Adam digested what he'd heard before answering. "Yet you say it was doubtful you should have survived," he said, studying her curiously. "May I ask what you meant?"
She cast him another glance, this one rueful. "I was being dramatic; a severe failing of mine, or so my father is always telling me. As it happens, I was referring not to France's soldiers, but rather her shopkeepers; a far more terrifying opponent, I can tell you."
Adam smiled, even as he was wondering how much of what she was letting slip should be passed on to the duke. "I notice you mention your father, but not your mother," he said, choosing his words with meticulous care. "Is she with him in America?"
"No," Miss Mattingale said, her fingers tightening about her cup. "She died shortly before we left Russia. Father was disconsolate. That's the reason he went to America, I think," she added, then bit her lip, as if worried she'd said too much.
Adam's interest sharpened, although he was careful to keep it hidden. An embittered, well-traveled Englishman with ties to France bore watching, especially as that Englishman was now deep in what must be considered enemy territory. Determined to learn more, he offered Miss Mattingale a sympathetic smile.
"I'm sorry," he said, covering her hand with his. "I didn't mean to make you sad."
She pulled her hand free of his. "You didn't," she said, setting her cup to one side and rising gracefully to her feet. "If you will excuse me, I must return to the countess. I have been neglecting my duties, and I fear she will be quite cross with me."
Accepting that he'd learned all he was going to for the moment, Adam also rose. "And if she should read you a scold, what then, Miss Mattingale?" he teased, driven by some desire he could not name to bring a smile back to her lips. "What name might you call her in a language she cannot hope to understand?"
At first he feared his ploy had failed. Then her misty blue eyes began sparkling, and her mouth curved in an enchanting smile even as she was lowering her gaze with a demure sweep of her lashes.
"That, my lord," she murmured, "would be telling. Now kindly return me to her ladyship. You have done quite enough damage to my reputation for one evening."
"I say, don't know about this," William muttered, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. "It's one thing to wag our tongues about Miss Mattingale, but it's another to deliberately incriminate her like this. Don't seem gentlemanly, if you want my opinion of it."
"Will you hush, Wills!" Derwent snapped, his own nerves frayed to the breaking point. "And no one has asked for your opinion of anything. Just hold the candle steady so Charles can see what he's doing and we can get the devil out of here. I've no desire to be caught pilfering an earl's papers."
"We're not pilfering them, we're borrowing them," Charles corrected, his brows wrinkling as he quickly sorted through the papers he and the others had just removed from the earl's private box. None of it made the slightest bit of sense to him, and for the first time he cursed himself for not paying more mind to his tutors and his father when they lectured him on the importance of king and country. Still, he had some idea of what to look for, and he patted himself on the back for having the good sense to confide their plans to another. It wasn't really breaking his promise to the others, he assured himself, not when the other person had promised most solemnly to keep his secret.
"Bad enough when we only had the marquess to worry about," William continued in his morose fashion. "Did you see that Russian prince she is so thick with? Wears a sword as big as a claymore and knows how to use it, if the size of his arms are any indication. He'll cleave us in half if he tumbles to what we're doing."
"Then we'll have to make certain he doesn't tumble to it, won't we?" Derwent snapped, his uneasiness mounting. "Besides, Charles assures me the prince will be suitably diverted. It's Falconer we need to concern ourselves with, and he won't be so easily diverted, I can tell you."
"Will the pair of you be quiet!" Charles snapped, his breath easing out as he picked up a particular piece of paper and held it to the flickering candlelight. He'd been told what to look for and was fairly certain this was it.
"Perfect," he said, smiling in anticipation of a sweet reward. "We shall just tuck this away for a bit, and no one need be the wiser, eh?" He stood up, slipping the paper between his tightly cut jacket and fine lawn shirt. "Now put the box back, Wills, and we'll return to the drawing room before we are missed."
William hesitated, glancing at the portrait of his grandfather hanging above the fireplace. The old boy had got himself slaughtered on some battlefield when his own father was scarce out of leading strings, he remembered, recalling how his grandmama had wept when she'd told him the story. The man was a dashed hero. How would he feel about his grandson taking the crown's most secret papers, even for an innocent lark?
"You'll put the papers back, won't you, Charles?" he asked, squirming beneath the relentless blue stare of his ancestor. "You'll put them back the moment we've had our fun?"
"Of course I will!" Charles snapped, eager to be gone. "We'll put them on the top of a shelf or some such place, and let them be discovered once a big enough dust has been raised. Your papa will doubtlessly think he left them there and feel foolish for all the havoc he has caused. You're always saying he's an absentminded old hum, so no one is likely to be surprised, are they?"
William shifted again, deciding he didn't care for his good friend calling his papa an old hum. "Just remember your word," he said, a note of surprising strength creeping into his voice. "You will return the papers the moment we are done, and if things begin looking serious for Miss Mattingale, we confess everything at once."
"Never say you are developing a conscience, Wills!" Derwent sneered. "How very tiresome of you. It is all Falconer's fault, I am certain. You have been too long exposed to his stultifying air of duty and honor, and it has quite ruined you. Did your mama never warn you of the danger of falling in with bad companions? It will be the death of you, dear fellow, mark me." And he laughed at what he clearly considered to be a rare good joke.
But William did not laugh. Even after he'd returned his father's dispatch box to its hidden location and led the others back to the drawing room, he could not help but brood upon the matter. Derwent might think his words a jest, but to him they held a far more sinister import. He thought once more of the painting of his grandfather staring down at him from the study wall, and the prickle of uncertainty he'd been doing his best to ignore became a shiver of apprehension.
Four
Over the next three days Elizabeth had cause to regret her decision to become a companion. Lady Derring remained hipped with her, and took great delight in keeping her running from cock's crow to the smallest hours of the morning. When she exhausted her store of menial tasks for Elizabeth to perform, the countess lent her out to her many guests, who made eager use of Elizabeth's services. Subsequently she often found herself in the unenviable position of attempting to please not one demanding mistress but several, and usually all at the same time.
A lesser woman would have tossed up her hands and given notice, but Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff. She didn't mind the extra work, and if truth were told, she welcomed the staggering list of duties expected of her. It kept her from brooding over the last letter from her papa, and the astonishing request he'd made of her.
"You are in a position to do your father a great service," he'd written. "You wrote your employer is on the Privy Council, which means he has access to information that would prove most helpful to my new friends. I have told them how very clever you are, and they are hoping you will agree to be of assistance. It need not be much; any bit of intelligence you have to offer would be welcome."
A spy, she thought, frowning as she shifted her burden from one arm to another. Her father expected her to become a spy, and what was worse, he expected her to spy against England. She supposed she should be shocked, but upon reflection, she was not. Her father loved her mother with the same ferocity with which he now hated the country he held responsibl
e for her death, and it was plain he meant to take his revenge.
She loved her father dearly, and even though it had been almost two years since her death, she grieved still for her mother. But there was no way she could do as he asked. It would be treason, and even if it meant driving a wedge between her papa and herself, she would not betray her country. Now all that remained was telling him of her decision. It would, Elizabeth admitted with a heavy sigh, be the most difficult letter of her life to write.
"Miss Mattingale! Miss Mattingale!"
The shrill voice of one of the guests penetrated Elizabeth's reverie, and she turned to see a well-dressed lady in a pink gown and a cream spenser hurrying toward her. At the lady's side was a familiar figure, and Elizabeth bit back a disgruntled sigh. Wonderful, she thought, keeping her face expressionless. She needed only this to make her day complete.
"Good morning, Lady Barrington, Lord Falconer," she said, dropping as graceful a curtsy as she could muster, considering both arms were full. "Is there something I might do for you?"
"We were about to ask the same of you," Lady Barrington said, smiling as they reached her. "We saw you setting out burdened down like one of Hannibal's elephants and thought to offer you a ride. Didn't you hear us calling?"
The kind offer left Elizabeth momentarily nonplussed. "No, your grace, I did not. I fear my mind was elsewhere," she apologized, not certain what to say. While the scandalous beauty hadn't been as smug and condescending as had many of the other guests, neither had she been welcoming. She'd assumed the widow was one of those ladies with little interest or use for her own sex, but now it seemed she had done the duchess a disservice.
"Considering we've been chasing after you for the past five minutes, I don't doubt that," Lady Barrington continued, still smiling. "Wherever your mind took you, I trust the journey was a pleasant one?"
Elizabeth smiled at the other woman's patent friendliness. "Pleasant enough, your grace," she said, thinking the other lady was a great deal nicer than the gossips had credited her.
"Let me take those from you, Miss Mattingale." Lord Falconer stepped forward to lift the pile of shawls, pillows, and other necessities from her arms. He gauged their weight and then fixed her with a reproving frown. "These are too heavy for a lady to carry," he said, making it sound as if it were somehow her fault. "Why haven't you a footman with you?"
"There are none to spare, your lordship. Most of the servants have been pressed into helping prepare for the ball tomorrow night," Elizabeth replied, both annoyed and touched by his insistence upon treating her as he would any other lady in the house party. She appreciated his concern, but there was no denying it didn't make things difficult for her. The other ladies had noted his behavior and were not behindhand in remarking upon it.
"Ah, yes, the costume ball," Lady Barrington said, stroking a gloved finger down the marquess's arm and sending him an intimate smile. "What will you be wearing, my lord? Or do you mean to appear in some mysterious costume and surprise us all?"
The marquess's handsome face was set in even colder lines than usual. "I haven't decided if I will attend, your grace," he informed the duchess in his precise tones. "I am not the sort to be comfortable in a costume."
The duchess gave a pretty laugh. "Don't be foolish, sir," she teased, dimples flashing in her cheeks. "No gentleman is ever comfortable in costume; not that it matters. These balls are really for us ladies, aren't they, Miss Mattingale?" she appealed to Elizabeth for support. "They provide us with the perfect excuse to dress in panniers and powdered wigs and be mysterious. There is not a woman alive who can resist the challenge of being thought of as mysterious." She struck a pose, as if lifting an imaginary mask to her face.
"Indeed?" The marquess's topaz eyes flicked to Elizabeth. "And what of you, Miss Mattingale?" he asked coolly. "Do you enjoy being thought mysterious?"
Elizabeth thought of the letter her father had written her and nearly blanched. "I am a companion, Lord Falconer," she reminded him in what she hoped was a suitably prim tone. "It is our lot to appear dull and ordinary, for that is what we are."
"But you would look delightful in the costume you described, your grace," she added, turning to the duchess who was watching them with interest. "Rather like Madame de Pompadour."
Lady Barrington's provocative smile froze. "A king's mistress?" she said, and then shook her head. "No, I've another costume in mind. But I hope you'll at least wear a mask and a domino, Miss Mattingale. Lady Derring says she intends providing them for guests who neglected to bring a costume with them."
Elizabeth said nothing, deciding this wasn't the time to remind her grace she was at Derring Hall not as a guest but as a servant. It was doubtful she'd be allowed to attend the masquerade at all, and if she did, it was a certainty she would not be in costume.
They returned to the courtyard, where the marquess's phaeton and high-stepping pair of matched grays was waiting for them. After lifting the duchess up onto the seat, Lord Falconer turned next to Elizabeth, his light gold eyes studying her from beneath the curved brim of his beaver hat. His handsome face was set in its usual mask of icy propriety, and yet there was something in his powerful gaze that sent Elizabeth's pulses scrambling. His hands closed about her waist, lifting her off her feet with astonishing ease. Her own hands grasped his shoulders, and she could feel the iron strength in his arms as he raised her up onto the seat of the phaeton.
Her heart had scarce settled when he leapt gracefully up onto the driving box. He took the reins from the groom, but before he could whistle to the team Lady Barrington gave a sharp cry.
"My bonnet!"
Elizabeth turned her head to see the duchess's pretty bonnet of rose chipstraw dangling from a broken ribbon.
"Oh, will you only look at this!" her grace exclaimed, removing her bonnet and frowning over the frayed end of blue satin. "And it is the first time I have worn it!"
"I should be more than happy to repair it, your grace," Elizabeth volunteered, knowing what was expected of her. "I am quite good with a needle and thread."
"I shouldn't dream of imposing," the duchess assured her. "My maid can see to it for me. But I am afraid I shall have to cry off, my lord," she said, turning to Lord Falconer with a charming pout. "I refuse to risk my complexion to the ravages of the sun."
"We can wait while you fetch another bonnet," Lord Falconer offered, also clearly aware of his responsibilities as a gentleman.
"No, there's no reason to do that." The duchess was already signaling to the groom to help her alight. "I would have to change my gown as well, and the others would be back and taking their tea by then. Please, the two of you go on, else I shall feel guilty for having spoiled the day."
Faced with so pretty an appeal, there was little either Elizabeth or Lord Falconer could do but comply with her wishes. A few minutes later they were rolling down the road toward the ruined chapel, where the others were awaiting them.
"Lady Barrington seems most kind," Elizabeth said, anxious to break the silence stretching between them. "Not at all as I thought a duchess would be." She slid a curious glance at him. "Are you well acquainted with her, my lord?"
"Not well," he replied, easily controlling the spirited team. "We move in different circles." He let several seconds pass before sending her a glance of his own. "She's after your friend, you know."
Elizabeth didn't pretend not to take his meaning. "He will be delighted to hear it," she said, smiling as she pictured Alexi's probable response to the lady's overtures.
"It doesn't bother you?"
She frowned at the question. "Heavens no! Why should it?" Her frown deepened as realization dawned. "If you're hinting there is anything untoward in my friendship with Alexi, you are very much mistaken!" she informed him, her eyes flashing in indignation. "Alexi is but a friend, as dear to me as a brother, and you wrong us both by implying otherwise!"
"Peace, Miss Mattingale," he said, tearing his gaze from the road long enough to send her a reproving frown. "I
was implying nothing of the sort. I merely meant that if the prince is indeed your friend, you might wish to put a flea in his ear about her grace. I've no wish to appear ungentlemanly, but the lady's not as careful with her reputation as one would think a duchess would be."
Considering the gossip she'd heard both above and below stair, Elizabeth couldn't pretend to be shocked by his lordship's observation. "Alexi is hardly a callow youth, sir," she said, remembering the wild youth Alexi had been. "He cut his teeth on ladies like her grace many years ago. And as I said, Lady Barrington has been quite kind to me. That is all there is to be said on the matter as far as I am concerned."
Another silence stretched between them. Elizabeth supposed she had offended him and was wondering if she should apologize when the marquess spoke.
"You can be quite haughty when you've a wish to be," he observed, his cool tones giving no hint as to his feelings. "I can see why his highness calls you little queen. What is the Russian word for that, if I may ask?"
The question took Elizabeth aback. "Karalyevak" she replied, puzzled he should ask. "You seem rather interested in the Russian language, my lord," she observed, wondering if his question was spurred by mere politeness, or if there might be some other reason behind the remark. "Is it your intention to study it?"
His answer was another enigmatic smile. "Perhaps," he said coolly. "It would seem to have its advantages."
He said no more, and this time Elizabeth saw no reason to break the silence. With her chin held high and her lips firmly sealed she sat beside the marquess, her troubling secrets and anguished doubts pulled tightly about her like a woolen cloak.
Adam spent a miserable afternoon avoiding the obvious machinations of the matchmaking mamas and listening to Viscount Camborne prattling on about sheep dip. Usually he suffered such tortures in noble silence, regarding them as another aspect of the duty he owed to his title. Yet for reasons he could not explain, he was finding it increasingly difficult to retain the aura of cool civility for which he was known.
The Sinister Spinster Page 5
