Free Queen of Diamonds by Bárbara Metzger Page B

“Yes, well, I shall be returning to Lincolnshire soon,” he said, reminding himself. “Directly after the ball, I hope.”
    She nodded as graciously as a duchess. “So we understand each other.”
    â€œOf course. A pleasant evening in the public eye. Nothing more.”
    She held her hand out—to pick up Parfait’s lead. “Nothing more.”
    * * *
    She did not like him, Harry realized. So much was obvious by Madame Lescartes’s curt farewell, and her reluctance to give her direction. How did she think he was to fetch her to the ball? And what was she afraid of, that he would batten upon her doorstep like some lovesick swain, keeping away wealthier patrons? He had already told her he was leaving London shortly.
    The sooner he left, the better, Harry told himself, if the opinion of a doxy mattered to him. He had spent enough of his life trying to establish a good reputation among his neighbors without beginning to worry how he appeared in a wanton’s eyes.
    They were magnificent eyes, though, a blue a poet could spend a lifetime trying to describe, without finding the right phrase. No words could describe the life burning there, the intelligence, the—
    The devil take it! Madame Lescartes was a loose London lady, nothing more. After a quick glance at the card she handed him, Harry vowed not to think about her again until the evening he had to pick her up for the ball. He had too much to do, anyway, visiting some of the lesser gaming dens, a few less reputable jewelers. Time was passing and heaven knew where Martin was selling the Harking Diamonds.
    He’d think about recovering his heirlooms, not whether it was proper for him to send flowers ahead of the ball. Or if he should carry with him the sapphire pendant he’d purchase, or send it the morning afterward in payment. And if there was time for him to have a dancing lesson.
    No! He would not spend a second or a shilling trying to impress his hired companion. Of course he spent ages at the livery stable, selecting the proper coach and ensuring it was clean and polished. And he did survey the wares of every jeweler he visited, before settling on the sapphire necklace, although the color was not nearly right for the woman’s eyes. And he did let the hotel’s assigned servant look over his wardrobe.
    Lord Harking’s appearance was a reflection on his skill, the fussy valet insisted, on the hotel, the viscount’s own stature in society, and his respect for the lady.
    Harry did not respect the woman, that was the problem. She was a means to finding his brother-in-law, Harry told himself, the same as little Miss Pettifog, or whatever the other gal’s name was. Madame Lescartes was a link to Martin, nothing else. If he happened to find the dirty dish before the ball, Harry decided, he would cancel his arrangement with Madame Lescartes and send the pendant.
    Right after he slit his throat.
    The valet did not permit him to get near the razor. Or a comb or a mirror or the evening dress he had hastily packed before leaving Lincolnshire. Did he truly possess so many neckcloths that the valet could discard a score before declaring the final strangulating knot a masterpiece? And when had Harry bought a satin waistcoat with that narrow blue stripe? Lud, he had not been babbling in his bath about blue eyes, had he?
    No, the gentleman’s gentleman must have noticed the sapphire pendant in the velvet box. Why else would he be winking and smirking? Harry had not noticed the man had a twitch.
    Finally, after what seemed like a week, Harry was ready. And pleased with his appearance when the valet finally let him look in the mirror. Madame Denise Lescartes might not like him, might not consider him fit to become her prospective protector, but he was not going to embarrass her, either. Not that he cared, of course.
    * * *
    Oh, dear, he did not like her. Queenie could tell by how Lord Harking did not linger after