Authors: Cara Elliott
Devlin was suddenly aware that the thud of his heart was turning a little erratic. “Dare I hope it’s jealousy?” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. The teasing note belied how much he wished to know what she was thinking.
The pink hue paled and then deepened to scarlet. “I…” she began.
“My interest in the widow is purely professional,” he murmured.
“But she’s very worldly,” replied Anna, watching the mist curls through the plantings.
“And very manipulative.”
“She’s very beautiful.”
“In a tawdry sort of way.” Devlin shifted, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Trust me, her charms hold no seductive powers over me.”
Her throat tightened as she swallowed. “A half hour, sir. I need a half hour to have a look around her room.”
“You shall have it,” he assured. “But remember your promise—if there’s any danger of being seen, you must retreat. If there is a conspiracy afoot here, none of the varlets must suspect that you know of it.”
“I understand.” Anna stepped back. “You really ought to go. We wouldn’t want Lady de Blois to think your interest in me is anything more than casual.”
The minutes seemed to be mired in molasses. Anna stole yet another glance at the case clock, willing the gentlemen to finish their port and cigars and rejoin the ladies.
Caro caught her eye and drifted over to take a seat next to her on the settee by the curio cabinet. “Is there a reason you are so concerned with the clock?” she asked between sips of her tea. “A tryst with one of your many admirers, perhaps? I hope it’s the prince. He is far more pleasant than the colonel.”
“You heard Josette. The prince is…well, he is not likely to make Mama’s wishes come true,” replied Anna.
“That may be. But the colonel’s interest is undeniable.”
She was about to assure her sister that she had no interest in Polianov, but quickly thought better of it. He was one of Devlin’s prime suspects, and so she fully intended to encourage his attentions.
“We ought not be too harsh on him. Granted he hasn’t made a favorable first impression, but that may be due to his feeling uncomfortable expressing himself in English. Beneath the outward stiffness, he may be quite interesting and amusing.”
Caro arched a skeptical brow. “Perhaps you’ve put too much sugar in your tea.”
“As Mama would say, don’t be cynical.”
“Then I shall be blunt instead,” retorted her sister. “I think the man is a pompous bore.”
Repressing a chuckle, Anna glanced around at the clock again. And found Lady de Blois watching her with a cat-in-the-creampot smile.
The sound of a satisfied purr was almost audible.
She looked away quickly, feeling her insides curdle at the thought of the widow sinking her claws into Devlin.
I have no right to feel possessive.
And yet she did.
Her palms began to tingle as Anna recalled the shape of his shoulders, the feel of his muscles. The idea of another lady exploring his body was…
She heard herself let out a sharp hiss.
Startled, Caro nearly dropped her spoon. “Are you feeling ill?”
“My tea has too much lemon rather than too much sugar.” Anna set her cup down. “I wonder what is keeping the gentlemen tonight?”
“Lord Andover once confided to me that most of the time they linger over port and cigars is spent telling bawdy jokes,” offered Caro. The corners of her mouth crept upward. “Perhaps Polianov is telling a rather lengthy one. In Russian.”
Anna was too tense to let out a laugh. She rose and feigned an interest in the curio cabinet’s display of Renaissance medallions while she tried to compose her emotions.
If her heroine Emmalina was too wise to fall in love with a rakish rogue, then surely that should mean that her own brain could function just as well as an ink and paper one.
Shouldn’t it?
The question was still plaguing her thoughts when at last the gentlemen made their entrance into the drawing room, trailing a faint fugue of spirits and spiced smoke.
Devlin went to sit with Lady de Blois. It was all according to the strategy they had devised beforehand, but still Anna felt a twinge pinch in her chest at seeing the widow sidle closer and lay a hand on his thigh.
Her brooding was interrupted by the colonel, who greeted her in Russian.
Maybe her offhand remark had some truth to it. He smiled broadly when she replied in kind.
“You speak my language very well, Miss Sloane.”
“Not nearly as well as you speak English, sir,” she said. “But it is gallant of you to say so.”
His chest puffed out a bit. “I have had a great deal more practice than you have.”
In what?
The sinister whispers of intrigue and murder?
Anna forced a smile. “I should like to visit your country some day. The city of St. Petersburg must be very beautiful. I have heard it is called the Venice of the North.”
His eyes lit with a gleam—one sparked by hard-edged speculation, not any softer sentiment. “I am very delighted to hear of your interest. It is indeed a beautiful city, with magnificent buildings and all manner of sumptuous balls and entertainments.” The colonel came a little closer and she could smell the sweetness of the wine on his breath. “I think you would feel right at home.”
The man’s sudden overt interest in her was a little alarming. During the course of the past Season she had experienced a broad range of flirtations, from frivolous to serious, and something felt false about the colonel’s attentions.
The realization stirred a pebbling of gooseflesh along her bare arms. Once again she couldn’t help thinking that if Devlin had spotted her nocturnal ramblings around the castle, Polianov might have as well.
“That may be,” replied Anna lightly. “But alluring though it sounds, I don’t expect to visit anytime soon.”
“Perhaps it will happen sooner than you think.”
Mystified by his words, she chose to ignore them. “Perhaps.”
He shifted his booted feet, and the touch of his trousers against her skirts sent another little shiver down her limbs. “Allow me to fetch you some tea, sir,” she added quickly.
That Devlin’s brow seemed to raise a fraction as she passed him helped steady her fluttery nerves. She would
not
prove unequal to the challenge.
Polianov followed on her heels. “Like all Russians, I prefer my tea very sweet,” he said.
Such information wasn’t overly useful for the investigation. She would need to delve deeper. “Given Napoleon’s march to the east, your position here in England must be
very
important, Colonel Polianov,” she ventured after handing him his cup. “It must be very difficult to form a united alliance with the German states.”
He shrugged. “
Da
. But that is all left to the diplomats, Miss Sloane. Let us talk about more pleasurable things, like your favorite leisure activities. English ladies seem to paint or play the pianoforte.”
Anna clenched her teeth in frustration. She had expected him to snap like a hungry trout at her baited hook. But before she could cast out another lure, they were joined at the tea table by the Vicomte de Verdemont.
Another prime suspect.
Perhaps she would have better luck with him.
“I cannot help but remark on how that unusual shade of blue-green tonight highlights your natural beauty, Miss Sloane,” murmured the fleshy Frenchman, contriving to catch her hand and raise it to his lips.
Anna made no move to pull it away. “La, what lady doesn’t appreciate hearing a compliment?”
Polianov bristled at being cast in the shade. “Miss Sloane’s beauty goes without saying,” he snapped.
“Actually, I think it can’t be said often enough,” replied Verdemont a bit smugly. “We wouldn’t want the fairer sex to think that we take them for granted.”
“We were just talking about Napoleon’s march to the east,” said Anna, deliberately keeping her eyes on the vicomte. “You must be offering a prayer to the Heavens that the Allied forces will be able to defeat him.”
Did his gaze darken for instant?
Whatever the reaction, it was gone in the blink of an eye.
“More than one, mademoiselle,” he replied, his voice betraying no hesitation. “Tyrants must be destroyed at all costs.”
Polianov gave a gruff sound in his throat. “Let us not sully the lady’s lovely ears with such talk of war.”
Anna surrendered any hope of squeezing any useful information out of the pair at the present moment. The vicomte’s reaction, however tenuous a clue, was at least something to offer to Devlin. And as soon as the group finished with the refreshments and moved on to the card tables, she could withdraw for the evening and head upstairs for her real mission.
“You are right, colonel. War and intrigue are such an ugly business.” Taking up a platter of ginger biscuits, she offered it to Verdemont. “Tell me, does Lord Dunbar’s gardener think the weather looks favorable for a hunt tomorrow?”
C
areful, careful.
The flickering flames of the wall sconces seemed like silent tongues, repeating the same warning that was whispering inside her head.
Anna checked up and down the dimly lit corridor before flattening herself against the dark wainscoting and inching forward. She had changed into breeches and a loose-fitting shirt—thanks to her insistence on meticulous research, she always had such clothing at hand in order to write accurately on what moves Emmalina could make when dressed as a male. No question that moving swiftly and stealthily was far easier when unencumbered by yards of silk and petticoats.
Pressing an ear to Lady de Blois’s door, Anna listened intently for any sign of life within the chambers.
Nothing.
A second look around, a quick juggling, and she was safely inside.
So far, so good.
But there was precious little time to waste in self-congratulation.
After relocking the door, Anna turned in a slow circle, reviewing her options as she surveyed the sitting room. A half hour wouldn’t allow for a search of the entire quarters. And so she would have to rely on female intuition as to where the most likely hiding place for intimate secrets would be.
A lady like the comtesse, she decided, would want to keep them close to her…bosom.
Without further hesitation, Anna rushed into the bedchamber and looked around for the jewel case. It wasn’t hard to spot. A large brass-cornered domed box covered in emerald green leather sat on the dressing table between a half dozen ornate crystal scent bottles and a pair of silver-back hair brushes.
A pair of locks were fitted into the heavy lid, and as a bead of moonlight flitted over the shiny metal, they seemed to wink in challenge.
“Perhaps it takes a lady to catch a lady,” she murmured, flexing her sliver of steel. The small mechanisms proved surprisingly difficult, but with a few extra probes they finally yielded.
She didn’t dare strike a flint to the brace of candles. Even the faintest curl of smoke left lingering in the air could give away the visit.
And so could a careless search of the box’s contents. Despite her eagerness, Anna made herself study the arrangement of the brooches, pendants, and earrings before lifting the velvet-lined tray out and setting it aside. Several necklaces lay in the deeper compartment, but the fact that they lay twined in a careless tangle should work in her favor. Holding her breath, Anna ever so gently slid her fingers beneath the twists of gold and eased them up and onto the smooth tabletop.
The bare black velvet stared at her in silent reproach.
“Don’t look at me like that. I doubt you are as innocent as you seem,” she whispered in reply. A quick sidelong glance at the outside of the case had shown that the interior appeared to end far higher than it should.
Anna gingerly worked a fingernail between the fabric-covered pasteboard bottom and the wood and felt for any looseness.
Sure enough, the pasteboard shifted. A few gentle tugs and it came out smoothly, revealing a hidden compartment. In it was a packet of letters.
Anna quickly checked the clock on the mantel.
Twenty minutes left.
That should allow more than enough time to read through them.
Such optimism quickly dimmed. Unfolding the first one, she saw it was written in French.
Merde.
Luckily, there were only four missives and she was fairly fluent in the language. Still, she would have to work fast.
They were all penned in the same bold script—a man’s hand, decided Anna, taking a quick peek at the signature on the first one she unfolded. It didn’t confirm her guess—it was simply a large “V”—but she was sure she was right. Just as she was sure that “V” would turn out to be Verdemont. There was, after all, an old saying that lightning never struck the same place twice.
Her surmise on the letter writer’s identity was soon confirmed as she read over the contents. It was indeed Verdemont, and his words left no doubt that he and the comtesse were engaged in a passionate affair. Anna felt a momentary twinge of guilt for prying into the other lady’s personal secrets, but then quelled her misgivings and moved on to the next letter.
Anyone willing to deceive her own sister in such an ugly way might very well be capable of even worse acts of betrayal.
The second and third letters were less overt in their meaning. The mood was more agitated, the innuendos more puzzling. Anna found herself struggling a little with the language.
Eight minutes left.
Did she dare read the last one? It took only a split second to judge it worth the risk.
This one had a slightly ominous tone…assuming her imagination wasn’t running away with her. She needed to reread it several times, for there was a phrase that seemed to make no sense at all, even though she knew the meanings of the French words.
A code, perhaps?
Frowning, she committed it to memory, thinking that Devlin might have some ideas.
Four minutes.
Praying that Devlin’s charm was holding strong, Anna hastily refolded the letters and placed them back in the secret compartment. After replacing the false bottom, she carefully lifted the necklaces…
Only to freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
“Don’t panic,” she whispered aloud as the gold began to chatter in her trembling hands. Willing herself to remain calm, Anna arranged the jewelry into the right configuration, then slipped the top tray into its slot.
Shutting the lid, she managed to work the locks into place and then slid the case into its original place.
A key rattled the front latch, the metallic scrape sounding loud as cannon fire.
Thirty seconds.
Maybe less.
Anna spun around to the window. If Devlin could manage the ledge, so could she. Her feet were smaller, and dancing with any number of clumsy men had taught her agility and balance. She cracked open the tall leaded glass frame and slipped out—ye gods, it was cold—taking care to pull it firmly shut behind. A piercing gust of damp air cut through her thin stockings and suddenly the ledge felt narrow as razor’s blade.
She quickly edged out of view, just as a flash of candlelight illuminated the panes. Flattening her back against the rough stone, she drew in a gulp of air and held it in her lungs.
A grumbled mutter, the thump of a water jug, the scuff of shoes on the carpet coming close to the casement…
Anna bit her lip and offered up a prayer to the Celtic wind gods that the window wouldn’t fly open.
All at once, the light disappeared as the heavy damask draperies were yanked closed. The steps receded and all she could hear was the keening of the wind through the turreted tower and the rustling of leaves below. Anna glanced down—and then wished she hadn’t. The drop looked far greater than it had from inside the room.
Several deep breaths helped to steady her quaking knees. There was no going back. Which meant she had no choice but to swallow her fear and make herself start to move.
Devlin tossed down his cheroot and ground out the glowing coal beneath his boot. Still no signal, though it felt as if a century had passed since his parting with Lady de Blois. Anna should be back in her room by now, a single candle blazing bright in her bedchamber window to say that all was well.
“Damnation.” He glanced up again. “Damn, damn, damn.”
A fresh gust blew across the terrace, further tangling his wind-snarled hair. Too impatient to remain in the niche by the corner wall, he turned up his collar and began to pace along the stone railing.
Only a bloody fool—or an idiot besotted by a beguiling beauty—would have agreed to such a dangerous plan. Her oh-so-clever mind made it hard to remember that Anna had no experience in flesh and blood intrigue. It was all very well to pen swashbuckling feats of daring. Ink and paper did not bleed, imaginary heroines did not die from real life bullets or blades.
A growl welled up in his throat.
Bracing his palms on the stone, Devlin stared out at the mist-shrouded moors and slowly counted to ten. He was allowing his mind to exaggerate the risks. In all likelihood, there was nothing more nefarious going on at Dunbar castle than some illicit trysts.
Turning, he shot another glance up at the looming wall.
Then where was the bloody candle?
Clenching his teeth, he resumed his pacing. Ten more minutes—he would give her ten more minutes. If no light had appeared by then, he would take matters into his own hands.
Where they should have been in the first place.
Pebbles crunched beneath his boots as he descended the terrace stairs and began walking along the graveled path in search of a better angle of view to Anna’s bedchamber. Shadows swirled through the bushes, and a sudden gust ruffled the knife-edged holly leaves, hiding the west wing for a fleeting interlude.
Ducking low, Devlin shouldered his way through the prickly hedge and once again lifted his gaze.
A flame—faint but unmistakable—finally glimmered behind the glass.
Relief pulsed through him, followed by a spurt of anger. He stood for a long moment, staring at the light while he fought to bring his emotions under control.
When at last, the pounding of his heart had subsided back to its normal beat, Devlin returned to the path and headed back for the terrace.
She had better have a good explanation for tying his insides into knots. But much as he wished to hear it now, it would have to wait until morning.
Falling, falling, falling…
Stifling a cry, Anna sat bolt upright in bed. It took several rat-a-tat thumps of her racing heart for the dizzy, disoriented feeling to subside. A dream—it was just a bad dream, she realized. Her toes were snug beneath an eiderdown coverlet, not sliding off a sliver of slippery stone.
She blew out a sigh and slumped back against the pillows, reveling in the welcoming softness and warmth. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a shiver tiptoe down her spine. The inch-by-inch traverse along the ledge had been a nightmare ordeal, with every tiny step seeming to take an eternity.
A gust slapped against the windowpanes, provoking a rueful smile. Swashbuckling exploits seemed much easier to perform on paper.
Her throat dry as dust from her fitful sleep, Anna threw off the covers and padded over to the washstand to fetch a glass of water. Too restless to return to bed, she curled up on the window seat and gazed out at the silvery moonlight playing over the dark silhouettes of the shrubbery.
From this perspective, she mused, the scene had a cozy feel to it. The clouds were clearing, and with the wind dying down to a gentle breeze, a peaceful stillness was settling over the grounds…
A movement within the leafy shadows of the boxwood hedge suddenly caught her eye. Anna wiped the mist from the glass and leaned in for a closer look.
One…two—no, three—figures materialized from the gloom and hurriedly crossed an open swath of lawn to take shelter beneath a large oak tree not far from her window.
Anna quickly shifted on the seat to keep them in view.
One of the men she recognized. The untamed shock of reddish-gold hair made Lord McClellan hard to miss. The others were too well-swathed in broadbrimmed hats and dark scarves to make out their features. Their gestures, however, were clear enough in the dappled light—they seemed to be arguing with the baron, and quite heatedly.
Lying low on the cushions, she reached for the latch and cracked open the casement.
No luck.
The voices were too low to carry through the whispery night sounds.
Pressing closer to the panes, Anna kept her eyes on McClellan, who was becoming more and more animated. A clandestine meeting in the dead of night could have no explanation, save for one.
The baron was up to no good.
Her pulse began to pound. Was she watching the conspiracy against Prince Gunther in action?
The answer came quickly enough—McClellan’s two companions each reached within the folds of his overcoat and reluctantly handed over a weapon.
Two muskets—no, two rifles! She recognized the distinctive silhouette of the short barrel as McClellan slung them over his shoulder.
With a curt wave, the baron dismissed the men, who slunk away into the darkness. He watched them go, his profile stony and expressionless, mirroring the distant granite outcroppings dotting the moors.
A very hard man
, thought Anna, feeling her insides clench. And his fiery passions made him a very dangerous one to cross.
As if sensing her presence, McClellan suddenly turned to stare up at the castle.
She ducked beneath the casement, telling herself that his hawkish gaze couldn’t possibly penetrate brass and stone. But much as she wished to slither down to the carpet, she waited for several moments and then ventured another peek. Devlin would want to know every detail, and she did not want to disappoint him.
The baron had already started walking—she could just make out the gleam of his fair hair and swirl of his coat around his boots as he took the stairs to the side entrance two at a time.
Her own feet twitched, and she darted a glance at the doorway. Devlin ought to be informed as soon as possible…
But reason quickly prevailed. Venturing out into the deserted hallways of the castle with an armed assassin on the prowl was not the wisest of ideas.
Perhaps my earlier adventure has tempered my taste for outrageous risks.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Anna crept back to the sanctuary of her bed. The downy softness felt blissfully good against her tired limbs, and she stifled a yawn as she burrowed deeper into the covers.
Unmasking the baron’s perfidy could wait until morning.
“Still abed, mademoiselle?” Josette paused by the armoire, a pile of freshly laundered nightrails in her arms. “Shall I come back later?”
“No, no, it’s quite alright.” Anna pried an eye open and winced as a blade of sunlight cut across her face. “Oh, dear, is it fearfully late?”