Moments later, beneath her breath and with perfect poise, she told Lambert she was finished with hating him or caring about anything he did. And since then she had been free, until six months ago when he tried to hurt Alex and she finally ruined him.

Now, settled into a soft chair in the parlor of the Cock and Pitcher, she studied the Earl of Blackwood as she had once studied Lambert. The draperies were drawn against the cold night without, candles glimmering and firelight filled the chamber with a warm glow, the aromas of cinnamon and wine tangling in the warm air. She spoke with the others, even the earl on occasion. But, using her old skills, she listened to him almost exclusively, and watched.

She noticed interesting things.

As the evening progressed and dinner became tea, then more whiskey for the gentlemen, his gaze upon Mr. Yale altered. At first it grew watchful. Then concerned. Mr. Yale exhibited no change except perhaps a more relaxed air as he sipped his spirits.

Emily and Mr. Milch produced a dish of brandy with raisins floating in it. The concoction was set aflame and a game of snapdragon ensued during which Kitty burned two fingertips and the earl did not take part but seemed unusually pensive, if such a man could be said to think deeply.

Kitty felt like a spy, or what she imagined a spy might feel like. But this time no sticky discomfort accompanied her covert attentiveness, no niggling sense that this activity did not respect her, that she pursued her basest urges in such an endeavor.

It seemed remarkable that lust did not now rouse the guilt that vengeance once had.

Or perhaps not merely lust.

As he had three years ago, now he shifted his regard to her through the fire-lit chamber, his eyes dark with a mystery that should not be there, but still she saw it. She feared lust did not suffice to explain her feelings, which did not make any sense at all; she knew nothing of him.

From his spot on the floor between the dogs, a grinning Ned set bow to strings, fiddle trapped between chin and shoulder. With a glass of wine and the earl’s gaze warming her blood, Kitty smiled.

Sunk in a soft chair, she felt like a pampered cat curled up before the fire being watched by a dog. A dog with unclear intentions and a gorgeously firm jaw.

“Aha!” Mr. Cox exclaimed. “We shall have music to celebrate the birth of Our Lord and Savior tonight. And singing. We must have singing.” His bright blue eyes smiled, but with an odd glitter that seemed unnatural as they darted back and forth between her and the earl.

“Will ye sing for us, Lady Kath’rine?” the Scot said.

“She never sings.” Emily had eschewed spirits tonight, and now seemed intent upon her book but happy enough in company.

“She did at one time, lass. Like a lark.”

Kitty could say nothing. That night at the masquerade ball after turning off Lambert, she had sung.

He stood beside her turning pages as she played, whispering that she would regret her decision and come back to him eventually. After that night, she had not been able to sing again.

Emily poked her nose up. “Why don’t you sing now, then?”

“I haven’t the feeling for it any longer.”

“It does not require feeling, Kitty, only the proper vocal apparatus and a suitable chest cavity.”

“I am continually astounded at the accomplishments of ladies,” Mr. Cox put in, but again an odd note tinted his voice. “They sing, dance, paint with watercolors, speak French and Italian, embroider, and perform all number of domestic tasks. Why, if I had a wife I would give her roses and chocolates every day in thanks for such bounteous talent and effort.”

“Rather expensive habit that would become,” Mr. Yale said, unwrapping a pack of cards.

Cox chuckled, peculiarly brittle. “Ah, but she would deserve it.” His gaze darted to the earl, then away.

“Why don’t you have a wife, Mr. Cox?” Emily asked. “You must be thirty. Don’t tradesmen like yourself seek early in their careers to marry daughters of impoverished nobles and assure a connection within society that can be useful to their business interests?”

Mr. Yale smiled with undisguised pleasure.

Kitty sat forward. “What my friend means to say—”

“It’s quite all right, Lady Katherine. I don’t mind it at all, and I suspect she has the right of it.” Mr.

Cox darted another glance across the parlor. “I’ve been traveling in the Americas for several years now and haven’t had the opportunity to look about me for a suitable life’s partner.”

Emily’s brow beetled. “Lord Blackwood, you were married, were you not? You even have a son.”

Kitty’s heart tripped.

“Aye.”

“What was marriage like?”

In the silence the cards cracked as Mr. Yale’s fingers split them, and the fire snapped.

“I mean to say, my father wishes me to marry shortly and I haven’t the taste for it at all.” Emily’s pretty face seemed so sincere. Kitty could not rescue her, or the earl. She wanted too much to hear his response. “I think it might be unexceptionable to be married to a person one liked. But I wonder what it would be like to be wed to a person one does not care for.”

“A wretched stew, I should say.” Mr. Yale stacked the cards.

Emily set her book down. “I should too.”

Kitty could not bear it that her friend’s pretty green eyes had dimmed.

“I believe that is the first time I have heard the two of you agree on anything.” She forced a smile.

“How lovely. Just in time for Christmas.”

Mr. Yale bowed. “Your servant, ma’am.”

Emily did not reply. Kitty wrapped her fingers around her hand.

“Who wants a game?” Mr. Yale brandished the deck.

“It is Christmas, sir,” Emily said in a rather dull voice. “Kitty, you will mind it, won’t you, gambling tonight?”

“Not at all. I shall play happily.” Not happily. But Emily needed distraction from her worries.

“Would you like me to go retrieve your purse so that you can join us?”

“No. I shall do so, and yours as well.” She stood and went up the stairs.

“Cox, will you make our fourth?” Mr. Yale stood.

“Afraid I’m done in for the night, sir. What of my lord? I suspect he plays well.” Again that strangely anxious glint directed at the earl.

Mr. Yale scoffed, moving into the dining area. “Too well. I’d rather have a groat in my pocket at the end of the evening.” He arranged the chairs about the table. “But if it must be.”

“Grand.” Mr. Cox bowed. “My lady, gentlemen, I bid you a fine Christmas.”

He went to the steps quite swiftly and up, as though in a hurry.

Kitty frowned—Emily was still above, and alone. She moved to follow him. The earl lifted a hand to stay her and set his foot to the stair. Emily appeared on the landing just as Mr. Cox reached it. He smiled, this time appreciatively.

“Good night, Lady Marie Antoine.”

She nodded and they passed each other. Lord Blackwood came off the step and Kitty released a breath.

Emily went to the playing table and set their purses on it. “I would like Lord Blackwood as my partner.”

“A surprise, to be sure,” Mr. Yale murmured.

“I shall refuse to play if the two of you continue in this manner.”

“Kitty,” Emily said, “Lord Blackwood is widely accounted an extraordinarily fine card player.

Even I know that. Yet I have never heard a word said about Mr. Yale’s playing abilities. It would be foolish not to wish to partner the earl.”

“Ma thanks, maleddy,” he said with a grin, but his gaze flickered again to the stair.

Kitty sank into the chair beside her friend, her knees like water. She mustn’t think it meant anything. A true gentleman would protect ladies even if they were not his to protect by any right other than sheer mishap upon the snowy road. But she had not known he was a true gentleman, certainly not by the way he kissed her.

“Well there’s a sight I like.” Mr. Milch entered from the kitchen, eyes bleary. “Ned, your mother’s wanting you home.” The boy popped up and the innkeeper lifted a thick hand. “Happy Christmas, milords and ladies. My Gert sends her wishes as well.” He retreated through the door.

“See you in the morning, then, gov’nor?” The boy’s toothy grin flashed up at the earl.

The nobleman laid his hand on Ned’s shoulder. “A’m coonting oan it, lad. Nou be aff wi’ ye.”

Ned scurried into the kitchen and the door swung shut.

Mr. Yale proffered the deck to Emily. “Will you take the first deal, ma’am?”

She distributed the cards. Warmth from the huge fire curled through the chamber, doors and shades closed tight to the cold without, and through a crack in the draperies the sparkling night shone dark. Lord Blackwood took a seat beside Kitty and she allowed herself to look at his hands as he took up his cards. Large hands, and beautifully capable of all sorts of things.

He wanted her to cast herself at him again. She was not a woman of loose morals, no matter what the gossips said. Naïvely she had given herself to Lambert in love—in what she had thought to be love. But Lambert Poole had never made her heart race by simply sitting beside her. She had never watched his hands and imagined them on her. She had never watched his hands at all.

They played cards. All went well for some time, except for Kitty’s nerves strung end-to-end.

Points were counted and Emily laid down the final trick.

“My lord,” she said, “did your brother fall in battle?”

The earl did not look up from his hand. “Nae, miss.”

Slowly Mr. Yale slewed his gaze across the chamber to the foyer. Kitty followed. No one stood there, but a cool filter of air seemed to twine about her now. She did not believe in ghosts, but Emily would persist in speaking of one.

“That is a pity,” Emily said. “I understand many soldiers succumbed to disease, especially in Spain.”

“He wisna in Spain when he passed, maleddy.”

Mr. Yale laid down a card. The earl placed his on the table. Kitty followed.

“Our hand, my lord.” Emily’s brows lifted. “Then where did he perish?”

“In Lunnon, miss. ’Twas a duel that teuk him.”

She blinked behind gold-rimmed spectacles. “I do hope his opponent was duly punished.”

He regarded her for a moment, then his mouth crept up at one edge. But there was no pleasure in the smile.

“He wis.”

Mr. Yale leaned back in his chair and seemed to contemplate the empty glass at his elbow.

“Blackwood, old chap,” he said in an oddly slow voice, “you have emptied my pockets.”

“Wadna be the first time.”

Mr. Yale stood. “I’m wrapped up for the evening, then.” He bowed. “Ladies, I bid you adieu on this holiest of nights.” He went upstairs.

Emily counted coins. “We did quite well for ourselves, my lord. How gratifying, although I suppose game is like that, of course, or otherwise sensible people would not be so taken with it. My father and mother certainly are, but they are not sensible and I believe they do it mostly to appear fashionable.” Her brow furrowed more deeply than usual. She stood. “Kitty, Mr. Yale’s departure has effectively ended our play. Will you go to bed now?”

Kitty’s stomach leaped with jitters.

“I will be up shortly, Marie.” The reply of a Jezebel, but an hour sitting beside him had made its mark on her senses. Emily peered at the contents of her purse with apparent displeasure and went up.

Lord Blackwood seemed to study the empty stair while Kitty’s insides did pirouettes. Slowly his gaze came to her.

“Whit are ye doing wi’ that bairn, lass?”

So much said in so few words. He was master at it. Kitty now understood that. Fools did not speak succinctly, wise men did. Kitty had few unwed friends in society. Most mothers did not allow their daughters her company.

“I realize it must seem that Lady Emily and I have little in common. But she is not a child, only young and disinterested in niceties. And she is concerned about her visit with her parents. They intend to betroth her to a most unsuitable gentleman.”

“Dae they?”

“One of their cronies. Not an appropriate match for a girl like Emily. So you see that distresses her. But she is quite lovely under normal circumstances.” Kitty paused, during which time his gaze remained level on the surface but the glint within it moved her inside. “And coming here with her offered me opportunity,” she said rather more quickly than she liked.

He lifted a brow.

“For running away,” she whispered.