“My, how you do prattle on, Cooke,” called a disdainful voice from their left.
Katya turned to see a tall, immaculately dressed man watching them. He stood with one shoulder propped against a tall stone column; his arms were crossed casually over his chest. His sandy-blond hair showed no sign of thinning, nor were there wrinkles around his steel-gray eyes. Katya guessed his age to be thirty years. Were it not for the expression of haughty amusement that marked his features he might have been handsome.
“It appears as though I’m interrupting,” he said.
“Not at all,” replied Jeremy Cooke. He took an automatic step away from Katya, as though they had been discovered standing too close.
The stranger pushed off from the column and moved toward them. He sized Katya up with a lordly glance, cool and thoughtful. “Aren’t you forgetting your manners, Cooke?” he said after a moment, his gaze resting on Katya. “I believe an introduction is in order.”
“Of course. Do forgive me.” He nervously cleared his throat. “Miss Alexander, may I present Lord Philip Montrose. Lord Montrose, Miss Katya Alexander.”
Montrose gave a low, gracious bow. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Alexander.”
Katya managed to summon a similarly polite reply, though in truth, she felt distinctly uneasy meeting the man.
“I believe I saw you last evening with Lord Barrington, did I not?” Montrose inquired.
“You did.”
“How remiss of him to leave your side.”
“Not at all,” she replied coolly. “As you can see, I’ve found admirable companionship in Mr. Cooke. We were just enjoying a discussion on the works of Euripides, when you arrived.”
“Were you? How very fascinating.” He turned toward Jeremy Cooke. “Pray don’t let me interrupt, Cooke. Do go on.”
For an instant, Katya thought she caught a flash of quiet fury in Jeremy Cooke’s dark eyes But it must have been a reflection of the sun against his spectacles, for when he spoke his voice held nothing but the mild tone of a bashful scholar. “Perhaps another time.”
Montrose smiled. “Yes. Perhaps another time.”
A sharp volley of gunfire filled the air, drawing their attention back to the party that was proceeding without them.
“I see you’re not participating in the contest, Cooke,” Montrose remarked once the blast had died down.
A look of distaste crossed Jeremy Cooke’s face. He shook his head. “I’m afraid that firearms are not my forte.”
“Nor are they mine. Particularly when Lord Barrington is expected to attend. The man does have a rather fearsome reputation, does he not?”
“I suppose he does.”
“Deadly, one might say.”
Thick silence hung between the two men as Cooke shifted uncomfortably. “Surely we can find a more suitable topic of discussion,” he suggested, pointedly nodding his head in Katya’s direction.
Montrose lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “It’s only fair that the lady be warned.”
“Warned? Deadly?” Katya interjected, irritated at having the conversation carry on in circles around her. “What dire words to use in conjunction with Lord Barrington.”
“And yet curiously appropriate, wouldn’t you say, Cooke?”
Jeremy Cooke studied the ground, as though hopeful that a suitable answer might be found there. “Those rumors are all unfounded, are they not?” he finally remarked. “Nothing was ever proven in a court of law.”
Icy satisfaction glistened in Montrose’s eyes. “How very true,” he concurred with a sigh. “Nothing was ever proven in a court of law.”
Katya had the distinct impression that Phihp Montrose had just neatly accomplished his goal—to plant seeds of doubt in her mind as to Nicholas’s character and reputation. And, loath as she was to admit it, he had succeeded. But other than indulging his taste for malicious gossip, she wondered what he stood to gain by doing so. But before she could determine his intent, Montrose abandoned the subject of Nicholas altogether.
“Come,” he said, as another blast of gunfire rang through the air, “we’re missing the spectacle. Surely we don’t want to be absent when they tally the kills.”
CHAPTER TEN
After enduring a seemingly endless afternoon of Corrina’s gruesome entertainment, Nicholas and Katya were finally able to make their good-byes. They left the party on horseback, just as they’d arrived, Katya once again wrapped in Nicholas’s strong arms. But before she could adjust to the intimate sensation of his body so close to hers, he drew his mount to a stop near the base of the ancient castle which had entranced her earlier that day.
After a brief walk they passed through a broad opening in the fortresslike walls and gained entrance to the keep itself. The narrow, cobbled streets were bustling with activity. Vendors stood in the arched doorways with carts of merchandise, calling out to the tourists who flocked around them. Painters attired in white smocks splashed oil across their canvasses at an almost furious pace, striving to capture the rich twilight hues before the colors faded into night.
They moved through the lively pedestrian traffic and up a series of steep stone steps. Finally they reached a tall rampart that overlooked the entire keep. From there the view stretched out across the rugged cliffs and gently sloping hills, continuing until the rich lavender and indigo of the horizon melted into the deep azure of the sea.
Katya let out a contented sigh and rested her elbows on the thick stone wall. “This is lovely,” she sighed.
“Yes, isn’t it?” he agreed, but he wasn’t studying the horizon. Instead, his gaze was fixed on her. In the gently fading light, her complexion took on the warm glow of ivory satin. Her body was as slim and lithe as a young girl’s, yet graced with the seductive curves of a grown woman. But of all Katya’s natural attributes, her eyes captivated him the most. Not just the rare lavender color or lush black lashes—although these were quite striking—but what he saw within her gaze. Her attempts to appear sophisticated notwithstanding, her eyes shone with wide-eyed wonder and childlike innocence. It gave her an air of artless vulnerability, despite the plucky confidence she tried to project.
As he studied her, a sharp gust of wind blew over the parapet, lifting her hat from her head and sending it skittering across the rough stone floor. Nicholas bent to retrieve the satin and straw creation.
“Thank you,” she said with a flustered smile.
Her hand moved to her hair in what he assumed was an automatic attempt to smooth her wayward curls. Judging from the abundance of pins that secured it in place, she was constantly striving to control it. As he watched her, it occurred to him that he would love to see her hair fly free, to see it cascade unrestrained down her back in a riot of wanton, luxurious curls.
She tilted her head back and met his gaze with a look of burgeoning curiosity and breathless expectation, as open and trusting as a young child’s. Unfortunately her expression of utter innocence awoke not only his latent desire, but something even more remarkable—and heretofore unknown—within him: his conscience.
He studied her for a long moment, then stepped abruptly back. “This was a mistake,” he said curtly.
“You mean coming here?”
“No. I mean you.”
She studied him blankly. “I don’t understand.”
He let out a sigh and raked his fingers through his hair, searching for the right words. “Perhaps I should have explained something to you at the very beginning. The society here in Monaco is worldly. My acquaintances, both men and women, tend to be profligate, informal, and sexually broad-minded. They drink, cheat, lie, flaunt their wealth, and abuse their servants. Husbands ignore their wives and live with their mistresses, wives bear their lovers’ children, and everyone involved behaves with sophisticated civility. You don’t fit in.”
“I see.” An expression of startled embarrassment flashed through her expressive eyes, then she brought up her chin. “I’m sorry I disappoint you.”
“You mis
understand me. I meant that as a compliment of the highest order.”
“Did you?” she asked tightly.
“I did. There’s an innocence about you that separates you from everyone else here. At first I thought that that was a tremendous advantage, for who would suspect you for combing a man’s pockets? Now I fear that that very quality will make you vulnerable to men like Montrose.”
“Vulnerable in what way?”
A vision of Allyson’s battered, lifeless body flashed through Nicholas’s mind. But this was hardly the time to unburden himself by sharing that grim bit of background with Katya. He pushed the stark image away, saying simply, “He’s a dangerous man—perhaps even deadly.”
“How remarkable. He said the same thing about you.”
A small, humorless smile curved his lips. “And what about Jeremy Cooke? Did he try to warn you away from me as well?”
“Actually, he tried to defend you.”
“Really? How very gallant of him.”
“You would do well to model yourself after Jeremy Cooke,” she retorted. “I found him to be a perfect gentleman.”
Nicholas gave a sharp laugh. “God, I can’t imagine anyone more dull to emulate.”
“Why did you cut off the funding for his research?”
“Because it was a waste of time and funds for everyone concerned.”
“You don’t believe in science?”
“Yes, but not charity. If Cooke spent as much time working on his estate, rather than letting it fall down around his head, as he does begging for funds—”
“A scholar seeking patrons is hardly begging for funds.”
Nicholas took a deep breath. “Can you tell me why we’re having this idiotic debate?”
She studied him for a moment in surprise. “No, I can’t,” she said; then her lips curved in a slow, wavering smile. “That’s not entirely true. I don’t suppose there’s a woman in the world who reacts well to being told she is completely unsuitable as a mistress—even when it is nothing but a ruse. If I reacted poorly, it was because my pride was wounded. It was foolish on my part.”
Amazed at her candor, he replied gently, “Then you misunderstood me. You suit me too well, little gypsy. That’s the problem.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I can’t protect you. Seeing you alone with Philip Montrose only underscored that fact.”
“But I wasn’t alone. Jeremy Cooke was with us the entire time.”
“That doesn’t signify,” he said, dismissing her objection immediately. He thought for a moment, then asked, “Were you able to get close enough to Montrose to check to see if he held the scroll somewhere on his person?”
She arched one dark brow in wry amusement. “This was hardly the occasion for me to do so. I couldn’t ask him to dance right there atop a windswept cliff, could I?”
“No, I suppose not,” he concurred. He raked his fingers through his hair and turned away from her, staring blankly out over the sea.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shook his head, unable to define the restless impatience that suddenly consumed him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was acting like a pawn in someone else’s game. That the person who had the scroll was watching every move he made, and laughing. He felt as impotent as a caged animal pacing back and forth on display before the crowds in London’s zoo.
When he had accompanied Katya to the Duke of Westerly’s, he had positioned himself so that he could watch her every move. Today he had not been able to do so, and it had bothered him far more than he would have suspected. If they continued on the course they had set, there would be more moments when she would be alone with Montrose and others like him. More moments in which she would be entirely vulnerable. Perhaps no harm would come to her. Perhaps she would find the scroll and he would be able to clear his name. Perhaps everything would be all right.
Or perhaps the person who had killed Allyson would make Katya his next victim.
On the heels of that sobering thought came the stark realization of what the proper course of action should be: send her away and search for the scroll alone. It was an honorable solution, but one that was highly impractical. Given Katya’s talents at sleight of hand, she was far better suited to the task than he. And now that he had presented her to society at large as his mistress, it served both their interests to continue their pretense. But beneath this rationale lurked a purely selfish motive as well—a desire to keep her entirely to himself. His whimsical little gypsy pleased him far more than he ever would have guessed.
“You may consider me duly warned,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “If you can’t protect me, I suppose I shall simply have to protect myself. Fortunately I’m twenty-three years old, so the task is not entirely unknown to me.”
Pushing away his bleak worries, he turned back to her, forcing himself to match her breezy tone. “Twenty-three?” he echoed. “I had no idea you were so ancient.”
“Indeed. Practically decrepit.”
“On the shelf.”
A thoughtful silence fell between them as they studied each other in wary hesitation, as though taking new measure. Her smile faded slightly and a somber light entered her eyes. “We seem to be forever at odds, don’t we?”
He studied her in surprise. “Does it feel that way to you?”
“Generally, yes.” She thought for a moment, then suggested, “Perhaps it’s because we’re trying to appear intimate when we really know so little about each other. I imagine that this would put a strain on anyone.”
“I imagine so,” he agreed, although he hadn’t considered it at all. In truth, the thought that a man and a woman might need to know anything about each other in order to be physically intimate was rather astounding to him. He considered his relationship with Allyson Whitney. He had enjoyed her beauty, her style, and her expertise in bed. She, in turn, had enjoyed his company and his wealth. Allyson had spent her nights in bed with him and her days making the rounds of various milliners, couturiers, jewelers, and seamstresses, selecting a wide assortment of items she “simply could not live without” and sending the bills to him.
Although their relationship had seemed perfectly acceptable at the time, he could not imagine Katya falling into a similar role.
“What do you suggest we do to alleviate this strain?” he inquired.
“There’s an old gypsy custom that says if you want to make an enemy your friend for life, you must trade secrets. That way you’ll always have something to hold over the other.”
A sardonic smile curved his lips. “How touching. A friendship based on fear, mistrust, and the ever-present threat of extortion.”
“Are you saying you won’t give it a try?” she retorted, a distinct glimmer of challenge in her eyes.
“Not at all. I have no doubt that is the basis for some of mankind’s most enduring relationships.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the parapet wall, giving her a polite nod. “Ladies first.”
She thought for a moment, then an impish smile curved her lips. “I stole a lion when I was five years old.”
Nicholas smiled. “Very impressive. I presume, however, that you mean a specimen from a taxidermist.”
“No. A real lion,” she insisted At his dubious look, she admitted reluctantly, “Well, a three-day-old lion cub. My family was traveling with a circus troupe when the cub was born, and I decided he’d make the perfect pet. Unfortunately my parents didn’t see things the same way—nor did the mother of the cub. I was forced to give him back.”
She sent him a bright smile and announced, “Now it’s your turn. I want to hear a secret of yours.”
He mentally reviewed the dark skeletons of his past, searching for something to share. He had secrets; far too many of them. But none that were suitable for her to hear. Finally he said, “I dislike long carriage rides.”
Her lips pulled down in a disappointed frown. “Surely you can do better than that.”
He
lifted his shoulders in a resolute shrug. “It appears that my life is far less extraordinary than your own.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“It’s true.”
“Very well. You leave me no choice but to discover a secret or two by myself.” She stretched one thin, delicate arm in his direction. With the cool demeanor of a royal princess, she demanded imperiously, “Your palm, Lord Barrington.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in that sort of nonsense.”
“I am not above resorting to desperate measures when the situation calls for it. As it happens, my mother was highly skilled in the art of palmistry. I may not have inherited her consummate talent, but I should be able to discern a thing or two.”
The whole idea struck Nicholas as utter nonsense, but he complied nevertheless, if for no other reason than to bridge the physical distance between them.
“I trust you will share whatever dire fate you find there,” he said.
“Certainly.”
She took his large hand in her smaller one and turned it this way and that, gently poking and prodding, tracing with her forefinger the lines that traversed his palm. A frown of intense concentration marked her features.
“You shall live a long life and never want for any material goods,” she began slowly, in what he thought was disappointingly standard fortune-teller rote. “You were close to your mother,” she said, “but you lost her at an early age. Your father was quite domineering, almost brutal at times. Your relationship with him was formal and rather strained. Even so, he had a tremendous impact on your life.”
Better, but not significant. She had probably learned that from the Comtesse or one of the household servants.
“You have an innate appreciation for objects of beauty,” she continued. “You are not easily touched emotionally, but once your feelings are affected they run deep. You are profoundly loyal and set high standards for both yourself and others.” She turned his hand toward him and pointed toward a deep groove that ran diagonally across his palm. “Do you see this line?” she asked, a note of excitement in her voice. “That’s the line of fate. As you can see, it crosses all areas of your life.”
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