I Kissed an Earl: Pennyroyal Green Series (3 page)

“Customarily,” she said with gentle irony, “in England, it’s the gentleman’s duty to charm his dancing partner. Perhaps you’ve been at sea so long you’ve forgotten.”

He was instantly all mock contrition. “You could very well be correct. It could be I’ve become a savage while I was away.”

Her eyes narrowed.

He met her gaze evenly.

For a moment they swept along in time with the music.

“It’s impolite to eavesdrop,” she said finally.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” he said easily.

“Then it’s impolite to send spies to do the eavesdropping for you. For clearly you did.”

This pleased him. His eyes brightened; the hand at the small of her back pressed against her approvingly, and it was a new sensation, startling, almost intimate. “I’m not certain impolite is the word you’re looking for. In all honesty the overhearing, as it were, was happenstance. But as you are an expert in the matter of etiquette, please refresh my memory. How polite it is to gossip?”

The man was a devil. And yet she was awfully tempted to laugh.

“I was being gossiped at,” she tried after a moment. And offered him a mischievous loweredlashed smile that usually all but dropped grown men to their knees. Generally hothouse bouquets arrived at her door the day after she’d deployed one. He wasn’t entirely immune to it. She was rewarded with a pupil flare.

“Ah, but are you a complete innocent, Miss Redmond?” His voice had gone soft. His mouth tipped sardonically. Up twitched one of those brows again. This time it was almost a threat: Don’t bore me.

If this was a flirting relay, he’d just handed her the baton.

Violet felt that familiar surge of exhilaration when tempted with a reckless inspiration. She’d seldom been able to resist that surge.

She briefly went on toe to murmur the words closer to his ear than was proper, so close she knew he could smell her, feel her breath in his ear when she spoke. Once again she was rewarded with the heady smell of the man himself: sharp, clean, heightened by his warmth and nearness.

“What do you think, sir?”

She instantly had his full attention for the first time since the waltz had begun. And yet once she had it she wasn’t certain she wanted it. It was like being passed something too hot to hold overlong. His gaze was potent; there was nothing in it of the entreaty she was accustomed to seeing in the face of men. He was weighing her with a specific intent in mind. His eyes touched on her eyes, lips, décolletage, taking a swift bold inventory of her as a woman that somehow both shortened her breath in a peculiarly delicious portentous way and made her fingers twitch to slap him.

And then he smiled a remote, almost dismissive smile and his gaze flicked up from her as they negotiated a turn in the dance.

And then froze.

He dropped the remnants of his flirtatious demeanor as abruptly as a boy drops a toy when called into dinner.

Before her eyes his jaw seemed to turn to granite; tension vibrated in the hand pressed against her waist. He gripped her fingers a trifle harder than he ought to. What in God’s name had he just seen?

She flexed her fingers. He absently eased his grip.

“Miss…” He glanced at her perfunctorily. And returned his gaze to whatever—or whomever

—riveted him.

He’d forgotten her name? She clenched her teeth to keep her jaw from dropping.

“Redmond,” she reminded him with exaggerated sweetness.

“Of course,” he soothed. He gave her another cursory, dutiful glance, meant to placate. Then returned to the object of his focus. She’d seen a fox look at a vole that way before. Right before it pounced.

And shook it until its neck snapped.

“I believe I may be acquainted with the gentleman dancing with the young lady in yellow. If I’m correct, his name is Mr. Hardesty. Are you acquainted with him?”

With some perilous head craning, she managed to follow the direction of his gaze. And her hands went peculiarly icy inside her gloves.

He was looking at her brother Jonathan.

“I believe the gentleman to whom you’re referring is Mr. Jonathan Redmond. He’s my brother.”

The earl’s attention sharply returned to her. But the expression on his face stopped her breath as surely as though he’d stabbed an accusing finger into her sternum. She felt him will tension from his big body. Obediently tension went.

“Is your brother Mr. Jonathan Redmond a merchant, by any chance?” His tone was mild. “A sea captain?”

He somehow kept Jonathan in his line of sight even as he moved her by rote in the waltz. ONE

two three ONE two three…She felt utterly superfluous. Suddenly she was the means by which the earl could stalk her brother about a ballroom.

But Jonathan, who like all men his age possessed of good looks and money and prospects was convinced he was fascinating, chattered gaily to the woman he danced with, and she glowed up at him.

“Good heavens, no, sir. Jonathan lives with our family in Pennyroyal Green and London. His amusements are in London and Sussex, and if he’s ever been on a ship, I assure you he wouldn’t be able to stop bragging of it. Jonathan has never even expressed an interest in the high seas. Perhaps you will have an opportunity to meet him this evening. Upon closer inspection you may discover his resemblance to Mr. Hardesty is not so strong.”

This was meant to reassure him—and protect Jonathan.

The earl remained coldly silent.

She was beginning to feel a bit like a ship steered on a voyage. And as much as Violet craved novelty, this was a sensation she could easily have done without.

“He doesn’t ‘resemble’ Mr. Hardesty,” he explained, as if to a slow child. “He could be Mr. Hardesty’s twin.”

The conversation was now making her uneasy. Her hand twitched restlessly in the earl’s. He gripped it tightly, almost reflexively. As though he alone would dictate when or if she could leave.

“I can tell you Jonathan hasn’t a twin, sir,” she said tartly. Violet peered over his shoulder for Lavay, who would have the pleasure of the next dance, and noted with relief that the waltz approached its closing notes and Lady Peregrine looked pleased with him, not troubled or irritated.

“Is Mr. Hardesty a fellow sailor?”

There was a hesitation.

And then his smile was a tight, remote thing. Oddly, it made all the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“I suppose you could say that.”

It really didn’t invite additional questioning about Mr. Hardesty, which she supposed was the point of it.

He suddenly appeared disinterested in conversation.

“Are you staying in London long?” she asked.

“We’ll return to the ship by dawn and sail shortly after sunup.” A perfunctory response.

“You’re bound for…”

“Le Havre.” A curt two-word answer.

Moments later, mercifully, the waltz ended. He bowed beautifully to her, the epitome of graciousness, and she curtsied, and he handed her off to the approaching Lord Lavay with as much regret as if she were a tureen to be passed.

She peered over her shoulder as he bowed to Lady Peregrine and dutifully took up his position in the waltz.

Lady Peregrine turned quickly to Violet and surreptitiously tapped her teeth with one finger in a signal: He has all of them!

Violet doubted the earl would even remember her name.

Chapter 3

I t quickly became clear that after the earl, Monsieur Lavay would be balm. They began by admiring each other in silence. There was nothing ambiguous about his looks. Waving dark gold hair, narrow silver eyes, an aquiline nose, elegantly drawn mouth. Broad shoulders. Not lean at the hip like the earl, but not a barrel, either. Tall, but not oppressively so. Politely tall. Not a loomer, per se.

A splendid-looking man, and a bit like breathing the air of earth again after the peculiar heady, dangerous atmosphere one dance with the earl created. He had an air of slightly jaded reserve. Perhaps earned from watching the heads of various ancestors roll during the revolution.

“How are you finding London, Lord Lavay?” she tried. It was a perfectly acceptable nicety, she told herself. A nicety, not a banality. “Have you been here long?”

“We docked but a fortnight ago. But oddly, Miss Redmond, I now greatly regret that we must set sail tomorrow.”

He said it lightly, but it was edged all around in flirtatious heat. The remark was entirely about her. His eyes glowed the subtext.

Violet nodded her recognition approval, gave a slight encouraging smile. Very good beginning. Monsieur Lavay’s eyes lit, amused, encouraged.

“And have you visited London before, Monsieur Lavay?”

“Under other circumstances, many years before the war. We are here on business for the King, and to deliver a diplomat from service in Spain. And of course, to be feted at parties and balls, for it is not every day one’s captain is styled an earl.”

Violet smiled. “And it is our family’s pleasure, of course, to participate in the celebration of the new earl.”

This wasn’t entirely true. But Violet did know the appropriate things to say, the sort of things one laid out like paving stones at the outset of a friendship before one gets comfortable enough for frankness. She’d heard her father curse but twice in his life: once, when Colin Eversea didn’t hang as scheduled, and next when word arrived that the new earl would be Captain Asher Flint.

Generally, she preferred to dodge frankness when it came to men, however. And as she was a tester and risk-taker, she chose her next question deliberately.

“Are you acquainted with a Mr. Hardesty by any chance, Lord Lavay?”

The name brought a similarly intriguing reaction. Silence.

And then: “Are you, Miss Redmond?”

His manner was now a degree or two cooler.

“It’s just that the earl thought my brother Jonathan resembled him, and described him as a fellow sailor.”

She refrained from describing the earl’s profoundly visceral reaction. But Lavay’s rueful smile told her he’d guessed at it anyway. “Ah. Did he. Interesting. Given that we’ve thought of almost nothing else recently, perhaps it is understandable the earl is seeing Hardesty everywhere. And I suppose it’s not entirely an insult to your brother.”

“I am eager to hear which part is an insult, then.”

Monsieur Lavay smiled. “Well, to put your mind at ease, one hears that Mr. Hardesty is charm personified. And he is pleasant to have at one’s elbow during a supper, as I have on one occasion. His manners and speech are exceedingly refined and he is clearly well educated, though how he came by all of this charm and wealth and excellent conversation remains a mystery. He was all that is correct and knowledgeable about trade. He has been seen in France and Belgium, in Portugal and Spain, in Morocco. Primarily he brings in goods from the West Indies and Cuba.”

“He sounds delightful. And yet my impression is that your reunion with Mr. Hardesty would not be a joyous one.”

Lavay enjoyed her circumspection; his brows went up. But there was another hesitation.

“I suppose there is no harm in telling you. We believe this Mr. Hardesty is in fact a man they call Le Chat. Who, as it so happens is a—well, privateer is the polite word—a more accurate word is pirate.”

Good heavens. Violet was thrilled into silence. Which likely wasn’t the reaction she ought to have.

She seldom had the sorts of reactions she ought to have, however.

“What on earth would a pirate be doing in a ballroom?”

“Miss Redmond, I’m certain Le Chat would brave the gallows if he knew he might have an opportunity to dance with you. Perhaps he prowls balls for just this reason.”

Violet laughed and gave a surprised toss of her head. The compliment was cognac-smooth and unexpected enough to dissolve the fog of her ball ennui. The French accent that clung to the edges of his flawless English made listening to him a pleasure akin to hearing the strains of a minuet floating in from a distant room.

Lavay was encouraged to continue. “We’ve some intelligence that suggests Mr. Hardesty and Le Chat may well be the same person. Mr. Hardesty certainly appears to be wealthy, for one. But one can hardly condemn a man for wealth. And many successful traders are wealthy.”

“I would be the last person to condemn a man for wealth, Lord Lavay.”

He smiled at this and wagged up a pair of golden brows. “We—that is, the Earl of Ardmay and the crew of The Fortuna—have been charged by your King with bringing Le Chat to justice.”

“It sounds dangerous,” she flattered.

Lavay somehow managed to shrug with one shoulder, even in the midst of the waltz. Too French, perhaps, to think communication complete without it.

“But why should a pirate be called ’the cat’?”

“It is said this is the name he uses when he takes over ships. Perhaps it is because he boards ships with a small crew and pounces, silently from out of the fog? From out of the night?

Perhaps it is because he is said to have no allegiance to any crown or to any person? Or his charm when he wants something, perhaps—like a cat circling one’s legs, purring? The ladies say this is so; Hardesty is said to have no heart, but happy enough to win and break them. Perhaps it is because he appeared from nowhere one day, like a stray cat, and began to take whatever he wanted. I cannot say, Miss Redmond. People do enjoy naming their pirates, for this is how myths are constructed. Pirates never seem to object.”

At least Mr. Lavay had remembered her name.

And as she danced, she realized she saw the earl and Lady Peregrine nowhere in the room, and wondered whether she had managed to isolate him to test her theory regarding thighs. Which was when she realized she’d actually been looking for the earl. She ceased immediately.

Thankfully she did see Jonathan, dancing again, with a small be-muslined blonde. He looked bored. He looked like Jonathan. Not remotely piratical.

“What has this Le Chat done?”

“We believe Le Chat has boarded a number of merchant vessels and seized valuable cargo in just a year, And then he has sunk the ships. Four of the ships had English captains. The most recent ship is The Steadfast. He is a scourge, in other words,” he said flatly.