by Candace Camp
“Hello, Con. Alex.” Her gaze went to Rafe, her heart suddenly skittering in her chest. “Rafe.”
He stood up politely, his mouth curving up in a slow, sensuous smile that made Kyria blush and go a little weak in the knees. “Good morning, Kyria.” His blue eyes were knowing and warm, and Kyria found that his gaze made her feel not so much embarrassed as eager to be alone with him again.
He looked away from her to the boys and reached down to give each of them a poke in the arm. “What are you doing sitting there? A gentleman stands whenever a lady enters the room.”
“Oh, right.”
“Sorry.”
The boys jumped up, and Rafe came around to pull out Kyria’s chair. His hand grazed her shoulder in a subtle caress as she sat, then he moved away, saying in a matter-of-fact voice, “Anyway, what does it matter, boys? Dead is dead.”
“Exactly!” Con cried gleefully. “You can’t kill a man twice. So the rattlesnake is just as deadly, and if it’s more likely to attack than to run, then it is more dangerous.”
“But it still is not as poisonous,” Alex protested. “Therefore it is less deadly.”
Kyria glanced at the footmen beside the buffet. Denby, accustomed to the twins’ conversation, merely looked tired. The other man, a newer addition to the household, looked a trifle green.
“Con. Alex. I scarcely think that this is appropriate conversation for the breakfast table. You aren’t in the schoolroom, you know.”
“Ah, Kyria. There’s nobody here but us!” Con argued.
“I am here,” Kyria said. “Am I nobody?”
“But you aren’t going to get all girly about snakes,” Alex insisted.
“Still, I think it would be better if you confined your herpetological discussions to a time and place other than where people are eating. It will make you much more pleasant dining companions.”
The boys grimaced, but subsided, contenting themselves with shoveling an amazing amount of food into their respective mouths.
“What’s on our schedule today?” Rafe asked.
His tone was so ordinary that Kyria found she could answer without even a blush—although she did have a little trouble meeting his eyes. “I am hoping that Lord Walford will contact Mr. Ashcombe today so that we will be able to talk to him. And—”
She was interrupted by the sound of voices outside, and a moment later, the butler appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room, his face etched with disapproval. “Mr. Quick is here, my lady, and insists on speaking to you. I informed him that this was an inappropriate time to call, but he—”
“Show him in,” Kyria said quickly, cutting off the rest of the butler’s speech.
Tom, who had obviously followed Phipps down the hall and was hanging about just outside the door, stuck his head in and grinned. “My lady.”
“Come in, Tom. I trust you will join us for breakfast.”
“That sounds just the thing, ma’am.” He gave them an all-encompassing grin and set to filling up his plate from the sideboard.
“What happened? What did you find out?” Con asked.
“Let the man have a chance to eat,” Kyria admonished her brother, although she was as eager to know as he was. She could not help but think that his arrival this early meant that he had found out something about Mr. Habib.
Fortunately, Tom was quick to demolish his plate of eggs and kidneys. Then, taking a healthy swig of coffee, he patted his lips and turned to the rest of them and began his story.
“Well,” he said, “at first I was thinking that I wasn’t going to get anything done. Habib stayed in that inn the whole rest of the day. A couple of men went in to see him. I couldn’t get close enough to hear what was said, but they was dark like him and wearing those robes that look like they’re running around in their night rails with a big sash around their middles, and they had turbans on their heads, but not those fancy ones you see sometimes. More plain like. And they kept bowing to Habib, so to my way of thinking, they’re probably working for him.”
“No doubt.”
“I thought about following them when they left, but I thought I better stick with him. He ate supper there and all, and I was beginning to think that I’d wasted my time, when finally, around midnight, he comes strolling out the front door. He took a cab, and I was afraid I might lose him, but luckily I managed to catch one, too. He led us into Cheapside and—”
“Cheapside!” Rafe exclaimed, and shot a look at Kyria. The Blue Bull tavern was in Cheapside.
“Right. I thought maybe he was going to that tavern you talked about. But he got off at some other place. It looked more like a warehouse, but it didn’t have a sign. A real plain sort of place, and I was puzzled what he was doing there. I was hoping maybe he’d come to meet somebody, so I got up close to the building and sneaked open the door a bit—and then this fellow opens the door and lets me in. It’s another one of them Eastern fellows, with the turban and robe and all. I looked around, and I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it in me life. At first I couldn’t figure out what it was, all full of smoke and people lounging around on cushions and these mats and rugs. Strangest of all, they were smoking these funny pipes. Then I figured it out—your friend Habib had gone to an opium den.” He stopped and looked at them triumphantly.
There was a long silence. Whatever they had thought he might find out, it had not been this. Kyria glanced at Rafe, and he shrugged. She looked back at Tom.
Not surprisingly, it was Con who spoke first. “An opium den! What did it look like? What were they doing? Did you smoke some?”
“No!” Tom looked somewhat affronted. “And you shouldn’t be talking about such things.”
“Mother says that knowledge is power,” Alex informed him gravely.
“I am not entirely sure that she would want you to have this much power,” Kyria responded dryly.
“Do you think he went there because he’s an opium addict?” Rafe asked. “Or was he meeting someone?”
“I don’t know.” Tom looked chagrined. “I lost him. When I first went in, I was a little taken aback, you see, and for a minute I just stood there gawking. Then there was this fellow trying to lead me to a cushion and set me up with a pipe. So I sort of followed him, looking around all the time, and I finally caught sight of Habib at the back. So when the fellow sat me down and went off—I guess to get me something to smoke—I got up and went over to where I’d spied Habib, but by the time I got there, he was gone. There were curtains, though, leading somewhere, so I started through them, but then this other fellow came over, squawking and waving at me not to go back there. He made such a fuss I couldn’t get away with doing anything after that, so I left.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I mucked it all up something proper.”
“Nonsense. You did fine. I’m sure anyone would have done the same,” Kyria said. “And now we know something more about Habib.”
“We just need to find out if he went there to smoke an opium pipe or to tell his partner or employer about our visit yesterday,” Rafe added. “I think I’ll go back there tonight. Tom?”
“Sure,” Tom said quickly. “I’ll be glad to take you there.”
“Should we dress up as Arabs, do you think?” Kyria asked.
“Oh, there were plenty of English folks there, as well,” Tom assured her, even as Rafe turned to her, his brows vaulting upward incredulously.
“Kyria, you can’t be serious. You cannot possibly go.”
“I cannot?” she countered, her voice turning dangerously silken. “And who, may I ask, is going to stop me?”
Rafe winced at his poor choice of words. “I didn’t mean you weren’t allowed. I meant, it wouldn’t be possible. A woman in a place like that…Even if there are English people, I am sure there aren’t women.”
“Except for the dancing girls,” Tom said.
“Dancing girls?” Now that had possibilities, Kyria thought. “What sort of dancing girls?”
“Well, uh—” T
om began to blush and look distinctly uncomfortable “—you know, the sort of Eastern ones, with the coins on their belts and the bells and they, you know, sort of writhe about…” He stumbled to a halt.
“No,” Rafe said abruptly. “Kyria…”
“Yes?” Kyria crossed her arms and gazed back at him stubbornly.
“It takes years of training,” he told her flatly. “And you would have to dye your hair black and color your skin, and your eyes would still be green. There isn’t a chance.”
“All right,” she conceded. “I won’t go as a dancing girl. But I could go as a man.”
“Kyria…” Rafe groaned.
“No. It will be perfectly all right. Before, when we went to the tavern, you were right. A stripling youth would have been terribly suspicious and out of place. But in an opium den…if there are Englishmen there, I am sure there must be some upper-class, poetical types who frequent the place. I can get away with that.”
“Your hair.”
“She can cut it,” Con volunteered. “I’ll help you, Kyria.”
“No!” Rafe looked horrified, his gaze going to Kyria’s flame-colored tresses.
“Perhaps it would be better if I did dress up as an Arab,” Kyria mused. “I could wear one of those long, headdress things—what do you call it?”
“A kaffiyeh?” Alex offered.
“Exactly. With that and a floor-length robe, nothing would show but my hands and face, and I could dye them somehow. Alex, what was it you were telling me about dying your skin using nut oil?”
“Oh, sure—” her brother began eagerly.
“No, wait.” Rafe held up a hand. “Please. No trying to pass for someone whose language you cannot even speak.”
“I suppose,” Kyria said, giving up the idea with a sigh. “I shall just have to be a young English gentleman—one frightfully steeped in wickedness despite my youth. I’ll put my hair up under a hat. I am sure I can find some old suit of Reed’s or Theo’s when they were young that will fit me well enough.”
“We’ll help you,” Alex volunteered, jumping off his chair.
“Sure,” Con agreed, adding, “It would really be keen if we could go along.”
“I am certain there are no children in opium dens,” Rafe put in firmly.
“Oh, all right,” Con agreed, clearly not expecting to win the argument.
They made arrangements to meet Tom that evening, and Kyria and the twins went up to the attic to see what they could find to make a suitable costume.
When they had gone, Rafe rested his head on his hands with a groan. “She will be the death of me.”
Tom reached over and patted his arm sympathetically. “Don’t worry, guv’nor. You can’t keep ’em from doing what they want. None of the Morelands, even the women. No, I should say, especially the women. Lady Olivia, who is as sweet as they come, does just exactly as she pleases. You can’t change ’em.”
“No, I realize that. I don’t even want to. Her spirit is one of the things I admire most about her. It’s just…damn, it gets harder every time she exposes herself to danger.”
“You’re doing fine,” Tom told him with a grin. “Most gentlemen couldn’t have lasted a week in Lady Kyria’s company.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not a gentleman, then, isn’t it?” Rafe replied.
* * *
Later that morning, after Kyria and the twins had emerged triumphantly from the attic with a set of clothes that they hailed as “just the thing,” she was surprised to have the butler announce the arrival of Lord Walford.
Hastily, she brushed the last traces of dust from the attic off her dress and gave a quick glance in the mirror to make sure her hair was in order, then went downstairs to the small, blue drawing room. Walford was already seated in one of the chairs, and he stood up with a smile when Kyria entered the room.
“Lady Kyria, I hope you will forgive this intrusion,” he said, taking the hand she extended and, in a courtly gesture, elegantly bowing to press his lips to it. “I realize it is a trifle early for making calls, but I trust you will be pleased at what I have come to tell you. I spoke with Nelson Ashcombe a few minutes ago, and he will be happy to receive you this afternoon at three o’clock. I hope that will fit in with your schedule.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you so much for arranging it,” Kyria told him, smiling. “It was very kind of you to speak to him so quickly.”
“I could scarcely let pass an opportunity to do a favor for such a beautiful woman as yourself,” he responded, and returned her smile.
“I am in your debt.”
“Then I must think of some way you can repay me. Perhaps one evening you would honor me by allowing me to escort you to the theater. I understand there is a charming comedy…”
“Oh…” Kyria hesitated, surprised and feeling unaccustomedly awkward. She was used to receiving invitations from men, and she imagined that at some prior time she would have accepted his escort without even thinking. He was a handsome man and quite eligible, and she suspected that, given his extensive travels, he would make an entertaining companion.
But now, everything was different. Now, there was Rafe. And she knew that she had no interest in even flirting with another man.
“I am sorry,” he said quickly. “I have presumed too much.”
“Oh, no. I am just, well, that is, there is…actually, it is not a good time for me. My younger brothers are here with me, and I, ah, have some business to take care of. So I am not really accepting many social engagements.”
She could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, and it irritated her. It was rare that she was so socially inept.
“Of course,” Walford replied smoothly. “I perfectly understand.”
Kyria felt sure that he did not, as she had not explained herself well, but she was grateful to him for the pretense.
“Perhaps…” he began, then hesitated.
“Yes?” Kyria asked encouragingly.
“I was thinking that if you wanted, I would be happy to escort you to Mr. Ashcombe’s this afternoon. He can sometimes be a trifle…well, intimidating.”
Before Kyria could speak, a voice from the door drawled, “That’s all right, sir. I’ve found that Lady Kyria can usually stand up for herself.”
Both Walford and Kyria turned, startled, to see Rafe lounging in the doorway, his shoulder against the doorjamb.
“If he does scare her,” Rafe continued, his mouth curved into a smile more wolfish than friendly, his eyes devoid of their usual sparkle, “I think that I can take care of her.”
“Ah. I see.” There was a wealth of comprehension in Walford’s words. “I did not realize that Lady Kyria already had an escort.”
“Lord Walford,” Kyria said quickly, “allow me to present Mr. McIntyre.”
“Yes, of course,” Walford said politely, stepping forward to shake Rafe’s hand. “My cousin was so pleased to have you attend her rout. She could speak of little else. Welcome to England. I hope you are enjoying your stay.”
“Yes, very much.”
Walford did not linger after that and soon took his leave.
Kyria turned to Rafe with a grimace. “What possessed you to be so rude? Lord Walford has gotten Mr. Ashcombe to meet with us, which was quite nice of him.”
“I don’t like the fellow,” Rafe replied shortly.
Kyria let out a small noise of irritation. “I can’t imagine why. He has been nothing but polite. He had no obligation to pressure Mr. Ashcombe into seeing us.”
“Little wonder why he did it,” Rafe retorted.
Kyria quirked an eyebrow. “Exactly what are you implying?”
“The man’s interested in you,” he shot back, frowning. “Not, of course, that every other man I meet isn’t also apparently attracted to you. I had to elbow my way through the crowd to get close to you last night.”
He’s jealous! Kyria was accustomed to seeing jealousy in men, but she had not before encountered it with Rafe. In general, she found men’
s jealousy rather tiresome, but here and now, with Rafe, she could not help but feel a little spurt of happiness. It was, she thought, rather cute, and she had to bring her hand up to her mouth to cover her smile.
He caught himself and grimaced. “Oh, the hell with it.”
Rafe started to turn and leave, but at that moment, the butler appeared, looking deeply unhappy. He paused in the doorway and intoned, “You have another visitor, my lady.”
It was clear what Phipps thought of the number of callers arriving at inappropriately early times.
Kyria looked at him blankly, surprised. “Who?”
“A Mr. Brulatour,” the butler sniffed, “a French gentleman.”
“French?” Kyria glanced at Rafe, who raised his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. “All right, Phipps. Show Mr. Brulatour in.”
The butler retreated and a few moments later showed an impeccably dressed man into the room. Of average height, he had dark hair with a bit of a wave in it, oiled into submission. He had a prominent nose, with small dark eyes above and a thin-lipped mouth below, separated by a narrow black mustache.
“My lady.” He bowed extravagantly. “Monsieur Alain Brulatour, at your service. Eet ees a pleasure to meet you. I ’ad ’eard you were beautiful, but words cannot begin to do you justice.”
“How do you do, Monsieur Brulatour?” Kyria answered carefully. In her peripheral vision, she could see Rafe rolling his eyes, and she had to press her lips firmly together before she was able to continue. “May I ask what brings you to our house today?”
“I ’ave come, my lady, to relieve you of a great burden.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes.” He beamed broadly at her, revealing a row of rather crooked teeth, and finished, “I ’ave come to purchase ze reliquary box.”
CHAPTER 15
It was all Kyria could do not to groan. Finally, she said dryly, “How very kind of you.”
