Belle of the Ball Page 2

  George smiled at Charisma a bit superciliously and said in a pompous tone, “So you haven’t heard the story of how it was named?”

  When Charisma shook her head, he added, “Local legend says that when two men were looking over the gardens, one man was so impressed, he said he thought it might make a good Milwaukee beer garden. But the other declared that it was a garden fit for the gods, and the name stuck.”

  A beer garden? Belle wrinkled her nose. How prosaic.

  “Highly doubtful,” Harold scoffed. “M’father says it’s more likely the fanciful name was invented to lure people to this area.”

  George and Harold erupted into an argument, each defending their version of the story. Not knowing anything about it, the girls stayed silent, but Kit soon broke in and turned the men’s anger aside with a joke. Then he added, “Since you two seem to know so much about the park, perhaps you will educate the rest of us?”

  Belle watched in admiration as his ploy worked. Soon, George and Harold were outdoing each other in pointing out the various formations, including “Elephant Attacking a Lion,” “Eagle With Pinions Spread,” and “Cathedral Spires.”

  When they began to recite various improbable legends associated with the rock formations, Belle was reminded of their promise to Mama. When a suitable break in the conversation occurred, she asked, “And where are the Three Graces?”

  George pointed to a set of three elegant, fingerlike spires of varying heights that reached toward the sky.

  Belle nodded. “Would you gentlemen excuse us for a few moments? There’s something we promised our mother we’d do.”

  Charisma rolled her eyes but managed to control her tongue until Belle led her two sisters away from the young men. “Do we really have to do this?” her outspoken sister complained.

  “Oh, don’t be such a fussbudget,” Grace said as she tripped over a rock. But she managed to right herself without mishap. Luckily for Grace, her mishaps usually injured others and not herself. “Don’t you want to see where Papa proposed to Mama? I think it’s romantic.”

  “I think so, too,” Belle said. “Besides, we promised Mama.”

  “Oh, all right,” Charisma complained. “But I think it’s silly.”

  “Really?” Grace said with a grin. “Even after seeing how handsome our escorts are? Doesn’t it make you wonder what it would be like to be married to one of them? Just a little?”

  “Well, perhaps just a little,” Charisma confessed.

  ‘Then it’s not so silly, is it?” Grace said in triumph.

  No, it wasn’t. Especially since Belle hadn’t been able to stop wondering what it would be like to be married to Kit Stanhope, to feel his strong arms around her, to touch her lips to his. . . .

  Yes, his lips. Soft but firm, Kit’s lips were very expressive and Belle had often found herself staring at his mouth as if mesmerized. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea to make a wish after all.

  They made their way to the base of the formation and looked up at the rocks in awe. “So this is what we’re named for,” Belle murmured.

  Grace stilled. “They’re so grand. . . .”

  Charisma nodded, agreeing for once. “Inspiring.”

  For a moment, they simply stood there in silence, staring up at the same Three Graces who had watched as their father proposed to their mother. And this was where they were supposed to leave their flowers and wish for husbands of their own.

  Could Belle dare wish for someone like Kit Stanhope? With his breeding, elegance, and charm, he could win any girl. Could she hope he might favor her?

  As they stood there, each thinking their private thoughts, Belle realized that, through a trick of geography, they were able to hear their escorts’ voices clearly.

  “Is that George I hear?” Grace asked.

  Belle nodded and the men’s voices became even more distinct.

  “Careful, Latham,” George said with a laugh. “You’re as clumsy as your date.”

  Seeing Grace’s stricken expression, Belle said, “Maybe we should—”

  Grace waved her to silence with a fierce look. “I want to hear this.”

  “. . . never seen anyone as ungraceful as Grace Sullivan,” Harold Latham said with a bitter laugh. “One needs armor to survive an encounter with the little ninny. Too bad she doesn’t live up to her name.”

  Not to be outdone, George said, “What about my date? Do you know of anyone less charming than Charisma Sullivan? I don’t think she’s ever had a thought she hasn’t voiced. And such unwomanly thoughts, too!” He made a sound of disgust.

  Charisma’s expression turned blank, but her emotions were revealed in the pain in her eyes. Compassion for her sisters filled Belle, and rage toward the men who had hurt them. She swung away from the Three Graces, prepared to do battle, but her sisters held her back.

  “No,” Grace whispered. “We can’t let them know we heard.”

  “She’s right,” Charisma agreed. “It would be too embarrassing.”

  Since when did Charisma care about that? She must really be hurting. Belle wrested herself free and heard Harold say, “And what about your date, Kit? Belle is certainly no beauty.”

  Belle froze, knowing she had to hear Kit’s reply yet dreading it. Surely he didn’t care about appearances . . . did he?

  He paused for one of the longest moments of Belle’s life, then drawled, “No, I’d have to say she’s the most homely woman of my acquaintance.”

  Anguish filled Belle, but she continued to torture herself by listening.

  George laughed. “So why did you invite her out?”

  “I expect it’s for the same reason you did,” Harold said. “Because her mother paid us handsomely.”

  “Not handsomely enough,” George exclaimed.

  When Kit and Harold agreed, agony pierced Belle. How foolish she’d been to think that aristocratic Kit Stanhope would ever look twice at plain Belle Sullivan. Why, her mother had to pay him to even consider going out with her.

  But through the pain came steely determination. She’d never forgive him for this. Or Harold and George either. They could say anything they liked about Belle, but the cads had hurt her sisters. Just look at them. Grace wore an expression of horrified anguish, and though Charisma was standing proud and defiantly straight, moisture shone in her eyes.

  Charisma dashed a tear away. “They’re only saying the truth. Everyone knows it.”

  Grace’s bottom lip quivered. “I know, but . . . did they have to be so cruel?”

  ‘They didn’t know we were listening,” Charisma said in their defense.

  “How dare you speak up for them?” Belle demanded. Grace might be clumsy, but she was the sweetest person Belle knew. And though Charisma was outspoken, she was incredibly generous and kind to those in need. Couldn’t the men see that?

  Apparently not—all they saw was the superficial. Determination stiffened Belle’s spine. No one insulted her family and got away with it. “Why, I’d like to—”

  She checked a throttling motion when she realized she was strangling the posy Kit had given her.

  “You’d like to what?” Charisma asked. Flourishing the flowers in Kit’s direction, Belle declared, “I’d like to shove this posy up his nosy.”

  Just as she’d hoped, that made them both laugh. Laughter was a wonderful way to ease their heartache, but how did she go about easing her own?

  “I’d pay money to see that,” Charisma declared.

  Grace’s eyes rounded in astonishment. “You’re not really going to do it, are you?”

  “No,” Belle said reluctantly. “If I did, Mama would do far worse to me.”

  “Not that she deserves any consideration after what she did,” Charisma declared.

  “I agree, but we did promise to make an offering to the Three Graces and make a wish.”

  A mischievous light suddenly appeared in Charisma’s eyes. “That’s true—but we didn’t promise what that wish would be.” She boldly laid her bouquet at the
foot of the sandstone monolith, but her tone was uncharacteristically wistful. “I wish I lived up to my name. I wish I had charm.”

  Grace copied her, saying, “Me, too. I wish I had true grace.”

  Belle sighed, feeling forced to go along as she laid her flowers alongside the others. “And I wish I were beautiful.” Though she knew in her heart that all she really wanted was a chance to get even with the men who had hurt them so.

  Her true wish was for revenge.

  As the three Sullivan girls returned to their waiting escorts with brave smiles, the Three Graces looked down from Mount Olympus and considered their wishes.

  “Shall we?” Aglaia asked.

  Thalia pondered for a moment. “We did grant their mother’s wish twenty years ago. I know we haven’t done anything like this in such a long time, but . . . they were so heartbroken. I think we should.”

  “We will,” Euphrosyne declared. Cocking her head, she asked, “Though shall we grant their spoken wishes . . . or the unspoken ones?”

  They exchanged delighted smiles. Oh, the possibilities. . . .

  Chapter Two

  Kit Stanhope watched the door close behind the Sullivan sisters and sighed. They had been very subdued on the ride home, and he strongly suspected his loose-tongued conversation with Winthrop and Latham had been overheard.

  Unfortunate. He hated to offend young ladies, no matter how gauche or inept they might be. But he had been more concerned with keeping favor with the men who might be able to help him find an investment than he was in minding his tongue.

  Harold Latham grimaced. “Well, we survived. Barely. I don’t want to go through that again.” George grinned. “Yes, but think what a great story it will make.”

  As the two plotted aloud how to drag the Sullivan sisters’ names through the muck of public opinion, Kit listened in appalled silence. What had he done? He must rectify this immediately.

  And as Harold turned to him looking for approval, Kit realized he had just the means to do it.

  Though these Americans might boast of their egalitarian society and say they honored the self-made man, the truth was that many still stood in awe of British aristocracy. And there in the city known as Little London, they still looked to the members of the substantial British population as the supreme arbiters of good taste.

  “Surely you jest,” Kit drawled, drawing on his most cultured tones.

  Appearing uncertain, Harold asked, “What do you mean?”

  Though he shouldn’t have to instruct them on such a basic tenet of gentlemanly behavior, Kit nonetheless undertook the task. “Why, no gentleman would sully a lady’s name in such a manner.”

  George snorted in disgust. “Ladies? Hardly. It wasn’t that long ago that the Sullivans lived in a shanty town in Leadville.”

  “And, like many others, they have done a fine job of overcoming their circumstances,” Kit said, subtly reminding the two that their fathers had shared similar humble beginnings. “Besides, by honoring them with an outing, we have declared to the world that we think them our equals.” Letting that sink in, he added, “There may have been some doubt before, but by your actions you have, in effect, made them ladies.”

  He let them ponder that for a moment. Apparently impressed by their own power, they nodded slowly.

  With a heightened air of importance, George said, “Yes, I suppose we did. It wouldn’t be such a good idea to turn about and denounce them now that we’ve made them, would it?”

  “Not at all,” Kit agreed.

  “Quite right,” Harold put in, not to be outdone. “Why, it wouldn’t be the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  Kit bestowed approving smiles upon his unwitting students. “Well, that’s settled, then. Shall we move on to the club?”

  Harold and George agreed eagerly, so they made their way to the El Paso Club, a refuge where a gentleman might have a smoke and intelligent conversation in an atmosphere of privacy and refinement.

  Kit stopped by the desk to pick up his mail and stuffed the two letters in his pocket as he joined Harold and George in a corner. After a few moments of desultory conversation, the two young men moved off to join their cronies, leaving Kit to his own thoughts.

  Damn, but he missed England. Back home he wouldn’t have to explain the concept of gentlemanly behavior to his friends—it was bred into them practically from birth.

  Then again, back home he was considered a wastrel and a cad.

  His gut twisted in remembered pain. Being ordered to leave home had been the low point of his existence. Worse, he had been judged guilty of ungentlemanly behavior without even a chance to defend himself. Too proud to beg for the trust he had more than earned, Kit had accepted the judgment of his father and older brother and had left England for America, there to become one of the many expatriate British younger sons who received a remittance from home on a regular basis.

  But unlike many others who wasted their inheritance in drink, sport, and gambling, Kit had vowed to show his family they were wrong about him and put his quarterly funds to good use. Unfortunately, he had yet to find an investment suitable for a man of his upbringing and limited capital that wasn’t designed to part a gullible remittance man from his money. Not to mention the unexpected drain on his resources in the form of one John Daltrey.

  And here came the bastard now.

  Kit slid deeper into the shadows, hoping to go unrecognized, but it was a forlorn hope as the figure he dreaded made his way over to Kit’s corner.

  “Stanhope, how are you?” the man declared in a falsely convivial tone.

  The familiar sounds of home in the man’s accent should have soothed Kit, but they had exactly the opposite effect coming from this man.

  Kit nodded. “Daltrey.” His tone was not welcoming.

  Daltrey took a chair, uninvited. “Why, is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  “Of course not.” They might have grown up together on neighboring estates, but that didn’t make them friends. “And if I run across an old friend, I’ll be sure to greet him suitably.”

  Daltrey clasped a hand over his heart. “You wound me,” he declared soulfully, though his eyes glittered with malice.

  “Cut to the chase, man,” Kit said. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, just a little loan, like always.”

  “Loan, hell. It’s nothing more than blackmail.” It wasn’t as if the man planned to pay him back.

  Daltrey shrugged. “Call it what you will, but I find myself a bit short.”

  Kit ground his teeth, wondering what the hell Daltrey found to spend not only his own generous allowance on, but Kit s as well. “I haven’t any—you took it all. And I won’t have any more from home until the end of June.” A month away.

  “So, what are you living on, then?”

  “My wits,” Kit snapped. “You might try it.” That was, if he weren’t sadly handicapped by the lack of them.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Daltrey said with a malicious smile. “Mustn’t get me angry, you know. Why, I might tell the folks here exactly why you left England.”

  “It’s a lie,” Kit snarled. “Someone else sired a bastard on that girl.”

  “So? What does the truth matter? And who do you think they’ll believe? You . . . or me?”

  Unfortunately, Daltrey was right. Americans were only too ready to believe the worst of remittance men, especially since so many of them deserved the bad name they received. Men like Daltrey.

  Kit shrugged, pretending a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “Go ahead—spread your lies. I don’t care. You can’t get blood from a turnip.”

  “Resorting to clichés now, are you?” Daltrey studied him closely. “You must be desperate.”

  Kit shrugged again, really uncaring this time. Why not let him spread his lies? Though Kit had been careful to keep his dealings aboveboard so he could find a good investment, it would come to nothing if all his money went to a blackmailer. He wouldn’t be able to invest it anyway.

  “You mean tha
t, don’t you?” Daltrey asked in surprise. “You must really be feeling the pinch. Well, I won’t bother you again until the end of the quarter, but then you’d better be ready to open your purse wide.” With a smirk and a mock salute, he left.

  Kit scowled. No matter how difficult it might be, he couldn’t give up without a fight. He had to find some way out of this mess—short of disposing of Daltrey—permanently. Though that solution was beginning to feel more and more tempting. . . .

  No, though the world would be better off without Daltrey, the local authorities were bound to frown upon his murder. And though Kit had thought of taking off for parts unknown many times, he feared it wouldn’t serve. Daltrey would probably just follow him.

  Besides, Kit had invested quite a bit of time in making friends and—he hoped—future business acquaintances in this town. And he’d heard stories about the wild frontier. He really didn’t want to start all over somewhere else—at least here it was civilized. So, he had to find some other way to rid himself of Daltrey . . . or find another way to make money.

  Suddenly remembering his letters and hoping one might have news about a potential investment, Kit pulled them out of his pocket. The first contained a small bit of pasteboard announcing the arrival of a new dressmaker in town—a Madame Aglaia, formerly of Athens, who promised elegance, distinction, and above all discretion. “Miracles performed daily,” she claimed.

  Baffled as to why the woman had singled out a bachelor to receive her advertisement, he shoved the card into his pocket and opened the other letter.

  This one was from home. Kit read it eagerly, hoping for news of family and friends, but was soon frowning over its contents. His father, disappointed that Kit had nothing to show for the nine months he’d been in America, was demanding an accounting. If Kit didn’t show some progress and return on an investment by the end of the next quarter in September, his father would disown him and cut off his funds.

  Kit crumpled the letter in his fist and swore. Damn it, how could he make progress when he was beset by blackmailers and liars? Especially in only four months?