need a hug?”

And, surprised, Kit had accepted the man’s embrace. She wasn’t normally one for hugging, but had to admit that his support felt…good.

Ellie had stopped by as well, to ask if she needed help getting ready. Kit, who’d been staring down at her violin while seated on her bed, looked up at her cousin. “My parents were married,” she announced dully. Everyone would know now, anyway. That newspaper. All over London. “I’m not illegitimate.”

There was a softening around Ellie’s eyes which told Kit her cousin wasn’t entirely surprised.

The other woman sat down on the bed, her delicate hand covering Kit’s. “If Uncle William married your mother before your birth, and there has been no divorce, then this changes quite a few things.”

Listlessly, Kit nodded. “It does.”

Ellie patted her hand. “Not least of which is that a future countess is a more than suitable match for a duke.”

Sighing, Kit pulled her hand away and muttered, “That’s part of the problem.”

Her cousin hummed. “Do you want to marry him?”

Kit finally raised her gaze to meet her cousin’s. “I love the idiot. I’m mad enough to spit right now, but I still love him.”

A long moment passed while Ellie studied her, then the other woman nodded and reached an arm around Kit’s shoulders. As she squeezed, she whispered, “Then that is what matters most. I know he loves you, the man will not stop going on about it, and as long as you each hold that knowledge in your hearts, you will be able to overcome this together. I am sure of it.”

Kit gratefully accepted the embrace, laying her head on her cousin’s shoulder…but she wasn’t so certain she could believe Ellie’s words.

She loved Thorne, yes, but did Thorne know that, since he’d been half-asleep when she’d confessed? And did she want him to know, after what he’d done?

Her chest and her mind were just a jumble of emotions and thoughts, and she couldn’t focus on any of them, because the hour was drawing nearer for her confrontation with Father.

She needed all her wits to stay one step ahead of him, to not admit any ignorance to him. Let him think, until the last minute, that she was responsible for the announcement in the paper. Keep his attention—and his ire—directed at her.

How to keep his attention? How to keep everyone’s attention?

You’ll have to shine. You’ll have to be like Mother. Demand all their gazes and hold them. Not just their ears and their hearts, but their minds and their eyes as well. You need all eyes on you tonight, so Thorne’s friends can set their trap.

And Kit had an idea how to do that.

Granted, she was feeling just peeved enough to influence her decision.

So when Ellie asked, “Do you need any help getting ready?” Kit shook her head.

“No, thank you. I think…” She took a deep breath and carefully placed her violin back in its case. “I think I can do this myself.”

She would. To keep everyone else safe.

So that evening, when she descended the back stairs to see Bull waiting for her, she was feeling determined. It helped that the lad brightened, his gaze skipping appreciatively over her suit.

“Well, I’ll confess I was hoping to see the orange silk again,” he quipped as he tossed the gold coin into the air and caught it one last time before making it disappear and offering her a bow. “But ye look positively smashing in a penguin suit, my friend. And such a delicately embroidered waistcoat!”

Kit pretended surprise. “Oh, you noticed it?” She made a show of glancing down at the waistcoat Bull had made her. “I picked it up second-hand somewhere, it was going unwanted.”

Her friend reared back, scoffing in outrage. “Second-hand? Unwanted! That was hand-stitched for ye, Kit, by the darling of Society’s fashion scene!”

“I know.” She smacked him on the shoulder with a smile. “Thorne’s tailor would be jealous.”

Bull was smirking as he eyed her trousers. “Does Thorne ken ye’re planning on showing up to his musicale dressed like him?”

She took a deep breath and hefted the violin case. “As far as I’m concerned, this is my musicale, and I’m angry at him for keeping a hell of a secret from me.” Bull looked curious, so she pushed on before she’d have to admit she was furious at finding out she wasn’t a bastard, and to someone who may well not understand. “I suspect, looking like this, all eyes will be on me tonight, and you’ll be able to set the trap easier.”

The lad was grinning as he shrugged. “I’m just glad to be along for the fireworks.” He offered his arm, as if she were in a gown. “Thorne sent me to escort ye to the music room. I believe he’s ready to start when ye arrive.”

“Oh, joy,” she muttered.

But she did slip her arm through Bull’s, glad of the support. Glad for his friendship.

She’d come to London to learn about her father. And yes, she’d learned plenty about him, but she’d also gained more than she’d thought possible.

After years of her family being just Mother, and her friends being the theater people who would come and go, Kit had fallen in love. Not just with Thorne, but with the people surrounding him. She loved Bull’s cocky irreverence and wit, she loved Titsworth’s quiet dignity. She had cousins now, people who cared about her.

And she owed it to Thorne.

Hell. This line of thinking is making it difficult to stay mad at him.

Bull left her at the door when he popped through to signal to Thorne that they were ready. Kit heard him step onto the small dais and begin to speak.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank ye for joining us this evening. Your Highness, ye honor our small gathering, and I ken ye’ll fall in love with the music as I have. Bonkinbone, I’m delighted to have ye here to see yer beloved daughter’s talent.”

Kit closed her eyes on a silent groan. So her father was out there, as they’d hoped. And Thorne, who’d narrowly cheated death last night, was almost certainly wearing a small bandage, a charming grin, and not nearly enough armor.

You can do this. Hold Father’s attention, and he won’t expect the trap.

Yes.

Yes, she could do this.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped through the door to applause, the sound sweeping over her the way it always did when she performed with Mother.

Of course, as Kit stepped head held high onto the dais, the applause faded, replaced by confused whispers and pointed stares at her attire. She ignored them all and settled her violin under her chin.

She closed her eyes, centered herself, and dragged the bow across the strings.

The music…the music was everything.

She’d chosen an old favorite to begin, Mozart’s Adagio in E. She didn’t require sheet music for this, which allowed her the freedom to just feel. But after a few minutes, the whispers quieted, Kit opened her eyes.

The audience watched her, rapt.

Kit knew she was good, but it was…gratifying to see their expressions of surprise and wonder.

There was Bull and his father, standing along the back. Griffin was scowling, which Kit had learned was normal for him, but Bull beamed, the lamplight catching on whatever it was he twiddled in his fingers down by his side.

Georgia was gorgeous in a dark pink gown, hair piled atop her head in an elegant manner. She was smiling proudly at Kit, her hand clasped by her husband, who slunk low in his seat with a fierce frown. Demon occasionally tugged at his neckcloth, leaving no doubt what caused his disgruntled attitude.

Beside Georgia sat a lovely blonde woman, who would occasionally lean over to whisper something. The man at her side wore a haughty and imperious expression, as if he rarely smiled—or even scowled. But his arm was thrown over the blonde’s chair possessively. This, then, must be Rourke and Sophia, the Duke and Duchess of Exingham.

Fawkes and Ellie sat a few rows up, with Ellie occasionally sending Kit a little wave of her fingers when Kit glanced at her. The vote of confidence—despite her outrageous appearance—warmed Kit’s heart.

At her side sat a woman in purple, whose curves were enhanced by the fact she was at least six months pregnant. Her eyes sparkled happily as she clutched the hand of the man beside her. He was tremendous—tall and broad—and despite her occasional whisper, he didn’t respond at all. Kit recognized them by description as Olivia and Alistair, the Duke and Duchess of Effinghell.

There were others present, of course, people she didn’t know and couldn’t recognize. Her gaze traveled across them all, searching faces. Thorne had addressed one of the princes, hadn’t he? Or another representative of the Crown?

Thorne himself was seated in the front row. His reaction to her choice in clothing had been surprise which had quickly turned to a grin. Yes, he was wearing a bandage as ordered—starkly white against his golden hair—but smaller than the one she’d unwrapped this afternoon. And he wore it like a badge of honor, a fashion accessory.

Kit wouldn’t be surprised if all of London’s dandies began to accessorize with bandages soon.

Besides the bandage, he wore an easy grin as he sat a few seats from the man who’d tried to kill him last night, an elegantly dressed lady in her late thirties at his side.

The woman wore jewels worth a small country’s annual potato budget and a politely disinterested expression. Father, on the other hand…

Kit’s father glared at her, his anger evident to anyone who cared to see it. No, not anger…hatred. That was hate spitting from Father’s eyes, hate and disgust.

He thinks you foiled his plans at marrying the Stallings girl. He thinks you were one step ahead of him, forcing him to attend tonight.

Yes, well, let him think that.

It was better for everyone, better for Thorne, if her father thought her responsible. Thought her a mastermind like him, who’d just outthought him.

Even if the truth was far less flattering.

Kit raised her chin, held her father’s gaze, and continued to play.

Good Christ,but she was magnificent.

Thorne had almost burst into laughter when he’d seen Kit’s defiant stare as she’d stepped onto the dais, challenging him to make a fuss about her choice of attire. As if he would! As if he would question any of her choices, ever!

Besides, it just made the performance all the more riveting.

How often would the people in this room be able to say they’d seen a virtuoso play? And if that maestro was a gorgeous woman dressed impeccably as a man, but without any attempt to hide her femininity? This was like something from a burlesque show, only far more elegant.

He wished he could turn around and see the expressions behind him, but he had to be satisfied knowing the whispers had died away.

Aye, Kit’s talent was convincing Society she was magnificent, no matter what she wore.

“You know,” whispered the woman at his side, “if you continue to look at her like that, no one will doubt your relationship with Miss Pastorino.”

Grinning, Thorne glanced to his right. “I’ve asked the lass to marry me.” He kept his voice at barely above a breath, not wanting to distract from Kit’s performance…or allow her father to hear.

Beside him, Her Royal Highness, the Princess Louise, Marchioness of Lorne raised a surprised brow. “Really? You would marry someone who looks almost as good as you do in a pair of trousers?”

He fought a chuckle. “Only if I can convince her to agree.”

She kept her attention on the dais and Kit, but he saw her gaze turn speculative as she wondered why Kit hadn’t agreed.

Thorne wondered if he would have to explain his folly to one of the Queen’s children before he’d had a chance to explain his reasoning to Kit.

Princess Louise had demanded her involvement be kept a secret until this evening, so not even Thorne’s co-conspirators could know her identity. With her husband, heir to the Duke of Argyll, recently returned from his position as viceroy in Canada, most of Britain assumed she was busy reconnecting with her family and friends.

Thorne was one of the few who was aware of exactly how extensive her list of friends actually was, and how she used them. The Princess Louise was an ardent feminist, a talented artist, and a powerful force for good when it came to her country. It was one of the reasons why—for the first time since the sixteenth century—a royal princess had been allowed to marry one of her subjects instead of a foreign prince.

The Queen knew what a benefit this particular daughter was to her country.

Her Royal Highness, the Princess Louise was a beautiful and formidable woman, and Thorne knew he was lucky to consider her a friend. Or, perhaps more accurately, she considered him an informant.

Tonight, she would be the one to finally bring Blackrose to justice. With her presence as part of the trap, there’d be no doubt that the bastard was guilty.

Remembering the shocked looks on Rourke’s and Griffin’s faces as he’d introduced Her Royal Highness as their Crown contact, Thorne had to grin. It was rare Rourke showed any emotion, but even that was less satisfying than the way Demon had scowled, spun on his heel, and stomped away, causing the princess to chuckle demurely.

“How disappointing,” she’d said delicately. “I had been so looking forward to being regaled by the Duke of Lickwick’s creative language in person.”

Aye, that moment alone had made the evening a success, as far as Thorne was concerned. But he was rather looking forward to introducing her to Blackrose, and watching the man squirm as he wondered if Thorne had already turned over the evidence.

“Can I assume, Stroken,” the Princess now murmured at his side, “that Miss Pastorino’s choice of attire has a purpose in tonight’s venture?”

Thorne leaned closer, just in case Blackrose was listening. “I’m hoping so, Your Highness. If nothing else it’ll keep her father angry, which is what we need.”

Princess Louise nodded once in understanding, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Aye, she was a handy person to know.

Thorne resisted the urge to lean forward and glance at Blackrose. It was tempting to stick out his tongue, or do something else childish, as if to say Neener neener I’m still alive, ye arsehole.

His head pounded and his stomach churned, but Thorne felt more alive tonight than he ever had. He had a reason to feel that way: the music caressing his skin, wrapping him in its warmth and vitality…and the woman playing it.

Kit moved effortlessly between the pieces, not even allowing the audience a chance to applaud. Most of what she played were pieces she’d memorized, pieces she’d played for him. But her last selection was one of his favorites, one of the pieces from his folio he’d gifted her.

And Thorne felt as if she were playing just for him.

Aye, Kit was remarkable, and he loved her. She wasn’t who he’d imagined loving, not when he’d thought about his life…she was better. She was smart and funny and strong and brave, just like the honeysuckle flower.

He knew he’d fooked up by keeping the secret of her parentage, but after tonight, after Blackrose was in prison, he’d have the rest of his life to convince her to forgive him.

After the last note died away, Kit slowly lowered her bow from her violin, and the applause was thunderous. She seemed a bit stunned, as if she hadn’t expected the support, but nonetheless sank into what would be an elegant curtsey if she’d been wearing skirts.

Chuckling again at her delicious audacity, Thorne bounded from his seat and up to the dais, ignoring the ache in his head to scoop up her hand and turn them both to the sea of faces.

Some of their guests were on their feet applauding in appreciation, and all looked as if they were aware of the magnitude of what they’d been allowed to see.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called as the applause began to die down, “thank ye. On behalf of myself, and behalf of Miss Pastorino, and behalf of her father, the Earl of Bonkinbone, thank ye for being here tonight to witness this truly magnificent performance.”

With a charming grin, he bowed over Kit’s hand earning a tight little smile which Thorne was certain looked as if she were humoring him. He prayed it was part of the performance, to let her father think this was her idea and keep his attention from where it belonged: on the Princess.

Turning back to the audience, he swept his hand to the side in welcome. “I ken ye’re all anxious to meet Lady Katherine and say ye were able to bask in her glory, but I beg ye to give her a few minutes respite to spend with her father.” His grin turned wolfish. “With his wife raising Miss Pastorino, the earl hasnae been granted nearly enough time with his heir—I mean, his daughter. Please, enjoy the refreshments for now!”

As his guests began to make their way toward the refreshment tables, their voices raised in excited chatter about the performance, the players slowly moved into place.

As planned, Georgia, Ellie, Sophia and Olivia swept toward the rest of the guests, acting to herd them away from the drama happening near the dais. And, Thorne knew, to keep them out of trouble.

Meanwhile, the men drifted toward the dais. As Thorne helped Kit down, Rourke hobbled slowly to the Princess’s side to make small talk with the guard she’d brought along. Demon and Effinghell crossed their arms and took up station to one side of the dais, as Fawkes stepped up to Thorne’s left. Griffin and Bull—why the hell hadn’t they been able to talk the lad into staying home with his mother?—moved into place behind Blackrose.

Taking a deep breath, Thorne glanced at Kit. She lifted her chin and met his gaze with angry ice in her eyes. She hadn’t forgiven him, but she was ready. And that anger would help her tonight, with what she had to do.

She had to face down the bastard who’d taken so much from them. From all of them.

With a small nod, he turned them both to Blackrose.