Her ongoing struggles finally paid off, and she freed herself of the cloak. As she pushed it away, he said, "I suggest you keep that on. The door on your side is locked, so you can't escape that way, and it's deucedly chilly tonight."
Plague the man, he was right; it was bitterly cold, and her Gypsy costume had not been designed for warmth. She wrapped the cloak around herself again. In the process she stealthily tested the door handle on her side, but it was indeed locked. With a sigh, she settled back into the corner and wrapped the cloak more tightly. The heavy "wool folds carried the faint, tangy scent of his cologne. "Where are you taking me?"
"To supper. Anyone who worked as hard as you did on that stage must have a fearsome appetite."
The answer was so prosaic she almost laughed. Her fear receded further. "You're right-after a performance, I'm always ravenous. But why didn't you simply ask me to go out with you? I do not appreciate being manhandled."
"No?" he said with biting sarcasm. "I understand that quite a lot of men have handled you."
She gasped, then retorted, "Again, what business is that of yours? You are not related to me by blood or marriage, and you have no right to censure my actions."
"I'm not censuring you," he said coolly. "In fact, I'm delighted to be free of the strictures of respectability. It was damned limiting to think you were virtuous. Now I can try more powerful persuasions."
"If seduction is your aim, you've set about it very badly, my lord," she said with awful formality.
Before he could answer, the carriage rumbled to a halt and a footman opened the door. Strathmore climbed out, then assisted her with as much courtliness as if she were an honored guest rather than a virtual prisoner.
As Kit stepped down, she discovered that they were in front of the Clarendon Hotel. At least he had been serious about feeding her. Hastily she rearranged the cloak so that it made a high cowl around her neck, obscuring her face. The last thing she needed was to be recognized by someone else.
A firm hand on her elbow, Strathmore escorted her up the steps. Inside, he said to the deeply bowing mattre d'hotel, "A private dining room, Robecque, and a swiftly served meal suitable for a hungry lady. With champagne."
Robecque hesitated, distress on his mobile face. "I am most sorry, Lord Strathmore, but I believe that all of the private rooms are reserved," he said in a heavy French accent.
Strathmore arched his brows. "Oh?"
The Frenchman reacted to that single, softly uttered syllable as if a knife had been laid against his throat. "This way, my lord, my lady," he said instantly. "I have just recalled a room that is available."
He led the way along a private corridor to a small, lavishly furnished chamber. "Champagne and a suitable repast shall be brought directly."
After Robecque had bowed and left, Kit said ironically, "I presume that you just bullied the poor man out of a room that a lesser mortal had reserved for tonight."
"Very likely." Unperturbed, Strathmore removed the cloak, his fingers grazing her bare forearms for an instant.
She shivered and stepped away.
"My need was greater," the earl explained as he hung the garment on a hook in the corner.
"And your purse deeper." Feeling that taking a seat would put her at a disadvantage, she prowled around the room, her full Gypsy skirts swishing around her ankles as the thick carpet soundlessly absorbed the impressions of her light slippers. She had dined at the Clarendon once or twice on special occasions, but had never visited a private parlor. It was a world of winter roses, sparkling crystal, and the soft sheen of waxed wood.
Her gaze went to the velvet-covered chaise longue tucked in a corner, then shifted away. Nothing was missing for those who had come for a luxurious assignation.
The door opened and a platoon of servants entered. While one lowered the small chandelier and lit the candles, another built up the coal fire. A third opened a bottle of champagne and the last rolled in a heavily laden cart with wisps of steam trickling out from under silver covered dishes. The food smelled heavenly, and it had arrived so quickly that Kit suspected they had received someone else's dinner.
Strathmore said to the waiter in charge, "Thank you, Petain. You may go now. We shall serve ourselves, so your presence will not be needed for the rest of the evening."
The waiter bowed, then led his troops from the room. When they were alone, Kit said, "Considering the service you receive, I'm beginning to wonder if you own this place."
He shrugged. "I was once able to do a small service for the maitre d'hotel. He has not forgotten."
"I assume that means he lost a fortune to you at the card table and you generously chose not to send him to debtor's prison."
"Something of the sort." He pulled a chair from the table and made a gesture of invitation. "Shall we begin?"
Deciding that she might as well make herself comfortable, she tugged out the hairpins that secured her black wig. After removing the wig and hanging it on a hook beside the cloak, she shook out her own hair, then ran her fingers through it to loosen the flattened tresses. She guessed that she must look like a dandelion that had gone to seed. Yet there was admiration in the earl's eyes when she took her seat.
He poured champagne for them both, then raised his glass to her. "To the most talented, devious female I've ever met."
"Is that a compliment or an insult?"
He smiled a little. "A mere statement of fact." He looked civilized and heart-stoppingly handsome. She would have believed him to be a complete gentleman, if not for the chancy light in his green-gold eyes.
Uneasily aware of the sexual tension between them, she tried her own champagne. Bubbles danced across her tongue, then tingled into her blood, relaxing her tense muscles. Feeling more at ease, she turned her attention to the food. It tasted even better than it smelled. After sole with sage and artichoke, braised leeks, chicken in apricot sauce, and pistachio cream, she felt better prepared to face her adversary.
He had eaten very little and was leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hair gleaming in the candlelight like spun gold. Now that she had recovered from the strains of performing, she was intensely, physically aware of him. Every time they met, their interaction was more profound, and she wondered uneasily what this evening would bring.
Hoping to keep the mood lightly social, she said, "Thank you for an excellent dinner."
"I've always found that it's more productive to question someone who isn't hungry." He sipped at his champagne. "And I have quite a quantity of questions to ask you."
She took a deep breath, then laid her knife and fork neatly across her plate.
The battle was joined.
Chapter 13
Kit raised her gaze to his. "I have nothing to say to you."
"What, no more fanciful tales to spin? I'm disappointed," he said with delicate sarcasm. "You're one of the most creative liars I've ever met."
"You should talk," she retorted. "I doubt that you have an honest bone in your body. You had everyone in the theater convinced we were lovers."
"I'm honest when it's convenient and doesn't cost me anything," he said blandly. "We have much in common. Are you sure you can't conjure up another cheated brother or journalistic investigation for me?"
She shook her head. "I'm tired of lying. As I said earlier, I am under no obligation to answer your questions, so I won't. I give you my word that I do not intend harm to any innocent person. More than that I will not say."
"I wish I knew what you consider guilt and innocence." He studied her face. "Clever of you to pretend to be L. J. Knight. Since no one knows what the fellow looks like, your claim is hard to refute. It might even be true, though I wouldn't bet a ha'penny on it. It's more likely that you are merely a regular reader of Knight's work. Care to comment?"