An Honourable Thief. Anne Gracie

if you wish it,” Kit agreed instantly, then added sympathetically, “I forgot how it was with elder—um, mature gentlemen. My poor old papa used to find dancing very tiring, too—ethpecially the waltz—such a long dance, ith it not, and tho energetic.”

      The strains of a Viennese waltz filled the air. She smiled sunnily up at him and looked brightly around the room. “Now, where shall we find a comfortable chair tho you may retht your poor feet?”

      Mr Devenish’s lips thinned. An arctic look came into his eyes but he did not reply. Taking her waist in a firm, not to say ferocious grip, he whirled her across the room in a dazzling display of virtuosity and youthful masculine energy, twirling her and twirling her until she was quite dizzy with pleasure and delight.

      Kit had danced the waltz several times before, but now, suddenly, she realised why it had been regarded as so scandalous and had taken such a long time to be accepted in polite society.

      When danced like this, caught up hard in the grip of a strong, masterful man, twirling in his arms until you lost all awareness of anything except the music and the man, the experience was utterly intoxicating.

      Kit simply gave herself up to the magic of the dance. And the man. The world blurred around her in a glittering rainbow, the music spun through her brain in a melody of magic, and all that anchored her to the ground was the hard, strong body of a tall dark man.

      After a few moments he looked down at her as if surprised. His grip tightened, his cold grey eyes seemed to bore into her soul and Kit felt herself staring up at him like a mouse mesmerised by a cobra. They danced on, staring into each other’s eyes.

      Kit felt suddenly breathless; a breathlessness that had nothing to do with the movement of the dance. She longed to simply let herself go, to float wherever he wished to take her, to dance off into a new dawn. The temptation was irresistible.

      But she could not. She’d made a promise. It was her honour at stake, as well as her papa’s.

      She blinked to free herself of Mr Devenish’s spell and closed her eyes, shutting out the thought that here was a man the like of which she’d never come across before…

      Abruptly he loosened his grip and she stumbled slightly. He caught her up smoothly and she realised he was very strong. He was the sort of man who would never let a girl fall. The sort of man a woman could depend on.

      But Kit could depend only on herself. It had always been so. It was the only possible way. She had to break this spell.

      “Oh, dear, it ith a long dance, ith it not? Are you getting tired, Mr Devenish?” she murmured, a young Katherine Parr to his aged King Henry.

      Insulted, he snapped, “Do you reverse?” and before she had a chance to reply he was twirling her in reverse around the circumference of the ballroom with great, if furious, vigour.

      Again it was utterly intoxicating and Kit had to battle her own senses to retain a safe distance from him.

      The supper, despite the gloomy predictions of some, turned out to be surprisingly good—a triumph of Fanny Parsons over her husband’s penny-pinching ways. She had provided a substantial spread: turtle soup, a number of pies—pigeon, pork, veal and ham—oyster fritters, lobster salad, eels in aspic, sliced roast duck, tiny quails in pastry baskets, dishes of tender green peas, braised capons, a mountain of shaved ham, bread and butter, fruits, jellies, fruit custards, trifles, pastries glittering with a frosting of sugar, and ices in several flavours.

      There were even, to Mr Devenish’s satisfaction, crab patties. He placed several on his and his partner’s plate.

      “So, Miss Singleton,” he said as they ate, “I believe you have lived a good deal of your life in…New South Wales, was it?”

      Kit smiled at him, still exhilarated from the dance. “Oh, no,” she said serenely, and popped an oyster fritter into her mouth, thus making further conversation impossible for a few moments.

      Mr Devenish frowned. “But I thought you came from New South Wales.”

      Kit chewed her oyster fritter slowly and thoroughly. Mr Devenish gave up for the moment and devoured a crab patty. “I understood your father had, er, some business in New South Wales?”

      Kit smiled. “Papa always had many different interests, yeth.”

      Mr Devenish noted the way the lisp came and went. Could it truly be a sign of nervousness, as Amelia had suggested? The thought was a little unnerving, especially after the waltz they had shared.

      Something had happened during that waltz…she had seemed somehow differ—No! He was not going to think about the implications of that dance. The breathless young sprite he had twirled in his arms had reverted to the idiot widgeon.

      He was here to investigate her. On his nephew’s behalf.

      “Your father was a landowner, no doubt? I do believe land grants—to the right people, of course—are easily come by in the Colonies.”

      “Do you?” said Kit politely and chewed meditatively on a mouthful of green peas.

      “That is my understanding, yes,” Mr Devenish persisted. “Did your father operate a farm? I believe wool is said to be doing well there. Did he own a lot of sheep?”

      Kit giggled inanely and shook her head, but inside, she was appalled. He was very well informed about a fledgling penal colony that almost no one in London knew anything of, she thought. He may well have visited the colony—that could explain the fleeting sense of familiarity she felt in his company. She had best be very careful. It would not do to be recognised as a card-cheat’s daughter.

      Mr Devenish decided to take a different angle. “I have heard that vast areas of new country have been opened up since they found a way through some mountain range, is that right?”

      Kit nodded emphatically. “Oh, yeth.”

      Mr Devenish leaned forward.

      “I had not heard it myself, of courth, but gentlemen are invariably right, are you not?” she added, and nibbled daintily on a slice of chicken breast. What was it he was trying to get her to reveal? Knowledge of New South Wales? Her father’s business?

      Mr Devenish gritted his teeth and helped himself to another crab patty. “Do you not know what—er, um.” Under those innocently questioning eyes he stuttered to a halt. Then grimly, he tried again. “So, your father did not discuss business affairs at all with you,” he said bluntly, shuddering inwardly at his lack of subtlety.

      “Oh, no,” she said firmly, “for it ith not at all ladylike to talk of such things. In any case, Papa said to be forever talking of money ith horridly vulgar.” She smiled beatifically at him and batted her eyelashes gently. “Don’t you agree?”

      There was a short, strained silence. Mr Devenish reached for the dish of crab patties.

      Kit laid a small hand on his, and said earnestly. “Should you really be eating tho many crab patties? They are very rich, you know, and my papa found they did not at all agree with his constitution—”

      “I have eaten and enjoyed crab patties all my life,” he snapped, and reached towards the dish.

      Kit tactfully moved the dish away from him with an understanding smile. “Yeth, but after a certain age, I believe, gentlemen are not able to do all the things they used to enjoy in their youth. Would you care for a ruthk?” She offered him a rusk, maintaining her demure expression by biting hard on the inside of her cheek.

      “No, I would not!” he snapped explosively. There was another short silence while Mr Devenish fought to control his indignation at being treated as an octogenarian.

      Kit placidly examined her nails, ninny fashion.

      He stood up. “You seem to have finished your supper, Miss Singleton.” He held out a commanding hand to help her to her feet.

      Kit, relieved not to be pushed further on the question of her background, offered him