The Black Cat Read online

  He missed the girl, he missed his cat, and he missed his composure. By the third day, he was more than a trifle out of sorts and even his loyal staff came in for some of the brunt of his moodiness. They exchanged significant glances with each other and would have been surprised to learn how close their conjecture came to the truth. The disappearance of Dight seemed causally linked to my lord’s ailment. A few discreet inquiries revealed that the girl had literally disappeared into thin air. She had not taken service with any of the great households, nor were her name and references listed upon the employment registers.

  Gareth, the butler, pronounced it a puzzle and Mistress Farrow, though not quite liking to gossip with the lower servants, declared it to be a regular bumble bath.

  Guy Santana, having first obtained a special licence, went over and over her words in his mind. Since he was neither dim-witted nor obtuse, her meaning finally, on the second day of his misery, became apparent. He was just penning a polite, conciliatory, and utterly pointless letter to Miss St. Jardine when he received a gilt-edged invitation from Lord Peter Fotheringham, the new marquis. Miss St. Jardine’s uncle, by all that was holy! No mention was made of the lady herself, but the earl suspected strongly that her presence would be required. Further, he suspected he was once more being cunningly lured into parson’s trap, but this danger he was able to blithely dismiss.

  Miss St. Jardine could be a diamond of the first water, for all he cared. His sentiments were allied elsewhere. Accordingly, he tore up the letter he had been penning to the lady’s man of law—a direct letter from himself would have been unthinkable—and sifted the invitation from the regrets etc. pile to the gratefully accept one.

  Donning an elegant evening coat shot with azure silk and encrusted with several shimmering pieces his valet had decreed quite quintessential, his lordship set off for Dewhurst Manor in a delightful barouche, lightheartedly painted canary yellow and sporting a sky blue trim. He wondered whether the gypsy queen would appreciate the merry colouring and thought she would, making a mental note to acquire squabs of crimson, a bright memory of that first, storm-swept night, so very long ago.

  Even as he was announced, he was scanning the ballroom for some young lady not previously introduced to his acquaintance. There were not many who fitted into that category, for any matchmaking mama worth her salt almost instantly introduced her daughters to his attention just as soon as they were out. There. . . in the far corner. He nodded in satisfaction.

  A comely girl, not plain exactly, but with none of the enlivening vivacity of the rest of the debutantes about her. Doomed to be a wallflower, he surmised. Well, if he had to face up to his task, then face up to it he would. He squared his shoulders, then made his way unhesitatingly toward the lady in question. “Miss St. Jardine?” She nodded mutely—unhappily, he thought.

  For the first time, he experienced a stab of remorse at the callous way he had handled the whole matter. He was just wondering how to broach the topic when the waltz struck up.

  “Would you care for a turn?” He smiled at her kindly.

  “We are not yet introduced, sir!”

  “Then I shall take an enormous liberty and tell you my name. I am Lord Santana and I believe I have wronged you, though I swear I never had that intention.”

  “You mistake the matter, sir!”

  “Not at all! I was rude and overbearing and impossibly high in the instep. Will you forgive me?”

  The lady nodded. “I did feel, when you ignored me and left me to sit out the dance that night, that you were a trifle stiff. But, sir, I assure you, that does not signify!”

  “Beg pardon?” This time, Santana was confused.

  “And now, my lord, I really must depart. My betrothed is fetching me a glass of orgeat, you see.”

  The words were so confiding that Santana could detect no guile. Nor could he fathom the meaning of the encounter that had just taken place. The young lady was evidently not repining for him, nor did it appear she knew anything of the arrangement that had seemed destined to unite them forever.

  Whilst he was greatly relieved to find her heart whole—he would have been mortified to have inflicted unwitting pain and expectations—he nevertheless remained supremely puzzled.

  The dancers twisted and swayed gracefully before him, but, as usual he demonstrated no interest. It was not until he heard tinkling laughter behind him that his lithe body moved swiftly into action. He knew that laugh anywhere, and by God, she would not slip so easily from his grasp this time!

  His keen eyes searched in the shimmering half-light, for the flickering flames illuminating the manor were prodigious and sparkled like thousands of diamonds in their crystal holders. Colour upon colour, velvets and muslins and satins and organdie . . . He could not find the elusive woman who tantalised him, provoked him, teased him, then invariably disappeared.

  Tonight would be different. He fingered the special license firmly. He had done his duty. He had made amends to Miss St. Jardine—though heaven knew, she apparently had no use for them—and now he would claim his prize. How right he had been to attend this evening! In his wildest imagination, he had not sought to find her here. But why not? She was a lady born—that was obvious. This was her milieu. . . or was it?

  The uncomfortable notion that he was missing something crept back into his mind. Strange to see Lord Peter Fotheringham, stiff as a ramrod, greeting guests his father would never have dreamed of receiving into his home. The old man now. Santana smiled momentarily at the encounter. Cunning old soul! And he had ceded him Venus, for which he was forever indebted. The story of Laura Rose flitted into his mind. Suddenly the final piece in the puzzle fell into place.

  For a quiet moment, his lordship stood stock-still in astonishment. “Then who. . .” He hardly realised he was talking aloud.

  “That Miss St. Jardine was my cousin, my lord.”

  And there she was, in the finest, most figure-hugging gown he could ever have imagined, skirts damped down atrociously, laughing eyes, shining, long, lustrous hair, pert red lips adorably, entrancingly inviting and a collar of diamonds he would have recognised anywhere, for laced through the glitter were emeralds and cabochon amethysts of the finest stare. Upon her shoulder was a cat, who smirked and licked her lips and looked, for all the world, as though she had just eaten a turbot of beef—which, in fact, the spoilt little rascal probably had.

  “You have led me a fine song and dance, Miss St. Jardine!”

  “Have I, my lord? How terribly provoking, for truly, my dear, dear sir, I do not believe I can recollect ever having been introduced!”

  “Can you not?” The tone was wry, but nevertheless caused the lady to blush quite delightfully and declare the evening a trifle warm.

  “Not as warm as it is going to get, Miss St. Jardine!”

  Was that a threat? She opened her eyes widely. “I repeat, my lord, that we are not yet introduced! I am a rather timid soul and insist on observing the niceties!”

  “Do you now?” The earl chuckled. Now that he had found her, he was jolly well going to enjoy her.

  “Indeed I do. If you do not this moment tell me who you are, I very much fear I shall have to return to my chaperon!”

  “Chaperon?”

  She made a hideous face. “The Marchioness of Fotheringham. Preserve me, by all that is holy!”

  “I see that the matter constitutes an emergency, my little princess. I shall have to put you out of your misery, after all, and ensure you are properly introduced.”

  She grinned. “Very well, my lord! I am Miss Melinda St. Jardine.”

  “Melinda.” The word rolled delightfully off his tongue. Still, he thought Aphrodite might, after all, be more appropriate.

  “And you, my lord?” she prompted. “Who, if I may make so bold, are you?”

  “I, my very dear, impossibly high-handed love, am something you recognised a long time ago. I, Guy Santana, third Earl of Camden, am your destiny.”

  There was a speaking stillness in w
hich all the world stopped and all the dancers froze in their entrechats and quadrilles. Her lips parted, all hint of teasing erased from her expressive features.

  “And why have you come?” The words were almost a whisper.

  “You should know! I have come to do as I have promised.” She caught the humour in his rakish features and relaxed, allowing her buoyant spirits to return. Fluttering long dark lashes more than a trifle flirtatiously, she challenged him saucily.

  “Threatened, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Indeed so, ma’am. Come with me and I promise you you shall either be thoroughly spanked or dragged to the altar as you deserve.”

  “Dragged to the altar if you please!”

  “Come along then! I have a special licence burning a whole in my pocket.”

  “Now?”

  “Now! You shall not slip from my grasp again, you little witch of the woods!”

  “I shall get my muff.”

  “Very well. And bring Venus.”

  “Aphrodite.”

  “Venus.”

  They were still arguing as wedding bells pealed above their heads. It was the first time the Archbishop of Camden had performed the ceremony at such an hour, but he insisted, once he had stopped yawning and pulled the nightcap from his head, that the thing be done in style.

  Thus it was that in the very early hours of St. Agnes’s Eve, the countryside came alive with sound. As the last bells stopped chiming, the Earl and Countess of Camden stepped into their chaise. The dawn was crisp and frosty, quiet blankets of white enveloping the waiting countryside. Melinda wondered whether her grandfather, wherever he was, could witness the outcome of his carefully laid plans, the final payment of the wager he had lost with such cunning equanimity.

  In the renewed stillness, she could almost see his wry expression when he had rid himself, finally, of her cat. “The spirits work in strange ways,” he’d said.

  Well, perhaps, after all, he had been right. He always had had an instinct. And Laura Rose? She, too, had been correct. Melinda had never experienced passion as intense as she did now. She looked at Guy, all trace of mischief miraculously wiped from her lovely countenance.

  He caught her mood and drew her to him. As he was lightly stroking her cheek with one gentle, ungloved finger, they noticed the lights. Endless rows of merry lanterns and the slow first strum of a lute. Then a drumroll, then a Spanish guitar, then a banjo . . . The dawn was coming alive with sound.

  Melinda gasped. “Of course! It is St. Agnes’s Eve!” And there, smiling brightly, was Laura Rose, grass green handkerchief in one hand, age-old castanet in the other. She drew her arm up in bright salute, but her eyes were wet with tears.

  Melinda ordered the carriage stopped, but her mother frowned and waved her on. There were always other St. Agnes’s Eves, other times when perhaps bonny little Melindas and tiny Lord Santanas could be brought for her to dandle.

  The canary-coloured carriage with its delightful sky blue fittings drove on. A quiet peace descended on the couple, who took a long, still moment to thank the gods—and, more particularly, the goddesses.

  Guy drew Melinda close up to him. She could feel his knees, encased in the most splendid of doeskins, creep up close to her own. Her dampened skirts did not save her from feeling impossibly warm as his hands crept to the figure-hugging dress and moulded suggestively to the most intimate of her curves. Melinda did not waste her breath in modest complaint. Instead, she moved forward so that my lord was permitted an even greater view of her expansive charms than he had previously been afforded. She chuckled at his sharp intake of breath, then smiled in a wanton, if slightly sleepy parody of the gypsy queen he had first encountered.

  My lord would have been less than human had he not responded in an appropriate manner. Lazily but quite deliberately, he allowed the curtains of the little carriage to drop.

  And Venus? She curled up snugly on a crimson squab. It is to be hoped that she then closed her eyes, for the occurrences that transpired within could not, sadly, be described as anything but highly delightful and dreadfully, dreadfully improper.

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  KENSINGTON e-CLASSICS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 1999 Hayley Ann Solomon

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  eKENSINGTON is a trademark of the Kensington Publishing Corp. KENSINGTON and the k logo are Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-6018-3055-5

  First electronic edition: March 2013