Authors: Cara Elliott
“No,” she repeated a little more forcefully. “Ye gods, the idea is absurd.”
“True. But stranger things have happened,” he murmured.
“Perhaps in novels,” she shot back. “Not in real life.”
“And how much experience have you had in real life, Miss Sloane?”
She lifted her chin a notch. “Enough to know that we had better not remain standing here together in the center of the room, else risk becoming fodder for the morning gossip mills.”
Devlin didn’t move.
“I see my sister near the entrance to the card salon,” went on Anna. “If you will kindly escort me there, you can shed your suit of shining armor and walk away without the weight of
noblesse oblige
making any further dents on your shoulders.”
His lips twitched. “I imagine armor can be cursedly uncomfortable. As can a conscience. That’s why I make no pretensions to possessing either.” Devlin finally offered her his arm. “I was not about to suggest you look to
me
for help. If you are in trouble, you had best turn to your older sister’s new husband. It is Wrexham who is the perfect hero, not I.”
“I shall bear that in mind, should I ever be in peril.”
To her dismay, Devlin seemed in no hurry to end their tête-à-tête. Rather than taking a direct line toward Caro, he chose a roundabout route through the leafy shade of the decorative potted palms. The fronds cast a fluttering of knife-edged shadows, making it impossible to read his expression.
Muddled grays, charcoal blacks
—the play of hues seemed to mirror the marquess’s own inner thoughts, which he kept shrouded in darkness.
Let them remain wrapped in whatever sins he chose to live with, Anna told herself. It was of no interest to her.
Liar.
The leaves caught in a current of air, the low whisper echoing Devlin’s earlier word.
Liar, liar, liar.
“About the pistol, Miss Sloane…” Like a mastiff with a bone between his teeth, Devlin seemed stubbornly unwilling to let the subject drop.
She thought quickly—surely she could improvise.
“Really, sir, I hardly think I owe you any explanation. However, to put an end to your tedious interrogations, I shall explain.”
He waited.
“If you must know, my sister and I are writing a play, to be performed at an upcoming house party to which we’ve been invited. Amateur theatrics are always a source of entertainment at such gatherings, and Caro thought it would be amusing to come up with a fanciful plot involving pirates and a kidnapped heiress in need of rescuing.”
A cough—or was it a laugh?—caused her to pause. “Forgive me,” Devlin murmured, clearing his throat. “Do go on.”
Odious man.
Why he took such fiendish delight in tormenting her was a mystery. But at the moment, all she cared about was escaping from his devil-dark gaze. “My maid, who is a very talented seamstress, is willing to help with creating costumes, and so, well, we thought that having colorful props, such as pasteboard pistols, would add to the spectacle. I happened to be passing Mr. Manton’s shop, and decided that accuracy would be a nice touch.”
“Accuracy. Yes, that’s rather important when it comes to pistols,” said Devlin dryly.
Ignoring the comment, Anna hurried to add, “But it is all meant to be a surprise. So I would ask that you not make mention of it to anyone, sir.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets.” Devlin smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Lurking beneath the thick fringe of his lashes was something deeper and darker than humor. It was…
Puzzling.
The marquess had a surprising number of hidden facets, which was at odds with his image as a frivolous, indolent rake.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she answered. “Then may I count on your silence?”
Devlin led her through a sliver of space between two of the potted trees, and all at once they were back in the gilded light of blazing candles. “Very well. But be advised that when you ask a favor, you must be prepared to grant one in return.”
On that note, he turned and walked away.
Pasteboard pistols.
Devlin chuckled under his breath. The explanation was diverting, but just as much a lie as her earlier denial.
Which raised the question of what she was really hiding.
But intriguing as that conundrum was, he had another more pressing matter to deal with at the moment.
Taking the steps of the carved staircase two at a time—a lapse in manners that earned a reproving stare from the head footman stationed in the entrance hall—he made a quick check of his pocketwatch. He was going to be late, though not unconscionably so. Thorncroft would expect no less. They were both becoming familiar with each other’s habits.
His were likely more irritating, he thought with an inward smile. However, the other man had no choice but to tolerate them.
Once on the street, he flagged down a hackney and arrived at St. James’s Street just a few minutes past midnight.
“How kind of you to show up,” said Thorncroft, looking up from perusing a sheaf of papers.
Devlin closed the door to the private meeting room and poured himself a drink from the decanter set on the sideboard. “A passable port,” he said after a meditative swallow. “But given the distance I’m being asked to travel, you might have chosen a better vintage.”
“Beggars can’t be choosy,” retorted the other man.
Taking a seat in the facing armchair, Devlin stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “I wouldn’t have to dance for my supper if you weren’t such a nipcheese about paying me for my services.”
“You are well compensated for your efforts, Lord Davenport. Perhaps if you curtailed your other habits, you would have more blunt in your pocket.”
“My other habits, as you so charmingly refer to them, have proved exceedingly useful to you in the past.”
“Some of them,” stressed Thorncroft. “However, let us not waste time in trading barbs. I’ve several papers here that you must read. For obvious reasons, I can’t allow them to leave the room.”
Devlin heaved a pained sigh.
“You
do
know how to read, don’t you?”
“It will cost you extra.”
Thorncroft stifled a snort of laughter. “I shudder to think what you would charge if I asked you to look at the original German versions.”
“Best not to ask,” agreed Devlin as he accepted a handful of documents. “All these? Ye gods, pour me another drink.”
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the intermittent crackle of paper. A half hour passed before he looked up. “The prince appears to be a thoroughly amiable, if thoroughly feather-headed fellow. Who would want him dead?”
“That is what we are hiring you to find out,” answered Thorncroft a little testily. “We aren’t sure that anyone does. The report the Foreign Office received is awfully vague, but given that the fellow is a relative of our Royal family, we have to take the threat seriously. To begin with, there are any number of Scottish radicals who would like nothing better than to foment a crisis by striking a blow at the British Crown.”
“With the King mired in madness and the Prince Regent even more of a wastrel than I am, the Scots should simply sit back and let House of Hanover destroy itself.”
Thorncroft waggled a warning finger. “Watch your tongue, lest I have you arrested for sedition.”
Devlin shrugged.
“The Scots are not the only potential threat,” went on Thorncroft. “As you should know, Russia and the Kingdom of Saxony are our key Eastern allies in the fight against France. However, their rulers are currently at each other’s throats over some sliver of land, and the prince may be used as a pawn in the squabble. We can’t afford to have any ill befall him on British soil, lest the entire region blow up like a powder keg in our face.”
Devlin reread one of the documents. “According to your envoy’s report, there may be a paid instigator within the prince’s hunting entourage.”
“Perhaps. Several French émigrés will also be attending the party, so we can’t overlook the fact that one of them may be an agent of Bonaparte.”
“Or he may have a spurned mistress who is out for blood.” He tapped his fingertips together. “In other words, you haven’t uncovered any real clue, so I must consider everyone a suspect.”
“Yes. But in truth, it is more than likely you will have nothing to do but drink and flirt for the coming month.”
“And freeze my bones in the damp, desolate moors,” muttered Devlin.
“Whisky will chase the chill from your blood,” quipped Thorncroft. “And the Countess of Dunbar is inviting a number of ladies from London to visit, so I’m sure you’ll find someone willing to warm your bed.” He paused. “Apparently two rich heiresses will be among the guests. If for once you play your cards with some skill, you may end up with a long-term solution for your money problems.”
“The question is whether the price I would have to pay is worth the blunt. What makes you think I wish to be encumbered with a wife?”
“Because your clever little hobby is rather expensive, that’s why.”
Devlin straightened from his slouch. “How—” he began, and then snapped his teeth shut.
Bloody Hell.
He should have guessed that the Foreign Office would make a thorough investigation of his habits before asking him to undertake this mission.
Thorncroft looked pleased with himself. “Yes, yes, I know all about those exquisitely detailed mechanical objects that you design and build. I became curious after you sold us that ingenious telescope and folding slingshot. Where did you acquire such skills?”
“Never mind,” growled Devlin. He wasn’t about to reveal any more private secrets. “Now, might we return to the business at hand?”
“But of course.” Thorncroft first took a sip of his brandy. “By the by, did you know Dunbar Castle houses a very fine collection of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century
automata
?”
Devlin spun his glass between his palms, and watched the ruby-red liquid swirl around and around. “Is that a bribe?”
“Consider it a bonus.”
“You are too kind,” replied Devlin sourly. He didn’t like feeling manipulated, but he couldn’t really blame Thorncroft for being good at his job.
Thorncroft raised his drink in mock salute. “I am. I’ve just paid you a King’s ransom to do little but dance, drink, and tinker with your mechanical creations.”
“And what if I do discover something havey-cavey is afoot?”
“We don’t expect you to rouse yourself to perform any heroics. One of our operatives will be stationed in the town. You have only to alert him of the details and he will take care of ensuring the prince’s safety.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“Yes, as I said, you will likely have nothing to do but enjoy a month of pampering and pleasures at Dunbar Castle.” Thorncroft set a small packet on the side table. “Here are funds for the journey. I’ve arranged for a traveling coach to call for you in the morning.”
B
edbugs,” said Lady Trumbull darkly, as the ostler closed the door to their coach. “The inn came highly recommended by Lady Herrington, but I am sure the bedsheets had bedbugs.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken, Mama,” soothed Anna. Their mother was a fretful traveler who tended to find fault with everything. And the journey north to Scotland had been a long and tiring one. “The scent of fresh lavender perfumed the linens.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Caro. “It was quite sweet.”
“Well, if you girls are sure.” Their mother retrieved her embroidery from one of the bandboxes on the floor. “How much longer until we arrive?”
Caro consulted the map. “No more than a few hours, I think.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” sniffed the baroness. “It feels as if we have been bouncing over these rutted roads forever.”
Thank heaven the Earl of Wrexham had put his well-appointed barouche at the family’s disposal while he and Olivia were visiting Rome for their wedding trip. The interior was spacious, the seats were soft, the lap robes were warm—Anna dreaded to think what expressions of horror a hired vehicle would have drawn from their mother.
Heaving an inward sigh, she opened her book to resume reading where she had left off the previous day. But after a few minutes, she found her attention wandering to the square-paned windows and the rain-drizzled landscape outside the glass.
Scotland was, to her eyes, a starkly beautiful country, its austere angles and muted earthtone colors possessing a rough-cut appeal. The wind-carved granite had a chiseled strength, and the hardscrabble heather covering the mist-shrouded moors showed a rugged toughness in withstanding the force of the salt-tinged squalls blowing in from the North Sea.
“What a dreary place,” announced Lady Trumbull. “I do hope that Miriam has plenty of entertainments planned.” Her face suddenly brightened. “Ah, but if the weather is too beastly for hunting, the prince and his party will be forced to remain indoors.”
“It would have to be a full-force gale in order to convince the men to give up their shooting,” observed Caro.
“Hmmph.” Lady Trumbull smoothed at her skirts. “I have never understood why they would want to be tramping around in the cold and mud, when they could be indoors enjoying the company of the ladies.”
“Perhaps because there is some primal force that still resonates inside them—at heart they are hunters and gatherers,” murmured Anna.
Her mother made a pained face. “Nonsense, my dear. The gentlemen invited to Dunbar Castle are civilized aristocrats, not heathen savages.”
Were they?
Anna did not bother to argue, but went back to reading her book on the history of Scotland. Accepting the countess’s invitation had been a stroke of inspiration, she decided. Given the country’s tumultuous past and its wildly atmospheric landscape, she was already envisioning a number of intriguing scenes for the last part of her novel.
“Oh, look!” As if reading Anna’s thoughts, Caro pressed her nose to the rain-spattered windowpane and peered up at an ancient stone fortress. Perched atop a craggy cliff, it overlooked the gray-as-gunmetal waters of a broad loch, looking like a silent, solitary Highland warrior keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. “Isn’t that romantic!” she exclaimed.
Anna leaned over for a look.
“Surely there are deep, dark dungeons cut into the ancient rock,” went on Caro. “And no doubt there are subterranean passageways that wind down and down to the water’s edge.”
Anna repressed a smile as her sister added, “One can’t help but imagine all sorts of interesting stories taking place within a Scottish castle.”
“Indeed,” she replied.
Lady Trumbull gave a mock shiver. “Really, Caro, how you can wax poetic over a pile of moldering stones is puzzling. And Anna, please don’t encourage such girlish fantasies. I sometimes think that reading all those horrid novels is too overstimulating for a young lady’s sensibilities.”
“On the contrary, Mama,” assured Anna. “Even so high a stickler as the dowager Duchess of Kirtland agrees that such stories are a harmless source of amusement.”
Just as she suspected, mention of Society’s most influential arbiter of style quickly caused their mother to revise her opinion.
“Oh, well, of course I agree with Her Grace that there is nothing wrong with enjoying a diverting tale. I simply meant that they ought to be enjoyed in moderation, especially by someone just out of the schoolroom.”
Caro scowled, though she took pains to hide it.
“It is, after all, an impressionable age, and your sister has not yet gained experience in the ways of Society.”
“I have learned a great deal just by listening to Olivia and Anna,” protested Caro.
“You would do well to emulate your sisters.” Sensing she was on the defensive, Lady Trumbull cut short the conversation by patting back a yawn. “I think I shall take a nap. Let us hope we arrive before suppertime.”
Devlin hunched low and angled the brim of his hat in a vain attempt to keep the chill rain from dripping beneath his coat collar. Swearing under his breath, he turned in the saddle and surveyed the soggy moors. The low, leaden clouds were thick as porridge and with the mists pooled in the low-lying heather, it was impossible to make out anything but a gray-green wash of blurry color.
“Are you enjoying Scotland, Lord Davenport?” The burred voice held a slightly sarcastic note. Alec McClellan, a Scottish baron who had reluctantly agreed to serve as a guide for an afternoon ride, had chosen to halt on a high knoll where the gusting wind hit them with its full force. He was, noted Devlin, wearing an oilskin riding cloak and wide brimmed hat designed to withstand the elements. As for himself, he was soaked to the bone.
“I can’t say that I will echo Robert Burns’s rapturous odes to your country any time soon,” he replied.
“Like our national dish, haggis, our weather is an acquired taste.”
“Sorry, but I find both equally foul,” muttered Devlin.
“That’s not surprising. Few Sassenachs appreciate the unique charms of Scotland or its people.”
Sassenach
was the Gaelic term for people from England. And Devlin knew it was not meant to be flattering.
“Shall we ride on to the coast?” asked McClellan. “The nearby cliffs offer a superb vista of the North Sea.”
The mocking tone had become more pronounced. The fog rolling in from the ocean was now so thick that Devlin couldn’t see the ears of his stallion.
“Or have you had enough of the local scenery?” went on his guide.
The baron had arrived at the castle the previous evening, and from his sullen demeanor and abrasive comments to the guests from south of the border, it was clear he had no love for the English. The Germans he had simply ignored.
The countess had murmured a discreet apology for his behavior, explaining that he held strong views on the subject of Scottish independence. Or to put it less politely, her cousin was a flaming radical nationalist, mused Devlin. Which raised the question…
Is he merely a boor who lacks social graces? Or something more dangerous?
“The scenery is splendid,” replied Devlin. “By all means, let us continue on to the cliffs. I look forward to you pointing out all the local landmarks.”
That drew a bark of laughter from McClellan. “You’re not as soft as you look, milord.”
“That depends.”
“On what?” asked the baron
“On how much whisky I’ve imbibed,” drawled Devlin. “Usually I loathe exposing myself to any physical hardship. But having enjoyed a few wee drams at breakfast, I’m currently feeling no discomfort.”
“In that case, let us return to the castle,” came the barbed reply.
“Because there’s no sport in tormenting a Sassenach if he can’t feel the pain?”
McClellan didn’t respond to the quip. “Stay close, Lord Davenport,” he said brusquely. “There are dangerous peat bogs close to the trail and it would be a great pity to see you swallowed by the Celtic mud.”
Thankfully, his frigid flesh was soon submerged in steaming, pine-scented bathwater rather than slimy muck. Flexing his stiff shoulders, Devlin leaned back in the tub and stared up at the massive age-dark oak beams set in the plastered ceiling of his bedchamber.
Only half of the invited guests had arrived as of yet—the rest were expected over the next few days—and aside from the ill-tempered baron, the other gentlemen seemed pleasant enough. A trifle dull, but inoffensive. Save, of course, for the fact that one of them might be a cold-blooded assassin. As for the German prince, he and his entourage were cheerful fellows who talked enthusiastically about the upcoming hunting opportunities and flirted politely with all the ladies.
So far, the feminine presence numbered ten—six had arrived together from London, while two French noble ladies-in-exile had come from Bath, and the final pair were the wives of the prince’s military attachés. Five more were expected, making a total of fifteen to balance the same number of men.
Thirty guests in all.
Devlin pursed his lips and blew out a sigh. Thorncroft hadn’t bothered to mention the exact number, no doubt secretly enjoying the fact that it would require a great deal of effort to become acquainted with everyone and assess what possible threat they might present to the prince.
Damnation.
He would have charged double for the mission had he known the facts.
He consoled himself with the thought that an attempt at murder seemed even more implausible now that he was here than it did in London. Aside from McClellan, whose surliness and overt Scottish nationalism made him too obvious a suspect, none of the other guests seemed out of the ordinary.
The most likely danger was that he might expire from ennui.
Lathering a sponge, Devlin circled it slowly over his chest and the soft caress stirred a more pleasant thought. There were several strikingly pretty ladies here already, including the young London heiress and a sultry Parisian widow who was part of the French party from Bath.
The heiress was under the watchful eye of her Mama, so the chances of gaining any intimate acquaintance with her fortune seemed slim. As for the other plump-in-the-pocket English pigeon that Thorncroft had mentioned, she had not yet arrived.
No doubt she would be just as closely guarded…not that he had any interest in seducing an innocent. Despite Thorncroft’s low opinion of his morality, he did have some scruples.
For an instant, his thoughts strayed to Anna, but he quickly reeled them back.
Thank God she was in London—that should be far enough away to keep her from being a constant distraction.
Forcing his mind back to the mission, he decided the best prospect for an enjoyable interlude lay in
la magnifique
Marie- Hélène de Blois. After all, everyone—even the ladies—had to be considered a possible suspect, so a closer acquaintance with the comtesse was part of his mission. If a casual dalliance developed, well, both of them were experienced enough to know the rules of the game. There would be no expectations, no recriminations, no tears when it was over.
The prospect served to warm the last lingering chill from his limbs. Devlin dressed quickly and, after combing a careless hand through his hair, he made his way down to the drawing room.
“I hope you did not venture out for a ride today, Lord Davenport,” said Lady Dunbar in greeting, as she placed a hand on his sleeve and steered him to the drinks table. “The moors can be dangerous if one loses the way and strays off the trail in one of our North Sea gales.”
“Actually, I did,” replied Devlin. “Lord McClellan was kind enough to accede to my request when I asked at the stables whether I might accompany him.”
“Oh, dear,” murmured the countess.
Devlin arched a brow. “Is he in the habit of disposing of your unwanted guests in the peat bog?”
“Horrid man—Alec, that is, not you,” responded Lady Dunbar. “Did he try to frighten you with that farrididdle?” She chuffed an exasperated sigh. “They aren’t nearly as dangerous as he claims. But it’s easy to take a nasty fall if your horse gets entangled in the heather or gorse.”
“It wasn’t fear that had me quaking in my Hessians, Lady Dunbar, it was the toe-curling cold of your Scottish squalls. Do you not have summer here?”
“The seasons are different from what you are used to in London.” She lowered the lens. “As are a great many things.”
Devlin sipped his champagne. “Thank heaven that sparkling wine is not one of them. This is an excellent vintage.”
The countess accepted a glass from one of her footmen and then drew Devlin aside to a quieter spot by the diamond-paned windows. “I apologize again for my cousin. He is rather passionate about his political beliefs and doesn’t much like the English.”
“So I gathered,” he said dryly.
“But he is an excellent shot and knows the moors like the back of his hand,” explained Lady Dunbar, “So I pressed him to be part of the party and to serve as a hunting guide to the prince and his companions.”
“I’m surprised he accepted,” said Devlin, making private note of the baron’s proficiency with firearms. “McClellan doesn’t appear to give a fig for social niceties.” The irony of his observation was not lost on him. It was, he thought wryly, rather like the pot calling the kettle black.
“No, he doesn’t,” agreed the countess. “But I am a very generous donor to his local charitable initiatives for the crofters, so he humors me.”
To a degree
, thought Devlin.
“And now, enough about Alec. Let us mingle with the others.” The French trio had just entered the room, followed by several of the German nobles. “The last of the guests arrived this afternoon, so everyone is now here.”
Devlin watched as Madame de Blois turned and held his gaze for a moment before joining a group of gentlemen clustered by the marble hearth.
“But of course,” he murmured. Between having ample quiet time for his own private project and an attractive widowed lady with whom to play provocative games, the decision to accept Thorncroft’s assignment was beginning to seem like a stroke of genius.
No tedious creditors to disturb his work, no beguiling blonde beauty to torment…