Texas Viscount

by Henke, Shirl

  Somehow she intuited that his light words concealed some deeper meaning. “How did you meet those Russian gentlemen?” she asked.

  “Oh, a friendly game of cards. One thing led to another and they took me to a drinking establishment a lady like you wouldn't know about”

  “I should hope not,” she murmured beneath her breath. The theater was lavishly appointed with royal-blue velvet curtains, Turkish carpeting in rich blue and maroon shades and an enormous crystal chandelier that filled the lobby with glittering light. Wealthy patrons dressed in silks and jewels laughed and chatted gaily, but the magic of her first trip to the ballet was gone. Stolen by the star of the performance...who had ensnared her Texan.

  Her Texan?

  Sabrina gave herself a mental shake. What on earth made her think of him as hers, for goodness sake?

  The viscount seated her in the Hambleton box and took her wrap, laying it over the back of her chair.

  “Very proper, my lord,” she said politely. She could not help the icicles dripping from her voice.

  Brrr. He could tell by her tone and the stiffness of her posture that she was jealous. He could not help but be pleased by the reaction. Of course, he had to meet with the prima donna tonight, and that wouldn't help his pursuit of Sabrina. “You sound colder than a blue norther sweeping down the Panhandle,” he whispered in her ear, letting his breath caress the delicate lobe.

  The warmth spread from her ear all the way to her toes, but Sabrina refused to give the rogue the satisfaction of detecting any reaction. Mercifully, the curtain rose on the first act of Swan Lake and Tchaikovsky's marvelous music filled the huge theater. She ignored her companion and concentrated on the stage.

  * * * *

  Wilfred Hodgins arranged the papers on Lord Hambleton's desk with his usual precise efficiency. He had served the old earl for nearly two decades and knew exactly how everything should be done. That young pup Edmund Whistledown did not have the faintest aptitude for the work. Irritated, Hodgins checked the tall case clock in the corner of the room. As usual, the boy was late. It was after eight in the evening. His simple errand should not have taken more than an hour, and he'd been dispatched well before five.

  “I take it Mr. Whistledown is tardy once again,” the earl said as he entered his office.

  “Do you wish me to discharge him, my lord?” Hodgins asked without betraying any eagerness in his carefully measured tone.

  Just then a light tap sounded on the office door. At the earl's summons, Edmund entered, looking flushed and breathless. “My sincerest apologies for taking so long, Lord Hambleton, but there was a hackney accident on the bridge and all traffic was blocked. I did deliver the papers to Mr. Whitney just as I was instructed,” he added eagerly.

  Hambleton found it painful to watch the nervous youth shuffle from one foot to the other, like an overeager puppy trying desperately to please. He waved the lad away, saying, “As long as Lord Ashcroft's secretary has the trade agreement in hand before the marquess leaves for his grouse shoot, there's no harm done.”

  “You'll need to collect the signed documents on the morrow. Be here at nine sharp for any additional errands,” Hodgins added as the young man backed awkwardly toward the door.

  “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

  “Need you be so hard on the boy, Hodgins?” the earl asked with a wry smile. “It would seem that I remember your being late a time or two when you started working for me back in...”

  “That would be 1882, my lord...and it was only once. The day I broke my leg.”

  Hambleton cleared his throat, suppressing a chuckle. “Yes, I believe you're right. Ah, Hodgins, the first thing to deteriorate in advanced age is certainly not the mind, but 'tis a sad thing when it does nonetheless.”

  “Nonsense. You are every bit as keenly intelligent as you were the day I met you, my lord,” Hodgins protested.

  “Let us hope you are correct. Now, down to business. Lansdowne has asked that all those working on the Japanese matter meet with him tonight. I should have a draft of the alliance when I return. It will require some close study...”

  Outside the door, Edmund stood, trembling as he pulled the crumpled note from his coat pocket and reread it once again. Pray heaven he could keep this position, else he'd be dead by the end of the week.

  * * * *

  The White Satin was crowded by the time Josh arrived. It had taken him an extra hour to see Sabrina home first. He had not attempted to soothe her ruffled feathers by making up excuses for leaving her off directly after the ballet. She was far too clever and would have guessed that he was meeting the beauteous Natasha. Instead, he had offered to take her for a long ride in the country in the Mercedes. Of course, she'd refused, saying it was highly improper for a lady and a gentleman who were not blood kin or affianced to be alone in the middle of nowhere late at night.

  He'd acted disappointed and tried to steal a kiss when they reached her apartment, but she'd bested him. Her elderly landlady sat waiting at the door. He would have bet his best cutting horse that Sabrina had asked her to do precisely that. Their good nights had been brief and proper.

  As he entered the smoky dark club, he smiled to himself. If she had to trust old women to stand watch over her virtue, the proper Miss Edgewater must not trust herself. Tomorrow, maybe he would invite her for a horseback ride through Hyde Park. What could be more decorous than that?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a loud rhythmic burst of clapping that erupted near the back of the large room. A circle about a dozen feet in diameter had been cleared and five men stood inside it facing each other with tall glasses of vodka tilted to their mouths, drinking as fast as they could. Alexi won the contest, polishing off his drink before any of the others. As onlookers and participants slapped him on the back in congratulation, it was apparent this drink was far from his first of the night.

  When he spotted the tall American moving through the crowd, the champion called out, “Josua, m-my fren, come join ush!”

  Wonderful. Josh could still remember how his head had ached after their last drinking session. At least this time he'd come armed with some good bourbon. Josh scanned the room for the prima ballerina, who was conspicuously absent. “ ‘Pears to me you've already proved you're the baddest Cossack on the steppes, Alexi,” he said dryly as his companion enveloped him in a fulsome bear hug.

  The icy blond Sergei Valerian laughed drunkenly. “Are you afraid to stand up with us?”

  “Nope. I'd be more afraid of falling down with you about now. You fellows have a good running start on the evening, and it's not even midnight,” Josh replied in jocular fashion.

  “He's English. How could he hold his liquor?” Nikolai Zarenko sneered, coming up behind Josh.

  “By act of Parliament I'm a peer of this realm, but by birth I'm a Texan. Nothing'll ever change that,” Josh replied, seeing no sign of his antagonist's sister. Damned if I'll get in a brawl for no cussed reason. “I brought some real sipping whiskey. Instead of drinking fast, why not taste what we swallow?” he said with a big smile. “It's the custom back in America.”

  “Yesh, custom of t-th country,” Alexi slurred, eyeing the bottle of golden liquid his friend was holding up.

  “First we'd better sit down,” Josh said, carefully assisting Alexi to a large table near the back of the room.

  He poured shots all around and passed them to the Russians. All but Alexi eyed the colored liquor with its distinctive perfume suspiciously. Josh lifted his glass and took a sip, then smacked his lips in appreciation. Alexi gulped the whole thing at once. A good thing Josh had more than one bottle stashed in his Mercedes outside. He had a feeling he'd need them all before this evening was over.

  “You drink like a woman,” Nikolai said, placing his glass on the polished oak table with a loud thud.

  Alexi hiccupped. “Unlesh tha woman's your s-sis'er.”

  Josh met Zarenko's cold dark eyes and took his measure. For some reason, the Russian was spoiling for a fight. Was
his sister's attraction to Josh the reason? He gauged the reaction around the table. Three of their crew were already nodding off. Everyone alert enough to follow the conversation waited with avidly glowing eyes to see how the wild Texan would respond. No help for it. A fight.

  “You just pissed in my hip pocket, Nicki, ole hoss. Now, just to show you what an easygoing son of a bitch I am, I'll let it pass...this time. Do it again, and you'll be pickin' your teeth up off the floor,” he drawled in a deadly calm voice, then polished off his shot of whiskey and poured another round.

  For a moment it looked as if Zarenko was going to throw the drink in Josh's face, but then a small white hand touched the Texan's shoulder and the overpowering scent of gardenias filled his nostrils. Natasha leaned over and purred, “Please do not use that six-killer on my foolish brother.”

  Looking up at her, he could see the warning light in her eyes as they glared at Nikolai Zarenko. Josh patted her hand and smiled engagingly. “Why, ma'am, I wouldn't dream of discommoding a lady. May I offer you a drink of Kentucky's finest?”

  “I thought you said this was Texas whiskey.” She regarded the glass of amber liquid he poured for her.

  “It is, but we have a deal with Bourbon County, Kentucky, to make it for us.” He stood up and held her chair, scooting it in just the way Sabrina had taught him.

  Like Alexi, she swallowed it down in one gulp, then looked up at him with a startled expression on her face.

  “Tastes a mite stronger than vodka, doesn't it?” he asked with a grin.

  “But it is good,” she replied, her black eyes glowing as she held up the glass for a refill.

  Before long he paid one of the barmen to go out to his car and unlock the trunk where he kept another three bottles of Who Shot John. He hoped the colonel and the British Foreign Office appreciated the sacrifice he was making for both of his countries.

  The drinking continued for another hour, and one by one the participants began to fall to the wayside. Josh was careful to drink as slowly as he dared while appearing to keep up with the others. He acted considerably more inebriated than he actually was, listening to the drunken conversations around him, most of which were in French or Russian.

  Although he had been studying Russian grammar and knew the words for Japan, treaty, minister and assassination, to mention a few, nothing he could understand was pertinent to the conspiracy. Then as Alexi slumped over the table and Josh and Sergei began to reposition their companion so he wouldn't tumble to the floor, some signal was exchanged between Natasha and her brother.

  Pretending not to notice, Josh observed the pair move discreetly to that small alcove in the back. How could he position himself to listen? “I gotta bleed my goose,” he announced drunkenly to the assembly, who laughed and exchanged a series of ribald jokes with him as he staggered outside.

  After his first visit to this place, he'd checked the position of the windows and doors. He knew there was a small window just above the alcove where Natasha and Nikolai were talking. Praying they would follow the custom of all Russian aristocracy since the days of Peter the Great and speak French, he quickly made his way to it. The weather was unseasonably warm and the room filled with smoke. Every window in the place was open. Their voices carried in hushed whispers on the late-night air.

  “I don't like it,” Nikolai said in slurred French. “How do you know you can trust that stupid boy?”

  “He has copies of the papers. You know there is no way I could obtain them through George. They have agents watching him and me all the time now. He's becoming suspicious about my interest in Japan. I can protest all I like about loving Kabuki, but he remembers talking about their Foreign Secretary's arrival while I was listening in the next room.”

  “Will he turn you out?” Nikolai asked worriedly.

  Josh could hear the purr in her voice as she replied, “He's far too besotted for that, but I will have to be more careful in the future. As soon as his wife returns to their country seat, I know he'll have me move back in. That will make my work easier.”

  “We don't have time. She may not leave for weeks yet.”

  “That's why our Englishman is so valuable in the meanwhile. Pick up the papers, Nicki darling,” she said with fond impatience. “They contain all the notes on the treaty prepared by the Foreign Office for Hayashi. We'll know what the British are proposing before Tokyo does. All you have to do is meet him in Hyde Park tomorrow at three.”

  She went on to describe a statue of Wellington where the exchange would take place. The British traitor was to be paid a moderate sum in exchange for the crucial information. Unfortunately for Josh, neither of them named the traitor or where he worked.

  As the conspirators continued to talk, Josh heard the sound of drunken stumbling just around the corner and knew he could listen no more. Pretending to straighten his pants, he headed toward the approaching man. It was Sergei, weaving precariously as he unbuttoned his fly in plain view of the street. And he was about to make water on Josh's prized Mercedes! Cursing beneath his breath, Josh hurried to redirect the befuddled marksman's aim, then assisted him back inside.

  When they took their seats at the table, Natasha and her brother were arguing sotto voce. Josh could tell by their angry gestures that he was most probably the cause of the fight. After a moment, she shoved back her chair and stalked toward the door, pausing only long enough at his side to whisper, “Later, mon cher.” Glowering, “darling Nicki” followed her like a bodyguard protecting a very valuable person, which Josh imagined Natasha was.

  Her access to Albany's son made her invaluable to the conspirators. She also was obviously connected to the double agent in the Foreign Office. But how could Josh find out more if her brother watched her as close as a cow pony eyeing a maverick? Nikolai had undoubtedly forbidden her to have anything to do with him. But why? Josh was certain Zarenko had no idea he was anything but a loutish American who'd accidentally stumbled into the peerage. Perhaps he feared that a new lover might distract her from their mission.

  Whatever else developed, at least Josh would learn who was passing information from the Foreign Office to Zarenko tomorrow at three. That was a damn good start.

  * * * *

  “My intended what?” Josh croaked in a whiskey-roughened voice that matched the sandpaper inside his head.

  “Wife, my good boy, wife,” the earl repeated calmly as if explaining to a child.

  “When I took this job of viscounting, I was not fixing on getting married—least of all to some female I've never laid eyes on.” Josh reached across the breakfast-room table and seized the silver coffee pot before Sally could reach it, pouring himself a hearty refill.

  He'd been up half the night drinking with the Russians, pouring Alexi into his bed at the Metropole, and conferring with Michael Jamison until well past dawn. He was exhausted, hung over and out of six bottles of the only decent whiskey in the British Isles. Then his uncle summoned him to eat kippered herring at the uncivilized hour of ten in the morning and proceeded to announce that he'd picked out a suitable girl for him to marry!

  “You must understand how things are done in families of consequence,” Hambleton went on, stirring cream into his tea and ignoring the glowering outrage on his nephew's face. He'd fully expected the reaction. “The Marquess of Chiffington's daughter Eunice is a charming young lady. Just made her debut this year. Fresh as a spring breeze.”

  “I don't care if she's strong as a fall hurricane, I'm not marrying anybody. Why, I'm only twenty-nine,” Josh protested, stabbing angrily into a pair of fried eggs—he'd be damned if he'd eat fish for breakfast.

  “Precisely. As my heir, your duty to provide an heir for the Cantrell titles is long overdue. If you'd been raised here in England, you would have wed by the age of twenty-one.”

  Josh shuddered. “Hell, Uncle Ab, I wasn't even dry behind the ears then.”

  “Well, consider your ears dry as toast now,” the earl replied, placing a generous dollop of marmalade on a perfect
ly browned piece of bread and popping it into his mouth.

  Josh considered his options. Much as he was growing fond of the crusty old curmudgeon, he was damn certain not going to let his uncle pick him a wife, no matter if she was pretty as an acre of pregnant red sows. Just thinking of that brought Sabrina's face to mind, and he grinned in spite of himself. If he ever did decide to marry—mind, if—he might consider her.

  What was he thinking? This musty, history-steeped English air was turning his brain to mush. He wanted to bed Sabrina, not marry her. Josh Cantrell had been as free and independent as a hog on ice since he was a tadpole. Gertie had always admitted that, even to him. Nosiree, if push came to shove, when this business with the Russians was finished, he'd just take the next steamer back to Texas and forget about being a viscount or anything loftier.

  The earl observed the play of emotions passing over Joshua's face with positive glee. According to all reports, the boy was an expert card player, and could bluff magnificently in the business arena as well. But right now his expression was clear as glass. Of course, the earl was far more skilled at reading faces than most people on either side of the Atlantic. “Will you at least have the courtesy to meet the young lady and her parents next weekend? They've extended an invitation for us to join them at their cottage near Brighton. I assume your lessons with Miss Edgewater have progressed sufficiently so as to assure proper etiquette?”

  What would it hurt? He was only stalling for time anyway while he and Michael Jamison solved this mess...and he had time enough to enjoy Sabrina. Josh wiped his mouth with his napkin, then said, “I reckon I can hold my own, but just to be certain, maybe we should bring my tutor along.”

  The earl appeared to consider that. “A bit unorthodox...but the marquess does have another younger daughter. I could inquire about having them interview Miss Edgewater for a position working with her. Once you've proven yourself a proper enough gentleman, her reputation will have to be returned to its previous pristine condition. My recommendations can undo what I did in securing her services for you.”