Maggie MacKeever by Quin Page A

cooperate.”
    “And so she was truly compromised.” Kate’s tone made it clear she understood exactly what he had omitted. “Have you no conscience, Quin?”
    If ever Quin had possessed a conscience, he’d done his best to root it out. “That is a foolish question. But I’m not surprised you ask. Whereas men seldom waste pondering motivations, women are forever desirous of determining what makes a man tick.”
    Kate made no response. Quin crossed to the brandy decanter, raised an inquiring eyebrow. She shook her head.
    The devil with her. Quin filled a glass, and drank. Kate said, “You must surely realize that all those women want to bed you because of your reputation and not because of the man you are.”
    Quin didn’t immediately reply, a facile response not suitable to the moment, and any other manner of response unthinkable, much as he might like to turn Kate over his knee.
    Sex was, to him, a simple biological function. He enjoyed it in the moment, and performed his part with no small skill, and then dismissed the business with an indifference apparently irresistible to the opposite sex.
    Irresistible, that was, until recently.
    This member of the opposite sex had locked her door against him. Quin didn’t recall any female locking a door against him before.
    Or fleeing from his touch.
    Usually it was the other way around.
    Not that he took flight, precisely. Quin preferred to think of it as beating a prudent retreat.
    And indifference, in this instance, was no good word for what he felt. “What did you think of Mme Dubois?”
    Kate pulled the shawl closer around her. “I did not realize how countrified I have become. Skirts, Mme informs me, are conical in silhouette with various types of decoration, sometimes large and ornate and padded with cotton wool. Sleeves are alternately puffed at the top with a tapering lower sleeve, puffed in a huge billow from shoulder to elbow, puffed only at the elbow, puffed from shoulder to wrist; and known variously as the ‘Marie’ sleeve, the ‘Demi gigot’, and the ‘Imbecile’; all these kept distended by down-stuffed pads or linings of stiff book-muslin and buckram, or in the most extreme cases, whale-bone hoops. As for necklines: the lower the better, so far as Mme Dubois and Mr. Loversall are concerned.” She broke off, uncomfortable. “You spent a small fortune on me today. I will repay you after I meet with my aunt’s solicitor.”
    “No need.” Quin didn’t recall Kate was prone to nervous chatter, and was curious as to what had caused it now. “Consider it a compensation for our broken betrothal vows.”
    Kate looked as if she wished to comment on that broken betrothal. Instead she bit her lip. “You are under no obligation. I am in your debt.”
    Quin could think of a means by which she might repay her debt, reprobate that he was. He experienced a vague disappointment Kate didn’t seem similarly inclined.
    Nonsense, he told himself. This odd emotion must be relief.
    There was a long silence before Kate spoke again. “Edmund will know by now that he has lost his inheritance. He’ll be looking for me in hope of getting it back. Yet you tell the world I am staying here. What are you playing at, Quin?”
     
    Chapter Twelve
     
     In so large a metropolis as London, amusements of every variety could be found; and if gambling houses such as Moxley’s fixed themselves up in imitation of the more exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, lesser hells were not so nice. Edmund Underhill found himself in one of those lesser places now. The long low-ceilinged room was furnished with chairs and small tables and dimly lit by small lamps, the air pungent with stale perfume and unwashed bodies and tobacco smoke.
    Edmund gestured for another bottle. He had not recovered from the shock of learning that what he’d believed his fortune was, in fact, earmarked for Kate. The family solicitor — unaware himself until recently of the changes made in the disposition of the