After making certain her door was securely locked, she hurried over to her narrow bed and laid the hatbox upon the embroidered cover. The countess's newest bonnet, a hideous concoction of chipstraw and ceramic cherries, lay inside, but it was the box itself that concerned Elizabeth. Employing the greatest care, she ran her fingertips along the papered sides, stopping when she found the seam holding the pasted edges together. Slowly and skillfully, she peeled the paper apart, holding back a soft cry of delight at the letter she found secreted inside. One could say what one wished of the Gentlemen, she thought, lifting out the letter and smiling at the familiar handwriting. They were every bit as reliable as the post when it came to delivering the mail, and a dashed sight faster. She set the box on the floor, taking time to reseal the sides before sitting down on her bed to read the latest missive from her papa.
Dearest Daughter,
Outrage upon outrage has been visited upon my adopted land. Only wait until I tell you of the foul crime our fine Army has committed against an innocent and unarmed populace . . .
Elizabeth continued reading, her high spirits growing somber at what she read. From her father's last letter she'd known the war in America was going badly for the newly formed nation, but now it seemed matters were even more desperate than she'd believed. The letter listed a litany of atrocities and horrors committed by the British troops, and from the scratchy quality of the handwriting Elizabeth could tell her father was shaking with fury. He concluded the missive with the request Elizabeth had been expecting since he had announced his decision to move to America.
I know it was your mother's dying wish that you return to England, and I would never want you to act in a manner not in accordance with your conscience. But I must ask, Elizabeth, nay, I must insist that you leave a country which possesses so little in the way of honor, and join me here in Virginia. I am settled quite comfortably in Richmond, and can now afford to keep you in some comfort and style. Join me, Elizabeth, but before you do, there is something I would ask of you . . .
"Miss Mattingale? Miss Mattingale?"
The timid knock on her door had Elizabeth biting back a shriek of alarm. She folded the letter quickly, tucking it underneath her spread before hurrying over to open the door. One of the maids stood there, her plain face breaking into a smile of relief when she saw Elizabeth.
"Oh, good, miss, you're here. Her ladyship is calling for you. She's in a rare taking and asks that you come at once."
"Very good, Ceila, thank you," Elizabeth managed a weak smile. "Only give me a moment to retrieve her lady-ship's bonnet, and I shall be right with you."
"Not o'nother one!" the young maid exclaimed with a pert roll of her eyes. "Is it ugly as all the rest?"
"Heavens no!" Elizabeth, equally pert, assured her. "It's even worse."
Elizabeth found her employer in the front hallway, barking out a final set of orders and consulting her lists.
"No, no, no, we cannot move the viscountess to the Red Room, Jerrell," she said to the unflappable individual who acted as her majordomo. "The woman has a dreadful fear of flowers, and the suite overlooks my rose gardens. We shall have to put her in the Chinese Suite, and hope to heavens she doesn't break something."
She glanced up at Elizabeth's approach, her imperious features settling in a scowl.
"And where have you been?" she demanded in impatient tones. "I have been calling for you for above an hour!"
"My apologies, my lady, but I have only just returned from the village," Elizabeth said, swallowing her temper along with a considerable portion of her pride. "Is there some problem?"
"I should say there is!" the countess exclaimed, her annoyance with Elizabeth giving way to a childlike excitement. "A messenger from London has brought word that we shall be expected to receive a member of the Russian nobility. One of the princes attending the Czar learned of our house party and has taken it into his head to join us. Can you imagine?" she added, preening with self-importance. "A Russian prince, in our home! I shall be the envy of all our friends when we return to London for the festivities."
Elizabeth refrained from commenting on the other woman's unbecoming toadying. "Do you recall the prince's name?" she asked, frowning thoughtfully.
"Something unpronounceable," her ladyship replied with an indifferent shrug. "Why do you ask?"
"I was wondering if perhaps I might know him," Elizabeth admitted. "I met several members of the Diplomatic Corps while Papa and I were living in St. Petersburg. It is entirely possible I may have met this prince at some function or another."
"That's right!" The countess exclaimed, studying her with sharp-eyed interest. "I'd quite forgotten you claim to have lived there. I don't suppose you speak the language?"
Elizabeth recalled her struggles to master the impossible tongue. "After a fashion," she admitted, not willing to lay claim to an expertise she did not possess. "I shouldn't say I was an expert, but I did speak it well enough to get on with shopkeepers and the like."
"Then you must teach me a few phrases, that I might greet his highness properly," the older woman demanded, looking at Elizabeth expectantly. "How does one say, 'Welcome' in Russian?"
Elizabeth thought for a moment, and then said, "Dabroh pazhaluvat."
Lady Derring looked horrified. "Good heavens! Are you certain you are pronouncing it correctly? It sounds like gibberish to me."
"Quite certain, my lady," Elizabeth assured her, doing her best not to take offense. "But I shouldn't worry if I were you. If the prince is in the Diplomatic Corps, then he is likely to be fluent in French. You may greet him in that tongue."
A sullen expression flashed across the countess's face. "I have never bothered learning the wretched language," she said in peevish tones. "The French are our enemy, after all." She eyed Elizabeth resentfully. "You speak it as well, I trust?"
For a brief moment Elizabeth was strongly tempted to teach the countess some of the more colorful epithets she'd picked up in her travels, but in the end common sense prevailed. "Yes, my lady," she murmured, and proceeded to teach her employer the most innocuous phrases she could think of.
The countess's mangled attempts at French were still ringing in Elizabeth's ears when the Earl of Derring emerged from his study. To her annoyance, Lord Falconer was at his side, and she noted with some surprise that he'd already changed out of his riding togs and into a maroon jacket of Bath superfine and gray kerseymere breeches tucked into the tops of his glossy boots. He looked every inch the haughty English gentleman, and Elizabeth could only shake her head at such a pattern card of perfection.
"Can't believe the cheek of this fellow," the earl was grumbling to the marquess. "I don't know him from Adam, and he thinks nothing of battening himself on me. Bloody irregular, if you ask me."
"Royalty, my lord, makes its own regulations," Lord Falconer reminded him, his cool voice sharp. "And as this particular royal is an intimate of the Czar's, you dare not give offense. The Alliance must be protected at all costs."
"I know that," the earl responded, scowling. "But I don't have to like having my home invaded by a mob of Cossacks without so much as a by-your-leave, do I? And I'll warrant the fellow doesn't even speak English. Everyone knows these Russians are half wild and half mad at best."
"Pray do not take on so, Robert," the countess scolded, reaching out to straighten her lord's cravat in a show of wifely impatience. "Only think of the honor his highness is according us, and what it might mean to your career. And as for conversing with the prince, you needn't worry. Miss Mattingale assures me she speaks the tongue like a native."
"Does she, by gad?" The earl peered at Elizabeth, as if only that moment aware of her existence. "Good afternoon to you, Miss Mattingale," he said, sketching a brief bow. "Mind you don't stray too far afield, eh? Might need you to jabber at the fellow so he don't slaughter us all. They do that, one hears."
"Robert!" Lady Derring laid a shaking hand to her throat. "You cannot mean so!" Before he could answer she turned to E
lizabeth. "You must speak with him, Miss Mattingale, and make him promise not to do us harm!"
It was more than Elizabeth could resist. "I can certainly try, my lady," she said, allowing a note of doubt to creep into her voice. "But if his highness should take offense to even the slightest thing . . . " Her voice trailed off meaningfully.
The countess gave a shriek, but before she could engage in a fit of hysterics a massive carriage rumbled to a halt in front of the house. Several liveried footmen swarmed down from the top and pulled open the door of the heavy coach. A short, heavyset man with a flowing mustache and a large staff clutched in his hand stepped down first, but it was the taller, handsome man with piercing sky-blue eyes and dark gold hair who followed him who had the breath catching in Elizabeth's throat. Even as she was deciding how best to handle the next few minutes, the man with the staff swept into the hall, pounding the staff on the marbled tiles.
"His highness, Prince Peter Alexander Bronyeskin," he boomed out, and the Prince stepped into the hallway.
The earl moved forward to greet him, bending low in a polite bow. "Your highness, allow me to make you welcome to Derring Hall. You are most welcome here."
"Thank you, my lord," the prince replied, his voice deeper, cooler than Elizabeth remembered. "It is good of you to be so kind to a guest who has arrived without an invitation." He next made his bow to the countess, kissing her hand while she simpered and pinked in delight. He was turning to Lord Falconer when he saw Elizabeth, and his eyes widened in recognition.
"Elizabeth," he whispered. "Little queen, it is you?"
"Your highness," Elizabeth began, her greeting ending in a gasp of surprise when she was scooped up in a pair of masculine arms and swung in a circle.
She was deposited on her feet, and her cheeks enthusiastically kissed. "Milaya, what a delight to see you again!" the prince continued, blue eyes dancing as he grinned down at her. "And you are a guest here as well, yes? How happy that makes me! It is good to see an old friend when one is so far from home."
Elizabeth's cheeks bloomed with embarrassment. Not certain how to explain her current situation, she took a hasty step back from Alexi, noting the way his eyes flashed first with hurt and then with awareness.
An awkward silence followed, broken when Lord Derring hastily introduced the marquess.
"Lord Falconer, it is an honor to meet you," Alexi said, his smooth manner a world removed from that of the laughing, carefree young man Elizabeth remembered with such fondness. "I have heard of your prowess with the pistols, and I am looking forward to shooting with you. We shall have a contest, yes?"
Lord Falconer's response was equally as smooth. "It will be a pleasure, your highness, thank you."
Another silence followed, and then Alexi turned back to Elizabeth. "But where is your good father, Elizabeth?" he queried, showing an imperiousness she hadn't seen in him before. "I should like to pay my respects to him."
"He is in America, your highness," she replied, feeling more awkward than ever. "I haven't heard from him in some time." She hated lying to Alexi, but with the earl and the sharp-eyed Lord Falconer looking on, there was little else she could do.
"Ah," Alexi said after a delicate pause. "Then you will mention me when next you are able to write him."
That seemed safe enough, and Elizabeth gave a graceful curtsy. "I shall, your highness. He will be pleased you remember him."
The pause was shorter this time, but no less awkward. The countess was the one to break the silence, fixing Elizabeth with a look of pointed displeasure.
"Miss Mattingale," she said, her smile as sharp as her tone, "please inform Cook that the first of our guests have arrived and ask her to have tea sent to the drawing room. When you are done with that, I will need you to finish addressing the invitations for me."
The invitations had been sent out already, but Elizabeth didn't pretend not to take the countess's real meaning. She was not so subtly reminding her of her position, and making it plain her presence at tea was neither desired nor required. Burning with resentment and humiliation, she bobbed a low curtsy.
"Yes, my lady," she murmured, curtsying to the gentlemen before turning to make her escape. She'd taken but a few steps when Alexi reached out to lay a hand on her upper arm.
"What is this, syestra? " he demanded in Russian. "Is there something you wish to tell your Alexi?"
Aware of the avid interest of the others, she could only shake her head. "Later, Alexi," she promised in the same language, and then hurried up the stairs before anyone else could stop her.
What the devil was going on? Adam brooded, leaning back in his chair and studying Prince Bronyeskin with narrowed eyes. The man was coldly polite to his host and hostess, but beneath his imperious manner Adam could sense a black temper tightly leashed. As a rule Adam was a man who expected control in himself and appreciated it in others, but there was something about the prince he couldn't quite trust. He wanted to believe his suspicions were occasioned only by the secret letter he'd received from the Duke of Creshton, asking him to keep an eye on the prince, but he couldn't be certain.
"Has your highness been in England long?" the countess asked, beaming over her teacup at the prince. She'd been making a dead set at fixing his interest since they had entered the drawing room, ignoring his coolness and curt responses the same way Miss Mattingale had ignored her own appalling rudeness in the entryway.
The prince's blue eyes flicked over her in a manner that came within a hair of insolence. "A week, perhaps a few days longer," he said, his tone dismissing. "I was to accompany the Grand Duchess when she arrived in March, but matters in St. Petersburg delayed me."
"I fear my knowledge of your country is sadly limited," the earl said jovially, making a weak attempt at conversation. "Is St. Petersburg north or south of Moscow?"
"It is to the west," the prince corrected. "A beautiful city built by our emperor, Peter, some years ago. Many Russians, myself included, have homes in both Moscow and St. Petersburg."
"Moscow," Lady Derring said, leaning forward in avid interest. "Did Napoleon truly burn it when he was forced to retreat? Wretched man, it sounds precisely the sort of thing he would do."
The prince glanced at her, his expression frozen. "He burned it, da," he said grimly. "But only after we ourselves put it to the torch."
The countess hastily set her teacup to one side. "You burned your own city?" she echoed weakly, her hand fluttering to her throat. "But why?"
"To keep what they could from falling into the enemy's hands, I should think," Adam answered, his wariness giving way to a grudging respect. "It must have been a difficult decision, your highness."
"It was a necessary decision," Bronyeskin answered, studying Adam with some interest. "You have been in the army, my lord? You speak as a soldier."
Adam was pleased by what he knew to be a compliment. "No," he admitted, shaking his head with genuine regret. "I was the last of my line and so not allowed to purchase a commission, but I have many friends who had the good fortune to serve. And you?"
The prince gave a brief nod. "I have served as well," he said, his quiet tone telling Adam all he needed to know.
The conversation ended with the arrival of the other guests. Lord and Lady Derring went to greet the new arrivals, leaving Adam alone with the prince. After pouring the other man another cup of tea he settled back in his chair, studying the prince thoughtfully. The duke's letter had raised several questions about the other man and his politics, and Adam knew he might not have another opportunity to ask them. He took a moment to organize his thoughts, and then blurted out the first question that came to mind.
"How long have you known Miss Mattingale?" he asked, and then stopped, appalled that he had asked something so personal. It was no business of his how long the two might have been acquainted, or indeed how deep that acquaintance went.
Instead of taking offense, the prince fixed him with a measuring gaze. "Many years," he answered, blue eyes watchful. "And you, m
y lord? How long have you known her?"
"A few days only," Adam said, remembering how he'd first thought her meek and self-effacing. He didn't usually misjudge people and was annoyed he'd allowed himself to be so misled. The thought that the erroneous impression might be deliberate occurred, and considering her line of employment, he supposed he could not fault her. Meekness was, after all, a prerequisite of her position. Then he remembered her stormy defiance of him earlier that afternoon and flashed the prince an interested glance.
"Has she always been so headstrong?"
It was precisely the right thing to say. Bronyeskin threw back his head and roared with laughter.
"You may not know my little queen long," he said, chuckling, "but you know her well. Yes, she has always possessed the pride of a Cossack, and the temper of one as well. When she and her papa were staying with the Prezyskoffs, one of their oafish sons struck a small dog with his whip. Elizabeth was on him like a fury. I tried pulling her off, and she bloodied my lip. When I scolded her for it, she said it was no less than I deserved for getting in her way. That is when I started calling her little queen." His smile faded, and a hard expression settled on his features.
"But who is this Lady Derring, and why does she presume to treat my Elizabeth so?" he demanded of Adam. "This is an English custom, to order guests about as if they are no more than servants? If so, it is not one of which I can approve."
Adam was uncertain how to respond. "I will leave it to Miss Mattingale to explain," he said after a moment's consideration. "In the meanwhile, be assured I hold her in the highest regard. She is an exceptional lady."
"Da," Prince Bronyeskin agreed, his gaze sharpening. "She is. You will let me know, my lord, the name of any man who does not share our opinion, that I might deal with him?"
The Sinister Spinster Page 3
